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THE PRINCESS IS MISSING

Ben Holiday was not particularly worried on that first morning when it was discovered that Mistaya was not in her room. She did not appear for breakfast or lunch, nor was she anywhere in the castle. No one had seen her leave. That might have been cause for alarm in another household, but not in his. Mistaya was famous for her unexpected comings and goings, for choosing to set out on a personal mission or exploration without telling anyone. That she might have done so here was a reasonable assumption, particularly when it was well known that she had been spending her last few days meeting with one of those endlessly troublesome G’home Gnomes that kept cropping up at the castle.

This one, Poggwydd, had already been caught sneaking into the castle for purposes of pilfering whatever he could find—he didn’t see it that way, of course—and put out again by Bunion right before Mistaya returned from Carrington. She had taken up his cause, thinking that she might help him change his thieving ways. When he had come to the door asking to see her, she’d brought him into the castle for a visit, given him a tour of its many rooms, and spent hours visiting with him somewhere outside Sterling Silver, presumably in an effort to educate him in the error of his ways. She had even made it a point to speak with Bunion about his overly harsh treatment of the little miscreant. All this she had accomplished in the span of little more than the week that she’d been back home.

Ben knew all this because he pretty much knew everything that happened in the castle. His retainers made it a point of telling him, especially when it came to Mistaya. Willow confided in him, too, when she thought it appropriate, and she had done so here because she was proud of the way that Mistaya was handling her ignominious return. Better that she find something useful to do with her time than sit around bemoaning her fate as a suspended student. Ben agreed, and so both of them had left her alone.

By dinnertime, however, he was experiencing the first faint whisperings of the possibility that things were not all right. Mistaya was still missing, and no one had seen her anywhere since the previous night. He decided to voice his concerns to Willow.

“It is possible she is punishing you,” she offered, none too helpfully.

“Punishing me?” He frowned. They were sitting together after the dinner had been taken away, talking privately. “What do you mean by that?”

“She’s angry with you. You’ve hurt her feelings, and she doesn’t like how that makes her feel. She already told me that much, Ben.”

He shook his head. He hated it that the two of them had a private information-sharing arrangement, but it had always been that way, mother to daughter and back again.

“I didn’t mean to make her feel bad,” he tried to explain. “I was just attempting to—”

“I know.” She reached up and touched his lips to silence him. “But she doesn’t see it that way. She thinks you should have been more supportive of her situation. Not just about Libiris, but about Laphroig, too. She’s unsure of how she stands with you right now. Even when she can think about it rationally, she’s still not quite certain what’s going to happen.”

“So she’s gone off somewhere in protest?”

“Just for a little while, I think. Just long enough to make you worry and maybe rethink what you’ve decided about her future.”

He sighed. “That sounds like her, doesn’t it?”

Willow nodded. “She’s very headstrong, very determined.” She smiled and kissed him. “Very like you.”

But by the following morning, when his daughter still hadn’t reappeared, Ben decided that waiting around was no longer an option. Without saying anything to Willow, he called in Questor Thews and Abernathy for a conference. The three of them gathered clandestinely in Questor’s office and put their heads together.

“I don’t like it that there’s been no word of her from anyone,” Ben admitted to the other two. “It’s been too long for me to be comfortable with the idea that she’s just off sulking somewhere. Is Bunion back yet?”

Bunion wasn’t, Questor advised. He sat up straight and prim in his high-backed chair, his colorful robes gathered about his scarecrow frame. “We could ask one of the other kobolds to have a look around, if you wish.”

Ben didn’t wish. He didn’t want anyone but Bunion doing the looking because he could trust Bunion to do so without giving anything away. It was one thing to go looking for Mistaya because he was worried about her; it was another to give her the mistaken impression that he was spying on her.

“No, we’ll wait for him to come back,” he said. “He should be here by tonight, shouldn’t he?”

The wizard and the scribe both agreed that he should. Three days was enough to find out whatever there was to find out about Laphroig, and Bunion would come right back after that.

“Why don’t you use the Landsview, High Lord?” Abernathy asked. He cocked his dog ears to emphasize his approval of the idea. “You can find her that way, no matter where she is.”

Which was pretty much true, Ben knew, unless she had gone down into the Deep Fell or outside Landover altogether. Neither of those options made a great deal of sense, so there was reason to think that by using the Landsview he might be able to determine where she was and reassure himself that she was all right.

Departing Questor’s office, they passed down the castle hallways until they reached the tower that housed the Landsview. From there, they began to climb, winding their way up a spiral staircase to a landing that fronted a massive ironbound oak door. Ben placed the palms of his hands on the graven image of a knight and a castle that had been carved into the aged wood, and the door swung silently inward. They entered the small, circular room that waited beyond. A huge section of the far wall was missing, providing them with an unobstructed view of the countryside beyond. A waist-high silver railing ran along the edge of the opening. At its center stood a silver lectern, its fittings gleaming in the sunlight. Runes had been carved into the surface of the lectern, thousands upon thousands of them, all in a language that no one had been able to decipher in recorded history.

This was the Landsview, Sterling Silver’s eye on the world.

While Questor and Abernathy watched, Ben stepped up onto the platform and took hold of the railing in preparation for setting out. He reached down into the leather pouch that hung from one side of the lectern and pulled out a rolled-up piece of parchment. Opening it, he fastened it with clips to the lectern, revealing an ancient map of the kingdom, its rumpled surface thick with names. Various colors of ink denoted forests, mountains, rivers, lakes, plains, deserts, territories, towns, and the like. Everything that could be named was meticulously marked.

Ben stared down at the map a moment, remembering the first time he had used the Landsview. How strange it had been, not knowing what to expect, and then how frightening when the world dropped away so suddenly, as if jerked from beneath his feet. He hesitated despite himself, even knowing that there was no reason for alarm.

Then he focused his concentration on the map, choosing the Greensward to begin his search, calling up the now familiar magic to aid him.

At once the tower and castle and all that surrounded it disappeared and he was whisked out into the blue of the sky. All that remained was the lectern and its railing, and his hands held tight to the latter, even knowing that he had not left the room in which the railing was mounted; the magic only made it seem as if he had, as if he really were flying. He watched the land sweep away beneath him as the Greensward appeared in the distance and the countryside took shape.

The last time he had used the Landsview, it was Mistaya who was missing then, too. Five years earlier, she had been stolen away by the Witch of the Deep Fell, who had hidden her from Ben and Willow with magic. It was Nightshade’s intention to subvert her, to turn her away from her parents so she could participate actively in their destruction. Because the Landsview could not penetrate the magic of the Deep Fell, Ben had been unable to find his daughter and had almost lost her forever. But Nightshade was gone and the threat she had once posed was finished, so even though he still could not penetrate the hollows without entering personally, he did not think that this was where his daughter would go.

Still, after almost two hours of scouring his Kingdom—every hidden valley, darkened forest, and mountainous retreat, every town and village, every last possible place in which she might find refuge—he began to wonder. What if he was wrong about Nightshade? Or even about Mistaya’s reluctance ever to return to the Deep Fell? Maybe she thought hiding out there was a good idea because she knew he couldn’t find her unless he went there himself.

Except that the Deep Fell was a dangerous place, and Mistaya was no fool. She might be angry enough with him to go off on her own for a few days just to spite him, as Willow had suggested, but she wouldn’t put herself at risk needlessly.

When he returned to the tower and stepped down off the Landsview, he knew nothing more about Mistaya’s whereabouts than when he had set out to find her. “Nothing,” he reported to Questor and Abernathy, giving a shrug. He hesitated. “Though I suppose she might be hiding in the Deep Fell.”

Both wizard and scribe bristled instantly at the suggestion, insisting that this was not possible, that Mistaya would never go back there after what had happened before. Which, in turn, made Ben feel foolish for making the suggestion, although it also made him feel somewhat better to hear that his friends agreed with his own assessment.

“We have to do something else,” he told them as the three tromped back down out of the tower to the lower regions of the castle.

“Maybe Bunion will have a suggestion,” Questor ventured finally. “No one knows Landover’s secrets better than he does. If there’s a hiding place we haven’t thought of, he’ll remember it.”

“Maybe we ought to leave well enough alone,” Abernathy growled suddenly. The other two turned to look at him. “Well, I mean that if she doesn’t wish to be found, perhaps we ought to respect that. She might have discovered a way to use her magic to hide from us. I don’t know that we ought to be so quick to try to undo that.”

“What are you talking about?” Questor demanded. “Of course we want to undo it! She’s got all of us worried to death!”

“Well, maybe not to death,” Ben tried to amend.

“Whatever the extent of our worry, it shouldn’t be allowed to continue,” Questor declared. His bushy eyebrows knotted fiercely. “She ought to know better than to do something like this! She’s a big girl, not a child. We have a right to do whatever we can to find out where she is!”

Abernathy shook his head, ears flopping loosely. “Spoken like a man who jumps without looking.”

“Well, I don’t see you doing anything to help matters!” Questor snapped in reply. “Should we all just stand around and hope for the best? Is that your answer to the problem?”

“My answer to the problem is to point out how useless you are when it comes to contributing solutions to problems, Questor Thews!”

The argument continued all the rest of the way down the stairs and well into the beginning stages of Ben’s first headache of the day, a headache that only grew worse as the hours lengthened and Bunion did not return.

Berwyn Laphroig, Lord of Rhyndweir—for such was his full name and title—strolled through the weapons room of his castle in an irritated state. He was restless and bored, but the solution to these conditions was not to be found here. There was nothing in this room or even in the whole of his barony that could satisfy his insatiable need to make the young and lovely Mistaya Holiday his wife. There was no other woman who could replace her in his thoughts, none to whom he would give even momentary consideration. Thinking of her only worsened his condition, unfortunately; thinking of her made him even more determined to find a way to have her.

It had seemed easy enough in the beginning, when he had decided he must replace his old wife. Things had not been going well for some time between them, and he could sense that she was looking for a way out of the marriage. Such insolence was intolerable, and he was perfectly within his rights to make certain she could not act on her foolish fantasies. Even her son had become a source of irritation, always clinging to her as if she were a lifeline to a safe place instead of deadweight that would pull him down. He cared nothing for them, really, so it was not difficult for him to decide to dispose of them when he determined they were no longer necessary.

Like his brothers and sisters. Like everyone else who had outlived their usefulness.

His counselors would have been horrified had they realized the extent to which he had gone to fulfill his ambitions. The ambitions alone would have horrified them. Even more certain was the response of his fellow Lords of the Greensward, had he chosen to confide in them. Not that he would ever do such a thing. But if they knew that he had long coveted not only his father’s title and lands, but the King of Landover’s throne, as well …

He smiled despite himself. Not much to guess about there. If they had known, they would have found a way to dispatch him in a heartbeat.

He had confided in no one, however, and given no one reason to suspect the truth. He had disposed of his older brother all on his own. His younger had disappeared shortly after and was never seen again. A poisoner he had enlisted to his cause had taken care of his troublesome wife and son without anyone knowing, and then he had taken care of the poisoner. There was none to bear witness against him, no voices to speak, and no eyes that had seen. It had all been done quickly and quietly, and no trace of his crimes remained to convict him.

Still, Ben Holiday suspected the truth and did not trust him. That might have been worrisome had he thought the High Lord could prove anything.

A door opened at the far end of the room, and his scribe, Cordstick, a wisp of a man with a huge mop of bushy hair, came hurrying across the room. “My Lord,” he greeted, bowing low, hair flopping. “We have a problem.”

Laphroig didn’t like problems and didn’t want to hear about them, but he nodded agreeably. “Yes? What is it?”

“We received word from one of our loyal subjects that there was a man—well, not a man, really—but he was asking questions in the town below the castle about you, and he …”

He stopped, as if uncertain where to go next with this. “He was asking questions about your family, my Lord, all of them, including your wife and child.” He swallowed hard. “About their untimely deaths.”

“Get to the point.”

Cordstick nodded quickly. “Well, we thought it best to detain him, my Lord. We knew you would want to question him about his interest in your family, not knowing, of course, what his purpose might be. So we sent guards to take him prisoner and hold him for questioning.”

He stopped again, looking around the room as if help might be found among the suits of armor and racks of sharp weapons. Laphroig rolled his eyes. “Yes, you took him prisoner. And?”

“After we had done so, we discovered he was not a man at all, but a kobold. Why anyone would confide anything in a kobold, I couldn’t say. Perhaps they didn’t, but it was enough, it seemed to me, that he was asking these questions. I thought that holding him was the better choice, if it came to a choice about what to do with him, kobold or not, and …”

Laphroig held up his hand. “You are trying my patience, Cordstick, and I have very little of it to spare this morning. Who is this kobold? Do we know his name?”

Cordstick looked miserable. “We do. Now, after seizing him. It is Bunion. He is the King’s man, a creature of some renown.”

Rhyndweir’s ruler was angry, but not surprised. Of course the High Lord would try to find out what he could now that he knew Laphroig’s intentions regarding his daughter. But that sort of thing couldn’t be allowed. Not even by the King. Not in Laphroig’s own lands.

“There may be unpleasant repercussions from this business, my Lord,” Cordstick ventured. He bit his lip. “Perhaps we should let him go.”

“Perhaps not,” Laphroig answered at once. “Perhaps we should torture him instead and discover the truth behind this intrusion into the affairs of Rhyndweir. Perhaps we should make an example of him so that Ben Holiday will think twice before he sends another of his spies into our territory.”

Then he hesitated, holding up one hand quickly to stay Cordstick’s departure.

Torturing one of the High Lord’s people, he thought suddenly, would in all likelihood complicate his plans for marriage with the High Lord’s daughter. Perhaps discretion was the better part of reprisal in this situation. Yet it galled him that Holiday would feel free to send someone to spy on him in his own barony, no matter what the situation might be. He stewed about it for a moment, thinking that if the kobold simply disappeared—as others who had troubled him had—no blame could attach to him.

“Where is this creature?” he asked his aide.

“Downstairs, in one of the anterooms, safely under guard,” the other replied with a confidence that immediately troubled Laphroig.

“Take me to him,” he ordered. “I’ll decide what to do with him once I’ve seen him for myself.”

Drawing his black robes about him, tilting his head so that his slicked-up black hair cut the air like a shark fin, he swept through the door to the halls beyond, leading the way and forcing Cordstick to hurry to catch up to him. With his scribe barely managing to regain the lead, they ascended from the weapons room to the upper receiving chambers, moving from those reserved for invited guests to those well back and better fortified. Always best to take no chances with those who sought to work mischief in your realm, Laphroig was fond of saying.

But apparently chances had been taken in this case, Rhyndweir’s Lord realized as they approached the holding chamber and saw the door standing ajar. Rushing forward now, the two burst inside and found all four guards hanging by their heels like ornaments from the drapery cords, gagged and bound and weaponless.

Of the kobold, there was no sign.

Laphroig wheeled on a terrified Cordstick. “Call out the guard and find him!” he hissed. “Immediately!”

His scribe vanished as if by magic, and Laphroig stalked from the room in fury, leaving the guards hanging where they were.

It took barely an hour to determine that Bunion was nowhere in the castle, but that before departing he had located and thoroughly searched Laphroig’s office and its records. Another might not have been able to determine that anything was amiss, so neat and tidy was the room in question. But Laphroig was immediately suspicious, and after tamping down his rage sufficiently to act on his suspicions had gone directly to his private chambers. There he had discovered that safeguards he had personally installed and were known only to him had been disturbed. His protections had been breached and his personal files and papers examined.

Laphroig sat down for a time to think things through while waiting on the search for the kobold to be completed. He didn’t think the creature could have found anything of value, since he made it a point not to keep anything that might give him away. There were no records on his acts, nothing to show that he had dispatched those family members who had stood in his way. There were no notes or revealing pictures or anything of the like. There was nothing that could have helped the kobold in his efforts to discover what role Laphroig had played in the deaths of his family.

He paused, a chill running down his spine.

Unless …

He went at once to the bookshelves set in the stone wall to one side of the writing table and looked. Sure enough, the book on poisons was gone—the book that had provided him with the recipes for the nectars necessary to dispatch his wife and son. He took a deep breath and exhaled. He had kept the book only because he thought he might have need of it again sometime. The poisons he favored most were underlined in that book, and the poisoner’s notes on the details of their usages were written in the margins. He had forgotten about that, thinking that no one would ever have reason to look at one book shelved among so many.

But the kobold had. How it had found it in the short time provided was a mystery he could not solve. In any case, the damage was done.

He waited until Cordstick appeared with the unsurprising news that Bunion had escaped completely, and then he ordered the four guards still hanging in the library to be cut down and hung from the castle walls instead. Cordstick, grateful that he wasn’t the one sentenced to hang, carried out the order swiftly, wondering if perhaps it was time to look into another line of work. If he hadn’t served the family for so long that it no longer felt as if he belonged anywhere else, he might have packed his bags then and there.

As it was, he simply made it a point to stay out of his master’s way.

It was nearing sunset when he had cause to go in search of Rhyndweir’s Lord once more. He felt some small confidence in doing so this time, having news of a different sort to offer up. Although his master kept his counsel close and private, Cordstick knew him much better than he suspected. It was inherent in the nature of his service that he should be able to do so, because knowing the mindset of the master you served had saved more than one servant’s neck over the years.

He found Laphroig in his office, slumped in his reading chair with the lights off and the curtains drawn. His black clothes were a rumpled mess, and his black hair was sticking up all over the place. His pale face looked ghostly in the near darkness.

“My Lord,” Cordstick ventured tentatively.

“Go away” was the miserable response.

“I have news I think you should hear,” Cordstick pressed gently, careful to remain just outside the doorway.

A short silence followed. “About the kobold?”

“No, my Lord. About the Princess Mistaya.”

Laphroig was on his feet at once. “The Princess? Close the door! Come over here where we can talk privately. Shhh, shhh, keep it quiet now. Just you and me. Tell me quick—what is the news?”

Cordstick had judged his master rightly. He closed the door to the chamber and hurried over to stand next to him, bending close and speaking in a whisper. “Our spy at the King’s court sends news that isn’t known as yet by more than a handful of people. The Princess Mistaya has disappeared. The King and his Queen are looking for her everywhere.”

“Well, well,” Laphroig murmured, his mind racing with possibilities.

“If you were to find her, my Lord …,” Cordstick began.

“Yes, that would make the High Lord beholden to me in a way he could not ignore, wouldn’t it?” Laphroig finished. He was smiling so broadly that for a moment he assumed a frog-like visage. “Yes, yes.”

He put his hand firmly on his scribe’s thin shoulder. “You must find her, Cordstick.” His grip tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Before anyone else has a chance to.”

Cordstick nodded in agreement, shuddering inwardly at the other’s rather hideous smile. “As you wish, my Lord,” he managed before scurrying from the room.