It was a hot summer day, like it had been the last few weeks. The spicy scent of salt spray filled the air, the sound of the sea crashing to shore battling with the cries of seagulls and the shouts of the sailors as they unloaded their cargo from the ships at anchor. The city of Daitura was a busy place at all times of the year, a major port town to the country of Hidalia. Merchants hawked their newly imported goods from every corner of the streets, and jostled shoulders with the sailor who brought those goods in from the sea.

"Apples! Oranges! Get your fresh pomegranates, straight from the isle of Nicardian! Apples! Oranges!" The merchant waved a cloth sack in the air, his fat arms jiggling and his pig-like face glistening with sweat from the midday sun. "Ten apples per gold! Ten oranges per gold! Bananas! Apples! Oranges!"

From among the people swirling around the marketplace, a small figure in brightly-colored leathers made it's way through the crowd, like a fish through murky waters. The other people instinctively shied away from those Gypsy leathers, clutching at their purses to make sure they hadn't been stolen.

She paused when the merchant's cries caught her attention. A small smile crossed her heart-shaped face. A box of untended fruit, already sacked, had been stacked at the edge of the merchants stall, just out of his sight. Her sapphire eyes sparkled with mischievousness.

Jackpot...

A few moments later, a cry went up in the marketplace.

"Thief! Thief! Gypsy trash!" The piggish merchant ran down the streets made by the stalls, waving his arms to catch the attention of the port guards. "Gypsy! Thief! Thief!"

Several port guards, in their black and white uniforms, ran up to the distraught man, and set about calming his fears. However, the fat little man wouldn't be calmed; his pudgy arms waving every which way, he demanded the Gypsy girl be brought to justice.

"She went in there!" he screeched for the third time, pointing a thick finger at a nearby building. "Go in there and arrest her!"

Two of the guards who had arrived on the scene were sent to accompany the fat human into the bar. The wooden sign above the door squealed as the wind blew it, revealing a crude picture of a snake captured in a mug, and the words "Serpent's Hollow".

Inside, the tavern was smoky, but well-lit. The windows were flung wide open in an attempt to air out the sweltering room, but the patrons were still fanning themselves with napkins and plates. At the far end of the building was a low stage, where four bards, all elven, strummed their way through a post-battle ballad. Several round tables were scattered around the center of the room, where the humans, the lanky elves, and the stocky dwarves intermingled. Opposite the stage was the bar, a long wooden affair with stools arranged around it, and nearby the clerk counter and stairs that led to the inn rooms above.

The shopkeeper shoved his way through the doorway and past the guards, swinging his head from side to side as his eyes peered through the torch smoke. The first guard, a tall elf with short silver hair and cat-like blue eyes, stepped up next to the merchant, scanning the bar as well. After a moment, he spoke.

"Are you sure she came in here?" he asked, his voice doubtful.

"Sure as the sun's shinin', mister!" the heavy human exclaimed. He pulled a much-used handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow.

The second guard moved forward on the human's other side, a short, sturdy dwarf with a bristly black beard, and an over-sized ax hanging from his belt. His dark eyes glittered under hefty eyebrows as he made his own scan of the tavern

"Ye're eyes're better'n mine, friend," he addressed the elf in his thick accent. "I'm seein' no Peddler's leathers herein."

The elf shook his head. "I see none, also." He looked to the merchant. "How did she look again?"

"She was short, a young one, with braided hair as red as blood." He growled and swiped at his bejowled neck, the handkerchief dark with sweat. "She stole a bag of my pomegranates, and I just got those this mornin'! It was easily three hundred gold I lost to that Gypsy witch! Those things are expensive!"

The elven guard moved to pat the merchant on the shoulder, then took in the fat man's sweat-darkened clothing and thought better of it. "Easy, friend. Your loss will be compensated. Come with us to the Offices, and we will file a report." Carefully managing no to touch the corpulent human, he turned him and led him out the door. The shopkeeper offered no resistance, shoving the damp cloth back in his pocket and muttering obscenities to himself. After one final glance around the tavern, the dwarf followed suit.

Several moments passed as merry-makers and sailors on leave passed in and out of the bar. Finally, someone stepped out of the shadows beside the door. It was the young Gypsy girl.

I pushed my luck too far that time...she thought to herself. No more than eighteen, she was still youthful despite the harsh life of living on the run. Dressed in bright red and gold bloomers, a black tunic, and a blue vest, she held back near the shadows a long time, scanning the crowd as they moved to and fro within the bar. She held an unstrung bow in her hands, nervously twisting as she watched and waited, her sapphire eyes darting about the room. When there was no sign that the guards would return, she finally relaxed. Adjusting her quiver and a bag at her belt that bulged with foreign objects, she headed for the bar.

A stool at the counter was empty, and so she seated herself slowly upon it, leaning her bow against her knee, and motioning briefly at the bartender. He was no fool, this human; he knew who she was. He saw the silver stud in her right nostril and knew she was a Gypsy. His dark brown eyes examined her a long moment, his hands idly wiping a mug, before he tucked the rag and glass under the counter and approached her.

"May I help you, young one?" he asked, deliberately emphasizing 'young'.

She felt a twinge of anger at his attitude, but forced it down. This was the price of being a Gypsy. Quickly she aimed a bright smile at him, in an attempt to disarm any suspicions. "Water," she replied. "'Tis a hot day again, and my tongue is dry."

The tender did not seem fazed by her 'innocence', and his hard gaze did not falter. "A gold," he said briefly.

One small, slender hand rose from beneath the counter and placed a pouch upon the stained surface. With deliberate movements, she removed a coin and returned the pouch beneath the counter. The bartender took the coin offered him silently and moved to where several casks were lined against the wall. He filled the mug with a clear, sparkling fluid, then returned to the Gypsy and thumped the mug before her wordlessly.

Ignoring this rude treatment, she took the mug and put it to her lips, downing nearly half of it in one long drink. Her heart-shaped face twisted into a grimace at the warm temperature of the liquid, but did not put down the glass. She cupped it in her hands as she turned to observe the crowd, her waist-long braid swinging behind her in the movement.

On stage, the four bards ended their melody, and a general smattering of applause form the audience encouraged them to continue. After a brief respite they launched into another tune, this one a festive song that quickly got feet tapping and heads nodding.

"So...I take it you were what was being sought by those angry men?" a soft voice spoke at the girl's elbow.

Startled, she nearly dropped her mug as she turned to confront the speaker. Beside her sat an elf, one elbow propped against the bar as he held a glass halfway to his lips. He was finely dressed, in light green and brown leathers and a silver mesh pouch at his belt, that proved him to be more well-possessed than other patrons of the tavern.

Her eyes opened wide, clearly showing fright at her discovery, before she caught herself and composed her expression. Did he see? she asked herself silently.

"Of course not," she said shortly, as though irked he assumed her a criminal. "There are many Gypsies in Daitura. Especially when a ship pulls in from Nicardian." Placing her mug on the counter, she shifted in her seat and placed a hand on the shaft of her how, as though preparing to flee.

His demeanor shifted visibly at the mention of the island nation, changing from a faintly amused smile to a brooding frown. He replaced his glass on the counter.

"You...came here from Nicardian?" he asked, a faint note of confusion in his voice.

The Gypsy's response was immediate: she laughed. It held no tone of amusement, but rather was a short, harsh bark of indignation. "We Gypsies know better than to go there," she replied, a hard edge to her bell-like voice. "We made that mistake once, and were lucky to survive it. We are not so eager for their goods to allow them to enslave us." She snorted slightly, calming down. "No, we come because of their trade ships."

The elf nodded slowly, relaxing again into the slightly superior manner he held before. "I see..." he murmured, picking up his drink and taking a long quaff from it.

Up near the stage several of the younger customers got to their feet and began to dance along to the lively ballad. Those who stayed seated began clapping in time with the beat, urging the dancers on. Beside the Gypsy the elf's peridot eyes turned to the stage, watching the dancers whirl around each other, arms locked in anothers, feet stamping and skirt twirling.

"You are a Gypsy. Can't you dance?" The elf did not bother looking at her. "Dance to this tune?"

She frowned deeply. Behind her, where the entrance to the tavern was, a small, shaggy head peeked in long enough for it's piggish eyes to widen in delight, then ducked back out.

"All Gypsies dance," the young woman said finally. She brushed some of her hair behind an ear, revealing several brass and silver earrings. "But for me, it would not be wise. Not with the port guard searching for...that Gypsy." She shook her head, as though to put emphasis on her words. "We are not welcomed here, only tolerated."

With one last, defining note, the jig came to a close, and the dancers fell back into their seats, laughing. Applause was louder this time, and requests were shouted at the bards. It took quite a bit of coaxing on the crowds part, but finally three of the musicians exited the stage, leaving the lute-player alone on the dais. The crowd quieted, and after a long moment he strummed a chord and began to sing, his soft tenor voice floating through the tavern like a breeze.

"The longer my life
Digs my grave so tall,
The longer I tumble,
The longer I fall,
No remorse, no regret
No pain and no sorrow,
Nothing at all
Just the same as tomorrow.
Onward I spiral,
Onward I go,
I've one mind and one body,
But I'm lacking one soul."

A hand wrapped around the Gypsy's upper arm in a painfully tight embrace.

"This is her!" a voice hissed by her ear. "The damned witch!"

Instinctively the girl struggled against her captor, but was no match for him. The fat merchant, whom she had stole from not twenty minutes prior, drug her off her stool and began to pull her to the exit. The stool hit the floor with a crack, and several of the audience turned to see what the commotion was.

Quickly the elf took note of the situation. Two port guards were weaving their way through the tavern toward where the Gypsy was held captive. Calmly he stood, stepped after the fat man, reached out, and grabbed a handful of the merchants greasy hair.

"She is not the one you seek," he hissed into the human's ear.

The bard's music echoed eerily through the elf's words.

"I should be a three-part being,
But I wasn't made whole
I've one mind and one body,
But I'm lacking one soul."

"Now, sir...there is no need for violence. As soon as we prove she is not, we will release her." The elf's eyes shifted from the human in his grasp to the elven guard. The guard startled slightly at the other's peridot eyes, but resolutely stayed his ground.

An arrogant smile graced the elf's face, and he released the shopkeeper, shoving him away. The human stumbled and fell to his knees, grasping his hair to make sure none was lost. "First of all," he said casually to the guard, "you will not address me as 'sir'. You will address me as you would address any elven heir-Lord, and that is by title, mine being the heir-Lord Wyn. Secondly, you have my word that she is not the one you seek. She...is nothing more than a human concubine. One of my favorites to travel with, in fact." Casually he wrapped an arm around the Gypsy's shoulders, where she stood nervously beside him. Her eyes narrowed in anger, but she quickly lowered her eyes in an attempt to appear.

"And," the heir-Lord continued, "there is plenty of room for violence if you go against my words!"

A strangled chord fell on a suddenly silent tavern. The only words that had filtered through their generally alcohol-inebriated state had been 'heir-Lord' and 'violence'. But those were the only words needed. Everyone knew who and what an heir-Lord was; the prestigious heir to the Lordship of an elven House, they were strongest next to their fathers and the High Lord of Hidalia. No one angered an heir-Lord if they valued their lives. Especially not common folk.

The elven guard took a hasty step back from the revealed heir-Lord, his common blue eyes wide in fear and astonishment. "Your forgiveness, si--heir-Lord Wyn! I...we...did not know!" He flashed a quick, nervous glance to his dwarven partner. "We...I...could not tell!"

A faint ripple went through the crowd in the tavern. Everyone knew that royal elves alone had green eyes; otherwise, they had blue, like the guards. He had spoken an outright lie.

A sneer flickered across Wyn's face.

The other guard stepped forward and took a hold of the shopkeepers arm, effectively blocking his partner from the heir-Lord. Being a dwarf, he did not fear the elven Lords or their sons. "We will leave, then," he said. He nodded to the bar door. "A good eve ta ye, and merry yer stay in Daitura. Sir." He hauled the human to his feet and moved for the door.

"But--!" the shopkeeper cried, and was quickly hushed by the dwarf.

Nervously the elven guard bowed to Wyn. "Y-yes," he stammered. "A good eve to you, heir-Lord Wyn!" he sketched another hasty bow, and all but ran out the tavern.

Silence reigned for a few more seconds. Almost as one the patrons turned back toward the stage and began their quiet discussions once again. A soft murmuring filled the tavern, and the other three bards hurried back onstage. A brief, whispered debate, and they began their music, a happier tone than the one that had been interrupted.

Once the guards had disappeared, the Gypsy girl slid out from under Wyn's grasp, stepping several paces out of his reach. "I should have known you were one of them!" she hissed. Her eyes darted from his face to where her bow lay discarded at his feet. "You carried yourself too highly to be common."

The heir-Lord's eyes turned to her. "One of 'them'? I don't know what you mean." He grimaced slightly. "It is true I am not common, but..." Shaking his head slightly, he stepped away from the bar. "I care not to discuss myself any further." With a slight bow to the younger woman, he brushed past her and headed for the exit.

A path was made for him to the door, each patron casually stepping out of his way as though not realizing what he was doing, but the tenseness that past as the heir-Lord did was obvious. The Gypsy chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip as she watched him leave, then shook her head and sighed.

"Damnit all," she murmured. After gathering her bow up from the ground, she hurried after him.

Outside was painfully bright compared to the shaded tavern, and it took a moment for her to see the elf's golden hair moving through the midday crowd. She ran through the drove, and neatly scooted between two cargo-hauling sailor to place herself at his side.

"I...I meant no insult to you by that comment. It was just that..." She shrugged awkwardly. "Your ilk are not well liked for their hospitality with Gypsies."

The heir-Lord laughed and lengthened his already drawn-out strides. "Their hospitality? I know many Lords that treat Gypsies better than their own kin!" He abruptly stopped and turned to her, glaring down at her. "What are you following me for, woman? It can't be just to tell me you meant no insult."

"Well...I...I can't leave. I'm in your service now." She stepped lithely out of the way of several sailors carrying a net-full of silver fish.

"My service?" He laughed. "You are not, and never will be, in my service. You've nothing to offer me, Gypsy, nor I you." He turned on his heel and strode through the crowd once again, ignoring the shouts of indignation from bumped travelers.

The Gypsy watched as his tall form ducked behind a trade tent. "He'll not get away from me so easily," she murmured to herself.

Inside the tent, Wyn ducked behind a shelf of fine furs, keeping his head low in an attempt to hide his position from his pursuer. When there was no sign of her, he sighed and straightened.

"Foolish whelp," he muttered. "My service?" The elf shook his head in amusement. In an idle gesture, he reached out and rubbed a silk between his thumb and forefinger. "I wonder if she's still following?"

A customer in the aisle across from him gave him an odd look, rising his anger again. "Have you nothing to do but stare?" he demanded.

A hand took his arm in a gentle grasp. "A rough day at the docks," a soft voice said. "The sailors were clumsy and lost and quarter of his cargo to sea." The customer stared at them another second, then moved away.

Wyn whirled and tore his arm away from the Gypsy's grasp. "You again?!" He turned away from her and hurried out the tent, turning once more to find her following him once outside.

"I do not even know you, yet you trail me like a hound trails a rat!" His arched eyebrows twisted in a deep frown as he confronted his pursuer. "Can you not find another to pester?! I've not the time to deal with rabble such as yourself." He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her, standing nearly a foot taller than the Gypsy. "What. Do. You. Want?"

She sighed indulgently, shaking her head at his words. "I can't leave you. I owe you a good year of my life. If those guards had taken me, they would have forced me to work the fruit off in a mine or a slave shop. Three hundred gold takes a long time to work off in slave shops."

"And what does this mean to me? Nothing! I don't care for you as any kind of servicer!" Again the heir-Lord turned his back on her and walked away.

"You don't get it, do you?" the Gypsy growled at him, matching his pace. "I owe you. Either a year of my life or a chance to save you from a similar fate. It's the Gypsy way."

"What care I for Gypsy ways?!" Wyn whirled on her and stuck a finger in her face. "I would rather hire a thief to manage my moneys! I'd rather..." he trailed off, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Hmmm...maybe I could use you after all..."

The burgundy haired girl frowned, but made no comment toward his sudden turn-around. She nodded. "Good. Then I can help you in some way?"

He nodded. "Yes. Do you know your way around here?"

"Of course I know my way around here! I'm a Gypsy, aren't I?" The girl settled the haft of her bow on the ground and leaned on it. "Then you have need of a guide?"

Wyn nodded absently. "Good... Have you any belongings to gather before we leave? Stashed goods for retrieving?"

"No." She cocked her head to the side. "What is it you have need of a guide for?"

"Not a what. A who." Wyn ran a hand through his hair, sighing slightly. "I...am searching for my sister. A rogue half-blood. There is a large bridge that needs to be burnt between us."

The girl blinked. "Run away, has she?" The information sunk in entirely, and she blinked again. "Half-...? Poor child. I can't imagine how life must have been for her under an elf Lord... Well, no matter. We'll find her soon enough." She paused. "Do you have an idea of where she might have gone?"

"If I knew where she was, I wouldn't be searching for her, now would I?" He snorted and crossed his arms. "And here you don't get it. She had it better then many at our House. Half-blood have incredible powers...and hers were superb."

What does it matter? the girl asked herself. Maybe I should have just let him walk away... "Then gather what you need. I know a way to find her."

"What I need?" the elf scoffed. "If something had need to be gathered, you would be the one to gather it. You are, after all, my servant."

Definitely not worth it. She did her best to hide her displeasure at him. "Fine. Then follow closely. There is a Gypsy camp not far north from here. We may be able to find information there." She picked her bow up and started down the dusty street.

Wyn blinked in surprise at her sudden about-face, and had to jog a few steps in order to catch up with her. "Speaking of Gypsies," he started, "I can't just call you 'girl' or 'Gypsy'. What is your name?"

The faintest hint of a smile flickered across her face for a second. "Sebeles," she replied. "My name is Sebeles Faerun."

He nodded slowly. "Sebeles...that is a nice name."

Sebeles simply snorted and led them out of town.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The sky was beginning it's gradual slide out of the sky by the time the camp was reached. The camp's edges were defined by several large wagons, brilliantly painted in all colors of the rainbow. Within the edge were several more wagons, smaller in size, that formed another circle within the outer one. It was within this ring that most of the Gypsies were; dressed in clothing colored as garrulously as the wagons, all of them were busy in some task or another.

As Wyn and his guide entered, relatively few paid attention to them. Those who did glanced at them only briefly before turning back to the work they were doing.

Wyn frowned as Sebeles paused near one of the campfires, glancing about as though searching for someone. Several children ran by, giggling madly as they chased one another. All wore earrings similar to the ones Sebeles wore. His frown deepened, and he looked more closely at the Gypsies nearest him. It seemed that all wore silver or brass earrings on their right ears only, and a few rings or studs in their nose.

He looked over at Sebeles. "Do those earrings signify something?"

"Hmm?" She glanced at him briefly before starting off again to another part of the camp. "Yes, they mean something. They are our Statements of Office. To you, they would mean something along the lines of rank."

"And what...rank are you?" He dodged around another group of children, nearly tripping in the process.

"I am called a Hunter. I do the obvious -- hunt for the Caravan." She motioned to another Gypsy in the direction they were heading. The woman was deep in conversation with an older man; she wore earrings similar the Sebeles', except she wore a chain that ran between her ear and nose ring. "See her? She is an Aunt; she is in charge of the Hunters and the Gatherers. Each person has a job in a Caravan, because we cannot afford to take care of those who will just become parasites. Every person is essential to the Caravan's survival."

His frown lessened somewhat. Surprising that they are more sophisticated than those who despise them, a small voice in his mind whispered.

When they approached the Aunt, Sebeles respectfully waited to the side until the conversation was finished. When the old man moved away, the Aunt turned to her.

"How was your trip into town, child?" she asked. Her voice was dry and scratchy, an odd sound coming from her still youthful face. Wyn looked closer at her, and saw a scar that peeked above the woman's high collar, running across her throat. He tried not to make a face.

Sebeles bowed deeply to her before replying. "I was discovered, Aunt Methuse," she said. "This elf-man, Wyn, helped me escape detection. I am bound to him, now."

Aunt Methuse turned to Wyn, her dark eyes searching his countenance. Finally she nodded. "We will miss you, Sebeles. May the love of the Lord and Light go with you."

"Thank you, Aunt Methuse." Sebeles paused a moment. "We need to see Grandmother Bishop. Wyn needs to find the location of a loved one."

Wyn kept his silence, though outwardly he wanted to laugh. I remember a time I would have called her that...

She nodded again. "Grandmother is in her wagon, as usual," her scratchy voice spoke again. He eyes looked into Wyn's for a moment. "I hope you find what you seek." After nodding to the younger woman, she turned and moved into the camp without a word of farewell.

Wyn frowned as he watched her leave. "That was a lovely greeting," he muttered sarcastically.

Sebeles glanced at him and frowned, but said nothing. She started off again, heading toward the inner circle of wagons. The one she approached seemed darker in comparison to the others, and the elf could see that the paint was peeling off in droves once they were closer. Wagons? he thought to himself in derision. Perhaps I called them sophisticated a little too quickly...

The red-haired Gypsy paused at the entrance of the wagon and removed her quiver and a dagger that was hidden in her boot. "If you have any iron on you, you must remove it." She straightened after placing the items on the ground, leaning her bow against the wagon. "You can't cross inside otherwise."

"I?" the elf exclaimed. "Wear or carry iron?" The very idea was amusing. He couldn't help but laugh.

Sebeles gritted her teeth, keeping her silence by the edge of a sword, and entered the wagon.

Inside, the wagon was far larger than it appeared on the outside. Herbs hung in bunches from the ceiling, creating a musty, but not unpleasant, atmosphere within the dark abode. A small bed was placed inside a niche in the wall, cabinets arranged around it. In the center was a round table, and at it sat an old woman.

Her face was lined from age, her white hair pulled back from her face in a loose bun. A single silver ring in her nose was her only adornment.

Sebeles quietly closed the door behind Wyn, and the old woman's eyes snapped open. With a dry chuckle, her milky blue eyes gazed in their general direction. "I have been waiting," she said softly.

The red-haired girl bowed deeply to the woman. "Greetings, Grandmother Bishop," she said softly.

She received an irritated hand gesture in reply. "Don't do that," the older woman said. "I don't care for the formalities Methuse enforces. Come, sit by me." When the young Gypsy was seated, she turned to Wyn. "You may sit as well, young heir-Lord," the Bishop intoned.

Wyn blinked a moment in surprise. How did she know...? He shook off his stupefied expression and replaced with a haughty one. "You must be a magic one. At least someone recognizes me for what I am." He cast a deliberate glance in Sebeles' direction, and received a scathing glare in reply.

The old woman chuckled. "I am no more magical than a rock. I simply...see things." She paused. "For example, I see that you are not just an heir-Lord...you are an heir-Lord from the isle of Nicardian. You risk much in coming here...especially since you have already exposed yourself. Nicardian blood is spilt as soon as it is found in Hidalia."

How does she know this? I gave no impression of being from Nicardian when I was in that bar...did I? He frowned deeply. "I know Lords that were locked in the dungeons for 'seeing' things," he replied darkly. This woman was deeply unnerving to him.

Her only reply was another dry chuckle. "There is a pewter goblet in the shelf on your left," she said to Sebeles, keeping her gaze on Wyn. "There is also a small bag beside it. Retrieve it for an old woman, would you?"

While the young Gypsy was searching through the cabinet, Bishop raised her gnarled hands and folded them on the table top before her. "I asked you to sit, young one, but you refused my hospitality." She tapped a finger against the table-board. "I will now require a price for my services. It is nothing special, nothing you cannot give up. Just...an indulgence for an old woman."

"A price? Indulgence?" Wyn snorted. "You must be kidding."

The old woman smiled faintly, her eyes focused on a spot just over Wyn's shoulder. "I have seen too many summers to 'kid'." One of her gnarled hands lifted, palm up, and Sebeles placed the small goblet and pouch within it. "Sit, my child. Do not let his anxiousness get to you."

The red-haired girl seated herself at the table again, her eyes on the old woman's hands as they worked. Bishop opened the pouch slowly, her hands shaking slightly as she drew a small, silver dagger from the blue material.

"I will now need a blood sacrifice," she spoke, her voice suddenly eerie in the dark wagon.

The elf blinked. "A what?" he exclaimed. Barbarians! his mind burst out. Llothe preserve me! I've thrown in with cannibals!

Bishop chuckled at his outburst. Her chin rose slightly, and she inhaled deeply through her nose. "However..." she continued, a smile at the corners of her lips, "I think those pomegranates will be a nice substitute."

With a small grin at Wyn, the red-haired Gypsy pulled the bag of fruit off of her belt and wordlessly handed it to the old woman. Bishop took it from her, equally silent, and pulled two of the pomegranates out of the pouch. She quickly sliced both in half, the dark seeds glistening wetly in the half-light. Using the dagger as a spoon, she scooped the seeds out and placed them in the goblet. Many burst, leaving a blood-like liquid in the silver bowl.

"Witness, you, the magic of the Gypsies," the old woman cackled, withdrawing a packet from somewhere on her person. She tore it open, and dumped its contents into the goblet.

Blue smoke erupted from the chalice, swirling around the table, its phosphorescent glow lighting up the wagon. Bishop waved her hands over the goblet, swirling the smoke around in patterns that suggested images, but when Wyn tried to look closer, just boggled the eye. She began to whisper in a language that was foreign to the elf's ears, and the smoke began to swirl in a clockwise pattern around the table. He glanced at the Gypsy girl who was his guide, and wasn't surprised to find her blue eyes open wide in barely concealed fear.

I knew I shouldn't have come here, he groaned silently. No doubt she's casting some spell on me to turn me into a frog...or worse yet, a Gypsy...

The contents of the goblet flashed, lighting up the old woman's face for a brief second, making her appear skeletal. She picked up the container, holding it halfway to her lips, and looked at Wyn. He stepped back involuntarily; her eyes had turned the same color as the smoke, with no pupils or whites. Llothe preserve me, he prayed silently.

"Speak the name of the one you seek," Bishop spoke in a hissing voice.

A shiver went through him at the woman's words. "Laeral," he whispered. "My sister...Laeral."

"Laeral..." she breathed into the goblet. With a quick movement, she brought the cup to her lips and drained its contents in one long quaff, a little of it dribbling out one corner of her mouth, leaving a blood-like trail down her chin. The chalice slipped from her fingers, hitting the table with a clatter, causing both the elf and the other Gypsy to start at the noise.

For a long time Bishop simply sat there, her bright blue eyes staring at Wyn, her hands held up as though she were still holding the goblet. She blinked suddenly, and her lips moved.

"South and south and south you go, south down where the dead winds blow..." she spoke in a singsong voice. "...Into the earth, into the grave, into the place where few men brave. There lie the dark men in splendid glory, there lies the heart of Death, so gory... The laurel spreads it's roots so deep, the death of all our lives does creep into the earth, into the land, for us...will play Death's marching band..." her voice trailed off into a whisper, and she fell silent.

Wyn and Sebeles exchanged looks. The smoke had gradually disappeared, bringing the wagon back to its darkened state. Bishop had closed her eyes, and her chin slowly met her chest as they watched. I've had enough of this, his mind told him. Get the hell out of here before she wakes!

Slowly the red-haired girl got to her feet. "Thank you, Grandmother," she said quietly, and moved for the door. The woman's hand lashed out, grabbing Sebeles' arm in a claw-like embrace.

"Chosatt..." the old woman hissed. Her eyes snapped open and glared a point to the left of Wyn. "Helsa i'dol zhah jabar, lotha hintra. Dosst mrigg d'Senger lueth Ssussun rothia ma. K'lar dosst yssaki wun Xukuth D'oloth. Helsa'a dosst i'dol orn tlu morfel mar."

The elf started visibly. She knows elf? How does she know elf? Only in a Lord's estate do they speak elf! He frowned deeply. He definitely didn't like this woman.

The old woman's hand slipped from Sebeles' arm, settling in her lap. Her eyes slipped closed once more, and soon a soft snoring was heard. Wyn and Sebeles' eyes met, and as one they headed for the door.

Once outside, the Gypsy grabbed her unstrung bow and glared at Wyn. "Have you no respect for your elders, elf?" she demanded. "Being that rude to her! If Grandmother Bishop were in her prime, she'd have never let you get away with such... such... obnoxiousness!" She snatched up her quiver and dagger, which she quickly returned to their former positions. "It does no good to refuse Gypsy hospitality. She'll not offer you any service again," she added darkly.

"That woman may have been older than I, but she is not my elder. She is a Gypsy elder." Wyn crossed his arms and glared down at her. "And I care not what she would have 'let' me get away with. I care not for any more 'service', either. She spoke in a riddle, which doesn't help me at all, like you said she would."

"I said she could, not that she would!"

"Hush! Both of you!"

The two whirled about in surprise. Behind them stood Grandmother Bishop, whom they had thought they left asleep. She slowly lowered herself from the step on the wagon to the ground. "You cannot leave yet, young elf-man," she continued. Her eyes had returned to their milky blue, and she focused her eyes to a point over his shoulder. "There is the price to speak of."

Anything to get her to leave me alone! "Indulgence of an old woman, if I recall," he said slowly.

"Indulgence, yes." Her eyes focused on his face. "You have a flute. Play me a tune."

He frowned. This is getting out of hand...she knows too much... "A tune. You wish me to play for you. That is the payment?" His hand slid down to the silver mesh bag at his belt.

The woman nodded silently.

Wyn sighed. If that is what it takes, he decided. With a nod, he reached down and untied the mesh bag and pulls a flute from within it. The instrument is delicate-looking, made of silver-specked crystal, which gleamed in the late afternoon sun. He inspected it a moment, turning it slowly in his hands, before raising it to his lips.

The bell-like notes that issue from the instrument rise and fall in a slow, sad song that seem unsuited for the Gypsy camp. The red-haired Gypsy blinks in wonder at the elf's skill with the flute.

Ever so slowly, a small, silver-gray line of smoke trails out of the end of the flute. Its misty essence fills the area between the elf and the Gypsies, and forms into the shape of a dancing woman. Slender and willowy, she dances to the slow, sad song, her hair flowing behind her as she spins and arches.

The red-haired Gypsy stared at the misty form in silence. Is it... magic? she wondered. Elven magic? She reached out to touch the vaporous woman, and shuddered at the electric feeling that zapped through her at the touch.

The song came to close, ending on a low note that echoed throughout the woods nearby them. As the note faded, the woman disappeared, the smoke that created her dissolving into the air without a trace. Slowly the elf lowered the flute from his lips and gazed down at it, a sad look on his face.

Grandmother Bishop nodded slowly. "Your magic is strong," she said, breaking the fragile silence. "Strong, but scattered. You must learn to focus yourself in order to survive and be victorious in the events to come."

Wyn shook his head. "But these aren't my magics," he replied. "My sister...Laeral...she made this flute. It is her magics that do this...not mine."

The old woman shook her head. "You do not understand, but you will in time." She turned and stepped onto that wagon, lifting her skirts so as not to trip. "Go, now. Find Xukuth D'oloth. Then you can find your answers." Without another word, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. As if by cue, the sounds of the Gypsy camp filtered back in, as though the camp had held its breath in Bishop's presence.

Sebeles stared at Wyn, a frown furrowing her heart-shaped face. He ignored her, pulling the mesh pouch back open and replacing the flute within it. After tying it back up, he looked to the Gypsy. They stared at each other a long moment before she spoke.

"That language she spoke in there..." she said slowly. "What was it?"

"The elven language. How she knew how to speak it, I don't know...humans are rarely even taught how to speak it. It's hard for the human tongue to reproduce, but she did fairly well." Wyn frowned slightly, looking back toward the wagon. "What she said made no sense, though."

"What did she say?"

"Something about light abandoning you, and placing your faith in Xukuth D'oloth. As I said, it makes no sense."

The Gypsy looked to the ground, a look of concentration on her face. "Helsa i'dol zhah jabar, lotha hintra?" she said finally. The sounds were harsh, but a fair reproduction of what the old woman had said.

"How...?" the elf started, then shook his head. "How did you do that? Even I don't recall exactly what she said."

Sebeles shrugged. "I'm good at remembering things," she replied simply. "They say I have I... picturesque memory. Anything I hear, or see, I can remember."

Amazing. Simply amazing. Perhaps there is more to the Gypsies than I thought...even with the cannibalism. The elf blinked, then nodded slowly at her words. "Yes...that was what she said... 'The way is treacherous, little hunter.' What was the rest of it?"

The Gypsy quickly repeated the rest of the old woman's words, and Wyn translated them. " 'Your guide of lord and light abandons you. Place you faith in Xukuth D'oloth. Then your way will be made clear.' " He shook his head. "Who, or what, she refers to, I'm not certain."

"What is a Xukuth D'oloth?"

"It means 'heart of darkness'." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps someone in town knows it. An elf, perhaps."

Sebeles thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Strange name." After another moment, she shrugged and hefted her bow. "Maybe you're right, for there is no one called that here. Lets go on back." She turned and lead the way from the camp, and the elf followed without comment.