"That is not merely my opinion, children, but the consensus of Terran critics—and he was scarcely a weakling."

"Yet 'tis he whose verses thou hast made us con by heart," Geoffrey objected, "whether we would or no."

"Wast thou so reluctant, then?" Magnus jibed.

Geoffrey frowned. "Not with 'The Rebels and the Admiral,' nay, nor with his 'Foc'sle Ballads.' Yet for his 'Decline and Fall of Liberty,' I've little use."

"Nor I," Cordelia agreed, "yet I shall ever treasure his 'Young Wife's Rejoicing' and 'The Dandy's Courtship.' "

"Thou wouldst," Geoffrey scoffed.

"Every person who has read his verses has a favorite, children," Fess said quickly, forestalling mayhem, "though they frequently know not who wrote them. Yes, my third owner was Tod Tambourin. He gave me as a wedding present to his granddaughter, Lona, and I have served her family ever since."

Magnus stared at Fess. "Thou dost not mean that we are of the blood of Tod Tambourin!"

"You should not be so surprised," Fess chided. "Have you not found that, when your heart is light, you cannot keep from singing?"

The children looked at one another in amazement.

"But enough now, your parents call."

"More, Fess. More of Tod Tambourin!" Cordelia pleaded. But the great horse shook his head, and led them toward Rod and Gwen, who waited under the shading tree.

They came up the long, winding road to the castle just as the sun slipped below the horizon—and, though they had traveled east from their home, the road had wound its way around and around up the mountain, so that, as they looked up at the castle, the sunset was behind it—a blood-red sunset, making the castle appear black and ominous, brooding above them.

Cordelia shivered. "It doth watch us, Papa."

"Just an illusion, dear." Rod squeezed her against him—to hide his own shiver. "It's the angle of view. A pile of stones can't watch—it has no eyes to see with."

"Yet it doth, Papa." Magnus's voice broke on the word, somewhat spoiling the effect of his tone—but he ignored it, frowning up at the castle with a scowl as dark as its own. "There is summat held there within those stones, that doth mark our approach."

This time Rod let go of Cordelia to hide his shiver. There might indeed be a presence in the castle—on a planet where virtually everyone was a potential esper, you couldn't rule out anything. He glanced at Geoffrey, and even his hardening warrior-child was frowning, drawn-in and truculent, glaring at the castle as though it were an attacker—and Gregory was wide-eyed and pale.

Rod turned to Gwen. "Do you feel it, too?"

Gwen nodded, gaze fixed on the castle. "There is a sense of old misery there, milord—some ancestral curse that must needs be lifted."

"Well, then, a family like ours is the one to lift it!" Rod squared his shoulders and strode ahead. "Come on, troops. How long has it been since we've found a villain who could stand up to us?"

He should have heard a cheer at his back, but he didn't. He risked a quick peek and found they were all following him, with, a sense of determination that he found more unnerving than reluctance would have been.

"Are you sure this is wise, Rod?" Fess's voice said behind his ear.

Rod noticed that the robot hadn't used human thought-frequency, which meant the rest of the family probably hadn't heard. He muttered back, "Of course not, Old Iron. Has that ever stopped me before?"

The sky had darkened to dusk by the time they came up to the moat and saw just how dilapidated the castle was. A roof had fallen in, and some crenels were missing from the towers. Frost and thaw had prised several other blocks out of the northern wall, leaving a four-foot notch high at its top. As they watched, bats shot out of the northern tower and darted away into the night. Rod wondered just how much more of a ruin it would seem by day. Slowly, he said, "I don't think I want to spend the night there."

But, "Nay," Gwen said, "we must."

Rod turned to stare at her. "Spend the night in there? The time when unquiet spirits are most apt to roam? When we've all felt some wrongness there?"

"Aye, and therefore must we stand against it," she answered, eyes hard with determination, "or let the evil that it holds endure to befoul the domain that hath been given into our care."

Well, there was no way around that, Rod had to admit—they had accepted the estate that had been split off from Di Medici's lands, which meant they had assumed the responsibility for the welfare of its people. Not that they had asked for it, mind you, or wanted it—but they hadn't refused it, either. If Tuan and Catharine needed to have them take care of this parcel of land and people, why then, it was their duty to do so, as loyal liegefolk—unless they had a damn good reason not to.

Which they hadn't. "I notice the Di Medici haven't bothered de-ghosting it, no matter how long it's been in the family…"

"Thou hast said it; 'tis haunted." Gregory's eyes were huge.

Geoffrey gave him a contemptuous glance. "Is't such news, sin that the Puck hath told us so, and we all have felt some eldritch presence there?"

"Nay," little brother answered, "but once 'tis said, there's no unsaying it."

Geoffrey frowned, irritated, and was about to comment, but Rod stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "It's labeling, son. It's a way of confronting our fear…"

"I have no fear!"

"Then you're braver than I am. And once we've put a name to that fear, we can't just walk away and pretend it never existed."

Geoffrey still frowned, but he quieted.

"And if the Di Medici have failed in their duty, what of it?" Gwen demanded. "It nonetheless falls to us."

"True," Rod admitted.

"Then the sooner we deal with it, the better."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far. I'd just as soon make my first confrontation by daylight, thank you."

Gwen turned to confront him. "Delay will not make it cease, milord."

"No, but it'll make me feel a little better about it."

Gwen tossed her head impatiently. "Art thou so worn with travel, then, that thou canst not stand to battle?"

"Now that you mention it—yes. Or rather, I could if I had to—but no general will make his troops fight when they're tired, if he can help it. I've got an even better reason than that though."

"Which is?"

"I'm scared."

"Thou, craven?" Geoffrey bleated. "Thou canst not speak truth!"

"I do." Rod turned away, picked up a fallen branch, and began to sweep out a campsite. "And I intend to have full sunlight before I walk into that stone pile."

Geoffrey stared at him, thunderstruck, then whirled to Gwen. "Mama! Assuredly our father hath not become a coward!"

Gwen squeezed his shoulder and shook her head, but her eyes were on Rod.

Geoffrey stared, unbelieving, then whirled away to Fess. "It cannot be true! Thou, who hast known him longer than any, who hast watched o'er him from his cradle—tell me! Hath my father ever admitted to fear?"

"Frequently and regularly, Geoffrey, as he should. Only a fool will deny being afraid. The wise man will admit his fear, at least to himself, then triumph over it."

That brought the future hero to a frowning halt. "There is an air of sense to thy words…"

"He who denies his fear, even to himself, lies," Fess assured him, "and fear denied may leap out at the crucial moment, to disable you in battle."

Magnus listened closely.

"So never hesitate to admit being afraid, Geoffrey," Fess went on, "but do not let it keep you from action."

"Yet he doth! Even now, he doth!"

"True, and that is atypical for him," the robot agreed. "You might wish to ask him why—especially when he does it so blithely."