"Please do."
They obtained food and drink from the pantry and returned to the library, to spend most of the night talking. When they had finished eating, Pol strummed his guitar absently and listened to the other speak, occasionally pausing to sip from his wineglass. At one point, he struck a chord which made Mouseglove's hair rise and set his teeth on edge.
"They killed my parents?" he said softly. "The villagers?"
"I guess there were other people in the army besides villagers," Mouseglove replied. "I even saw centaurs among them. But it was another sorcerer who actually fought Det--Mor, I think he was called--"
"Mor?"
"I believe so."
"Go on."
"I think your mother was in the southwest tower when it fell. At least, that was where she was headed when I saw her with you. You were discovered alone outside the entrance to it. You were taken to the main hall. The troops wanted to kill you. Mor saved you, though, by exchanging you for another child from another place--or rather, he claimed that he could. Did he?"
"Yes. They killed my parents...."
"Twenty years. They'll be older now--perhaps even dead. You could never locate all of them."
"Those who stoned me had the proper mentality--and their recognition of my dragonmark says something."
"Pol--Lord Pol--I don't know your story--where you've been, what it was like, what you've been through, how you came back--but I'm older than you. There are many things of which I am not sure, but one that I've had more opportunity than most to learn. Hate will eat you up, will twist you--more so, perhaps, if there is no longer, really, a proper object upon which to vent it--"
Pol began to speak, but Mouseglove raised his hand.
"Please. Let me finish. It's not just a sermon on good behavior. You're young and I got the impression on the way up here that you had just come into your powers. I've a feeling that this may be a pivotal point in your life. Looking back on my own, I see that there were a number of such occasions. Everyone seems to have a few. It looks to me as if you have not yet given thought to the path you intend to follow. Old Mor seemed, basically, a white magician. Your father had a reputation as one of the other sort. I know that things are never really black or white, pure and simple, but after a time one can usually judge from a preponderance of evidence in which direction a great power has led a person, if you see what I mean. If you start looking for revenge after all these years, at this time in your life--using your newfound powers to do it--I've a feeling you may in some ways be twisted by the enterprise, so that everything you touch later on will somehow bear its mark. I tell you this not only because I fear turning another Det loose upon the land, but because you are young and because it will probably hurt you, too."
Pol was silent for a time. Then he struck a chord.
"My father had a staff, a wand, a rod," he said. "You mentioned earlier that Mor broke it into three parts. Tell me again what he said he was going to do with it."
Mouseglove sighed.
"He spoke of something called--I believe--the Magical Triangle of Int. He was going to banish each segment to one point of it."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
"Do you know what it means?"
"No. Do you?"
Pol shook his head.
"Never heard of it."
"What do you think of my assessment of your position?"
Pol took a sip of wine.
"I hate them," he said, as he replaced the glass. "Perhaps my father was an evil man--a black magician. I do not know. But I cannot learn of his death by violence and be unmoved. No. I still hate them. They responded like animals in their ignorance. They treated me badly when I meant them no harm. And I recently heard the story of another man, who meant them well and perhaps went about things incorrectly, but who suffered greatly at their hands. It is not so easy to forgive."
"Pol--Lord Pol. They were afraid. You represented something they must have had good cause to fear if its memory lingered this long, this strongly. As for the other man, who knows? Could there have been some similarity?"
Pol nodded.
"Yes. I understand that he tried to force something new upon them--new, yet like something which had been rejected long ago. I suppose you are right. Have you more to tell me?"
"Not really. I would like to hear your story, though. It seems only a few days since I saw you as a babe."
Pol smiled for the first time in a long while. He refilled their glasses.
"Very well. I would like to tell someone ..."
Daylight was trickling into the room when Pol opened his eyes. He had slept on the sofa. Mouseglove was curled up on the floor.
He rose and soundlessly made his way downstairs, where he washed and changed his garments. He headed for the pantry to load a breakfast tray. Mouseglove was up by the time he returned, grooming himself, eyeing the food.
As they ate, Mouseglove asked him, "What are your plans now?"
"A little vengeance, I think," Pol replied.
"I was afraid of that," said the other.
Pol shrugged.
"It's easy for you to say, 'Forget it.' They didn't try to kill you."
"I spent time in the hands of your father's jailers."
"But you admit to attempted larceny here. I wasn't doing a damned thing to them, except providing a free floor show. There is a distinction."
"You've made up your mind. There is nothing more I can say--save that I would like to leave, if it is all right with you."
"Sure. You're not a prisoner any longer. We'll make you up a food parcel."
"Just these extra loaves here, and some of those other leftovers would be sufficient. I like to travel light."
"Take them. Where are you headed?"
"Dibna."
Pol shook his head.
"I don't know it."
"A port city, to the south. Here." He turned and drew an atlas from a shelf. "There it is," he finally said, pointing.
"Fairly far," Pol remarked, nodding "A lot of dead country between here and there. I'll take you, though, if you're game."
"What do you mean?"
"Dragonback. I'll fly you down."
Mouseglove paled and gnawed his lip. Then he smiled.
"Of course you jest."
"No, I'm serious. I feel indebted for all the information you've given me. I can postpone burning a few fields and barns for a day or so. I'll take you to Dibna if you're willing to ride with me on Moonbird."
Mouseglove began to pace.
"All right," he finally said, turning on his heel and halting. "If you are sure he'll permit the company of a stranger."
"He'll permit it."
They sailed south on the massive back of the coppery dragon, the sun still low to their left, the cool winds of the retreating night making human conversation difficult.
I wish you had brought the musical instrument.
It's a little crowded for it.
That human is somehow familiar. From dreams, I'd say.
He was tanked in your sleep spell, nearby in the cavern. He dreamt of dragons, he tells me.
Strange... I almost feel as if I could talk with him.
Why not try?
HELLO, HUMAN!
Mouseglove started, looked down, smiled.
You are Moonbird? he asked.
Yes.
I am Mouseglove. I steal things.
We slept together?
Yes.
I am glad to meet you.
Likewise...
The small man relaxed noticeably after that, leaning back at one point to remark to Pol, "This is not at all as I'd thought it would be. He seems awfully familiar. Those dreams ..."
"Yes."
They watched the countryside dip and rise beneath them, green wood, brown ridges, blue waters. They passed an occasional isolated dwelling, traced a track that turned into a road. There were several orchards, a farmhouse. To the left, where the land sloped, Pol saw the cluster of stones where he had slept. His mouth tightened.