Farlorn, though, sat near the orog, strumming his yarting and plying him with questions. His tone was feather-light, deceptively so.

"Ah, yes," the bard said with an air of satisfaction that put Zaranda instantly on guard. "Did it never then occur to you that, when those villagers beset you, you were the innocent one, suffering wrongful persecution?"

The orog's heavy brows beetled until his shocking water-blue eyes nearly disappeared. He sat staring in silence into the flame-dance. Finally he shook his great head.

"No," he said. "I did not think of that. If I had, I would have had to kill them."

The bard flipped his hands in the air like copper-colored birds taking flight. "And there you have it! The beast's not to be trusted, I tell you." Zaranda scowled. "You led him into a trap with your wordplay," she said. "I can scarcely condemn him for that."

If his intellect were the world's brightest light," said Goldie from just outside the firelight, "we'd all be learning to navigate by sound like bats."

"You certainly have the advantage on the rest of us in that department," Farlorn said cheerfully.

Goldie pinned her ears at him, seeking some retort.

"Weren't you eating your oats, dear?" Zaranda asked.

"I finished them. Such a paltry handful." She sniffed.

"They're all I dare give you," Zaranda said. "You're getting fat."

The mare sniffed, turned away, and flounced off into the night-the effect Zaranda desired. In serious counsel, the mare offered sound advice, but her contributions were rarely helpful in debates of this nature.

"He's a monster, Zaranda," Farlorn said, quietly intense, gesturing at the orog, who squatted impassive as an idol with clawed hands resting on his thighs. "No matter what he claims. And if he's had a religious revelation, what of it? His nature will get the better of him in the end. Hell work us harm; you'll see."

Shield showed no sign of response. It struck Zaranda as heartless to be discussing him as if he weren't there. But she'd long learned she had to bet the dice according to the spots they showed.

She looked to Stillhawk. The ranger had little taste for argument. But when she would not look away, he signed, He is a creature of evil. Once an evil creature, always one. And he rose and stalked away into the night.

"And what of you, Father?" asked Zaranda in resignation.

The cleric frowned, almost as if in pain. "I have been praying for guidance in this matter," he said. "He seems sincere, and his bearing is that of a paladin-even I cannot deny that."

Farlorn snorted and waved a hand in disgust.

"Yet I cannot bring myself to accept that what he says is true," Father Pelletyr went on. "It comes to me, though, that I might make use of the power holy Ilmater has vouchsafed me, whereby I may divine where his heart really lies, for good or ill."

"No!" Zaranda was on her feet with cheeks flushed.

"I'll have none of that!"

"I am willing to submit to any examination, Zaranda," the great orc said, "if it will help me continue to serve you."

"I'm not willing! A man's thoughts are his most private possessions-an orog's, too. It's obscene to pry them from him with magic. And I don't want you serving me."

The orog sat unmoving. Father Pelletyr looked pained.

"But child, such powers of divination are granted by my god. They must be good."

"Can't a cleric use such powers for ill if he chooses?"

The cleric nodded, but his eyes were boiled pearl onions of shock. Zaranda dropped her gaze and raised a conciliatory hand.

"I'm not accusing you, Father. I'm merely trying to point out such powers are not intrinsically good nor bad, no matter whence they spring. I'm not sure that I buy that a thing can be considered good just because a god does it, anyway. If that's the case, why aren't we all votaries of Bane?"

"B-Because he's dead?" squeaked the cleric.

"Cyric then. I'm just saying I've had it to my eyebrows with gods and powers, whatever their ilk. I don't get my destiny from the stars, and I don't get my values from them."

"So you're saying you won't drive the fell creature from our midst?" demanded Farlorn in a voice like a yarting string frayed to the point of breaking.

"Indeed," Zaranda said. "And I must say it does my heart good to hear genuine emotion in your voice, Farlorn. Even if it is anger."

The bard made an inarticulate sound, jumped to his feet, and huffed off into the dark. A few moments later Zaranda heard an equine snort and a flurry of hoof-beats as the half-elf rode his dapple gray away.

"He'll be back," Zaranda said, massaging her temples. She wondered whom she was reassuring. Probably me.

She glanced at the cleric, who was still staring at her as if she'd cast off her clothes and started turning handsprings. "Everyone else is going off to sulk," she said. "To save you the trouble, I'm going, too."

She marched into her tent, dropping the flap behind her. As she began to disrobe, she heard a soft rustle outside. She froze, her mind instantly recalling exactly where her sundry weapons were at the moment. Then came a huffing exhalation of breath, and she realized that Shield of Innocence had seated himself like a watchdog outside her tent.

That brought a grim smile to her lips. Won't that cheer Farlorn when he comes back from his nocturnal pout.

"Don't stop undressing on my account," the brazen head said from the camp stool on which she'd placed it.

She seized the heavy artifact up under one arm, threw open its ironbound chest, and dropped it in.

"Wait!" the head exclaimed. "I can reveal secrets to you such as you cannot rrmmmpphl"

What she could not do with the secrets was lost in a muffle as Zaranda dropped a wadded blanket over the head's mouth. She slammed the lid shut and triple locked it. Then she went to bed.

"But I don't want to be served," Zaranda said for what seemed the ten dozenth time.

The orc-orog, in truth-trotted along beside Goldie on his bandy legs, apparently tireless despite the heat and the weight of his armor. Horses raised by men or elves had to be specially trained to abide an orcish rider, even a very clean one. Not surprisingly none such had been available. Fortunately the plodding of the heavy-laden pack mules kept the pace down.

"I must serve someone," said Shield, also for about the ten dozenth time. "You were sent to me. It is the will of Torm."

Zaranda sighed. No less than Father Pelletyr, she had trouble believing he was really a paladin. Yet she was at least convinced that if there were deceit to his claims, it was a deceit he practiced on himself

Zaranda Star had little knowledge of paladins or paladinry. Though she had always fought for what she thought was right, the paladin life-path had never appealed to her. Shield did display certain characteristics of the breed. He was uncommon strong, being able to tie tenpenny nails in effortless knots with those black-taloned fingers, and he radiated a quiet force of personality that his ceaseless deferring to her did little to mask. He must have been a formidable war leader indeed among the orcs. Unless of course that gift was the result of whatever revelation had changed his life.

He wasn't very bright-, as Farlorn had demonstrated the night before, which meant that debates such as this one were exemplars of futility, inasmuch as they always ended with his retreating behind a stout palisade of "It is the will of Torm" and refusing to budge.

So who's the simple one, Zaranda? a voice asked inside her mind. She sighed.

They crested a rise and there before them, still blue with distance, the spires of Zazesspur floated in a pool of haze.

"It's beautiful!" exclaimed Father Pelletyr, who had never been to Tethyr before.

Even Zaranda felt her breath catch in her throat.