A N HOUR AFTER SUNSET, H ALT AND H ORACE LEFT THEIR ROOM and went downstairs to the taproom of the inn for supper. The innkeeper's wife had prepared a huge pot of savory stew. It hung, simmering, in the enormous fireplace that dominated one side of the room. A serving girl brought them large wooden bowls of the steaming food, along with curious, long loaves of bread, shaped in a style Horace had never seen before. They were very long, and narrow, so they looked like thick sticks rather than loaves. But they were crusty on the outside and delightfully light and airy on the inside. And, the apprentice soon discovered, they were an ideal tool for mopping up the delicious gravy of the stew.

Halt had accepted a large beaker of red wine with his meal. Horace had settled for water. Now, having enjoyed a large serving of a delicious berry pie, they sat over mugs of an excellent coffee.

Horace spooned a large helping of honey into his cup, watched with a frown by the Ranger.

"Killing the taste of good coffee," Halt muttered at him. Horace merely grinned. He was getting used to his companion's mock severity by now.

"It's a habit I learned from your apprentice," he told him, and for a moment they were both silent, thinking of Will, wondering what had become of him and Evanlyn, hoping they were both safe and well.

Halt finally roused them from their thoughtful mood by nodding toward the small group of townspeople seated by the fire. He and Horace had taken a table at the back of the room. It was always Halt's way to do this, keeping his back to a solid wall and sitting where he could observe the rest of the room and, at the same time, remain relatively inconspicuous himself.

While they were eating, the room had gradually filled with townspeople, either coming to eat or to enjoy a few jugs of wine or beer before heading to their own homes. Now, the Ranger had noticed, one of the room's inhabitants had produced a set of pipes from inside his pack, and another was fiddling with the tuning pegs of a gourd-shaped, eight-stringed instrument.

"Looks like the entertainment's about to start," he told Horace.

And as they spoke, the other people in the room began pulling their chairs closer to the fire and calling for refills from the innkeeper and his serving assistants.

The piper began playing a lament, and the string instrument quickly took up a counterpoint, playing rapid, vibrating strokes to form a continuous, high treble background to the soaring, swooping melody. The pipes themselves filled the room with a wild and plaintive sound, a voice that reached deep into the soul and brought thoughts of friends long gone and times past to the forefront of the listeners' minds.

As the notes echoed around the warm room, Halt found himself remembering the long summer days in the forest surrounding Castle Redmont, and a small, busy figure who asked endless questions and brought a new feeling of energy and interest to life. In his mind's eye, he could see Will's face-hair tousled by the cowl of his cloak, brown eyes alight and filled with an irrepressible sense of fun. He remembered him as he cared for Tug, remembered the pride the boy had shown at the prospect of having a horse of his own and the special bond that had formed between the two of them.

Perhaps it was because Halt could feel the years encroaching on him as the gray hairs in his beard became more the norm than the exception. But Will had brought a sense of youth and fun and vitality to his life, a sense that was a welcome contrast to the dark and dangerous paths that a Ranger was often required to tread.

He remembered too the pride he had felt when Horace had told him of the way Will took it upon himself to follow the Wargal forces in Celtica, and how the boy had stood alone against the Wargals and Skandians as Evanlyn had worked to make sure the fire took hold of the bridge. There was more to Will than just an irrepressible spirit.

There was courage and ingenuity and loyalty. The boy would have made a truly great Ranger, Halt thought, then abruptly realized that he had thought of Will as if such an eventuality were no longer possible. His eyes moistened with tears and he shifted uncomfortably. It was a long time since Halt had shown any outward sign of emotion. Then he shrugged. Will was worth at least a few tears from a grizzled old wreck like himself, he thought, and made no move to wipe them away. He glanced sideways at Horace to see if the boy had noticed, but Horace was entranced by the music, leaning forward on the bench they shared, his lips slightly parted, one finger beating time unconsciously on the rough tabletop. It was as well, Halt thought, smiling ruefully to himself. It wouldn't do for the boy to see him dissolving into tears at the first sound of sad music. Rangers, particularly treasonous ex-Rangers who had insulted the King, were supposed to be made of sterner stuff.

The music finally ended, to a roar of applause from the people in the room. Halt and Horace joined in enthusiastically and Halt used the moment to covertly dash a hand across his eyes and wipe away the traces of moisture there.

He noticed that the performers were being rewarded by the audience with coins tossed into the hat that had been artfully left, upturned, on the floor beside them. He shoved a couple of coins toward Horace and nodded toward the players.

"Give them these," he said. "They've earned it."

Horace nodded wholehearted agreement and rose to cross the room, ducking his head under the heavy beams that supported the ceiling. He tossed the coins into the cap, the last in the room to do so. The piper looked up, saw an unfamiliar face and nodded his thanks. Then he began to pump the bellows on his pipes with his elbow again, and once more, the haunting voice of the pipes swelled up and began to fill the room.

Horace hesitated, loath to move now that another song had begun.

He glanced back to where Halt sat in the shadows, shrugged and settled onto a tabletop at the edge of the small crowd surrounding the performers.

There was a different tone to this piece. There was a subtle note of triumph in the melody, augmented by the bold major chords struck by the stringed instrument, which came more to the fore for this piece.

Indeed, before too long, the brittle, rippling notes of the gourd-shaped instrument had wrested the lead from the pipes and set toes tapping and hands beating time throughout the room. A delighted smile broke out on Horace's face, and as the door to the street opened and a gust of wind swept around the room, he barely took notice of the newcomer who entered.

Others did, however, and Halt, senses finely honed by years of living through dangerous situations, felt a change in the atmosphere in the room. A sense of apprehension and almost suspicion seemed to grip the people grouped around the musicians.

There was even a slight hesitation in the tune as the piper glanced up and saw the man who had entered. Just the slightest break in rhythm, almost imperceptible, but enough for Halt to notice.

He looked at the newcomer. A tall, well-built man, perhaps ten years younger than himself. Black beard and hair, and heavy, black brows that gave him an ominous appearance. He was obviously not one of the simple townsfolk. As he threw back his cloak, he revealed a chain mail shirt covered with a black surcoat that bore a white raven insignia.

The hilt of a sword was obvious at his waist, worked with gold wire and with a dully gleaming pommel in the same metal. High, soft leather riding boots marked him as a mounted warrior-a knight, judging by the insignia on his surcoat. Halt had no doubt that, tethered outside the tavern, he would find a battlehorse-most probably a jet-black one, judging by the stranger's favored color scheme.