“It opens paths often closed, is earnt not bought, yet is often sold. It closes eyes and opens doors, is prized by the rich and by the poor.”

  The stranger’s eyes narrowed as he thought, then he relaxed as the answer came.

  “Gold. Now, of what do I speak: Cuts like a knife, stings like a whip, can soothe like honey, or let poison drip.”

  Rockwell’s brow wrinkled with concentration. The crowd waited. The hourglass ran almost dry.

  “Answer me,” the stranger said, “and riddle again.”

  Rockwell looked desperate. His mouth was dry and he took a sip of his ale. The answer dawned as he licked his lips and he set his mug firmly on the table before him.

  “The tongue,” he shouted and the tavern relaxed.

  “The riddle,” pressed the stranger and Rockwell leapt into the first verse that came to mind.

  “Announces daytime, scatters night, made soft by clouds, celestial light.”

  There was a groan of disappointment from those around them and the stranger didn’t blink.

  “The sun,” he purred. “Now answer me this and give your answer in riddle form: Most certainly lives, yet loves not life, it shines so bright, but’s swamp-dark inside.”

  The hourglass trickled empty without an answer, and Rockwell’s face grew slick with sweat. The stranger turned the hourglass, giving the young lord hope, until it emptied, and the answer had still not come.

  Rockwell stared at the glass in desperation, but this time the stranger’s hands remained still, and the hourglass unturned.

  “Well?” the stranger pressed. “Give me the answer in riddle form, or concede the victory.”

  The tavern seemed occupied by statues. One heartbeat passed, then two, then three. On the third Rockwell bowed his head and rose to his feet. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

  The stranger watched, no concern marring his features.

  Rockwell glanced around the tavern for support, but no one would meet his eye. When his gaze fell on one of his father’s men and recognized the captain’s crest on his jerkin, his face lit with brief hope. That hope faded when the man shook his head.

  “Live with honor,” the red-head murmured half-challenging, half-taunting, from beside him, and Rockwell turned back to the stranger and laid his blade, hilt-first, on the table. Drawing a deep, quavering breath he knelt before the man he had sought to fight.

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  “Your wish, my lord,” he said.

  The stranger looked around at the men at the bar, seeking any who would challenge his victory. Those who had returned to watching him were quiet, and turned from his gaze to study the table or ale before them. Very gently, the stranger pushed the sword toward his master’s newest servant.

  “It’s time we left,” he said. “We’ve a league or two to go, tonight.”

  Rockwell nodded. Rising from his knees, he sheathed his sword and, looking neither right nor left, followed the stranger from the inn. He noticed too, that the guard captain was gone, and wondered how much his father had known.

  They traveled into the night, keeping a brisk pace until the mist started to rise from the valley floor. The stranger led Rockwell over a brief rise leading down from the village’s small plateau, and the young baron found himself remembering the last time he had taken this path. He also blushingly recalled the words he’d spoken to an Outlands maiden, there, not two months gone.

  It was with growing trepidation that he followed the stranger further into the valley, and along a faint path winding through a stand of willows—and it was with sudden, undeniable fear that he halted, not three steps after passing through that sorrowful gathering of trees, his jaw hanging in terrified surprise at the sight before him.

  The stranger, walking ahead, turned and came back for him, but Rockwell did not notice; he was too busy staring at the beast crouched silently on the other side of the willow glade.

  It was gold, or silver, or gold so pure that it shone white in the moonlight, making the mist form a halo around its body. Its green eyes blazed emerald-bright and its teeth gleamed like pearls. Rockwell stared at them through the steam of the creature’s breath, and his knees buckled in fear.

  The stranger’s hand on his arm caught and lifted him to his feet.

  “Rockwell,” the stranger’s voice held a compelling quality.

  It made the baronet look away from the dragon and toward his master’s servant.

  “I wasn’t entirely honest with you back at the tavern,” the man admitted

  Rockwell managed to close his mouth and nod, in spite of his gaze straying back to the…creature waiting not twenty steps away.

  “Rockwell,” the stranger’s voice captured his attention again and again the young lord looked at the man’s face. “I have no master.”

  “Then…I am free?” It was a ridiculous question but Rockwell’s eyes were already sliding back toward the dragon.

  “No,” the stranger told him, then explained, “I serve myself. I am my own master and your new lord.”

  Rockwell turned his gaze back toward the stranger.

  “Then I will serve you,” he said, his voice vague, as the dragon captured his attention once more.

  “Rockwell,” the stranger’s voice beckoned him, once more, its tone ordering him to return his gaze to his new master’s face.

  Rockwell obeyed, and found himself staring into green eyes that sparkled with amusement—and a little anger.

  “I have someone very important for you to meet.”

  “Yes, master?”

  Very gently, the stranger turned him to face the dragon.

  It was no longer there!

  In its place stood a young woman, Ilissa, the Outlands maiden who had rejected his proposal a month before, the girl he had hounded mercilessly whenever he could create the time.

  Rockwell stared at her, trying to equate her gentle face, solemn green eyes and white-blonde hair with the savage snake-like grace of the beast she’d been before. His knees buckled in spite of the stranger’s grip on his arm and he sank to the dewy grass.

  “Oh, Sweet Mother of Light,” he whispered, bowing his head in fear and shame.

  “Rockwell,” the stranger’s voice was softly insistent, repeating the lordling’s name when he didn’t respond, “Rockwell.”

  The baronet lifted his face. His master loomed over him, one hand on his shoulder, the other indicating Ilissa as she began to walk toward them.

  “Rockwell, I’d like you to meet my mate.”