He walked on, and he thought.

His life was not going right. He felt that, but he could not really explain it. It all seemed to hinge somehow on his encounter with Geste the Trickster, the most playful of all the Powers. Before that he had seen nothing wrong with his life, but now he could see little that was right.

Had Geste played some subtle trick on him, perhaps? Something that altered his feelings, something far more devious than the rather silly and simple-minded stunt with Lord Grey's mare?

He shook his head at the thought. He did not really believe that was it.

Fifty wakes earlier he had been a normal young man, happily pursuing wealth, glory, and young women. He was a fine hunter, one of the best in the village-that was no boast, but simple fact. He was tall, strong, and if not staggeringly handsome, certainly not ugly. His family was respected and respectable, his brother and three sisters all well enough behaved, both parents alive and healthy, his various aunts, uncles, and cousins causing no problems. He had had no bitter quarrels or disagreements, nothing beyond the ordinary household squabbles that every family had, and even those had been few and mild of late.

He had almost no money, of course, but that was nothing. An unmarried man needed little enough. All he really owned was his bachelor's tent and a few personal items, but he had never lacked for the essentials, and his future was bright. Hunting was steady work, and prestigious, and a good hunter could make plenty of money once he had paid off his debt to his parents. Bredon's debt was down to a matter of a dozen meals or so, and his parents were not pressing him. If anything, pleased and proud as they were at how quickly he was paying, they seemed to be encouraging him to take his time.

As for women, for the past few seasons, since he had reached man-height and his complexion had begun clearing, he had had little trouble in finding willing females to share his bedding-though not always those he might have preferred. He had taken the occasional romantic setback in stride. He had had friends of both sexes, and was rarely lonely.

He had been happy, he knew he had.

Then he had glimpsed the mare when she wandered near the village, and he had set out in pursuit. A fine horse was wealth he could appreciate. He had spent three wakes chasing her, almost six full lights and five darks, with his childhood friend and inseparable companion beside him, and they had trapped her.

And that was where everything had gone wrong. By rights, they should have struggled with her, tied her, dragged her back home, and spent weeks breaking and training her. They would have worked hard with her, certainly, but their efforts would have been rewarded with the respect of the village, and with the knowledge of their own skills proven, as well as with a superb mount.

Instead, they had left the horse out on the plain and had come back with nothing but the strange red disk. A legend had come to life, appearing out of nowhere and snatching their quarry from them.

Even coming back empty-handed because the mare escaped or died would have been more satisfying, he thought. They would have been honorably defeated, to learn from their mistakes and be better prepared the next time.

Instead, they had come back, and told their story, which Atheron the Storyteller had declared fully authentic and consistent with the known characteristics of the Powers. They had shown the disk. The villagers had smiled, applauded them, honored them, feasted them-but it was all somehow unsatisfying and empty.

Bredon realized, with a start, what was really lacking. The villagers treated him with awe and wonder, they honored him-but the respect that he had sought was not there.

And why should it be, he asked himself silently. He had done nothing worthy of respect. He had not proven his worth as a hunter, as he had set out to do. He had, instead, been the butt of a demi-god's stupid joke. People might stare at him in awe, they might honor him outwardly for his contact with divinity, but inwardly they thought no better of him than before. His encounter had been sheer luck, after all. Geste might have picked on anyone, anyone at all. He had not cared in the least that Bredon was the best young hunter in the village. What did a Power care about hunting?

And had Bredon come out of the encounter with honor? No, not really. He had done nothing.

The respect that was truly lacking, he saw, was his own self-respect.

He should have defied Geste, he thought. The little man was a Power, certainly, but that was no reason for Bredon to have stared at him so stupidly, gaped so awkwardly, spoken so foolishly. He should have at least tried to take the mare, despite what Geste said.

Of course, Geste was a Power, a demi-god.

But then, the tales said that most of the Powers, including Geste, respected those who stood up to them despite the incredible danger of doing so. Some stories said that the Powers were only men and women come from another, higher world, a world where fortune had gifted everyone with immortality and magic. If that was so, if Geste was just a man, then Bredon had disgraced himself, given up his own dignity as an adult, in not standing up to his tormentor. He had forsaken his own common-sense view of the world and been overawed by Geste's supposed supernatural power.

He had done better than Mardon, though. Mardon had cowered and cringed, and that had been eating away at both of them since they had returned to the village. Their friendship was breaking up, Bredon knew. Mardon did not want the red disk so much as he wanted not to have behaved so badly, but there was nothing either of them could do about it. It was all in the past. Neither of them could change the past. The disk was just a symbol of the parts they had played, and if he gave it to Mardon he knew it would do no good. In fact, he suspected it would make things worse, as Mardon could then accuse Bredon of patronizing him.

Mardon was a coward, and had acted like a coward, and was ashamed of it. He was redirecting that shame into envy of Bredon, and it was destroying a friendship that had endured since the days when both wore diapers.

Bredon sighed.

Geste had done more harm than he knew. Bredon wondered whether the little man would laugh at the unhappiness he had caused.

He stopped walking, pulled the disk from his pocket, and studied it. It gleamed like a ruby in the light of the fast-rising sun.

If he broke it, would the Trickster really come?

And if he did, could he put right the wrong he had done? Could he cure Mardon's memory of his own cowardice, give Bredon back his self-respect?

Surely, such things were beyond even the Powers. They could move mountains, but could they repair a damaged soul?

Even if Geste could cast a spell of some sort, and make Bredon and Mardon once again happy and content, would either of them want a magical cure of that kind?

He put the disk back in his pocket.

He turned and faced westward for a moment, considering. The sun was well up; he had been walking toward it for an hour or more. If he hurried a little he could get back to the village before the sun reached its mid-secondlight zenith.

Did he want to?

What would he find in the village? Mardon might still be in his tent, which would mean chasing him out. That would be unpleasant. He did not want to see Mardon again for awhile.

There was no one else he wanted to see, either. None of his relationships with the village girls had progressed beyond casual entertainment, really. His siblings were busy with their own affairs, and were still amused by the story of his meeting with the Trickster. His parents steadfastly refused to intervene in his life now that he had reached manhood and pitched his tent, and for the most part, despite their pride in him, they acted as little more than polite strangers-strangers he owed money. And most of his old friends had fallen away, somehow, in the last forty wakes.