But their parents were hurrying from their homes to the granary when they should have been out to the fields. Frowning, Geordie quickened his pace; what had gone wrong?

In minutes he was twisting his way through the throng of peasants inside the shadows of the barn, lit by stripes of sunlight where the boards failed to meet; Geordie's shadow walked long before him as he said, "Room, Willikin, there's a good lad … Good morn to you, Corin, and let me by …

The peasants opened a lane for him in the coolness and fragrance of the bam—but the aroma was wrong; instead of the richness of stored grain, he scented something sour, acrid.

" 'Tis the garnered grain, my lord," old Adam said. He lifted a hand, letting the kernels sift through his fingers— but only powder came out, and it was far darker than it should have been.

Geordie stared. "What rot has struck?"

Old Adam shrugged. "One I've never seen, my lord…"

"Don't call me that," Geordie said with the weariness of one who knows it will do no good. "My father was attainted."

"A lord you are by the way you walk and bear yourself toward others," the old man signed, "and there's naught the king can do or say that will change that."

The throng of men muttered assent for the fiftieth time, nodding agreement.

"But if it will please you better, I'll call you squire," old Adam said, "for such you are, in the heed you pay your lands and the concern you give your people."

"Concerned I am," Geordie said with a frown, "for we've a summer to live through before the new crop comes. Is all the stored grain like this?"

"All, my lord," said burly, grizzled Tavus, "save for the last layer of kernels that cover it—and I'd not dare to eat of them."

"No, of course not." Geordie scowled, brain racing.

"What shall we eat, my lord?" one of the men asked, voice low and heavy.

"The first carrots and turnips will be grown in a few weeks," Geordie said. "We'll have to plant more. Till then, we shall have to manage off what we can scavenge in the forest."

The people muttered, for the forest was as all forests were—the property of the Crown and the hunting preserve of the nobility.

"There's no law against our gathering nuts and berries," Geordie called over their voices, "or anything else that grows from the earth there."

"But the keepers will think we are poaching, my l… squire," said Hobin.

"We'll all go gathering together, and I'll speak with the keepers for you," Geordie told them.

Relief washed over the people's faces, but the older ones still looked glum. "There can't be enough wild oats and squirrel's hoards to keep us until the harvest, squire."

"True enough," Geordie said. "We'll have to stretch it with porridges and stews."

"Stews need meat, squire," Old Adam pointed out.

"So do you, all of you, even if it be only an ounce or two a week—and aye, even slaying so much as a badger is poaching, I know. Still, if the beasts come out of the wood, they're ours."

The peasants muttered their misgivings, and Hobin said, "Don't know what the keepers will say to that, squire."

"Let me worry about the keepers," Geordie said. "Take your children and go searching the hedgerows first—we'll certainly find there enough food for the day." He turned and stalked away.

The peasants watched him go, every face grooved with worry.

"What will he be doing, Adam?" Corin asked.

"What any good lord would do if his people starve," Adam said grimly, "feed them."

"The keepers will take him then!"

"That they will," said Adam, "and he's not noble no more. We'll have to keep a watch on that lad."

"Aye, and keep him from doing something foolish," Hobin agreed.

But they all knew how skilled a woodsman Geordie was, and wondered if they could find him to guard him if he didn't want to be found.

GEOFFREY WAS STILL seething as he rode through the gatehouse. He dismounted in the courtyard and tossed the reins at a hostler running toward him, then strode up the stairs to the keep's double door. It was time to have it out with Magnus for once and for all.

He strode toward the stairway, and a footman came running. "Is there aught you wish, Sir Geoffrey?"

"Nay, unless you know where Sir Magnus is."

"Why—in his chamber, I should think."

Geoffrey started to say, "Yes, you should," but caught himself in time. He wasn't one to take out his bad temper on his subordinates. He gave the man a curt nod and a "thank you" instead, then all but ran up the stairs.

He had no need to knock at Magnus's door; it was wide open, and his brother was at work with pen and ink, on a table in front of the wide window.

"What have you there?" Geoffrey demanded as he came into the room.

Magnus looked up in surprise. "Some notes on Alea's homeland, brother." He laid aside his quill and leaned back in his chair. "You seem agitated."

"You might say that." Geoffrey shut the door with a bit more force than necessary.

Magnus raised his eyebrows at Geoffrey's anger—and at the obvious insistence on confidentiality. "Sit down, why don't you, and tell me what has set you off this morning."

Geoffrey wasn't about to take even that much of an order. He strode up to Magnus's desk and demanded, "Do you know that the word is all over the town that you shall be master of us all, now that Papa has gone off wandering?"

"Is it really!" Magnus exclaimed. "No, I didn't know."

"It is not true, brother," Geoffrey snapped. "He may have won from you a promise to care for the people of this land, but he did not give you authority to command me!"

"EVEN IF HE HAD, I WOULD NOT," MAGNUS TOLD him. "I have no right to command any of you."

That brought Geoffrey up short. He stared; then his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"I have trouble enough of my own, trying to become used to my homeland again," Magnus said. "I am quite content to leave command of the army to you."

Geoffrey turned his head a little, eyeing Magnus sideways. "You, who have commanded legions? You do not wish to command them again?"

"I never really commanded any army," Magnus corrected. "I may have advised those who did, but I did not myself command more than a company."

"Oh, aye, and they did not follow your advice to the letter!"

"More often than not," Magnus admitted.

"Do not think I shall, brother!"

"I do not," Magnus said, and spread his hands. "I may have a gift for warfare, Geoffrey, but you have a positive genius for it. I know my own limitations."

"But Papa made you promise to care for the people," Geoffrey protested. "You gave him your word you would ward Gramarye from its enemies."

"So I shall—but our old adversaries of SPITE and VETO are not often countered by force of arms."

Geoffrey lifted his head slowly as understanding sank in, lifted until he looked down his nose at his brother. "So you shall be commander in chief; you shall retain civil command! You think to tell the generals where to go and when!"

"No," Magnus said. "That authority is Queen Catharine's and will someday be Alain's."

"But King Tuan cozens the queen into wise deployments, as you think to cozen your brother-in-law Alain."

"Cordelia would have my head if I even tried," Magnus said. "Indeed, she is all the advisor that Alain will really need."

Geoffrey scowled at him, trying to puzzle out what he was not saying. "And if Alain asks your opinion?"

"I shall give it to him honestly," Magnus said, "but I shall wait to be asked."

"And shall not cozen him into asking?" Geoffrey asked sourly, then answered his own question. "Cordelia will know it if you do!"

"She will indeed," Magnus agreed, "and will counter me most effectively. No, if Alain asks my advice, it will be his doing, not mine."