angriest at their lot in life are allowed into it. As young men, they are given a secret way to defy those in power - a safe outlet for their energies. Then, I suppose, a few are guided slowly into places where they can gain power - advisor to the king, merchant, diplomat. Places where they acquire power and an investment in the health of the Empire they despise. Old Phoran the Eighteenth was a master strategist."
"You are well educated for a... a baker," she said, "from a little village in the middle of nowhere."
He smiled at her. "I fought under the Sept of Gerant from the time I was fifteen until the last war was over. He has a reputation as being something of an eccentric. He wasn't concerned with the birth of his commanders, but he did think that his commanders needed to know as much about politics and history as they knew about war."
"A soldier?" She considered the idea. "I'd forgotten that - they didn't seem to consider it to be of much importance."
"You are well-educated for your position as well," he said.
"If younger sons have no place in the Empire, their daughters have - " she stopped abruptly and took a step backward. "Why am I telling you this?" Her voice shook in unfeigned fear. "You're not supposed to be able to work magic here. They said that you couldn't."
"I'm working no magic," he said.
"I have to go," she said and left the cell. She didn't, he noticed, forget to shut and bolt the door.
When she was gone, he pulled his legs up on the bed, boots and all, and leaned against the wall.
Whatever the Path was supposed to have been, he doubted that its only purpose was to keep the young nobles occupied. Telleridge didn't strike him as the sort to serve anyone except himself - certainly not the stability of the Empire.
Thinking of Telleridge reminded Tier of what the wizard had done to him. His magic was really gone - not that it was likely to do him much good in a situation like this. Alone, without witnesses, Tier sat on the bed and buried his head in his hands, seeing, once more, Telleridge's hand closing on his arm.
Wizards weren't supposed to be able to cast spells like that. They had to make potions and draw symbols - he'd seen them do it. Only Ravens were able to cast spells with words.
Telleridge had spoken in the Traveler tongue.
Tier straightened up and stared at one of the glowing braziers without seeing it. That ring. He had seen that ring before, the night he'd met Seraph.
Though it had been twenty years, he was certain he was not mistaken. He'd a knack for remembering things, and the ring Telleridge had worn had the same notch on the setting that the ring... what had his name been? Wresen. Wresen had been a wizard, too. A wizard following Seraph.
How had Telleridge known that Tier was Bard? Tier had supposed that his unknown visitor had told the wizard, if it hadn't been the wizard himself. However, it sounded as if Tier being a Bard was the reason they'd taken him in the first place. No one except Seraph knew what he was - though she'd told him that any Raven would know.
They had been watching him. Myrceria had known that he had been a baker and a soldier. Had they been watching him and Seraph for twenty years? Were they watching Seraph now?
He sprang to his feet and paced. He had to get home. When an hour of fruitless thought left him still in the locked cell, he settled back on the bed and took up the lute absently. All he could do was be ready for an opportunity to escape as it presented itself.
He noticed the tune that he'd begun fingering with wry amusement. Almost defiantly he plucked out the chorus with quick-fingered precision.
A year and a day,
A year and a day,
And the beggar'll be king
For a year and a day.
In the song, in order to stop a decade-long drought, desperate priests decided that the ultimate sacrifice had to be made - the most important person in the nation had to be sacrificed: the king. Unwilling to die, the king refused, but proposed the priests take one of the beggars from the street. The king would step down from office for a year and let the beggar be king. The priests argued that a year was not long enough