“Ah,” the High King responded. “Windlow is old. Far too old for such a journey. The thought will please him, however. He welcomes visits or messages from his old students. But¾no. He could not leave us. It would be too dangerous for him to attempt it. We would miss him too greatly. But the thought, yes, the thought is kind. You must tell him of that kind thought, even though it is impossible…”
He turned to me abruptly. “And you, boy. A special student of my old colleague, Mertyn, eh? Caught up in a bit of dangerous play during Festival, you say, and given let-pass by the Town Council? To come to Windlow’s house.” He sighed, a deep, breathy sigh which was meant to sound sorrowful but was too full of satisfaction for that. “Windlow’s House is much diminished since Mertyn knew of it. I wonder if he would have sent you had he known how diminished it is. No students left, these days. My sons all grown, not that I would have bothered Windlow with their education, the sons of my people gone. I doubt there is one student left there now, but you are welcome to go, you and your servants…”
Beside me, I felt Yarrel stiffen. I laid my hand upon his arm and said firmly, “Not my servants, King. My friends. My guides. We could not have come this way without their skills and great courage.” The King nodded, waved me away. He did not care. The distinction meant nothing to him. Still, I felt Yarrel’s muscles relax beneath my hands, and he smiled at me as we left the hall.
Windlow’s House was evidently some distance away through the forest, but the High King was not prepared to let us go there at once. We were to spend several days in the company of his people, his Invigilators, his Divulgers (though we were not threatened with actual torture), his Pursuivants. He was still not sure of us, and he would not let us away from his protectors until he was convinced we could do him no damage. I complained of this and was mocked once more for being naive.
“Why, it’s the way of the Game, lad,” said Chance. “And the way a great Game often begins. First a trickle of little people across a border, a flow of them bearing tales here and there, bringing back word of this or that. Then the spies go in, or close enough to read the Demesne…”
“The High King has Borderers well out,” said Yarrel. “I noticed them when we rode in. I doubt a Demon from outside could get close enough to read anyone at the High Demesne. You see how it’s placed, too, high on these scarps where no Armiger can overfly it. No, this High King is wise in the ways of the Game and well protected.”
“And not inhospitable,” said Silkhands, firmly. I was reminded once more that everything I thought and said would be brought to the High King and that it would be better to think of something else. It was not difficult to do, for the High King had done more than set his palace in a place of great natural beauty. He had added to that beauty with gardens and orchards of surpassing loveliness and peopled them with pawns of exotic kinds, dancers and jugglers and animal trainers. At first their entertainments did not seem fantastic or difficult until one understood that it was all done by patience and training, not by Talent. When the dancers leapt, it was their own muscles took them hovering over the grass, not Armiger’s power of flight. When the jugglers kept seven balls whirling between their hands and the heavens, it was training let them do it, not a Tragamor’s Talent of moving. Once one knew that, there was endless fascination in watching them. Seeing I had no Talent yet, they accepted me almost as one of them, and a band of acrobats taught me a few simple tricks in which I took an inordinate pride. I began to notice the grace with which they moved. Talents are not graceful. Or, I should say, often are not. I have seen some Gamesmen who were graceful in their exercise of Talents, but not many. These pawns, however, moved like water or wind on grass, flowing. It made me wonder why Talents should not be used so.