"In this case, yes," Pol replied, "since I've no idea what you are talking about."

The centaur stepped nearer, as if considering abusing him. Behind him, Pol saw Mouseglove stir. There seemed to be no other centaurs about, though the ground bore a great number of hoofmarks.

"Is it not possible that you could be mistaken?" Pol continued. "I know of no deaths hereabout--unless a piece of our ship fell on someone--"

"Liar," said the centaur, leaning forward and glaring directly into his eyes. "You came in your ships and slaughtered my people." He gestured toward the wreckage in the treetop. "You even kidnapped one of them. You deny this?"

The hoofs were darting and dancing uncomfortably near him as Pol shook his head.

"I do," he said, staring back, "but I would like to know more about what happened, if I'm to be blamed for it."

The centaur wheeled and paced away from him, kicking dust into his face. Pol shook his head, which had begun aching more severely, and he automatically called for healing strands to wrap it, as he had for his neck wound. They came and attached themselves to his brow, draining away some of the pain. He thought of his wrist then, but it was partly numbed by the pressure of the cord. He wondered whether he could manipulate strands in more complicated patterns without seeing what he was about, or whether there might be some other way to gain control over his captor.

"The others have gone to fetch a warrior to decide what to do with you," the centaur stated. "She may wish to talk about these things. I don't. It should not be long though. I believe that I hear them approaching now."

Pol listened but heard nothing. A purple strand settled near him, its farther end passing across the centaur's shoulder. He willed that it come into contact with his fingertips. It passed behind him, and shortly he felt a tingling in his left hand. His fingers twisted. There came a familiar sensation of power.

"Look at me," he said.

The centaur turned.

"What do you want?"

Pol caught his gaze with his own. From his left hand, he felt the power move.

"You are so tired that you are almost asleep on your feet," he said. "Now you are, but don't bother closing your eyes. You can hear only my voice."

The centaur's gaze grew distant. His breathing slowed. He began to sway.

"...But you can move about just as if you were awake, when I tell you to. My hands have been tied by mistake. Come over here and free them."

He rose to his feet and turned. The centaur came up behind him and began fumbling at the knots. Pol recalled seeing a knife at the creature's side.

"Cut the bonds," he ordered. "Quickly!"

A moment later, he was rubbing his wrists.

"Give me the knife."

He accepted the blade, crossed to where Mouseglove lay beneath the tree, watching him.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, as he faced the smaller man.

"I ache all over. But then, I felt that way before the crash, too. I don't believe anything is broken."

Mouseglove stood and turned about, raising his hands. As Pol slit the cord, he said, "Must be Mark's people in your castle. No one else has weapons like that--Uh-oh."

The sound of hoofbeats now came to their ears.

"Shall we run for it?" Mouseglove asked.

"No. Too late. They'd catch us. We'll wait and have this out here."

Pol slipped the knife behind his belt and turned to face the wood. A mental order to the centaur he now controlled moved him off to the right.

Shortly, the figures came into sight--four male centaurs led by an older female. She halted, about ten meters from where he stood, and regarded Pol.

"I was told you were bound," she stated.

"I was."

She stepped forward, and Pol started as he saw that she held the scepter in the hand which had been out of sight at her side. She raised it and pointed it at him. He saw a cluster of strands rush toward it. He issued a mental command and the centaur under his spell stepped between them. New spells suggested themselves to him and he summoned strands of his own.

The female centaur's eyes widened.

"What have you done to him?" she asked.

"Return my rod and we'll talk about it."

From the corner of his eye, Pol saw that Mouseglove was edging away.

"Where did you get it?" she asked.

"I recovered it, piece by piece, from the points of the Triangle of Int."

"Only a sorcerer could do that."

"You noticed."

"I, too, have some familiarity with the Art, though only the middle part of this rod will respond to me. Mine is an Earth magic." She gestured upward. "Why then were you riding in that thing?"

"My dragon was occupied. That vessel was stolen from my enemy, Mark Marakson, who has many such, atop Anvil Mountain. Perhaps you have seen his dark birds, who are not of flesh, in the skies."

"I know who he is and I have seen such birds. Some of my people were killed and some injured by men who came in larger vessels such as the one you rode."

The strands came into his hands and Pol felt the power throb in his wrist. Still, he had no wish to face a person who could use even the middle section of the rod.

"Small men, I daresay," he answered, "for such is the stature of the race which serves him. I have never harmed a centaur and I've no desire to. This will be the first time, if you force me to fight here."

"Sunfa, come forward," she said, and a smaller male moved from among those to the rear of the group to a position beside her. There was a long gash upon his left shoulder, and he was missing several teeth. "Were either of these men of the party which attacked you that day?"

He shook his head.

"No, Stel. Neither of them."

Her head snapped forward.

"You know my name now," she said. "So know, too, that I was among the force which stormed Rondoval the day this rod was wrested from Det Morson."

Pol raised his right hand so that his sleeve fell back, revealing the dragonmark.

"I am Pol Detson," he stated. "I have heard stories concerning my father. But I was taken from this land as a child and raised in another place. I never knew him. The past is dead, so far as I am concerned. I have only been back for a short while. I need that scepter for purposes of arousing the forces of Rondoval against those of Anvil Mountain. Are you going to return it to me?"

"In many ways," she replied, "this is even more disturbing than your being what we had thought you. For the moment, it is good if our enemy is also your enemy. But to see the hordes that lie beneath Rondoval roused once again is a frightening thought, especially for those of us who were alive in your father's day. So tell me, what do you propose doing when your battle is over?"

Pol laughed.

"You are assuming that I win and that I live. But, all right ... I would lay most of my forces to rest again. I would like to be left alone to pursue my studies, and I would be happy to return the favor and leave everyone else in the neighborhood to his own devices. After a time, I may do some traveling. I don't know. I am not attracted by the darker aspects of the Art. I have no desire to conquer anything, and the idea of ruling over anybody bores the ass off me."

"Commendable," she said, "and I find myself wanting to believe you. In fact, it seems likely that you are telling the truth. However, even granting that, people do change. I would like very much to see you deal with the people who feel that they can hunt centaurs whenever they choose. But I would also like some assurance that you will not one day be inclined to do it yourself."

"My word is all that I can give you. Take it or leave it."

"But you could give me more--and in return, your own way might be eased."

"What have you in mind?"

"Swear an oath of friendship with us, upon your scepter."

"Friendship is a thing that goes further than nonaggression," he replied. "It is something that works both ways."