In one of the chairs sat a man in a black velvet robe sipping from a goblet. He was a decade or so older than Tier with the features of an eastern nobleman, wide-cheeked and flat-nosed. Like his face, his hands belonged to an aristocrat, long-fingered and bedecked with rings.

He looked up when Tier’s guide softly cleared her throat.

“Ah. Thank you, Myrceria,” he said pleasantly, setting his goblet on the table. “That will be all.”

The door shut quietly behind Tier’s back, leaving the two men alone in the room.

The robed man folded his hands contemplatively against his chin, “You don’t look like a Traveler, Tieragan of Redern.”

Traveler?

Tier raised an eyebrow and took the empty chair. It was a little short for him, so he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. When he was comfortable, he looked at the man most probably responsible for his recent imprisonment and said courteously, “And you don’t look like a festering pustule on a slug’s hind end either. Appearances can be deceiving.”

The other man’s face didn’t change, but Tier felt a pulse of power, of magic—just as he was meant to.

The surge of magic died and the wizard smiled. “You are angry, aren’t you? I do believe we owe you an apology for keeping you locked in your cell, but it has been a long time since we had an Owl in our keeping. We had to be certain that we could contain your magic before releasing you.”

Contain his magic?

“You seem to know a lot about me,” Tier commented. “Would you care to return the favor?”

The other man laughed, “You’ll have to excuse me—you’re not quite what I expected. I am Kerstang, Sept of Telleridge.”

Tier nodded slowly. “And what would the Sept of Telleridge want with a Rederni farmer?”

“Nothing at all,” said Telleridge. “I do, however, have a use for a Traveler and Bard.”

“I told you,” said Tier mildly. “I am not a Traveler. What do you need me for?”

Telleridge smiled as if Tier’s answer had pleased him. “In addition to my duties as a Sept, I find myself with the delicate charge of the youth of the Empire. The law of primogeniture, however necessary, leaves many of the younger sons of noblemen without any constructive outlets for their energies. I run an Eyrie for these lost young men and I’m responsible for their entertainment.”

“I’m the entertainment?” said Tier. “Surely there are bards who don’t need abducting to be persuaded to provide entertainment.”

Telleridge laughed, “But they would not be nearly as amusing.” The laughter drifted away as if it had never been. “Nor would they be Owl. All you need to know at the moment is that you are, will you or nil you, my guest for the next year. During that time you will entertain my young friends and occasionally participate in our ceremonies. In return you may ask for anything that you wish, short of leaving, and it will be arranged.”

“I don’t think so,” said Tier.

“Refusing is not an option,” said the wizard. “For a year and a day you will have whatever you want—or you can struggle; it matters not one whit to me.”

That phrase struck a chord of memory. “A year and a day,” Tier said. “You’ll make me beggar king for a year and a day.” He hummed a bit of the old tune. “And I suppose, like the beggar king, you’ll sacrifice me to the gods at the end?”

“That’s right,” said the wizard as if Tier were a prized pupil. “I see that an Owl will be different than a Raven—which is what we’ve had the last three times. The Hunter was interesting, though we finally had to cage him. I think you’ll do. But first…”

He leaned forward and touched Tier lightly; as he did so, the silver and onyx ring on his index finger caught Tier’s attention briefly.

He was distracted by the ring when the wizard’s voice dropped a full octave and he said in the Traveler tongue, “By Lark and Raven, I bind you that you will harm neither me nor any wizard who wears a black cloak in these halls. By Cormorant and Owl, I bind you that you will not ask anyone to help you escape. By Falcon, I bind you that you will not speak of your death.”

Magic surged through Tier, holding him still until the wizard was done.

“There,” he said sitting back again.

There indeed, thought Tier, shaken. No one had ever laid a spell on him before. He felt… violated and frightened. It had been so fast and he hadn’t been able to defend himself from it at all. Cold sweat slid down his neck and he shivered, fighting nausea.

“Sick?” Telleridge asked. “It takes some people like that, but I couldn’t depend upon the word of a Traveler peasant—even if you’d give it. My young friends are easily influenced. I would hate to lose any of my Passerines too soon.”

“Passerines?” asked Tier, breathing shallowly through his nose and hoping he didn’t look as shaken as he felt. “You have song birds here?”

The wizard smiled. “As I said, a Bard will be interesting. Myrceria will tell you what you need to know about my Passerines. Ask her about the Secret Path if you wish. She is waiting for you outside the door.”

The woman was indeed waiting for him, kneeling on the cold stone of the floor with her hands at rest. Prepared, Tier thought, to deal with a man in any mood he might emerge with. She sat unmoving until he closed the door gently behind him.

“If you like, I can take you into the Eyrie,” she said, using her right arm to indicate the open double doors. “There are others to talk to if you wish and food and drink are available to you there. If you would prefer to ask me questions, we can go back to your room. You will find it much improved.”

“Let’s go talk,” he said after a moment.

As Myrceria promised, the cell had been transformed in his absence. It had been scoured clean and furnished with a bed such as the nobles slept in rather than the rush-stuffed mattress over stretched rope he had at home. Rich fabrics and rare woods filled the room; it should have looked crowded, but it managed to appear cozy instead. In the center of the bed a worn lute rested, looking oddly out of place.

He took a step toward it, but stopped. He wasn’t like Seraph: he didn’t feel the need to do the opposite of whatever anyone tried to get him to do, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed being manipulated either. So he left the lute for later examination and chose to investigate another oddity. The room was lit by glowing stones in copper braziers placed in strategic places around the room.

“They’re quite safe,” said Myrceria behind him. She moved against him, pressing close until her breasts rested against his back, then reached around him to pick the fist-sized rock out of the brazier he’d picked up.

He set the brazier down gently and stepped away from her. “You are quite lovely, lass,” he said. “But if you knew my wife, you’d know that she’d take my liver and eat it in front of my quivering body if I ever betrayed her.”

“She is not here,” Myrceria murmured, replacing the rock and turning gracefully in a circle so that he could see what he was refusing. “She will never know.”

“I don’t underestimate my wife,” he replied. “Nor should you.”

Myrceria touched the net that confined her hair and shook her head, freeing waves of gold to cascade down her back and touch her ankles. “She’ll believe you’re dead,” she said. “They have arranged for it. Will she be faithful to you if you are dead?”

Seraph thought he was dead? He needed to get home.

“Telleridge said you would answer my questions,” he said. “Where are we?”

“In the palace,” she answered.

“In Taela?”

“That’s right,” she leaned into him.

He bent until his face was close to hers. “No,” he said softly. “You have answers to my questions, and that is all I’m interested in.” There was a flash of fear in her eyes, and it occurred to him that a whore was hardly likely to be so interested in him on her own. “You can tell Telleridge whatever you like about tonight; I’ll not deny it—but I’ll not break the vows I’ve made. I have my own woman; I need answers.”