"We have taken back not a place, but an ideal," Luthien explained. "We have taken back what we were, and what we must be. In Caer MacDonald, we have found the heart of our hero of old, but it is no more than a small piece, a tiny gain, a candle's flicker in a field of darkness. And in taking that, in raising the flag of Caer MacDonald over the Ministry once more . . ." He paused, giving the crowd the moment to glance at the great structure's tall tower, where some figures were stirring.

"And we shall!" Luthien promised them when they looked back, and he had to pause again until the cheering died down.

"In taking back this piece of our heritage, we have accepted a responsibility," he went on. "We have lit a flame, and now we must fan that flame and share its light. To Port Charley, in the west. To the isles, Bedwydrin, Marvis, and Caryth, in the north. To Bronegan, south of the northern range, and to Rrohlwyn and their northern tip. To Chalmbers and the Fields of Eradoch in the east and to Dun Caryth, until all the dark veil of Greensparrow is lifted, until the Iron Cross and Malpuissant's Wall divide more than land. Until Eriador is free!"

It was the perfect ending, Luthien thought, played to the perfect syllable and perfect emphasis. He felt exhausted but euphoric, as tired as if he had just waged a single-handed battle against a hundred cyclopians, and as satisfied as if he had won that fight.

The thrill, the comradery, was back within the swelled ranks of the rebels. Luthien knew, and Siobhan knew, that the danger had passed at least for the moment.

The armies of Greensparrow would come, but if Luthien and his friends could maintain the sense of higher purpose, could hold fast to the truths that lay in their hearts, they could not lose.

Whatever ground Greensparrow reclaimed, whatever lives his army claimed, they could not lose.

The rally did not lose momentum as the minutes slipped past; it would have gone on all the day, it seemed, and long into the night. But a voice sounded from the top of the Ministry, an answer to the claims of Luthien Bedwyr.

"Fools, all!" cried a figure standing tall atop the tower's battlements, and even from this distance, some four hundred feet, Luthien knew it to be Viscount Aubrey. "What have you taken but a piece of land? What have you won but a moment's reprieve and the promise of swift and terrible vengeance?"

That stole more than a little of the mirth and hope.

Luthien considered the man, his adversary. Even with all that had transpired, Aubrey appeared unshaken, still meticulously groomed and powdered, still the picture of royalty and strength.

Feigned strength, the battle-toughened Luthien pointedly told himself, for though Aubrey wore the weapons and ribbons of a warrior, he was better at ducking a fight than waging one.

Luthien hated him, hated everything he stood for, but could not deny the man's influence over the crowd, which did not recognize the ruse for what it was.

"Do you think that you can win?" Aubrey spat with a derisive snicker. "Do you think that King Greensparrow, who has conquered countries, who even now wages war in lands south of Gascony, and who has ruled for twenty years, is even concerned? Fools, all! Your winter snows will not protect you! Bask in the glories of victory, but know that this victory is a fleeting thing, and know that you, every one, will pay with your very souls for your audacity!"

Oliver called up to Luthien, getting the man's attention. "Tell him that he was stupid for not better blocking the sewers," the halfling said.

Luthien understood Oliver's motives, but doubted the value of his methods. Aubrey had a powerful weapon here, a very real fear among the rebels that they had started something they could not hope to finish. Montfort-Caer MacDonald-was free, but the rest of their world was not, and the force they had beaten in this city was a tiny fraction of the might Greensparrow could hurl at them.

They all knew it, and so did confident Aubrey, standing tall atop the impervious tower, apparently beyond their reach.

When Luthien did not move to answer, Oliver did. "You talk so brave, but fight so stupid!" the halfling yelled out. A few half-hearted cheers arose, but did not seem to faze the viscount.

"He didn't even block the sewers," Oliver explained loudly. "If his king fights with equal wisdom, then we will dine in the palace of Avon by summer's end!"

That brought a cheer, but Aubrey promptly quenched it. "The same king who conquered all of Eriador," he reminded the gathering.

It could not go on, Luthien realized. They could gain nothing by their banter with Aubrey and would only continually be reminded of the enormity of the task before them. Oliver, sharp-witted as he was, had no ammunition to use against the viscount, no verbal barbs which could stick the man and no verbal salves to soothe the fears that Aubrey was inciting.

Luthien realized then that Siobhan had moved to stand beside him.

"Finish your speech," the half-elf said to him, lifting a curious arrow out of her quiver. It looked different from her other bolts, its shaft a bright red hue, its fletching made not of feathers but of some material even the half-elf did not know. She had discovered the arrow that morning, and as soon as she had touched it, it had imparted distinct telepathic instructions, had told her its purpose, and for some reason that she did not understand, the telepathic voice seemed familiar to her.

With her elven blood, Siobhan understood the means and ways of wizards, and so she had not questioned the arrow's presence or its conveyed message, though she remained suspicious of its origins. The only known wizards in all of the Avonsea Islands, after all, were certainly not allies of the rebels!

Siobhan kept the arrow with her, though, and now, seeing this situation, the exact scene which had been carried on telepathic waves, her trust in the arrow and in the wizard who had delivered it to her was complete. A name magically came into her head when Luthien took the arrow from her, a name that the half-elf didn't recognize.

Luthien eyed the bolt. Its shaft was bright red, its fletchings the whitish yellow of a lightning bolt. It possessed a tingle within its seemingly fragile shaft, a subtle vibration that Luthien did not understand. He looked at Siobhan, saw her angry glower turned to the tall tower, and understood what she meant for him to do.

It struck Luthien then how influential this quiet half-elf had been, both to him and to the greater cause. Siobhan had been fighting against the merchants and the cyclopians, against the reign of Greensparrow, much longer than Luthien. Along with the Cutters, she had been stealing and building the network that became Luthien's army. Siobhan had embraced Luthien, the Crimson Shadow, and had prodded him along. It was she, Luthien recalled, who had informed him that Shuglin had been captured after the dwarf had helped Oliver and Luthien escape a failed burglary. It was Siobhan who had pointed Luthien toward the Ministry, and then to the mines, and the Cutters had arrived at those mines when Luthien and Oliver went to rescue Shuglin.

It was Siobhan's own trial that had brought Luthien to the Ministry again, on that fateful day when he killed Duke Morkney, and she had followed him all the way up the tower in pursuit of the evil man.

And now Siobhan had given Luthien this arrow, which he somehow knew would reach its mark. Siobhan had led him to his speech and now she had told him to end that speech. Yet she carried a longbow on her shoulder, a greater bow than Luthien's, and she was a better archer than he. If this arrow was what Luthien suspected, somehow crafted or enchanted beyond the norm, Siobhan could have made the shot easier than he.

That wasn't the point. There was more at stake here than the life of a foolish viscount. Siobhan was propagating a legend; by allowing Luthien to take the shot, she was holding him forward as the unmistakable hero of the battle for Caer MacDonald.

Luthien realized then just how great a player Siobhan had been in all of this, and he realized, too, something about his own relationship with the half-elf. Something that scared him.

But he had no time for that now, and she wouldn't answer the questions even if he posed them. He looked back at the crowd and Aubrey and focused on the continuing banter between the viscount and Oliver.

Oliver drew occasional laughter from those around him with his taunts, but in truth, he had no practical responses to the fears that Aubrey's threats inspired. Only a show of strength now could keep the rebels' hearts.

Luthien pinned open his folding bow, a gift from the wizard Brind'Amour, and fitted the arrow to its string. He brought it in line with Aubrey and bent the bow back as far as it would go.

Four hundred feet was too far to shoot. How much lift should he allow over such a distance and in shooting at such a steep angle? And what of the winds?

And what if he missed?

"For the heart." Siobhan answered his doubts in an even, unshakable tone. "Straight for the heart."

Luthien looked down the shaft at his foe. "Aubrey!" he cried, commanding the attention of all. "There is no place in Caer MacDonald for the lies and the threats of Greensparrow!"

"Threats you should heed well, foolish son of Gahris Bedwyr!" Aubrey retorted, and Luthien winced to think that his true identity was so well-known.

He had a moment of mixed feelings then, a moment of doubt about killing the man and the role he had unintentionally assumed.

"I speak the truth!" Aubrey shouted to the general gathering. "You cannot win but can, perhaps, bargain for your lives."

Just a moment of doubt. It was Aubrey who had come to Isle Bedwydrin along with that wretched Avonese. It was Aubrey who had brought the woman who had called for Garth Rogar's death in the arena, who had changed Luthien's life so dramatically. And now it was Aubrey, the symbol of Greensparrow, the pawn of an unlawful king, who stood as the next tyrant in line to terrorize the good folk of Montfort.

"Finish the speech," Siobhan insisted, and Luthien let fly.

The arrow streaked upward and Aubrey waved at it, discarding it as a futile attempt.

Halfway to the tower the arrow seemed to falter and slow, losing momentum. Aubrey saw it and laughed aloud, turning to share his mirth with the cyclopians standing behind him.

Brind'Amour's enchantment grabbed the arrow in mid-flight.

Aubrey looked back to see it gaining speed, streaking unerringly for the target Luthien had selected.

The viscount's eyes widened as he realized the sudden danger. He threw his hands up before him frantically, helplessly.

The arrow hit him with the force of a lightning stroke, hurling him back from the battlement. He felt his breastbone shatter under the weight of that blow, felt his heart explode. Somehow he staggered back to the tower's edge and looked down at Luthien, standing atop the gallows.

The executioner.

Aubrey tried to deny the man, to deny the possibility of such a shot. It was too late; he was already dead.

He slumped in the crenellations, visible to the gathering below.

All eyes turned to Luthien; not a man spoke out, too stunned by the impossible shot. Even Oliver and Katerin had no words for their friend.

"There is no place in Caer MacDonald for the lies and threats of Greensparrow," Luthien said to them.

The hushed moment broke. Ten thousand voices cried out in the exhilaration of freedom, and ten thousand fists punched the air defiantly.

Luthien had finished his speech.

CHAPTER 6.

OUT OF H HIS E ELEMENT.

WE COULD TAKE IT DOWN on top of them," Shuglin offered. The dwarf continued to study the parchment spread wide on the table before him, all the while stroking his blue-black beard. on top of them," Shuglin offered. The dwarf continued to study the parchment spread wide on the table before him, all the while stroking his blue-black beard.

"Take it down?" Oliver asked, and he seemed as horrified as Luthien.

"Drop the building," the dwarf explained matter-of-factly. "With all the stones tumbling down, every one of those damned one-eyes would be squashed flat."

"This is a church!" Oliver hollered. "A cathedral!"

Shuglin seemed not to understand.

"Only God can drop a church," the halfling insisted.

"That's a bet I would take," Shuglin grumbled sarcastically under his breath. The place was strongly built, but the dwarf had no doubt that by knocking out a few key stones . . .

"And if God had any intention of destroying the Ministry, he would have done so during Morkney's evil reign," Luthien added, his sudden interjection into the conversation taking Shuglin away from his enjoyable musings.

"By the whales, aren't we feeling superior?" came a voice from the door, and the three turned to see Katerin enter the room in Luthien and Oliver's apartment on Tiny Alcove, which still served as headquarters for the resistance even though great mansions and Duke Morkney's own palace lay open for the taking. Staying on Tiny Alcove in one of the poorest sections of Montfort was Luthien's idea, for he believed that this was a cause of the common folk, and that he, as their appointed leader, should remain among them, as one of them.

Luthien eyed Katerin carefully as she sauntered across the room. The apartment was below ground, down a narrow stair from the street, Tiny Alcove, which was, in truth, no more than an alleyway. Luthien could see the worn stairs rising behind Katerin and the guards Siobhan had posted relaxing against the wall, taking in the warm day.

Mostly, though, the young Bedwyr saw Katerin. Only Katerin. She was one to talk about feeling superior! Ever since the incident in the Dwelf, Katerin had taken on cool airs whenever she was around Luthien. She rarely met his eyes these days, seemed rather to look past him, as though he wasn't even there.

"Of course we are," Oliver answered with a huff. "We won."

"Not superior," Luthien corrected, his tone sharp-sharper than he had intended. "But I do not doubt the evil that was Morkney, and that is Greensparrow. We are not superior, but we are in the right. I have no-"

Katerin's expression grew sour and she held up her hand to stop the lecture before it had even begun.

Luthien winced. The woman's attitude was getting to him.

"Whatever you intend to do with the Ministry, you should do it soon," Katerin said, suddenly grim. "We have news of a fleet sailing off the western coast, south of the Iron Cross."

"Sailing north," Oliver reasoned.

"So say the whispers," Katerin replied.

Luthien was not surprised; he had known all along that Greensparrow would respond with an army. But though he understood that the war was not ended, that Greensparrow would come, the confirmation still hit him hard. Caer MacDonald wasn't even secured yet, and there were so many other tasks before the young man, more decisions each day than he had made in his entire life. Fifteen thousand people were depending on him, looking to him to solve every problem.

"The weather-watchers believe that the warm will stay," Katerin said, and though that sounded like good news to the winter-weary group, her tone was not light.

"The roads from Port Charley will be deep with mud for many weeks," Luthien reasoned, thinking he understood the woman's dismay. The snow was not so deep, but traveling in the early spring wasn't much better than a winter caravan.

Katerin shook her head; she wasn't thinking at all of the potential problems coming from the west. "We have dead to bury," she said. "Thousands of dead, both man and cyclopian."

"To the buzzards with the cyclopians!" Shuglin growled.

"They stink," Katerin replied. "And their bloated corpses breed vermin." She eyed Luthien squarely for the first time in several days. "You must see to the details. . . ."

She rambled on, but Luthien fell back into a chair beside the small table and drifted out of the conversation. He must see to it. He must see to it. How many times an hour did he hear those words? Oliver, Siobhan, Katerin, Shuglin, and a handful of others were a great help to him, but ultimately the last say in every decision fell upon Luthien's increasingly weary shoulders.

"Well?" Katerin huffed, drawing him back to the present conversation. Luthien stared at her blankly.

"If we do not do it now, we may find no time later," Oliver said in Katerin's defense. Luthien had no idea what they were talking about.

"We believe that they are sympathetic to our cause," Katerin added, and the way she spoke the words made Luthien believe that she had just said them a minute ago.

"What do you suggest?" the young Bedwyr bluffed.

Katerin paused and studied the young man, as though she realized that he hadn't a clue of where the discussion had led. "Have Tasman assemble a group and go out to them," Katerin said. "He's knowing the farmers better than any. If there's one among us who can make certain that food flows into Caer MacDonald, it is Tasman."

Luthien brightened, glad to be back in on the conversation and that this was one decision he didn't have to make alone. "See to it," he said to Katerin.

She started to turn, but her green eyes lingered on Luthien for a long while. She seemed to be sizing him up, and . . .

And what? Luthien wondered. There was something else in those orbs he thought he knew so well. Pain? Anger? He suspected that his continuing relationship with Siobhan did hurt Katerin, though she said differently to any who would listen.

The red-haired woman turned and walked out of the room, back up the stairs past the elven guards.

Of course, the proud Katerin O'Hale would never admit her pain, Luthien reasoned. Not about anything as trivial as love.

"We'll find no volunteers to bury one-eyes," Oliver remarked after a moment.

Shuglin snorted. "My kin will do it, and me with them," the dwarf said, and with a quick bow to Luthien, he, too, turned to leave. "There is pleasure to be found in putting dirt on top of cyclopians."

"More pleasure if they are alive when you do," Oliver snickered.

"Think on dropping that building," the dwarf called over his shoulder, and he seemed quite eager for that task "By the gods, if we do it, then the cyclopians inside will already be buried! Save us the trouble!"