The little boy looked up in amazement as hooves clattered on the loose cobbles of the alley and a man in brilliant red rode into the yard. He had never seen such a colorful being before, wrapped from hood to polished heels in a crimson cloak and most wondrous scarlet mantle. A gold talisman glittered upon his brow in the early-morning sunlight. All about the little yard, common folk in home-dyed garb of brown and butternut were out to lift their storefronts and throw rubbish to the gutters, but the boy had forgotten them. He was transfixed by this stranger, who seemed larger to him than all of this small, dirty patch of Lammouthe.
Lammouthe was made up of narrow, tangled streets, mud-daubed buildings around little stone yards, a busy marketplace and a busier port. The boy had never been out of this maze, but at times he would venture to the docks to gape at the tall ships, the mariners who spoke in odd tongues, and the great, greenish-gray ocean, and wonder what was beyond: where did the ships and sea-folk sail to? He heard the names of faraway lands—Persia, Napoli, Arabia, Cathay—and he tried to imagine what they were like, but his imagination would not take him out of the only place he knew. He thought all the world must be like Lammouthe: an endless town by the endless sea.
But as he stared up at this stranger—so tall and handsome, radiant with light and strength—the boy began to believe that there might be other things than brown-garbed shopkeepers and the ever-present stink of fish, things more strange than foreign mariners, more beautiful than the ocean, more wonderful than the tallest ships. Surely this red-robed man must be from the most marvelous place in the world!
The splendid stranger turned to him. "Do you belong here, Child?" His voice was deep and gentle, but the boy inched timidly back into the shadows. "Do you know a woman named Nann Dafodylle? Is such your mother's name?"
"Mama is Nann Lyghtelotynge."
"And your name, Child?"
"Orlan," he whispered.
"Orlan." The stranger smiled. "I believe I am seeking your mother. Can you tell me which house she lives in?"
"Mama's ill," the boy answered. "Ellan says I mustn't `sturb her."
"I might be able to help, if you will tell me where she is."
Orlan pointed to the tavern. Ellan, the old woman who looked after him, was out at the yard well and she frowned suspiciously as the stranger approached. They spoke together and looked at him, and then they went in. Orlan had followed cautiously, a shy step at a time; now, unobserved, he slipped into the tavern after them, past the forehall where the great, empty ale barrels and casks were piled, and into the unlit stairwell at the back of the house. He heard voices, Ellan and the stranger, on the stairs above.
"`Twas her third, M'Lord, since the little lad. She was never one to be patient lying in for a child that had no father by name. She'd lost the other two right enough and she said she'd be safe for this, as it hadn't quickened, but she's been high in her fever since and no use to hoping she'd be well again. She said she'd call upon ye, though I never thought to see it true. Ye've never come to her before."
"I was not summoned," the man replied. "Nann has always held that power. I would have come if I'd thought she had need of me. I didn't know. What of the boy?"
"She was hoping ye'd take him as you ought. No mistake whose child he is."
"I will," he tried to answer, but Ellan interrupted angrily.
"None of that! Oh, I know how ye Lordlings do. Take yer sport of a pretty maid and if there's a child ye'll name it only as ye've no way to get `round refusing, then see it never troubles yer sight again. Take him? Ye never cared to know the little lad before. What do ye care for him now? I'll say right out t'ye, M'Lord, I won't have ye take him from his home and drop him in an abbey where he hasn't a friend."
Most of this was beyond Orlan's comprehension, but Ellan's last words froze him with horror. He knew that the Abbey was like a church, but much bigger, and children went to live there when no one wanted them. Mama had threatened to send him there before, sometimes when she was angry and sometimes when she was weepy and said she wasn't fit to have him. Was he so naughty? He always tried to be very, very good, and obey Ellan, and stay out of the way when Mama was sickly or sleeping or when she brought men upstairs from the tavern. He didn't mean to be troublesome. Would Mama truly send him away? Surely she wouldn't let this stranger take him?
Orlan wanted to run and hide, but his fascination with this wondrous, strange man and his desire to know what was happening overwhelmed his fear. Quietly, he crept to the foot of the stairs, and up to the two little rooms beneath the eaves where he and Mama and Ellan lived.
Above, Ellan and the stranger had ended their argument. A door shut. As Orlan reached the landing, he saw that Ellan had gone to her room. The other door, to Mama's room, was open. Orlan could see—the stranger knelt at her bedside with her silver amulet in his hands.
"Fare ye well, Dafodylle."
The boy was shocked. Mama had always worn the amulet on a faded black ribbon about her throat; Orlan knew the large silver disk, its engraved face worn almost indistinguishable by caressing fingers, so well as his mother's face, her voice, her scent. It was as much a part of her. But why was this man taking it? Why did Mama let him?
He stepped to the doorway; the floorboards creaked beneath his feet. As the stranger turned, the scarlet hood fell back and long, silvery white hair tumbled free. The eyes that shone into his were palest gray, like small pools of water, irises rimmed by bright blue. Orlan stopped at the sight, thrilling with sudden recognition and near understanding. No one except old, old folk had white hair, and no one, old or young, had such odd, colorless eyes. No one except this stranger, and himself.
The stranger held out his hand. "Orlan, come to me." Orlan obeyed. "Do you know who I am?"
"N-no."
"I am the Lord Wizard Redmantyl. That means that I am the most powerful of all living wizards. In my youth, I was called Lightmaster. I met your mother by that name." He took Orlan by the shoulders. "Orlan Lightesblood, I am your father."
Orlan knew that this was true; he could not doubt at those solemn, colorless eyes that looked so deeply into his. Mama had said many times that she had once loved a great wizard. People up and down the yard made jest of her braggings and called her Lyghtelotynge—light-lover—but Mama's story never changed. She told Orlan that he was of magical blood; he had the look of the wizard. His father had been so tall and strangely handsome, like no mortal man she'd ever seen, that she had loved him from the first moment she saw him. She had wanted a child like him, so silver-fair. One day, she promised, the wizard would return for them. Surely he meant to. Hadn't he given her this amulet to seal the bond between them? When he was done with his wonderful, magical adventures, she said, he would come back and marry her and name her son as his own. He would take them away from this miserable alehouse. Everything would be wonderful then.
"Mama said my father filled a room with fairylight–" Orlan found his mother beneath her pink-stained sheets. "Mama?" He would have run to her, but Lord Redmantyl caught his arms and held him.
"Your mother is ill," the wizard said. "She has asked that you come and live with me until she is well again. Would you like that, Little One?"
Orlan stared at the figure lying so still, face pale, yellow hair in limp curls. Beads of fever-sweat cooled on her lip. "She shan't call me back ever," he said slowly, trying to encompass an idea that tore at the foundations of his whole, small world. "Mama's dead?"
"Yes, Orlan, she is."
The boy was bewildered by all that was happening. Mama had wept and moaned all night and he could not sleep in his worry for her. She had never been so ill before. Then Ellan had come in to dress him and send him out to play. When he asked what was wrong, she only said that he must go and not be troublesome. Now, Mama was dead and this splendid red-robed wizard was his father. It was too much for his grief-stunned, eight-year-old mind to comprehend.
"Ye said ye could help her." His voice trembled hopefully.
"I cannot recall one who is past healing," Redmantyl answered.
"But if ye be most powerful–"
"Child, no wizard who has ever lived had power for that! Would I could bring her back, but it is impossible. She has gone."
Orlan burst into tears. In an instant, Lord Redmantyl swept him up. He was lost in the thick folds of his father's cloak, wrapped in darkness, pressed against a thunderous heartbeat. Sobs tore from him, wrenching his small body. The pain was unbearable. He struggled in the unyielding embrace. His fists thumped helplessly against the wall of the wizard's chest. He would have screamed, but then he felt the rough and unfamiliar sensation of a short-clipped beard brushing against his temple. Redmantyl whispered into his ear, words so soft and strange that Orlan could not make sense of them, yet he was comforted. He could not break free and his father's voice drew him in; he must surrender to this gentle magic.
He began to relax in the protective strength of the arms about him, and the sorrow which had cut him so unbearably was eased. He couldn't think of his mother lying so pale and still. He couldn't be afraid. Already, the sharp stabs of grief were blurring, soothed away by his father's touch. Each sob hurt less than the one before. At last, Orlan sniffled and stopped.
His father smiled tenderly and blotted the tears from his face. "Better now, Little One?"
The boy nodded. Ellan emerged from her room bearing a small, shapeless cloth bundle. "M'Lord?"
"In a moment, Goode Ellan." Redmantyl took the boy's shoulders again. "Orlan, your mother wished you to be raised as my son, as you properly should. You must come with me now." He tied the amulet about the child's neck.
Orlan fingered the smooth silver in confused wonder. "Mama's–"
"It was your mother's," Redmantyl agreed. "Now it is yours."
Ellan, on the landing, scowled. "I don't like it," she said.
"You can do nothing against it," the wizard replied. "He's coming with me whether you like it or no. Orlan, you must bid farewell to Goode Ellan."
Orlan lifted his head. He hadn't realized that he would be leaving her behind. "Ye'll not be going too, Ellan?"
"No, Child. I'll not be going."
"Why not?" He twisted to look up at his father. "Father, why not? I want Ellan to come. Please?"
Redmantyl glanced over the child's head. "I will need a nurse for the boy," he offered grudgingly. "You may see to his care yourself if you do not trust my intentions."
"If ye will, M'Lord," Ellan answered. "I might come along after I see to Nann's proper burying."
"Very well then!" Orlan paid little attention as Redmantyl searched his mantle's deep pockets, giving Ellan directions and money. "And I'll write out this message for you."
"I'm not one for such letterings," the nurse protested. "What's it about?"
"You must give this to the Lammouthe Justice. It states simply that I, Lord Redmantyl, have claimed the child Orlan. If any contest that, they will find me at Wizardes Cliff." The wizard pressed the spell on his signet ring against the folded strip to seal it. Ellan frowned at the smudged direction as she accepted the note, then tucked it into her apron.
"Now I'll be along before ye're missing me." She took Orlan's head between her hands and bestowed a last kiss. "God `ild ye, and mind ye be yer best for M'Lord."
The little boy nodded.
The wizard took his hand. "Come along, Child." Orlan gripped his father's fingers and went with him down the stairs, out of the house, and out of Lammouthe.
It was July of 1939, a peaceful year for the Empire.
The Norman Empire was not so large as Spain or Russe but its people, for the most part, believed themselves more valiant, virtuous, and prosperous than any other. History declared it so. United by conquest and intermarriage in the nine hundred years since Guylliame, Duke of Normandy, had claimed the English throne and stormed the cliffs of Hastings in 1066, the seven kingdoms—Angeland, France, Gallys, Skotsland, Eireland, Burgundy, and the Northlands—stood proudly together above all lesser realms. Normandy was now a small and insignificant portion, recalled only when its overlords honored their legendary origins, for Normans relished the glories of battle. Bardly songs and thespian pageants celebrated the adventures of knights and shieldmaids, commemorated besieged cities and courtships and grand coronations. The modern world had not seen such spectacular times. For all their love of warfare, the Normans were a well-behaved people at peace; the first four decades of the twentieth century had seen the Empire with its borders secure, its taxes unimposing, and its citizenry left to conduct themselves according to their own responsibilities and sense of right. Guided by a millennium of laws, manners, and traditions, every subject, Lordling or cowherd, always knew the proper thing to do.
Orlan was vaguely aware of his homeland's exalted history. He had heard the old folk in the yard recall the grand days of the century past, before old Eduarde Redlyon had grown too weary to raise his sword for one more campaign against the Spanish, and he learned from gossip that the Redlyon's heir, Kharles IV, who had died that spring, had been better at bookkeeping than leading troops, and his younger son, Duke Dafythe of the Northlands, was as mildly mannered, but the boy-Emperor, also Kharles, promised to be a spit-fire hero in the old tradition. The child knew that he lived in the Duchy of the Northlands, and that the custom houses at Lammouthe were run in Duke Dafythe's name; the golden lions on blue shields over every door meant that they belonged to him. He had heard the name Plantagenet, but he thought it a grand, grown-up way of saying royal. To Orlan, Dukes and Emperors were as remote and fabulous as God: he sometimes felt their influence upon his life in inscrutable acts; there were things he must do and mustn't do, and if he asked why, he was hushed for his pertness and told to be good. Orlan had also heard impossible tales of powerful magicians and he imagined them—his father especially—to be as fabulous and unfathomable. Meeting Lord Redmantyl had not yet altered his opinion.
He hid in his father's cloak, frightened and miserable, as they rode along the Lammouthe Road. When at last he grew bold enough to look up, he found himself in an unfamiliar world. Beyond Lammouthe, the woods of the Northlands ran wild, broken here and there by little villages and open fields. Lush maple, oak, and birch trees blocked the sun and left dancing, dappled patches of light on the wide road. Deer scattered as they passed, and the noise of unseen birds and crickets rose riotous from the bushes. Orlan was so excited at the sight of a squirrel leaping in the branches overhead that he nearly slipped from his father's grasp, and he yelped in surprise and reached for a bright orange and black butterfly that fluttered past the horse's ears.
"Where are we going, Father?"
"To Wizardes Cliff, my home."
"You were there when Mama called `pon ye?"
"No, I was at Pendaunzel. My Lord Dafythe and I would settle a matter of inheritance that will be to my advantage if the young Emperor favors it."
Orlan gaped at this; Redmantyl might as well have said that he had flown to Heaven and spoken with St. Peter. "Where's `Danzel, Father?"
"In the north." The wizard waved a hand in that direction. "It's a very large, grand city. Someday, when you are older, I will take you there and present you to My Liege Lord Dafythe. He has his own son, like you."
"Has the Duke a boy too?"
"The Duke's son is a man full-grown," Redmantyl explained. "I meant that, like you, his mother and father were not married."
"Oh," the boy said. "It matters much?"
"For the Duke's son, it means that he cannot be Duke. When My Gracious Lord Dafythe dies, his daughter will be Duke of the Northlands. It will not be so important for you, Orlan. A wizard does not leave his title to his child."
Orlan squirmed to look up at him. "Father, are all wizards as ye?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are they all of white hair, as we are?"
"No, Child," Redmantyl answered. "Most wizards are as dark as other folk. Only our family is so fair."
"Are there many of us?"
"Not many. My father, my Aunt Loren, my cousin Tomasin, who is dead now, and her daughter Laurel, and my cousin Kaiese and her little girls."
"They all live with you?"
Redmantyl laughed. "No."
"Are they wizards, Father?"
"No. I am the only wizard of our blood. My aunt and cousin are magical, but they fear their powers and will not employ them. Laurel, I think, may be magical too."
"Shall I be a wizard one day, if I am yours?" Orlan asked.
"I cannot yet say, Little One. But magic is in our family and I would be proud to see you a wizard of power."
"I should like to be a wizard, Father, and wear red robes such as yers." He plucked at his father's sleeve.
"You may wear red, Child, but only if you are the best of all wizards when you are grown. This mantle is a sign of my place as most powerful. The lesser wizards wear black."
"What do these marks mean?" The wizard had embroidered strange devices upon his mantle with threads of black and white and gold. A small finger traced Greek letters, simple and complex geometric figures, runes, numbers, and other arcane and cabalistic symbols. "Are they words?"
"They are spells I have woven to protect myself," Redmantyl answered. "I have enemies among the lesser wizards, and Other, greater forces seek my destruction."
"But if ye're most powerful, Father, why do you need such spells? Are ye not strong enough without them?"
"Even the greatest power can be destroyed by deceit. I may be taken by trickery if I allowed myself to be weak and unguarded."
"E'en as ye sleep?"
"Even as I sleep. Then, I must draw a circle with spells beneath my bed and hang my mantle over me. I have such a spell, a pentacle, carved on my chamber floor at the castle."
"`Tisn't fun to be a wizard?"
"Not fun, perhaps, but most satisfying. If you have the talent you can be content with nothing except wizardry."
"Ye'll do something magical for me now?"
"If you wish." Redmantyl let the reins drop on the horse's neck and lifted his free hand. He turned his wrist slowly, and a sparkling orb of blue light appeared upon his fingertips. Orlan cooed, then laughed, but the horse shied and the wizard was forced to break the fragile spell.
He first saw the castle Wizardes Cliff the next day from the deck of the ship which brought them from Johnesport; his father lifted him up to the rail to see the tall towers, the sheltering battlements and the red-roofed halls atop the formidable cliffs. They were grown together, walls from rock, pale stone that shone white in the midday sun. It was a fairy kingdom in itself, high away from the long, green island and stretching up into the clear blue summer sky.
"`Tis–" Orlan struggled for a word, and failed. Wondrous? Grand? Magical? None of these could contain his awe. Even together, they could not describe. The castle surpassed every wonderful thing he had imagined.
Once their ship had docked at the foot of the castle cliffs, Redmantyl took him up the steep steps hewn into the face of the rock, up and up through the long, dim corridors of the castle, up stairway after stairway until Orlan believed they must be climbing so high as the clouds. They went swiftly; Orlan had only the briefest impression of rows of closed doors and astonished servants as his father carried him past.
At last, Redmantyl brought Orlan up to his own chambers and set him down on the enormous bed, which had moss-green curtains and posts like tree trunks carved with ivy, roses, and grinning satyrs. The wizard called out: "Simon!"
A young man in dusty-gray livery came in. "M'Lord? Ye be `ere?" He blinked at the little boy, but did not ask.
"An emergency called me from court," Redmantyl answered as he tossed his dusty riding cloak over the manservant's arm. "Simon, my son Orlan. We shall present him before the household, once he is made ready. As you see, he urgently needs a bath and some decent clothing. Do you think Kai's things will fit him?"
Soap and gauzy towels were brought in and the copper bathing-tub in Redmantyl's dressing room was filled to the rim. Orlan was first delighted; he had never seen such a bath before. But when he stretched one hand over the curled metal lip to touch the water, he withdrew quickly. "`Tis cold," he said. "I must wash in so cold?"
Redmantyl placed the palm of his left hand flat on the surface of the water. After a few silent minutes, he said, "Is it more to your liking now?"
Orlan touched the water again, then plunged his arm in to the elbow, reaching so near the bottom of the deep tub that he nearly fell in. The water was now warm. "Ye can do that?"
"Yes, I can do that. It is a simple trick."
"Simple," Simon muttered to himself. "Simple, `e says."
Then the wizard left Simon to assist the boy.
"Quick now, Pup, before the water cools," the servant urged. "I'll not be able to warm it so quickly as `Is Lordship does." He knelt to help Orlan unlace his jerkin. When the strings broke at his tugging, he threw them to the floor in disgust. "`Ow'd a Lordship such as `Imself let `is own little one walk about in such rubbish.... Well, ye'll be washed more'n ye've likely been before, but we'll `ave ye proper clean."
Orlan had not known how dirty he was until Simon scrubbed his hair and scraped under his nails and threw his old clothes into the fire. Before his bath was finished, Redmantyl returned with garments borrowed from the Chatelaine's sons and a dark gray tunic belonging to the wizard's apprentice.
"It's too big for `im, M'Lord," said Simon once Orlan was dressed afresh. "That tunic nearly drags the floor."
"Godefroi's the only one of the house who wears the gray of a wizard's child," Redmantyl answered. "Can't you do something about it? We can't have the boy tripping over his hem at every step."
"I'll give a try." And the little boy stood perfectly still while Simon pinned and basted his too-large garments and combed out his damp and tangled curls. At last, the servant stood back and asked, "What do you think?" Orlan was relieved when Redmantyl pronounced him presentable.
They brought him down to the Great Hall and, there, the wizard made a formal speech of acknowledgement before the entire household: "I vow in the name of our most majestic Emperor and My Liege Lord Dafythe, Duke of the Northlands, in the name of the loyalty I bear to both and in the name of the honor bound into my place as premiere Lord Wizard. I own Orlan as a true child of my blood and I claim responsibility for him until he is of age. He will be one of my household hereafter. So swear I, Lord Redmantyl."
This was a ceremonial promise, as binding as a written contract. Afterwards, Redmantyl lifted the boy up onto his shoulder, said, "Well now, Orlan, shall I show you the castle?" and took him out to walk across the vast, sunlit plazas and along the battlements. The wizard pointed out every tower and hall and gave all their names. Orlan knew he would never remember them all. Surely he must be lost in this enormous castle if his father did not lead him by the hand!
That night, Orlan was put to bed in a small chamber near his father's apartment. He woke later in strange darkness. Nothing was as it ought to be. The bed was too large and when he reached out he found nothing but cold sheets around him. He was used to sleeping at someone's side. Where was Ellan? Where was Mama? Tonight, for the first time, he was alone.
"Mama?" Orlan scrambled from beneath his blankets and fell to the floor. He leapt up again instantly, mindless of the jolt. Where was the door? He could see nothing in the dark. The walls seemed so far away; he couldn't reach them. He twisted back suddenly. Which way must he go? Arms outstretched, he stumbled blindly. His fingers brushed smooth wood. The bed? No, a sort of table. Where was the door? He had to get out. "Mama!"
With a sudden throb of renewed grief, he realized that his mother was gone. She was not here; he had left her at Lammouthe, a hundred miles away, and he would never see her again. Vividly, he saw her face again, eyes shut, blonde curls limp on the pillow, lips faintly blue. Dead. His mother was dead.
He fell to the floor, howling his terror.
The door opened and candlelight shone upon him. His father was there.
Orlan clung to the wizard, sobbing wildly, refusing to answer the repeated question, "What's wrong? Can you tell me?" as Redmantyl took him up and carried him back to his chambers. He sat before the cavernous sitting-room fireplace. "What's wrong?"
"I want my mama!" the boy yelped. "I wanna go home! Please? I want my mama? Make Mama come back?"
"I can't," his father answered. "I'm sorry, but your mother can't be brought back. You must know that she was very ill and she is beyond that pain now. She is no longer here."
"Where has Mama gone then?"
"I cannot say. Somewhere."
Again, Orlan felt the pull of that gentle magic and he surrendered to the comfort his father offered. How strong the arms about him seemed; how truly safe he felt against the powerful rhythms of that thundering heart. "Ye think she is better, Father? Where she is?"
"I do," Redmantyl whispered. "As you are better here. This is your home now, Little One. You need not be affrighted, for I am here and I shall care for you. I promise."
Orlan knew that something was being done to him. He was beginning to forget his mother. He didn't want to forget her! If he did, Mama would truly be gone forever. But it hurt so much to think of her. The pain cut him so that he wanted to cry out. He couldn't bear it. Here, it didn't hurt so much. Already, the memory of her was fading, lost in the stronger currents which soothed his mind. In his father's enchantment there was peace...
"Mama–!"
"Sleep now, my darling. Hush." Redmantyl kissed the child's brow and pressed his fingers to his temple; Orlan sighed and relaxed. "Sleep, and do not trouble to remember."
As Orlan slept, his father continued to whisper words that would ease and comfort, although the child would not understand if he heard them. The soft chant was interrupted by a tentative knock at the door, and Simon came in.
"M'Lord? I `eard the little one weepin'."
"He's had a bad dream," Redmantyl answered. "`Tis ended now. You may go."
"Yes, M'Lord." But Simon did not leave.
"What is it?" the wizard asked after a moment.
"M'Lord, the rags that child came in, I'd not like to think where `e's been all this time. Ye've never said a thing about `im `til `e came today."
"I didn't know of him," Redmantyl confessed. "If I had, I would have acknowledged him before."
"`Is mother–?"
"She is not important. A girl, a barmaid I knew many years ago. I had almost forgotten her. If there had not been a child–" he paused. "Well, I cannot go back and mend my faults of years ago. She is dead now and my son is here. You must be loyal to him, as you would to me."
"If I must," Simon replied. "`E's a pretty little lad."
"Yes, he is."
"Got a charmin' way to `im."
"That's from his mother. She was a pretty maid when I knew her. They called her Dafodylle."
"But `e's mostly yers, I expect." Orlan's hair was a froth of curls rather than long, smooth plaits but it was as silvery as his father's, and the little chin was dimpled where Redmantyl's was smooth beneath his tarnished gilt, short-clipped beard, but the line of the jaw was as strong and squared; the boy's mouth, a rosy curve half-hidden by a small fist, was soft and less resolute than his father's, but no child could have the self-discipline of an adult wizard. "`E'll be a credit t'ye, M'Lord, if we see to `e's proper brought up. Give a year, an' ye won't be able t'say `e's ever been anywheres but `ere and a rightly born little Lordling."
Redmantyl smiled. "You must assist me in that, Simon. I am especially unused to caring for little children." He tousled Orlan's curls. "Look. What a helpless, tiny thing it is, and it frightens me more than all rival magicians I've faced in battle and all the dangers to life and soul I've yet encountered. My son. What am I to do with him? The best wizards never know their children so they are not distracted by family bonds. I meant to– Do you know, half a dozen times I've thought of sending this one along to Maryesfont Abbey or my aunt at Tremontegne, or back to his horrible old nurse so that she may have charge of him."
"Ye won't."
"I couldn't. He's mine. He belongs here."
"That's as it should be," Simon agreed frankly. "Shall I see `im to `is bed, M'Lord?"
"No, I'll watch over him. See yourself to bed, Lad, and sleep well."
"An' ye, M'Lord." After Simon had gone, the wizard lifted the sleeping child and carried him to his bed.