Mistress Telltrue

A local man who owned a lute began playing it; and to his accompaniment, Leathra began to sing a traditional song, first composed in Yansifar but now well known on Greatjourney Island. The same song had been sung at the burials of Erskud's own parents:

"Journey from spring to winter, coming again to spring;
Nothing we do can hinder seasons from circling.
Never lament the turnings; wheels that are not complete
Never could make the journey on to where all roads meet.

"Balance in all the circle contains,
New for the old, and losses for gains;
Welcome the droughts, and welcome the rains;
Life is a ring and a wheel.

"Oak tree arose from acorn, acorn from oak tree fell.
Sky where we see the day born brings us the night as well.
Never demand a reason; drink of the stream that flows.
Take everything in season; taste of the joys and woes.

"Balance in all the circle contains,
Equal the share of pleasures and pains;
Welcome the droughts, and welcome the rains;
Life is a ring and a wheel."
​

Silence followed the song, and Erskud's coffin was lowered into the earth. Ladza tossed the first handful of dirt in after it, breathing the words, "I love you, my dearest." Bebsha followed suit, as did Leathra, Jedloff, Nishica, and several neighbors. But no one after Ladza said anything during this procedure, until sudden words, louder than might be expected right now, came from little Marsudel:

"Mama, did Papa hear the song?"

"He heard it with our ears, darling. He lives in our hearts, and so we did the listening for him." No one present who was older than Marsudel, except for Mistress Pineshade and the lute player, believed for an instant that Ladza meant a single word of that.

"Did you un'stand Mama, Bodeen?" Marsudel said to her stuffed dog. "Papa liked the song!"

Wildrad overheard Bebsha muttering to a local girl her own age: "And that's supposed to make everything all right. I just hope that all of my Papa's ancestors, back to the first settling of Greatjourney, were able to make the jump across with him, out of his body and into our memories! Funny, though, I don't feel all of them tramping around inside me."

"When my uncle died," observed Bebsha's friend, "a magician spoke at the funeral, but he said about the same kind of stuff." The two girls walked out of Wildrad's earshot then, still conversing.

As the gathering dispersed, Wildrad found himself standing near Marsudel, who grabbed his wrist and exclaimed, "Look, Wildrad! Pingra just got here!" Marsudel was pointing toward a black-haired girl perhaps a year older than herself, who stood a little distance away, as if awaiting an opportune moment to speak to someone.

"Who's Pingra?"

Wildrad received his answer from the widow, who came up just then: "She's the daughter of a overseer of woodcutters, up in the hills. Her father was part of the laboring force which fetched our timber from the mountains to build the Haven, all those years ago. Whenever Pingra is able to come our way, she and Marsudel play together." To the hovering child, Ladza called out, "Come join us, Pingra, don't be shy!"

"We were just putting Papa to sleep in the ring and the wheel," said Marsudel as her playmate approached.

Pingra still appeared nervous. "My Papa sent me, Madame Coldspring. I'm s'posed to tell the Warden that they found the monster. It's all dead and killed. My Papa said you'd want to know it was dead."

Not only the Eastern Warden, but Jedloff also took a keen interest in the girl's report. Some of the loggers had found the bear-creature lying dead in a ravine several miles west-by-northwest from here; apparently, it had succumbed at last to the wounds which two of the Duke's guards had inflicted on it.

 
"With the Lord Warden's permission," said Jedloff, "I would like to see this apparition's carcass."

"Grandpapa, don't you want to see the dead monster instead?" asked Marsudel."

On any other occasion, the adults who heard the little redhead would have laughed. As it was, her grandfather simply clarified: "That was what I meant, sweetheart."

"Then I want to go too, Grandpapa!" Marsudel declared.

Her mother's "NO!!" was swift and emphatic. "It would give you bad dreams, dear."

"I already got bad dreams, Mama." This was true. Marsudel had needed to sleep in her mother's bed every night since learning of her father's death: an indulgence formerly unheard of. Now, nothing less than this would do, with the nightmares she was suffering. "And Bodeen wants to see. He feels awful that he wasn't here to fight that monster. He'll feel better if he sees it dead."

"I think," said Mister Shorecastle to his daughter, "that we should at least let Bodeen have his wish." He extended a hand to his granddaughter for the toy. "He can ride with me. I'll show him the dead monster."

"Oh, please, Grandpapa, can't I come too? Bodeen won't like it if I don't come along."

"Your mother will like it even less if you do come. When we get back, I promise you, Bodeen and I will tell you exactly what it looked like."

New tears were threatening in the hazel eyes, when Wildrad interjected, "Listen, Marsudel: your mother needs you here with her. And someday when you're a mother, you'll be the one to say what your children have to do, just the way your Mama is the one to say it for you now. But if your Grandpapa will permit me to go with him, I can draw you a picture later of what the monster's body looked like. I'm good at drawing pictures."

Marsudel stared at Wildrad. She had taken an instant liking to him at their first meeting, but she had not suspected that he (or any boy) possessed any artistic talent. "Can you for real do that?"

The youth grasped his ram's-horn amulet. "I give you my word, by all the good luck I ever hope to have. All I need is a smooth board, and a usable piece of charcoal, and I can draw you what I see." His drawing ability was not in fact good enough to have offered any prospects of earning money in the foreseeable future, but he trusted that it would serve his present purpose.

"That is a splendid idea, young man," said Jedloff. Marsudel acquiesced, but needed an extra minute to convince Bodeen.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After everyone who was hungry had a bite to eat, Mister Shorecastle took Wildrad, Pingra, Bodeen, his sword, and two crossbows in a wagon, while the Lord Warden and his bodyguards rode their own steeds. Directed by Pingra, they avoided trampling any of the harvest-ready fields in the township (fields which Pingra had blithely crossed on foot when making for the inn), and reached the ravine at dusk. There to meet them, besides Pingra's father and other woodsmen, was Belquin Goldspade, eldest son of the First Ducal Secretary, with guards of his own. The respective guard contingents greeted each other in a far friendlier fashion than the men they were protecting.

"I'm glad you came promptly, Lord Warden," Belquin grunted. "The stink of this thing worsens by the hour. But do you notice? Flies won't land on it; no natural beast is that! The magicians have already come, waved their wands and rods, cast their fact-seeking spells, and gone off holding their noses. None can tell us, at least not yet, where the monster originated."

By torchlight, the new arrivals were led into the narrow ravine to see what lay there. The bear's body looked like any dead bear, except for the fact that flies would not alight on it.... and the fact that it had no hind legs at all, bear-like or human-like.

Jedloff asked one of the men with torches to shine light on the board Wildrad held, so that the boy could start sketching. "After the carcass has been disposed of, it might be useful to be able to refer to a picture of how it looked," the moustached gentleman explained, truthfully enough.
 
Belquin Goldspade drew their attention to a patch of ground near the carcass, on which no one was being allowed to set foot. "If you'll take a close look here, Lord Warden, you'll notice that the only tracks leading up to the body are these very human-looking tracks. And if you look over there, you'll see that the same bootprints continue on and out the other end of the ravine!"

The Eastern Warden stared. He was familiar enough with magic, but this was unlike any sorcery he had ever encountered. He hated to admit that he had not a glimmer of an explanation to suggest.

"Would you say," Jedloff asked Belquin, "that our unknown sorcerer disguised himself by actually putting on, like a coat, a bear's body which was maimed, yet kept alive awhile by a spell? That he entered the Haven in this form, killed my son-in-law using the bear's claws -- then afterward cast the bear's body off here to die when he was finished with it?"

"That appears to be correct, sir. Which leaves us all the more certain that whoever was behind the murder is still active."

One of Belquin's guards volunteered: "That would explain why the monster didn't pause to strike back at the soldiers who wounded it. At that point, the evil magician wearing the bear's shape wanted more than anything to get out of there before he was revealed to the witnesses."

Belquin added, "Regrettably, those footprints exiting the ravine lose themselves in the undergrowth a few yards beyond. As with the short blood-trail from the inn, hounds are unable to track any farther. But you need not fear, Mister Shorecastle. The one thing that our magicians managed to divine with certainty is that our hidden foe's intent was indeed to slay my uncle the Duke. Erskud simply had the ill fortune to be in the assailant's way."

"So," put in Pingra's woodsman father over Belquin's shoulder, "there's no need to make your Marsudel feel worse by calling this creature anything other than plain dead."

Belquin nodded, then glanced at the Lord Warden. "In fact, we should proclaim at large that, when seeing the condition of the carcass, we assumed it to have been torn by scavengers."

Forgetting for a minute that he disliked all of the Goldspades, the Warden replied, "I see, that's a good idea. Thus we shall hide our knowledge that someone walked away from this spot. With luck, the assassin will become overconfident, leading him to be careless in his future actions."

"And one day we'll catch him!" Belquin concluded.

"Stars hasten the day!" The Warden turned toward Jedloff. "As for your family, Mister Shorecastle, now that we know poor Mister Coldspring was not the quarry, we can rest assured that no more such calamities will be coming your way from that quarter. I promise that I will do all I can to quicken the return of customers to Coldspring Haven."

Jedloff made a stately bow, tactfully adding another for Belquin. "Thank you, my lords. I wish you success in this hunt, and I promise to keep the secret about those bootprints. But I have an idea in this connection. This lad beside me, drawing a sketch, came with me precisely for the purpose of recording the scene visually. But if anyone here has brought along scribe's materials, I think that the original intent can be improved upon."

"One of my men carries everything that the young artist may need," said Belquin; "but what is your proposed improvement?"

"To have Wildrad draw two pictures. One picture will represent this dead bear and its surroundings as they really are. That picture, by your leave, I would give to the Lord Warden, to be shown to the Duke but to no one else except at the Duke's discretion, but remaining a reminder of what we really saw here, in case that may at any time assist the Warden's investigation. The other picture will omit every detail that would go against our public report of the body simply having been chewed and pecked by dogs and crows."

"The second one being for Marsudel, then?" Wildrad piped up.

"Exactly. Since quite a few people saw the bear walking on a man's legs, don't bother trying to contradict that report. But when you draw the second picture, besides leaving out the departing footprints, show some part of those human legs still attached. Let it be said that the scavengers mainly fed on the legs because the legs had no bearhide to rip through. And make sure you depict the sword wounds in the carcass. Let Marsudel believe that what killed her father is completely and utterly dead and gone."

"As you say, sir, that is, if these lofty gentlemen approve."

Both lords present did approve. Sheets of paper, and handy charcoal pencils, were provided to Wildrad, along with a lantern to see better what he was doing. The board on which he had initially begun sketching now became a desk, and the artist went to work in earnest, awestruck that these important men would choose to accommodate his convenience as he performed a task which they deemed worthwhile.

 
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The night after that, Marsudel once again was nestled in bed with her mother and Bodeen. She had been gratified, in the morning, to see the drawing Wildrad brought her of the dead beast, but neither she nor her mother wanted that image inside this room -- the room which had saved the life of Duke Tembicus.

"Tonight," said Ladza, kissing her daughter and stroking her strawberry-blonde hair, "you must have good dreams again. Your Papa will give you good dreams from inside your heart, if you always hold on to him there." Ladza didn't believe any of this herself, but the need to assuage her little one's anguish made her a superb actress.

"I'll hold on to him as tight as I can, Mama. So will Bodeen. But can we get people to come back to the inn for overnight?"

"I'm sure we can, dear. The Lord Warden of the East will help us; and you see what good work Stobia and Wildrad are doing."

"Yes, they're very good people, Yonazere too. I like them all. Mama, do you think I should marry Wildrad when I grow up?"

"It's much too soon to answer that, Marsudel." Though liking Wildrad well enough, Ladza hoped for both her daughters to marry wealthier men than Wildrad Fairmead was likely ever to be. "Now, go to sleep, and dream of Papa listening to Mistress Pineshade singing."

That night, Marsudel slept peacefully, though she forgot whatever she dreamed.

Bebsha, meanwhile, took much longer to fall asleep. Not because she was not in her mother's bed; with Erskud gone, the bed would have had more than enough space for Bebsha in addition to Marsudel and their mother, and Ladza would not have refused to let her in. But besides retaining a little of her irritation with shallow efforts at comfort, Bebsha was thinking about her own prospects for eventual marriage. At age eleven, she had only four or five years to go before the subject would become a serious one for her.

As far as she had any power to influence events, she would try to get herself betrothed to a man whom her father would have approved of. If, somehow, a really dashing hero, delaying his arrival just long enough that his first glimpse of Bebsha would seem to him like beholding a woman, were to carry out vengeance upon the murderer of Erskud Coldspring.... that would be absolutely the ideal man.

Although, even if it were for the sake of true love, Bebsha wasn't sure that she wanted justice for Papa to be delayed for three years or more.

Growing up was going to be difficult.


END OF CHAPTER TWO ​
 
Chapter Three: The Voice From The Book


Customers did resume staying overnight at the inn, well before the winter snows came. So did exactly one of the Coldsprings' deserting workers: a dumpy, drab young woman named Gribladene Marshbank, who could not interest anyone else in hiring her, and who was pathetically grateful for Ladza Coldspring's forgiveness. The Ducal stonemasons completed the improvements on the wall around the property -- and, on the quiet, left some gunpowder in the possession of the landlady's father, for use with any firearms that the family might care to keep ready.

Jedloff's men finished the interior work on the Haven in time to race back to the Shorecastle estate and get the harvest in. One man after another, in rotation, performed temporary hostler duties at the stable; and Ladza on her own succeeded in contracting a blacksmith to come to the inn four times each nineday for horseshoeing and whatnot. Four women (counting Gribladene), an eleven-year-old boy and an eleven-year-old girl could just handle the rest of the routine labor.

Duke Tembicus, no longer eager to be seen in public, formalized at long distance the already understood status of the scattered homes and shops which had grown up around the inn. Ladza was declared to be the Lady Mayor of Coldspring Township. That this office held almost no political significance was a blessing, not an insult, to the hardworking widowed innkeeper. The mere prestige, Ladza realized, was an arrow to be kept in her quiver against possible future dissensions with important persons.

In a gesture of more immediate practical benefit for the bereaved family, Tembicus dispatched a sorceress in his employ to provide the Haven with a large number of enchanted insects, known as moonwing moths. These large, beautiful moths damaged nothing in the house; they were sustained, like butterflies, upon the nectar of flowers, or honey or syrup left in a dish for them. The reason for their name was evident each night: they would flutter about the corridors and stairways, their wings emitting a cool gleam like moonlight, fully sufficient to enable people to see their way around. The moths required very little care, and allowed the people running the inn to dispense with two-thirds of all the lighting of lamps and candles they would otherwise have needed to do each evening.

This economizing of time and toil helped Ladza to keep her hasty promise of education for Wildrad. Before the winter solstice, he had caught up with Marsudel in recognizing the twenty-four letters of the Klorvundish alphabet, and the twenty-three letters of the Yansifarian. Since there were hardly any duplications of letters between the two written languages, this much knowledge enabled the two students to do something that Bebsha Coldspring had already been able to do for nearly five years: recognize which of the two languages was used in any book found at the Haven. Thus they would make no errors if a guest asked them in general terms to bring a book in this or that language. Once they were also confident of knowing the sounds of the letters, Ladza concentrated on teaching actual reading to Marsudel and Wildrad only in Klorvundish for the time being. Yansifarian would have its turn, but ordinary business this far east used Klorvundish for documents.

As for the actual kingdom of Klorvund, the greatest peril from the Plateau Barbarians had passed -- thanks, in no small measure, to the bravery of Greatjourney Islanders fighting in the eastern kingdom's ranks. The news from Klorvund, whether perceived from afar by magic, or directly reported by wounded men sent home, told now of the savages being forced back hill by hill, valley by valley, no longer able to advance and attack. Duke Tembicus, reckoning that the attempt on his life had originated with those barbarians, dared to hope that the presumed mighty barbarian wizard, with having to help his warriors keep from being utterly slaughtered, could no longer spare any magic for assassination attempts reaching across the sea. Tembicus could not rest entirely secure, though, because occasional rumors arose of other unnatural animals being sighted.


 
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Still, for the Coldsprings and their help, life went on.

The month of Deepdrift brought Marsudel's sixth birthday, amid a heavier snowfall than was usual south of the Weatherwall Range. Paying guests then present postponed their departure, and passed the time by joining in the birthday celebration. Wildrad Fairmead was only able to appear at the party very briefly; he spent most of the time assisting the inn's current hostler in working to stop up all drafts in the stable, and otherwise making it more comfortable for the horses and donkeys currently occupying it.

Several dolls, and a foot-high toy horse, were among Marsudel's gifts. Master Bodeen the stuffed dog delivered a speech of welcome to these toys, in a voice which sounded remarkably like Marsudel Coldspring trying to sound masculine:

"Welcome and good evening, toy friends. My name is Bodeen Coldspring, and I am pleased to extend the hospitality of the Haven to you. I am in charge of dolls and toys in this household, so I shall introduce you to the girls you will be playing with. Here beside me is Marsudel Coldspring, who is six years old today. She will show you around the inn later. But right now, pay close 'tention. That girl over there is Miss Yonazere Fairmead, who is almost four years old; she is a very good friend of Marsudel, and Marsudel is 'normously happy to have her here. The doll with Yonazere is named Kimmyboo. All of you must say hello to Yonazere and Kimmyboo, 'cause I want, uh, Marsudel wants you to play with them the same as you play with Marsudel and me."

Marsudel walked toward Yonazere, shaking her toy dog in a way intended to suggest Bodeen galloping along on his own feet. Bodeen then said, "Here, Miss Kimmyboo, would you like to take a ride on Leapaway?" --indicating the new toy horse.

Yonazere had never seen so many toys in one place, much less been invited to play with them. If Marsudel had not already made a practice of routinely sharing her toys with the smaller girl -- allowing Yonazere to pick up at any time any toy not actually in Marsudel's grasp, except that she had to ask Marsudel's permission to play with Bodeen -- Yonazere would scarcely have dared even to approach these new ones. As it was, she took Bodeen up on the invitation, mounted her rag doll upon Leapaway, moved the old toy and the new around the room together at a fabulous canter, then returned to give Marsudel a grateful hug. Marsudel hugged Yonazere back, and kissed her besides, another liberty which Yonazere would not be first to take with her well-born friend.

Various adults murmured approvingly to each other. Erskud Coldspring was remembered for having worked his way up out of poverty by his own diligence, and it pleased even the most genteel of the inn's patrons to see that Erskud's younger daughter was like her father in being good-natured toward persons of every social stratum.

The same could not be said for Erskud's elder daughter. During the whole party, she spoke in a stiff, condescending fashion to everyone who could conceivably be regarded as "beneath" her, the Fairmeads included. Without rebuking Bebsha directly, Ladza began shadowing her, purposely speaking in a friendly manner to everyone Bebsha had just addressed coldly. When it penetrated Bebsha's skull that her mother was doing this, she stalked out of the dining room where the party was being held, and strode randomly from one part of the Haven to another, her mind preoccupied with an incoherent self-pity.

This rambling caused the girl to be nearby as Wildrad came in by one of the workers' entrances, his face red with chill. He had been voluntarily doing most of the needed work around the outside of the stable, and the hostler had finally ordered him to go indoors, thaw out, and rest awhile.

Bebsha intentionally ignored Wildrad and kept on walking; but as soon as his muddy galoshes were shed, and his coat and winter hat hung on hooks, he impulsively followed her. Although females as such did not yet interest the boy, he had of late felt increasing sympathy for Bebsha, since she seemed to be having a much harder time than Marsudel was having, where accepting the loss of their father was concerned.

Wildrad overtook the golden-haired girl as she started up one of the stairways. "Bebsha? Are you all right?"

She paused, but did not turn toward him. "That's Miss Bebsha to you, Wildrad. I'm just fine, thank you."

"Have they served the glazed fruit yet?"

Now Bebsha did face Wildrad, her eyes hostile. "Not yet, but any moment now. Yes, the glazed fruit that Marsudel enjoys so much, because Marsudel is the good one, who always does what Mama wants her to, and always says what Mama wants to hear! Marsudel, who's so much better than I am!"

Wildrad ascended a few steps. "What, are you and your mother still angry at each other about the funeral and all?"

If he thought he could win Bebsha's confidence as easily as he had won Marsudel's, he was quickly disillusioned. "That's none of your business, BOY. Now, why don't you just go back and join the chorus, telling my sister how sweet and generous she is? You know she gets no fun out of being so good unless she has an audience!" With that, Bebsha ran the rest of the way upstairs, and took refuge in her bedroom.
 
Turning back in resignation, Wildrad found himself face to face with Madame Coldspring; and since she was one stairstep lower, for an instant he seemed to himself to be taller than his patroness. Ladza glanced up the stairway, past Wildrad, then looked at him again and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

"It appears, Master Wildrad, that you were trying to turn snow into sand, trying to make tornises live in underground burrows, and trying to reason with Bebsha." She sighed, and there was a scent of wine on her breath, although her speech was perfectly distinct. "Thank you for trying, but it was doomed to failure. All that was good in that girl seems to have sunk into her father's grave. She was Erskud's favorite, you know; and while he lived, Bebsha did all of the grabbing for attention of which you heard her accuse her sister." Ladza lowered her voice. "I hope she marries young, to a man who can endure her temper without breaking her jaw. I confess that I can't stand much more of her."

This line of talk distressed the boy. In Dawnport, he had known of parents actually coming to hate their children, even putting them out on the streets. His parents had occasionally fed and sheltered such discarded children.

"Please, madame, don't think that way! Begging your pardon, you and Bebsha are like two people who have both scraped their skin on a raw, splintery beam of wood, and your scrape keeps rubbing against her scrape, so you both hurt more and blame each other. But it wasn't you OR she that put the scrapes there, it was--"

"Hush! No more, Wildrad." For the past three months, Ladza had sought to prevent any mention within Haven walls of the creature that had widowed her. "You have a good heart, my lad, but you don't know my daughter as I do. Now, go and mingle with the party guests; you have that right, whatever Bebsha chooses to think."

Ladza went upstairs after the daughter who was her image. Wildrad could only do as he was told, while wishing he caould hear what words were about to pass between mother and daughter. He wistfully hoped that those might be words of love and healing -- but sadly expected that they would only be more words of mutual accusation and wounding.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 
The month of Deepdrift gave way to the month of Frostfade; and some relief came for the family situation from an unexpected quarter.

The mousy woman Gribladene had been doing the bulk of the dirtiest jobs to be done inside the main building of the inn. This included gathering chamber pots and emptying them into what was called the Well of Cleansing. Other than the talismans against evil which had been belatedly added to the house after Erskud's death, this was the one permanent magical fixture of the Haven. It was the crowning achievement of Hapsie Thrushbill's magical career; Erskud had contracted her to create it after her truthbinder dust had (as far as he knew) ensured his acceptance as Ladza's groom. It was like a conventional well in form; but instead of water being drawn from it, human wastes were poured into it. The enchantment of the Well was that it nullified all harmful foulness that could cause disease; the wastes became part of the soil, and the regular water well scarcely ten paces away gave safe, clean water.

Gribladene was always painstakingly careful when she carried the chamber pots to the Well of Cleansing. She took her time, so as never to spill even a single drop of filth onto the Haven's carpets. When the chamber pots were emptied into the magical Well, she would wash them out, and also pour that washwater into the Well. In even the worst weather, she performed this task without error. Bebsha presumed once to scold Gribladene for being slow, but Ladza then scolded Bebsha for not appreciating the woman's caution.

Bebsha then chose to dislike the servant for being defended by her mother.

On the first Dancersday in Frostfade, Dancersday being the end of each nineday, Gribladene had again flawlessly emptied and cleaned the four largest chamberpots in the hostelry, and was climbing the staircase to the centrally-placed third level. That level was given large waste vessels precisely with the idea of not having to empty them as often. Gribladene was within four steps of the top, looking forward to unloading her burden back in the top-floor Ducal Suite (which had been used for winter visits by various persons attached to Duke Tembicus).... when her foot shot out from under her, she tumbled backwards, and two of the four chamberpots she had been carrying were smashed into shards.

Gribladene whacked her head on a bannister post, and lay senseless on the landing beneath. The worse for her, Bebsha was the first other person in the house to hear the noise and come to investigate.

What called the maidservant back to a painful consciousness was being shaken and shouted at by her employer's spoiled daughter. "You dullwitted fool! What use are you? I could break things for free, if we needed things broken!" Bebsha's abuse of the dizzy, aching woman only grew more bitter..... until Bebsha noticed an object on a nearby stairstep.

The object was a cylindrical stone bottle, used for precious ointments. The bottle had been a gift to Bebsha from her father; and Bebsha had left it on the stairs that morning. She remembered now: she had been putting a bit of ointment on her face while on the stairs, and had been distracted by looking out a stairwell window at a passing coach. Gribladene's accident was Bebsha's own fault.

Swift as a striking snake, Bebsha grabbed up the ointment bottle and concealed it in a pocket of her frock. Then she told Gribladene, "But peace, not that much damage done; it isn't as if the pots were dropped while full. I forgive you, Gribladene. Don't try to get up; I'll run and ask Mama to look at your head, then I'll put away the unbroken pots."

From that hour forward, Bebsha became far less inclined to burst into anger at anyone. She even spoke civilly to her mother again, though still not returning to their former easygoing affection.

Wildrad, having no mystical power to see inside people's hearts, could not tell that there was a false core to Bebsha's improvement in behavior, a refusal to confess wrongdoing. He only knew that he, his mother and his sister, along with everyone else in the Coldspring household, were suddenly encountering much better manners from what had been the rudest, most selfish resident of the Haven.

Leathra Pineshade averred that Bebsha's turn for the better was all part of the circular balance of everything. Spring would soon be approaching, and Bebsha was thawing the way the world thawed. Around and around, everything in circles and cycles and sameness.

Wildrad had learned simply to nod and smile when Leathra talked in circles about circles. But quite independently of the cook's philosophy, and without this meaning that Wildrad had yet arrived at anything like the feelings of men for women, he did finally take notice, a conscious awareness, of the fact that Bebsha Coldspring was a great beauty for her age.

A great beauty to the outward sight, anyway; and with no more constant griping from her mouth, her looks could more easily be appreciated.
 
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The passing of winter brought the inn another worker, of sorts. Both for usefulness in heavy work, and as a safeguard against any more invasions coming through the stable, Madame Coldspring decided to buy a brontops. Bears, even tigers if any tigers had existed on Greatjourney Island, would think twice about tackling one of these mighty beasts; and they probably would do their thinking while running away.

A young male brontops -- only six feet high at the humped shoulders -- was brought to the front gate by a son of the same beast-breeder who had hired out his animals to Erskud Coldspring for the log-hauling job which had made the Coldspring Haven possible.

"His name is Anvilhead, Lady Mayor. If you weren't told this before, giving them names early in their lives is part of the process of taming them. No one with sense ever tries to control a brontops by cruelty; but do right by him, and he'll be your friend for fifteen or more years of life. By the way, madame, you're getting him for a song; the Ducal Army doesn't want him."

"Why not? Is he stupider than the rest of his kind?"

"On the contrary, madame, he's smarter than most brontopses. He was born on a night when Durlina Eastpool--" (the young man was referring to a sorceress who, despite the surname, lived and worked near Duskport at the west end of Greatjourney) "--was experimenting with a spell to be able to talk with animals. His birth occurred within a mile of Durlina's home, but I don't know for sure that there's a connection. The spell never did give Durlina the power to hear understandable speech from animals; yet it remains true that Anvilhead seems to understand a lot of what people say."

Ladza was skeptical. "And the Army doesn't want him. Wouldn't his intelligence make him more useful?"

"You'd think so.... unless he got smart enough to refuse to go to dangerous places. But the fault one officer found with him is that he's playful."

"A brontops, playful?"

The young man had just barely enough facial hair that his next words could make sense. "By my beard, Lady Mayor, it's true. Watch this." From inside his coat, the beast-handler brought forth a leather ball, seven inches in diameter. Stepping eight paces away from the brontops, he exclaimed, "Anvilhead, catch," and tossed the ball underhand toward the animal.

Swinging up his great blunt snout with its side-by-side horns, Anvilhead neatly caught the ball between those horns, where it fitted snugly. Turning around, then, he tossed the ball with a jerk of his head, sending it flying over his back, to be caught by his handler.

"See what I mean?"

"That's remarkable! But will he be fierce if we need him to be fierce in our defense?"

"Don't see any reason why not. Brontopses aren't known for possessing subtle imagination; but they're pretty good, somehow, at knowing who's the troublemaker if trouble arises. And you're getting this one at the perfect age: old enough to give good labor in return for his hay and grain, yet young enough so he'll take to you easily."

The horses currently in the stable did not panic at the appearance of a brontops. Every horse trainer on the island had the sense to expose new colts to the scent of brontopses early on, so it wouldn't take them by surprise. Ladza supposed that Anvilhead could be kept outside the stable if, as he grew to full size, he grew more alarming to horses. Brontopses bore up very well in bad weather. Thus, to Wildrad's inexpressible excitement, Anvilhead became a member of the household. His toss-ball came with him for no extra charge; and Wildrad was the first to try playing catch with the peaceful giant. The boy found his success at befriending horned behemoths equalled his success at befriending small children.

It was he who dispelled the apprehensions of his own sister and of Marsudel, as they made their initial acquaintance with Anvilhead. By chance, upon that first introduction, Anvilhead did something that brontopses, like elephants, did not do often: he sneezed. Wildrad saw the sneeze building up, just in time to interpose himself in front of the two little girls. He took upon himself the loathsome spray unintentionally loosed upon him by Anvilhead. He laughed rather than show annoyance: "Not your fault, big boy, but maybe they should have named you Cannonhead!"

Marsudel and Yonazere both hugged and kissed Wildrad in thanks for his gallantry.... after his clothes and body were washed clean.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 
Spring got underway -- but not before Anvilhead enjoyed the opportunity to push an improvised snowplow on the occasion of a belated heavy snowfall. When he had enough snow pushed into a suitable unused area and was relieved of the plow and its fastenings, the brontops played like a puppy in his own snowpile.

Dabrius Ripplesand, now a prosperous farmer but not yet married, was among the wintertime feed suppliers for the animals kept by the Coldsprings. It was much on his mind that Ladza Coldspring was now single, that her own prosperity had survived the passing of her husband, that she was not intolerably older than he was, that she still was very attractive, and that he was now of an age to marry. It seemed to him that anytime after the vernal equinox was far enough removed from Erskud's death to allow him to begin dropping hints. Ladza, however, was nowhere near being finished with grieving for her true love, nor would she have asked Bebsha and Marsudel to accept a stepfather so soon. Dabrius, accordingly, might as well have tried to dig through the center of the world and explore the other side, as try to get the Lady Mayor and owner of Coldspring Haven interested in him.

In due time, flowers of every possible hue bloomed in abundance all over Greatjourney Island, as if in gladness over the reports that the Islander troops fighting for Klorvund were distinguishing themselves in a series of battle victories, while themselves losing comparatively few men. The temporary decline in Klorvundish business at Coldspring Haven was offset by travelers visiting from the west: not only from Yansifar, but also from Viglarsh and Nexoba, those two kingdoms not currently being at war with anyone.

Some of these westerners hankered to go fishing in the Fanged Sea, which they called the Sea of Spikes. No full-sized ship could hope to cross through the countless rock spires that jutted out of the water -- or worse, almost out of it -- which was why Greatjourney served as a bridge between Yansifar and Klorvund. The waters of that sea's western and eastern edges were free of the stone teeth, enabling ships to reach Greatjourney, and also to go straight south to Eversummerland.

Experienced Islanders with small boats could negotiate their coastal waters in safety, except at times of seriously rough weather; and the spells of island-born magicians helped to prevent boats from being impaled on unseen points of rock. Thus, fishermen of the Duchy earned good money by taking the tourists out to catch the unusual fish of the regional waters.

A goodly share of these western travelers lodged at the Haven, which was not terribly far from the sea (because no spot on Greatjourney was terribly far from the sea). Many of these visitors told tales of their own lands in the evenings, which added knowledge of the world to the education that Marsudel and Wildrad had been receiving. Also in the evenings, the guests liked to have music; the same lute player who had performed solemnly at Erskud's funeral was among the talented island folk who earned money from this audience of moneyed wanderers. As the spring advanced, there even began to be dancing: not something Ladza could allow herself to take part in yet, but it gave pleasure to her guests.

Nonetheless, the climate that existed between Ladza and her look-alike firstborn daughter showed far less improvement than could have been wished.

Every time Ladza was almost ready to make up with Bebsha, the embittered girl would spout some unreasonable complaint. Every time Bebsha tried to behave better, she found her efforts unappreciated -- while Marsudel seemed to be getting lavishly praised on any and every pretext. It was perhaps a worsening factor that Bebsha had never yet confessed her unfairness to Gribladene Marshbank. Be that as it might, the feeling that Marsudel was unfairly favored led Bebsha to experience a growing hostility toward the little sister whom she had once dearly loved, which in turn made their mother feel ever more justified in ruling Bebsha severely.

Grandpapa and Grandmama Shorecastle still were loved and revered as much as ever by everyone in the household. But they could not always be around to smooth over the conflicts, though it helped that they allowed Bebsha to stay overnight at their manor house from time to time. Wildrad wished he could do something to remedy the tension, but Stobia strictly warned him not to jeopardize their position by uninvited meddling.

"You've been a comfort to the little one, and a fine worker; this much has been to our family's credit in the landlady's eyes. But beware of exalting yourself above your station, like that silly Ripplesand fellow who keeps gazing at Madame Coldspring. One act of seeming presumption and arrogance on your part might undo the goodwill we have gained here."

This left much of the peacemaking effort in the hands of Leathra Pineshade -- who, since losing her friend Erskud on top of losing her husband Shillibeck earlier, tried increasingly to solve every problem by chattering about universal balance and the unending circle of life.

But what finally did cure the trouble was an incident whose like had not been seen in any past wheel-turnings that Mistress Pineshade could remember.

 
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the month of Rainblossom, on a night not long after the celebration of the vernal equinox, Marsudel found she had difficulty sleeping. Her nightmares had faded away by now, and she had allowed herself and Bodeen to be returned to sleeping in her own little bed. This had facilitated persuading Yonazere also to sleep apart from her mother, in a similar child-bed placed in Marsudel's room. It was a successful arrangement, and resulted in lengthy nighttime conversations between Bodeen and Kimmyboo. But the tormented nights following Erskud Coldspring's death seemed to have made a permanent light sleeper of Marsudel. On this pleasant night, the strawberry-blonde six-year-old arose to take an aimless walk through the hallways, which did not disturb the sleeping Yonazere.

Marsudel's first thought was to intrude upon her mother and ask for another bedtime story; but this plan was superseded when she saw the door of Bebsha's room opening. Swiftly hiding behind a standing suit of armor (a relic of the days before cannons and muskets), she watched her elder sister emerge into the corridor, fully clothed. "It must be true what Wildrad said," Marsudel thought to herself. Bebsha had scarcely spoken a word to Marsudel since the autumn, but Wildrad had passed along to Marsudel his discovery that Bebsha was taking an interest in astrology. Sure enough, there in Bebsha's hand was a book from the inn's library, its cover embellished by stars and crescent moons. The wavering light from the moonwing moths was enough to let Marsudel see that much, but she couldn't make out whether the book was written in Yansifarian or Klorvundish.

Wildrad had reported that Bebsha, when finished with work and schooling for the night, would often go outdoors to watch the stars after Marsudel and Yonazere's bedtime. He speculated that Bebsha hoped one day to succeed where Tembicus Longmarch and all the island's licensed magicians had failed -- in unmasking the murderer of Erskud Coldspring.

Marsudel decided to spy on what Bebsha did next. Bebsha had been acting pointlessly bitter toward Marsudel for long enough by now, that Marsudel no longer felt inhibited by conscience from obtaining some revenge by exposing anything naughty that she might catch Bebsha doing.

The girls' bedrooms being on the third story (though not neighboring the Ducal Suite), Bebsha made for the back stairs. The second story had a connection with the loft over the stable; perhaps Bebsha intended to do her stargazing from there, where no late-to-bed guest of the Haven would interrupt her. Marsudel followed her as stealthily as she could manage.

The backstairs landing letting onto the second floor was not far from the former Ducal Suite, where Papa had died. Marsudel tried not to think about this; but in her very effort not to think about it, she also did not think about a certain small table by the wall. Standing on this table was a covered jar with syrup to feed the light-giving insects. Passing as far away from the locked suite as possible, Marsudel jostled the table -- and the jar fell to the carpeted floor, not breaking, but losing its lid and spilling its contents.

Bebsha, who was indeed heading for the loft, was far enough ahead not to hear the soft thud of the dropped jar. The moonwing moths, however, seemd magically quick to detect the feast suddenly made available. From every part of the second story, and from stairwells, they began gathering to feed from the delicious puddle.... and then, each fully-fed moth sought a sleeping place and ceased giving off light. Before long, this floor would be dark; the other floors too, if the moths there could smell the syrup here.

It would hardly do to stop the moths by killing them; nor could a spill into deep carpet be easily removed. Even though things would be back to normal by the next evening, there was going to be an unavoidable inconvenience now.

Marsudel's first reaction was fright, expecting her mother's anger. The fright was short-lived, because Marsudel realized that her usually faultless behavior would incline Mama to pardon a single rare blunder. But then a new thought took shape in the child's mind: Mama would not be so forgiving if she believed that Bebsha had upset the syrup jar.

For a six-year-old girl who had never practiced this sort of treachery before, Marsudel found herself going about it quite cleverly. She would make no direct accusation; committing herself to a false claim would mean risking the penalty that would fall on a malicious liar once exposed. But she could guide Mama to the desired conclusion.

With each hand, she delicately captured one of the still-glowing, not-yet-sated moths just now on its way to feed; she must not let all of them go dark too soon. Then she retreated a few steps up the back stairs, to wait until some adult guest would happen by.
 
The corridor she had vacated grew darker before anyone came. She released the moths she was holding, to postpone a complete darkening -- because her plan required someone to be able to see the syrup spill. Less than two minutes later, but almost too late in Marsudel's mind, voices came from what seemed the farthest part of the second story. Two male guests were talking about something indistinguishable; then one went down the main stairs, while the other came in Marsudel's direction.

She silently counted to five, then exclaimed, "Bebsha! Are you there? Did I hear a noise? What are you doing up?"

Adult footsteps rounded a corner. As the man drew near, Marsudel re-entered the hallway as if only just arriving there. There was barely enough light for her to recognize the wakeful guest as a retired Yansifarian cavalry officer who was visiting relatives in several parts of Greatjourney Island. This gentleman was much like her grandfather, and the two of them had gotten on well when meeting. Seeing Marsudel, he peered at her and asked, "Is that the younger Miss Coldspring? Shouldn't you be sleeping at this hour?"

"I heard my sister going out of her room a little while ago," she answered. "She's trying to learn magic, and I thought I could take a peek. Did she go past you, sir?"

The old soldier's next words could not have suited Marsudel better if he had purposely been part of her scheme from the beginning. "Can't peek at very much in this bad light, child. What's happened to those charming magical moths of yours?"

Perfect! Someone else, not Marsudel, had been first to comment on the loss of the light from the moonwing moths. Turning, she pretended to notice the spilled syrup jar for the first time. "Goodness!" she gasped theatrically. "It's their syrup! They're drinking it and falling asleep! We have to tell Mama!"

"Surely it would be enough to tell Stobia or Gribladene," suggested the veteran, who had begun courteously making acquaintance with every worker at the Haven as soon as he first came.

"No, no, we have to tell Mama quick!"

"If you think so, little maiden, then you should wake her. It would not be polite for me to knock on her door while she's in bed. I'll tell you what: let me stay here and try to shoo away all moths that aren't asleep yet, so the place doesn't go pitch black before some candles can be lit."

The master bedroom was on the first level, near the great library. Awakening her mother, Marsudel made sure to stress that it was the Yansifarian traveler who had first pointed out the loss of moth-light. She also remarked that the spill had occurred sometime after Bebsha began to stir about -- and, truthfully, that there had not seemed to be much movement by guests around that time.

Ladza was aware that no guests were seriously drunk tonight. She was also aware of Bebsha's new astrological curiosity, and she knew where to look first if the apparent culprit in the small accident was up and about. In practically no time at all, Bebsha was being marched out of the loft like a captured bandit, with one side of her face reddened from being slapped for some too-defiant reply. Marsudel, meanwhile, since she had adroitly avoided being the only person involved in causing trouble for her sister, was able to slip away from the scene.

In all cases of talebearing younger siblings that she had ever heard of, the accusing little sister or brother would hover close to enjoy the older child's discomfort. Marsudel, however, considered herself too clever to follow that pattern. She would let nothing destroy her image of harmless innocence.... an image which, until now, had been the truth.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 
All three stories of the Haven had indeed been affected by the moonwing moths departing from their usual habits; by the time the syrup spill was disposed off, at least three-fourths of the magical insects had fallen asleep before their time. None of the moths had died, but it was unsure how long it would take for them to get back to normal timing. This translated into Bebsha having to carry a great many candles to sconces in the corridors and stairwells, and oil lamps to certain alcoves where no one would knock them over. It looked like taking her until sunrise, or nearly.

Ladza did at least intend to let Bebsha sleep in afterward; but in the belief that the accident was Bebsha's fault, Ladza was anxious to teach responsibility to the next owner of the inn.

Marsudel, finding herself even more wide awake after her successful deception, sneaked into the library unobserved, after her big sister was finished seeing to its illumination. Lessons in reading had proven enjoyable to Marsudel -- both for their own sake, and because sharing the lessons with the much older Wildrad made her feel grown up. She had taken to looking at books independently when there was an opportunity, mainly the Klorvundish ones because Mama had brought her farther along in that language. Marsudel would solemnly try reading something aloud -- comprehending short fragments, and inventing the rest -- to Bodeen, and occasionally also to Yonazere and Kimmyboo.

She had not brought Bodeen with her this time. A tiny corner of her mind, with almost no conscious awareness, had an uncanny feeling that Bodeen, if asked for his opinion, would not approve of the trick she had played on Bebsha.

The library had permanent lamps at appropriate locations, since the light of the moonwing moths lent itself better to walking around without tripping, than to the business of reading. Bebsha had still needed to go there, because the moths were supposed to light the way into the library. With Bebsha gone now, Marsudel intended to go to one of the lampstands, and use one of the matches kept for the lamps to light it; then she would try reading something. Again, her not showing any interest in Bebsha's plight ought to help conceal her trickery.

But to Marsudel's astonishment, as soon as the library door with its oiled hinges had quietly closed behind her, before she could walk two paces toward a lampstand, the room was instantly flooded with more light than all of its lamps together, with all the moonwing moths from every floor of the inn, could have produced. And this was not like moonlight; it was like a friendly sunlight that would never burn the skin, yet which would illuminate all objects from every side at once, leaving no shadows.

No shadows; but an unseen presence. For now a voice addressed her, a masculine voice which filled all the air as did the miraculous daylight.

"Hello, Marsudel Coldspring. How do you feel to be seven years old?"

The stated age distracted Marsudel from wondering whether the man speaking were hiding behind a bookshelf. It did not enter her mind to run away, or to be afraid. "I'm only six and three months!" she objected.

"I am talking about all of your life, child. Nine months before you were born, there was a time when a piece of your father's life passed into your mother, so that what would be born from your mother would belong to both of your parents. This was the real beginning of you; so in that way, Marsudel, you are seven years old now."
 
"Mama and Papa never told me that. Who are you?" Marsudel still was not afraid, but extremely inquisitive. Only, she felt unable to run around the library trying to see the man who was talking.

"Look at the table in front of you," was for a moment the only answer offered to her. She approached the table, and stood on a chair to see clearly what lay on top.

From time to time, some valuable rare volume would be brought to Coldspring Haven, carried inside a flat box or case to preserve it. Such a book container was on the tabletop now, and it was fashioned like no other she had ever seen. Rather than a title or description in ornate lettering she could barely recognize, the case was decorated with a picture of the outdoors. The closer she looked, the more it seemed as if the marvellous light in the room were shining out of the bright blue sky in the picture.

Just for an instant, Marsudel thought about the sketch Wildrad had drawn of the slain monster. Obviously this new picture was vastly more elaborate than Wildrad's drawing, yet they had something in common. Wildrad had drawn his picture as an act of kindness to Marsudel; and the girl's heart now felt that whoever had painted the gleaming outdoor picture also had kindly intentions.

And how lovely was the scene on the front of the carrying case. A scene peaceful yet not boring, adventurous yet not scary. There was a high, green hill: similar to the one atop which her Grandpapa had stood by her while she grieved, only this painted hill was crowned with one ancient huge hardwood tree. In the grass at the base of the tree was a cup, standing upright as if on a table of its own; and lying crosswise one pace downhill of the cup was a long sword. Marsudel felt sure that, if she looked long enough, she would see the owner of that cup and that sword returning for them.

Now the voice resumed, and she knew that this was the owner of those beautiful objects, and of the tree and the green hill as well. She knew that the voice was coming directly out of whatever unseen book rested inside the decorated box.

"What I have told you about your life's beginning is true. It was already true before you knew it. What is real, is real whether you know it or not. Do you like to know what is true?"

"I s'pose so, sir."

"Then is it fair not to let others know what is true? No matter what your mother believes at this moment, the fact is that your sister did not knock over that jar. Are you going to let your mother keep on believing something that you know is not true?"

What had felt so clever a short while ago now felt like being horribly dirty. Marsudel wanted to crawl behind the bookshelves and hide -- except that then she would not be able to go on looking at the beautiful picture. So she argued.

"Well, Bebsha's been mean to me ever since Papa went away."

"Has she ever struck you or choked you or hurt you at all?"

"No, sir, she hasn't. But she talks grumpy all the time."

"Does Bebsha being grumpy make it all right for you to be a liar?" After a pause allowing Marsudel to realize that she could not answer, the voice continued: "There is a reason for your life, a reason that was there from the very start. You are meant to be one who tells the truth to others. But you have to decide if you are for the truth, or against it.

"Now, some pieces of the truth are for certain: things which absolutely must and will happen, or which already have happened. Other pieces of truth are a truth of deciding and choosing. I can see where those paths go, but it still is true that people help to make them happen. It is absolutely true that you are doing wrong by getting your sister in trouble. But you have to choose what you will do next. If you go and admit to your mother that you tricked her, you will be showing that you are for the truth. If you keep on hiding the truth, you are against it."

Marsudel noticed that the voice had not said whether she would be punished if she confessed her bad deed, nor whether Bebsha would be at all grateful for being proven innocent. All that mattered was the question of whether she was for or against the truth.

"I want to be for the truth, but I'm scared," she said in a meek little voice.
 
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The voice from the book answered, "Much of people's fear comes from not knowing what is real. But if you become a friend to the truth, Marsudel, the truth will be a friend to you. You will be allowed to know things that are for certain, and things that are up to someone to decide about."

Marsudel recollected the reason for Bebsha's interest in occult knowledge. "Will I find out who made my Papa have to go be dead?"

"You will learn that, at a time when you are able to do something about it. The things you will be told will always be things that can do someone some good. That is, if you are going to be for the truth. Make your choice, child."

"But -- who are you?"

"I am the One Who made the Book inside this box. It is a book people have forgotten. There were people in the past who did not want this book to be true, so they did not let the people who came after them know about it. The more blame on those who threw the book away, than on those who were never told about it."

Marsudel's little mouth opened with the impact of a thought. "Grandpapa says he thinks people forgot something a long time ago. Is he talking about your book?"

"He is closer to the truth than he realizes. Without understanding it, he really is talking about the Book, and where it came from. You will understand this better in time.... if you are going to be a friend to the truth."

She still wondered where the speaker was hiding, But the picture on the book's container, with the cup and the sword and the tree and the green hill was so beautiful, she could not believe that whoever made a picture like that could be bad. So: "Yes! I want to be friends with the truth!"

"Good girl! Now, show that you mean what you say. You already know that you did something bad. But if you hurry, you can stop your sister's punishment before she has had to set up all the candles in all parts of the Haven. Later, you will find out more about what I plan for you."

The voice fell silent, and the miraculous daylight from the picture faded. Marsudel realized that she was expected to get going; but the voice had not told her exactly where in the spacious inn her sister was right now. So she made a beeline for her mother's bedroom door.

"Mama! You have to get up, Mama! I'm sorry, I was the bad one, I told a lie, I'm sorry!"

There was no telling which was the more startled by the little one's contrite confession: Ladza Coldspring when rousted out of sleep to hear it, or Bebsha when Ladza and Marsudel found her at the storeroom where candles and matches were kept. There was not so great and immediate a loving reconciliation as Marsudel would have liked; but where Marsudel apologized tearfully, Ladza at least apologized guardedly, and Bebsha at least guardedly accepted both apologies. The elder daughter looked as if she was holding back something else she might have said. Be that as it might, when Marsudel set out to complete the job of distributing candles and lamps, her mother and sister both joined her.

When they were moving around near the servants' living quarters, the sounds they made brought a nightgowned Gribladene Marshbank out of her little room to see what was happening. But it was the sight of Gribladene that made something happen.

To the wonderment of maidservant, landlady and little sister, Bebsha cried out: "Gribladene! It wasn't you, it was ME!"-- and then broke out weeping.

All three witnesses to this weeping uttered some version of "What is this?" Bebsha gained enough control to answer them all:

"I only got back what I gave out! Gribladene, I'm so sorry! When you fell on the stairs, and I said you were clumsy, I didn't tell the truth. I left something on the stairs, I made you stumble! It was all MY fault! And tonight I got blamed for knocking over the syrup table and making the moths fall asleep, when it wasn't me then, but I was getting back what I did to you! It's like what Mistress Pineshade always says about the circle coming around. Please, I'm sorry!"

The others could scarcely guess what a pivotal moment in life this was for Gribladene: a member of the privileged family, on whose goodwill she was dependent, was begging for her forgiveness. Without hesitation, Gribladene enfolded Bebsha in her arms, and Bebsha in turn clung to her. This let loose all of the mutual tenderness and forgiveness that Marsudel had wished for, including Ladza asking Bebsha's forgiveness for striking her. Everyone kissed and hugged everyone else, and really meant it; and as of that hour, Gribladene became like a blood member of the family, the way Leathra Pineshade had long been.

"Since I'm up, I should finish with the lights," said Gribladene. But Bebsha quickly replied, "Not this time, dear Gribladene. You're better than I am, because you don't lie the way I lied. You deserve your rest; and thank you for not hating me." At Ladza's nod, the maidservant returned to her bed.

When the three Coldsprings completed their task, they were in one of the parlors. Bebsha sat down on in a comfortable chair, drawing a willing Marsudel onto her lap. Watching her daughters embracing, Ladza realized (but did not remark on it) that Bebsha and Marsudel had not sat together in this manner since before their father Erskud had been slain.

"If you hadn't told the truth," Bebsha murmured into her little sister's red hair as they snuggled together, "I would have kept on hiding my own lie. This is so much better, with no more lies! But why did you decide to tell Mama the truth when you did?"

Since Marsudel was beginning to be friends with the truth, she could hardly answer Bebsha's question with a lie. "Someone told me I should, in the library."

"Do you mean that one of the guests was up then, and spoke to you?" asked Ladza.

"No, Mama, it was a book! A book on a table talked to me. I mean, somebody's talking came out of a book that was inside a box. He said it was bad for me to get Bebsha in trouble, and he said he wanted me to be friends with the truth because the truth was good for people who forgot it."

Bebsha, fresh from her efforts to learn magic, wondered whether some spell cast by an unknown sorcerer had prodded her little sister's guilty conscience. But her own guilt forbade her to be angry at Marsudel, so she kissed Marsudel again instead. Their mother was more direct: "Marsudel, dear, can you show us this book?"

When they entered the library, to Marsudel's dismay, the marvelous book-box was nowhere to be seen. Bebsha, tempted to feel annoyance, firmly suppressed it, but did say, "Marsudel, sweetheart, you told the truth where it mattered, and I love you. But maybe did you make up the part about the book talking to you?"

Before this could set Marsudel crying, Ladza intervened: "Bebsha dear, I'm sure she didn't make it up. We need to remember to trust each other more, and that includes me. If evil magic has come to this house before, it's only fair that good magic should come as well. Someday we'll find out more about this book with a voice. But now, my darlings, we must all get back to sleep while we can. The new day's work won't excuse us from doing it."

Marsudel returned to her own bed mystified, and unheard by a snoring Yonazere, but contented that confessing the truth had worked out so much better than continued lying would have done. As for the voice which had led her away from falsehood, it was only after she whispered to Bodeen a report of her experience that something more occurred to her:

"Good magic, Mama said. Y'know what, Bodeen? When HE was talking to me, I never felt like it was magic at all. Do you think there's something bigger than magic?"
 
Chapter Four: The First Knowings

Marsudel was allowed to sleep until nearly ten o'clock that morning. None of the Coldsprings awoke sooner than eight-thirty; but Leathra, Gribladene and the Fairmeads had by now melded into such an efficient workforce for all concerns inside the house, that the guests barely noticed the absence of the owners at breakfast time.

When Marsudel finally dressed herself, and came downstairs with Master Bodeen to claim her privilege of a late breakfast, she found Wildrad, with the current hostler on loan from the Shorecastle estate, talking with a merchant. "Good morning, Mister Wheelaxle," said Marsudel. The merchant, a dealer in leather goods, was from the central part of Greatjourney Island, but was well known to the Coldspring family. He was a married man, but within bounds of propriety was not above paying an occasional gallant compliment to the Lady Mayor.

And he was friendly enough to the Lady Mayor's children. "Good morning to you, Marsudel. I've just come by to sell your mother a new outfit of wagon harness for your brontops, since he's grown larger since last year."

Wildrad caught Marsudel's eye. "Say, little mistress, your sister tells me that you had a visitor last night."

"I'll tell you about that after Bodeen and I have breakfast;" and the little redhead made for the west kitchen.

Leathra had saved some oatmeal and an apple for her. Settling down to eat, and to pretend that Bodeen was also eating, Marsudel suddenly found a thought coming into her head. "Mistress Pineshade, you remember that new venison stew you made for the first time last night?"

"Yes, dearie. I'm sorry it didn't work out for you to sample some. Those Yansifarian sailors were hungrier than I expected. That Yansifarian cavalry veteran also liked it."

"But they'll like it even better if you use less pepper and add some sage."

This was pronounced, not as if by a child playing at cooking, but as if by an informed adult. Yet Marsudel had not even seen the venison stew being prepared, let alone tasted any. "Did one of the Yansifarians say that to you?" the chief cook asked.

"No, Mistress Pineshade, I just know it's true. The man inside the book told me I was going to know some things. I guess this is the first thing." The matter not being nearly so momentous as Marsudel might have expected after her amazing experience overnight, she resumed eating.

Leathra scratched her head. "Well, I suppose I can do it that way the next time we get venison in and I make a stew...."

Breakfast finished, Marsudel went to brush her teeth. Her whole family used a tooth powder made by Grandmama Nishica Shorecastle. Next, she helped Bebsha to dig out a number of unsightly weeds from the base of the wall around the Haven property: first outside, then inside.

Bebsha was in the most cheerful mood she had been in since before their father's death. Last night's healing of quarrels had done enormous good. So there was no suspicion or sarcasm in the question she posed to her little sister: "Tell me, Marsudel, how do we know when the invisible voice in the library is going to start telling you secrets?"

"I think he already started. I told Mistress Pineshade how she could make something good taste even better. It just came into my head. Nobody talked to me, but it came into my head."

 
It had been said that Marsudel's facial features were a female version of the late Erskud's face. Bebsha little suspected how strongly she, Bebsha, now resembled their mother Ladza in her way of looking puzzled. "Is that important enough for this unseen whoever-it-is to bother telling you?" Bebsha did not bring up the notion of the mysterious voice really being the spirit of their father; if Marsudel had any cause to believe that, she would already have said so.

"I don't know. Maybe someday one of our two kings--" (meaning the kings of Klorvund and Yansifar, with their peculiar dance of both pretending to own the Duchy of Greatjourney while not fighting over it anymore) "--will eat here, and he'll like that stew so much, he'll make Mama a 'ristocrat."

"But Mama already is an aristocrat, she's the Lady Mayor of Coldspring Township."

"Then maybe he'll make her a bigger 'ristocrat. Or maybe make Leathra into a 'ristocrat." With that, Marsudel resumed pulling weeds. Bebsha did not question her further.

Almost an hour after they finished the weeding, Marsudel sought out her sister with an air of excitement. "Bebsha! Bebsha! I got something else in my head. I know where your lost comb is!"

Many days before this, before the incident of Gribladene falling on the stairs, Bebsha had lost one of her favorite things, an object the more precious because Papa had given it to her at her last birthday before his death: a decorative comb of silver that she liked to wear in her hair anytime she wasn't working. She had worn it on one occasion when she was working, and at some point realized too late that it had fallen off. Now, since she would be no worse off by hearing Marsudel out, she asked, "Where is it, then?"

"The time you went behind the tapestries in the Klorvundish dining room, to scrub the stone wall, remember? Your comb got stuck in the cloth, on the side against the wall, and you didn't feel it coming out of your hair because you were tired. It's still there, between the tapestries and the wall, close to one corner."

A few Haven guests eating luncheon in the eastern dining room were mildly surprised when the landlady's two daughters entered and immediately ducked behind one of the wall hangings. But when Bebsha came out again, triumphantly brandishing her silver comb and thanking Marsudel for finding it, all onlookers considered the incident sufficiently explained. Only when the girls were away from strangers did the older sister lightly grasp the younger sister's shoulders and ask a new question:

"Marsudel dear, since you're friends with the truth now, I want to know something. I promise I won't be angry, I just want you to tell me one thing truthfully. I already know that you did not take my comb yourself; but did you just happen to find where it was, and then pretend that your invisible man told you where to look for it?"

The little redhead's wounded look was no sham. "Honest, I didn't play a trick on you! I wasn't even thinking about your comb, till it jumped into my head where it was. Really and truly."

Bebsha melted, knelt close, and swept Marsudel into a tender embrace, kissing her many times. There was no way that she wanted to lose the recent restoration of mutual love in the family. "I believe you, Marsudel darling. I'm sorry I questioned you; it's just that this new magic is like nothing I ever heard about before. You must never be afraid to tell me anything that your magic puts into your head."

Returning hugs and kisses, Marsudel felt that much of the shadow cast over this house by Papa's death was now removed. If she never got any other reward for being friends with the truth, it was enough to have no one in the family angry at anyone else.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 
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Besides getting Anvilhead fitted with harness, Mister Wheelaxle had other business to do in the neighborhood, so he reserved a room at the Haven for overnight. The next day would be Bakersday, the middle of the nineday as observed by most civilized people in the known world. People seldom traveled on Bakersday, unless they needed more than one day to reach a destination before the "Three-Rest," which consisted of Loafersday, Pipersday and Dancersday. These final three days of the nineday did not see literally all work cease, but most of the relaxing and merrymaking people did was on these days. Erskud and Ladza had been married on a Dancersday afternoon, joking that this way everyone else would be working as they began their honeymoon and so would leave them undisturbed.

Shortly after luncheon on Bakersday, with his packing for the road completed, Mister Wheelaxle decided before departing to walk over to the nearby general store operated by a Mister Brickledge, with whom he was friendly. Marsudel was outside the inn's property wall, playing with Yonazere, when she saw the leather merchant come out the front gate. Instantly, with no special sensation preceding it, Marsudel felt another unerring truth being dropped into her brain.

Unlike her introductory revelations, this one was a matter of life or death.

"Mister Wheelaxle!" She sprang up, dropping one of the new dolls she was sharing with Yonazere (the dolls had been planting an imaginary garden), and sprinted to intercept the merchant. "Don't go to the Brickledge store now! Not yet!"

Not thinking to ask himself how the innkeeper's child knew where he meant to go, when he had not mentioned it to anyone, Mister Wheelaxle kept walking. "It's all right, Marsudel. I'll only be there for a minute or two to say hello, and I'm not getting on the road until two o'clock. Whatever it is you want, it can wait until I come back."

She followed him. "But you mustn't go to Mister Brickledge right now, Mister Wheelaxle! That can wait. If you go now, something awful will happen to you."

"Tush, girl, it can't be that bad. Mister Brickledge may be a bit careless, but the worst thing I ever saw happen at his store was once when he dropped a keg of nails on his own foot. One of the local magicians joked that Mister Brickledge was casting a spell to create a new kind of toe-NAILS."

"Mister Wheelaxle, didn't my Mama tell you? I'm friends with the truth now, and I can find out things that'll help other people. I'm not playing, sir, you've got to stay away from the store until -- well, until something. You'll know soon. But wait first, please, don't go there yet!"

Yonazere overtook them, asking what was the matter. The leather merchant, growing just a little cross, told Yonazere, "Nothing important," then said to Marsudel, "Your mother didn't tell me anything about any magic. But my mother, long live her memory, always told me that children have big imaginations. Whatever's in that cute little head of yours, it can wait."

Rounding a corner of the wall and walking westward, they had by now covered half the distance to Mister Brickledge's porch, which faced south. For Marsudel, the premonition of danger was thick enough to taste. As Mister Wheelaxle veered in his stride, so as to come around and approach the store's entrance, she placed herself in front of him, trying with all of her six-year-old strength to push him back toward the inn. "You can't go now! It isn't safe yet!"

Gently thrusting her aside, while Yonazere looked on in powerless bewilderment, Mister Wheelaxle took a few more steps -- then found Marsudel tackling one of his legs, in tears now. "You'll die, Mister Wheelaxle, you'll DIE! Please, please, don't go there!"

Rapidly losing patience, but not daring to be harsh toward the Lady Mayor's daughter, the merchant lifted Marsudel in his arms and started carrying her back toward the Haven. His mind scarcely registered the fact that Marsudel's fear for him subsided immediately, once he was moving away from the general store. He tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "Will I be putting off my visit to Mister Brickledge long enough by taking you back where you belong?"

His answer did not come from the little girl.

It came from the front door of the mercantile establishment. What they all heard was a noise which was not frequently heard in the rural areas of Greatjourney Island; Yonazere screamed in fright when she heard it. But Mister Wheelaxle recognized exactly what it was: the report of a heavy matchlock musket.

Setting Marsudel on her feet, Mister Wheelaxle hastened to get a look at Mister Brickledge's front door. He would have been standing directly in front of that entrance at the instant of the shot -- if not for Marsudel's intervention. At the level of a man's chest, there was a large, ragged hole in the door, with long splinters of wood all forced outward.

 
Mister Wheelaxle stood frozen, eyes gaping at the ruined door. Marsudel, for her part, knew that the danger had passed; beckoning Yonazere to follow and behold, she joined the leather merchant on the store's doorstep.

Mister Brickledge, a gentleman more esteemed locally for a good heart than for a wise mind, poked his carp-like face through the gunshot hole, blinked at the sight of his horrified friend, withdrew his face, opened what remained of his door, and emerged onto the porch. He still carried a coil of the heavy, combustible cord, similar to a candlewick, that was used to touch flame to the powder in the priming pan of a matchlock musket. (As for that, in another place and time, this cord, rather than a stick with an igniting tip, had been the first thing to be called a "match" in a fire-starting sense.)

The man who owed his life to Marsudel stood in unmoving shock for a moment longer -- during which, the storekeeper glanced behind him, to say in an excuse-making tone: "I was sure I had completely snuffed out this match-cord."

Out past the dimwitted Mister Brickledge slid someone as much smarter than he was as she was better looking: Rildavere, his eighteen-year-old daughter. She had glossy black hair, bright green eyes, and a face which would be lovely no matter what expression it wore. The rest of her, all the way down to her feet, was filled out in perfect proportions. This fact was the subject of many comments that local men would make to each other when none of the Brickledges were within hearing -- comments which made little sense to Marsudel on occasions when she overheard them.

"Those Yansifarians told you, Father," the young woman chided him, "that a slow match is not as easy to extinguish as a candle. If you just wanted to try out how the serpentine slipped down into the powder pan, you should have done that before -- Why, here's Marsudel with Mister Wheelaxle! I'm glad you two are unhurt; no one else was hit by pellets, were they?"

Having dicovered that Mister Wheelaxle had not heard about her new friendship with truth, Marsudel assumed that the Brickledges had not been told, either. As Rildavere's brother Pakro, who was midway in age between Marsudel and Wildrad Fairmead, came trotting up from someplace outdoors, Marsudel simply responded: "No, nobody's hurt. Was that a gunshot, Mister Brickledge?"

"Well, yes, Marsudel. For the first time, I have muskets in my store, muskets that common people can buy! I was just seeing how the -- well, I had a little accident. But as long as no one--"

"That tree over there caught some of the pellets," Pakro interrupted.

Mister Wheelaxle uttered an incoherent grunt or growl.

"What's the matter, Mister Wheelaxle?" asked the storekeeper. He had already ascertained, a little belatedly, that no one had been in his line of fire at the instant the firearm discharged, and he was not aware that his friend would have been in harm's way if Marsudel had not forestalled him.

Recovering now from the scare of his narrow escape, Mister Wheelaxle's mind leaped from fright to fury. Only the presence of three children and one captivating maiden helped him to restrain himself from physically attacking Mister Brickledge. But as he regained his voice, he did pour out a most colorful opinion of Mister Brickledge's brain, or more likely his total absence thereof. While this went on, seeing that her father was not in immediate peril of being strangled, Rildavere drew Marsudel aside to explain further.
 
"I don't think your parents ever told you about the invasion from Arpezna." Rildavere was referring to a mainland nation which bordered Klorvund on the south, having a seacoast where the ocean opened out, thus able easily to trade with Eversummerland across the blue water. "Back when your Papa, of treasured memory, was a little boy, the Arpeznians felt strong enough to invade Klorvund, helped by powerful magic which enabled their troops to get into position unseen. Made bold by early victories, the invaders went so far as to invade Greatjourney also. Taking our people by surprise, they killed many; and among the dead were some Yansifarians of importance.

"In revenge for this, Yansifar helped Klorvund to smash the Arpenznians, beating them thoroughly. That made things friendlier between our two neighbor kingdoms; and Arpezna has never dared to try an invasion again since that defeat. But the kings of Yansifar have never forgotten the danger that an enemy could run the length of Greatjourney and enter Yansifar. With Plateau Barbarians now at war against Klorvund, and with your dear Papa having been killed by evil magic, the present King of Yansifar is trying to make sure that our people can defend themselves. Not only has he given twenty new cannons to the Ducal Army, he has also issued a decree which he is sure the King of Klorvund will agree with. He decreed that common people here must be permitted to own muskets as they please. And he has seen to it that muskets, gunpowder, match-cord and shot will be available to Islander merchants like my father."

Meanwhile, Mister Wheelaxle had not been accepting the feeble excuses offered by Mister Brickledge, but was continuing to berate him. Wildrad, who had been in Coldspring Township long enough to take a liking to the storekeeper, tried to intercede for him, as did Pakro Brickledge, but the two boys were brushed aside. The leather merchant was convinced that idiots like Mister Brickledge were a greater threat to Greatjourney than barbarians. Yet for all this, once Rildavere had finished speaking to Marsudel and stepped up to make peace, Mister Wheelaxle suddenly calmed down as if under a tremendous enchantment. Marsudel had often noticed that no male human being over the age of seven, and very few under that age, seemed able to stay angry if Rildavere spoke sweetly to them.

While Rildavere was using her female charms to soothe Mister Wheelaxle's temper, they were joined by Leathra Pineshade and Stobia Fairmead, as well as various neighbors who had heard the musket-shot.

"Has anyone been harmed?" asked Leathra. "I was afraid that the war had spread here!" declared Stobia. The others present babbled similar words, until Mister Wheelaxle, now mollified, gestured for their attention.

"It was only an accident, my friends, no intentional violence by anyone. But this accident would have ended my life, if not for this remarkable girl;" and he lifted up Marsudel for them to behold, as if none of them had ever seen her until now. "I don't know if any of you already knew this, but Marsudel Coldspring has the gift of magical foresight. She foresaw that there was going to be an accident, and she warned me to avoid this very spot!" He pointed to the blast-pierced door.

Since word of Marsudel's less-dramatic initial revelations had not yet spread widely, the neighbors were as astounded as Mister Wheelaxle.

"Did she really?"

"Marsudel, did Hapsie Thrushbill teach you something?"

"No, it must have been Lisorva Starleaf who taught her."

"The Ducal Office of Sorcery should be informed of this!"

"It's just a coincidence."

"Not likely! I know Mister Wheelaxle, he's not gullible."

"Marsudel, can you tell my fortune?"

 
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