I rolled up my left sleeve.
"Cut me. I bleed," I said.
As he studied my arm, his gaze appeared more than a little serious. Fora moment, I thought he'd actually take me up on it.
"All right," he said then. "Just a nick. For security purposes."
"I still don't know who I'm talking to," I said.
He bowed.
"Sorry. I am Luke of Kashfa, sometimes known as Rinaldo I, its king. Ifyou are who you say you are, I am your nephew. My dad was your brotherBrand."
Studying him, I saw the resemblance. I thrust my arm farther forward.
"Do it," I said.
"You're serious."
"Dead right."
He drew a Bowie knife from his belt then and looked into my eyes. Inodded. He moved to touch my forearm with its tip and nothing happened. Thatis to say, something happened, but it was neither desired nor whollyanticipated.
The point of his blade seemed to sink a halfinch or so into my arm. Itkept going then, finally passing all the way through. But no blood came.
He tried again. Nothing.
"Damn," he said. "I don't understand. If you were a Pattern ghost, we'dat least get a flare. But there's not even a mark on you."
"May I borrow the blade?" I asked.
"Sure."
He passed it to me. I took it in my hand and studied it, I pushed itinto my arm and drew it along for perhaps threequarters of an inch. Bloodoozed.
"I'll be damned," Luke said. "What's going on?"
"I'd say it's a spell I picked up when I spent a night in the DancingMountains recently," I replied.
"Hm," Luke mused, "I've never had the pleasure, but I've heard storiesof the place. I don't know any simple ways to break its spells. My room'soff toward the front." He gestured southward. "If you'd care to stop by,