“You are Roric No-man’s son,” said the Weaver loudly.

“Yes, and that’s who they said they might need. But why would the lords of voima want a mortal to help them?”

The Weaver examined the web of string again, picking at a few threads until the knots were even more tangled. The silence stretched so long that Roric had decided he would have no answer to his question when the other suddenly spoke. “Even the Wanderers may not have full control over their own fate.”

“Listen. I haven’t tried this since I was twelve.” Roric tugged in sudden resolution at his ring, the one Hadros had given him when he became a man and received his sword, when they had first sworn their oaths to each other. “If I give you this, will you give me a straight answer? Will you tell me my father’s true name?”

The Weaver made little rasping noises that could have been a cough, could even have been a laugh. “That is not an answer I give for a ring-or for the silver-decorated halter you tried to give me years ago. This is an answer that gives a man his identity and takes it away in the same instant. The price of your question is knowledge that will destroy you.”

“I must say I don’t understand you any better than I did when I was twelve.” Roric rose abruptly. “I’ve wasted a good knife,” he said with a shrug. “The Wanderer- if he was a Wanderer, and if he appears again-can tell me himself what he wants. In the meantime, I know who I am, and I have no intention of waiting for my fate to reach me. I am King Hadros’s sworn man and bitter enemy, and I am the man Karin loves.”

As he left the cave, there came a metallic clatter almost at his foot. He paused and glanced down. It was his knife.