Prologue: Into Hiding

The family had been granted the name of "Gillivray," servant of judgment, by King Arthur himself, near the end of the days of light, when Parlen of Ottery had served as the king's man in a wizards' duel in the North Country. Merlin himself had been shut away in a rock by Niniane only five years before, and his name had still been spoken freely and with wistful longing. The dark sorcerer Eilag the Formidable had transfigured himself into a serpent, and Parlen had responded by becoming a weasel to hunt him into the narrow lairs, where they had battled to Eilag's death. Parlen had come out of the battle with a scar on his hand from a sharpened fang, and the noble title of Gillivray.

He had also been given a royal crest that depicted a weasel destroying a serpent. It hung prominently on the gates of Gillivray Manor, and because of it, the largely illiterate populace took to simply calling Parlen's descendents the Weasel family.

In the days of Arthur--and even in the dark days that followed him--they were neither loved nor hated, but they were respected by both wizards and Muggles. As Merlin had been Arthur's trusted magical advisor, so was the head of the Weasel family trusted by the Earl of Ottery, and the trust was well-founded. This agreeable arrangement lasted for many years, even as Britain fell ever more deeply into the dark shadows.

But the flood of fear could not be held back forever, and as the years passed, the people of Ottery began to replace the honor they had once given to the Earl's magicians with suspicion and mistrust. A century after Arthur's fall, Gillivray Manor--the home of the servants of justice, of the Weasel family--was hidden behind a screen of magic, and the Muggles who had once come for love charms and healing talismans now forked the sign of the evil eye at the gate which they now perceived as the smoking ruin of the home. The family still went about its business, helping where it could, offering advice to the Earl as had been promised of old, but they were forced to do so in disguise, using roundabout charms and hidden incantations to accomplish those things which had once been simple matters, masquerading as common beggars to gain admittance to the homes of Muggles who needed their help.

After awhile, the people of Ottery forgot that the Weasel family had once been highly placed, and saw them only as local paupers. A legend had sprung up that feeding paupers brought good luck--which was a boon to the genuine paupers in the village--but no one drew a direct connection between the two.

By the time the true darkness came, the town had been re-christened with a saint's name for protection (though some wondered if "St. Catchpole" was a legitimate saint), and they would accept no magical aid.

More is the pity.

Chapter One: The Weasel Family

Callum of Gillivray, called Callum Weasel, felt guilty taking scraps of food from the peasants of Ottery--or Ottery St. Catchpole, as they now insisted upon calling it--and generally found a way to give what he had taken to someone who needed it more, but there was no other way to gain admittance to their homes without suspicion. John, the farmer at Bottler's Ford, might have lost his newborn daughter if Callum hadn't gone there with a small dose of Mairi's croup potion hidden in his sleeve today. He'd waited for John's wife, Kenza, to go into her kitchen to fetch a bit of cheese for him, then leaned over the sickly baby's crib and dropped the potion into her small mouth. Kenza had come out screaming at him for scaring her poor baby, thrown the cheese at him, and ordered him to leave her house. That was all right. His business was done. The fact that a hot, sick spot of shame burned inside of him didn't matter. There is no shame in doing your duty, as Father said.

It hadn't escaped Callum's notice that Father no longer made the rounds of the village, curing their ailments and taking their abuse. That was left to Callum and his brother, Gregory.

And Gregory had been begging off a lot just lately.

Gregory couldn't do the charms, of course, but until this year, he hadn't shirked his duty in delivering potions. Lately, though, he'd gotten distant and never seemed to be there when Father needed something done.

"Oy!" a high voice yelled from a tree above him. "Oy, old Weasel, old ragbag!"

Three figures dropped from the trees lining the road, dirty boys with bare feet. The biggest one stuck out his tongue. "Dirty old beggar," he said.

Callum didn't respond. What was there to do, strike a ten-year-old for repeating things he had heard? I am neither dirty nor a true beggar, he reminded himself. I am Callum of Gillivray, heir of my father's home.

And I'm only twenty years old.

He started to take a step, but the boys blocked him, and began to dance around him like he was a maypole. One of them began to clap rhythmically. "Filthy Weasel, dressed in rags," he chanted, "comes from scum and born from hags."

Wonderful. An aspiring poet. Perhaps he would get along with Gregory.

"Begs for cheese
and bread and drink,
people give it
to get rid of the stink!"

Callum took a deliberate step forward. The boys moved their dance forward with him.

"Smelly Weasel,
lazy lout,
lives in a pigpen,
wish he wouldn't come out."

You're not the only one, Callum thought. I'd love to stay in. But you see, my Father thinks we need to be helping you little...

"Gran says he'll curse you
Pa says he's a fake
I hope Gran's right
Then we can burn him at the stake!"

With the close of this charming little ditty, the lead boy thumbed his nose and waggled his fingers, then led his friends away into the woods.

Callum sighed. He would have to tell Father that rumors about cursing were going around again. They sprung up every now and then--the local Muggles weren't quite as stupid as Father liked to pretend, and they'd picked up that there was something strange about the Weasel family. They would have to pull back a bit if they were going to keep themselves free to act at all.

He gave the cheese to Old Quarrie--one of the town's genuine beggars--at the town gate, and made his way across the village square. Peddlers hawked their wares here, and much business was being done. Callum envied them. Their work was finished at the end of the day, and people judged what they accomplished fairly. No one feared peddlers.

And no one should fear me. I harm no one.

He tried to swallow his resentment. Some days, it was easier than others.

He was about to turn up the road to Gillivray Manor when the door of the inn burst open, spilling a rowdy gang into the square and knocking a peddler's cart to the cobblestones. "I told you to stay out of here, Gregory Weasel!" the innkeeper shouted. "I'll give you nothing, and we need nothing from you!"

Callum briefly considered pretending that he hadn't heard. He'd been getting his younger brother out of scrapes since he'd learned to walk, and it had never been particularly appreciated. Still... duty.

Bloody, rotten, wretched duty.

When did I get like this? When did I start hating them all?

Shame flooded him, and he forced himself to stand up straight. His family wasn't a burden, and neither was their duty to king and country, even in times like this when no one was fully sure who the king was. He shook his head and started back to collect his brother.

Gregory wasn't like the rest of the family--he could do no magic at all--except that his temper was the Weasel temper, and if he drank or if he spent too much time with the village louts, he tended to get into fights, and he tended to end up on the worse end of them.

A group of five or six men had followed Gregory out of the inn, and were jostling him. Callum could see his brother's distinctive curly hair somewhere in the middle of the group, flying every which way as he darted away from the blows.

As Callum approached, the group split. Two men were holding Gregory by the arms and pulling him down for the third one to hit. The third one was a fat merchant named Nathair. The family had dealt with him before--he hated beggars as much as he hated wizards, so their disguise had done precious little good. "Who told you to be giving your rubbish to Laria?" He waved a piece of parchment around. Callum could see Gregory trying to fight free to get it. "She doesn't want the garbage you pick up, beggar!"

Another figure came out of the inn, a small woman in a blue dress. She ran at Nathair and grabbed his arm. "You let up on that, Nathair Peddler! You let the boy alone! And give that back to me!"

Nathair waved the paper around. "What's this on it? Some sort of writing?"

"It's Latin," Gregory said, quite clearly. "Only Latin. It's a poem that I thought Laria might enjoy."

"Oh, aren't we pretty, with our curls and quills?" Nathair mocked. "Can't learn a decent trade, but we muck around with reading and writing. In Latin, no less!" He threw the parchment to the ground, then raised his fist to strike down at Gregory's face.

Callum moved quickly, shifting his hand so that the wand that was secured to his forearm was pointing at Nathair... or at least he hoped it was. It was an inconvenient way to try and use a wand. "Impedimenta," he whispered.

There wasn't much strength behind the hex, and the punch fell, but it fell lightly, only tapping Gregory on the cheek. Nathair noticed and looked oddly at his hand, but no one else did.

Callum wove through the group and reached down for Gregory. "It's time to go home," he said, then surreptitiously pointed his hidden wand at one of the men holding Gregory down. "Incapabilis," he whispered, letting his hood fall forward to hide his face from them.

Gregory glared at him, but wrenched his arm away from the suddenly weak grip. The other man let go in surprise. Gregory stood up.

"Come on now," Callum said. "We don't need trouble."

"I'd say not!" Nathair called after the brothers as they retreated. "Seeing how you only eat on our charity!"

"Say nothing," Callum said, leading Gregory around a corner between two buildings, toward the dirt path that led to Gillivray Manor.

"I wasn't planning on saying anything, Callum."

"You seem angry."

"I don't care that they think we're poor. You're the one who cares about that."

"Oh? Then what is the Latin poetry about? That's not normally carried by Muggle paupers."

Gregory shook his head, and quickened his pace as they took to the path. "It was just a poem," he said after awhile. "I told the truth. I thought Laria might like it."

"Laria can read?"

Gregory stopped walking and spun on Callum. "Yes! She can read! She's a Muggle and a commoner, but she's not stupid!"

"I didn't mean it that way, Gregory. I just didn’t realize that the innkeeper had seen to his daughter's education. I never heard anything about it."

"I taught her."

"What?"

"She saw me reading by the brook last year. She asked what it was about. I told her. And then she asked if I'd teach her, so I did." Gregory related all of this in a strained and cautious voice. His jaw was set tightly. He looked at the ground. "She's a nice girl, Cal. I like her."

Questions came into Callum's mind like a hailstorm, chief among them, How much have you told her? But he stifled them. Gregory could be unpleasant sometimes, but he wasn't about to betray his family. Instead, Callum said, "Why haven't you mentioned it before?"

Gregory shrugged and started walking again. "I know Father's set on me marrying a witch. He's hoping that I'm an aberration, and my children will be witches and wizards to carry on the tradition."

"That's not true."

"Oh, that much is true. I heard him telling it to Mairi when she first came. He said, 'I don't suppose you know a young witch of my son Gregory's age... I'd like to arrange a marriage for him.' She asked why, and he said what I just told you, mostly."

"No he didn't."

"Well, maybe the 'aberration' was mine. But he did say that it was 'unfortunate' that I have no magic, but there was no reason to believe my children wouldn't, if I marry a witch." He shrugged and let out a small laugh that didn't sound like he meant it. "Well, Mum always told me not to listen at doorways. Guess that teaches me, right?"

Callum wasn't sure what Gregory wanted from him by way of an answer. They both knew that of course the family hoped he would marry a witch, and that his children would be magical. They also both knew that it wasn't because Father thought him an aberration in need of correction--it was just that, if he married a Muggle, the chances of his children being magical were nearly nonexistent, and sooner or later, the family would divide, as non-magical relations became too distant to be made aware of the magical world. Losing Gregory in this manner wasn't like a death, but it was like cutting off a branch of the family tree to be re-planted in an unknown world, where they would never know whether or not it had taken root, or what manner of leaves it would bear.

And, he had to admit, the idea of a witch or wizard with the family's magical talent and Gregory's intelligence had quite excited Father.

"Then this girl, Laria," he said after awhile. "This is someone you're... taking seriously?"

"As opposed to all the women I've taken non-seriously?"

Callum ignored his tone. "I mean, you're not simply being friendly to her. You've considered her as... well, someone that..."

"I've asked her father's permission to court her."

"And he gave it?"

Gregory frowned, then gave up his severity and grinned sheepishly. "Well, not precisely. But I did ask properly."

The gates of Gillivray Manor were visible now, and Callum could see the top of the stone pigpen. One of the girls was walking along it and doing acrobatics. "I can see it," he said. "Do you need me to do a Revealing charm?"

Gregory whipped around on the path. "I still have Dad's charm!" he shouted. His face was twisted and red. "You don't need to do everything for me, just because I'm a squib. Honestly, Callum, Father made sure I could find my way home without your expert help."

"I was just asking--"

"I can get out of my own fights without you pulling your wand on them, too."

"Yes, I saw how well you were getting out of that one, Gregory."

"All right, I probably would have taken a beating, but--"

"And I'm your older brother. It's my job to keep the beatings away."

"I'm not twelve years old anymore! I'm seventeen, Callum."

"And yet oddly," a third voice said from beside the path, "you sound exactly as you did when you were twelve." There was a shimmer in the air, then a young man materialized out of nowhere, folding a cloak into a sack he wore over his shoulder. He was grinning, and carrying a sleeping baby in one crooked arm. "You two are having the same argument you were having when I last left."

Chapter Two: Niall of Tintagel

Callum hadn't seen that grin for five years, but he knew it anywhere. Niall of Tintagel was the son of Father's oldest comrade, and had always been Callum's best and truest friend. His grandfather had been the last wizard to advise the king directly, but his father still exerted a great deal of influence at court, one of the few wizards who was still generally well-regarded by the Muggles.

Callum smiled and threw his arms around the newcomer. "Niall! When did you get so short, old friend?"

Niall returned the embrace with one arm, holding the baby gingerly between them in the other, then let go and reached for Gregory. "And what about you? You were waist high when I saw you last."

"I was twelve," Gregory said. "I wasn't waist high to a fifteen year old."

"Well, you were shorter than I was, at any rate. That seems not to be the case anymore. How have you been?"

"I'm all right."

"Glad to hear it."

Callum pointed at the baby. "Is there something you didn't write us about, Niall?"

Niall looked puzzled for a moment, then blushed brightly. "Heavens, no. I mean, yes, there's news. Do you remember Lady Edwy?"

"I do," Gregory interrupted. "We met her when we visited you in Cornwall when we were small. Little girl with black hair. She was almost as bad as magic as I was. Kept lisping over her spells and making things explode."

Niall smiled. "I'd forgotten that. She's stopped lisping, and is really quite lovely. We're betrothed."

"It's about time," Callum said. "You'll enjoy marriage. Speaking of which..."

"I'm sorry I didn't come to your wedding," Niall said. "There's a reason, and it's part of what I came here about. The roads were impassable at the time, and... well, there were difficulties with other modes of transportation as well. There's a new style of travel they're using in the south--it involves hearths and some sort of powder, and quite a lot of spinning--but I don't like it much, and I don't trust it at all."

"I wasn't going to complain to you. Your letter did make it finally, and Mairi was delighted with the gift. I only meant..." He gestured again at the baby.

Niall finally seemed to catch his meaning. "Oh, no. No, not at all mine. I... well, this is Godric. I'll wake him when we get to the house; he's really quite a lovely baby, as babies go. He's a foundling, in my care for the moment, but not mine."

"You're coming up to the house then?" Callum asked.

Niall nodded and started walking. Callum and Gregory fell into step beside him. Niall sighed, squinting ahead at the gate (he'd tried every charm known to wizard-kind on his eyes, but he remained badly nearsighted; he was going to end up as blind as Merlin if it kept on). "I'm here on my father's business," he said. "I have to speak to Lord Gillivray."

The delight at seeing Niall again faded a bit at the change in his tone. Niall's father didn't send him on errands lightly. "Has something happened?"

"Yes. But I'll wait to tell you until we are safely in your father's study."

"It's bad?" Gregory asked.

"Very bad." They passed the gate and into the lush fields of Gillivray Manor. The pigpen was on their right, and Callum saw that it was Aelis doing her tricks atop the wall. Elfrida was watching her from the back of a pig, with a disapproving look on her otherwise identical face.

Aelis came up from a tumble, and her eyes went wide. "Niall's here!" she cried.

"Go tell Father," Gregory said. "We'll need to speak with him."

Aelis nodded and ran for the house. Elfrida had slid down from the pig's back and was now leaning on the side of the pigpen, blinking owlishly. "I remember you," she said solemnly.

"I remember you, too," Niall said. "Though I have no idea which one you are. I don't remember either of you being so deadly serious." He winked.

"I'm Elfrida."

"Elfrida, then. I'm happy to see you again."

Elfrida curtseyed solemnly, then followed Aelis.

"How old are they this year?" Niall asked.

"They were born eleven years ago," Callum said. "Aelis is about eleven. Elfrida's about eighty. She wants to be Gregory when she grows up." Gregory tossed a rock at him in a half-hearted retaliation. He caught it easily. "Honestly, ever since Mum died, Elfrida's tried to be the lady of the house. She's a bit jealous of Mairi, I think. Hasn't talked to me much since I married her, anyway."

The great oak door of the manor opened as they approached it, releasing the comfortable smells of home--some kind of meat roasting in the kitchen for dinner, bread baking, the slightly tangy odor of potions from Mairi's work room. Mairi herself waited at the door, her wild red hair tossing in the evening breeze.

My wife, Callum thought, surprised as he always was by the idea. She was beautiful and he adored her, and they... well, they were properly married. But it still had a way of hitting him sideways. She seemed like a new member of the household, the potions-maker, a grand and good friend who was somehow or other in the family, like so many other cousins and relations who came and went. He could go all day without thinking, I have a wife at home. I am someone's husband. Then she would be there, and the sun would catch her freckles and play with them, and it would come to him, She is my wife. She is here because of me, and I am here for her, and the family will go forward through us.

It was hardly surprising. At the time he'd married her, he hadn't seen her since they were both seven years old, visiting at her parents' home in Orkney. He remembered pulling her braids and joking about picking carrots. She'd remembered kicking him in the shins and beating him in a footrace (he remembered letting her win, but didn't disabuse her of her fantasy).

Niall cleared his throat, and Callum realized that they'd reached the door and were standing in front of the lady of the house, no one saying a word.

Mairi raised her eyebrows significantly.

"Oh, right." Callum gestured to Niall. "My Lady, may I present Niall of Tintagel, an old friend of our family?" He looked at Mairi. "And Niall, may I present my wife, Lady Mairi of Gillivray Manor?"

Niall bowed deeply, sweeping one arm across his body while the other held tightly to the baby. "Madam," he said. "It's an honor." He stood and turned the baby a bit. "And this is my traveling companion, Godric the Foundling, who is also quite honored, if a bit wet."

Mairi laughed. "Don't tell me that you've traveled from Cornwall without learning to do a drying spell?" She reached out and took the baby from Niall's arms, and for an instant, Callum saw an eternity of babes in arms, cuddled closely to their mother's breasts. It disappeared, and Mairi looked up. "He seems well-enough taken care of."

"I've been caring for him for a month," Niall said, sounding somewhat miffed. "I can do a drying spell, but this is recent, and I didn't think he'd appreciate being dried on the road in front of Callum and Gregory."

"I don't imagine he's old enough to care." She tickled the baby's chin, and he cooed in his sleep.

I want a dozen of them, Callum thought suddenly, dazed. I want to see them and hold them and...

"Cal?" Gregory was waving his fingers extravagantly around in front of Callum's eyes. "Have you dozed off?"

"I'm fine," he said. He thought about asking to hold Godric, but he looked so comfortable in Mairi's arms that it seemed rude to ask him to change places, and at any rate, it would be difficult to explain. Mairi looked up at him, across Godric's head (which was covered with a fine red hair the same shade as her own), and the world spun around for a second before he caught hold of himself again.

Odd. Just plain old fashioned odd.

Mairi grinned and shifted the baby in her arms. The blankets and buntings Niall had wrapped him in tugged, and something red and glittering spilled out onto the doorjamb.

Gregory bent for it, and stopped short when he touched it. He took it in his hand and stood slowly. "This is some baby-bauble," he said, holding it out. It was a ruby roughly the size of a chicken's egg.

Niall took it and tucked it back into the blankets. "That's Godric's," he said. "It is part of a tale not yet told."

"Then perhaps it is time to come inside and tell it."

They all looked up.

Father was standing at the top of the stairs, his face grave. He started down, his robes making a soft shushing sound as they dragged along the stone. "I worried when you failed to celebrate Callum's marriage with us, and I worried more when your letter said so little. But I knew if it were serious, your father would find a way to send word, so I let it be. But now... I know your presence is not a message he would send lightly in these dangerous times, Niall. I know he wouldn't send his most precious courier if the message were anything less than a tragedy."

Niall nodded, slipping into the formality of his role as a courier to the Order of Merlin. "I bring you my father's greeting, Lord Gillivray. He hopes you are well, and sends word that he is as well as can be expected." He pulled his wand from a pocket of his robes, waved it, and drew a letter from the air. Father took it from him when he reached the bottom of the stairs and read it quietly.

When he finished, he looked up. "I think we should retire to my study to discuss this. It is not a small thing that Ethric asks of us." Mairi started to turn away, taking the baby toward the kitchen, but Father took her gently by the elbow. "I don't know how it was in your father's home, Mairi, but in this home, you will never be asked to leave a conversation which concerns you."

Mairi nodded.

They followed Father into his study, an ancient room lined with shelves of both rolled parchments and bound volumes. Most were spell books and potion guides, but on a high shelf were books of history and prophecy. Father sat down in his chair, and conjured simple wooden stools for Callum, Gregory, and Niall. Mairi, since she was carrying the baby, got a cushioned chair with wide arms.

Father looked at Niall. "Your father says very little in his letter, only that he is asking me to put my home and family at risk. He knows I don't do so lightly. Begin at the beginning, Niall."

Niall took a deep breath. "It begins with Merlin," he said, "and it ends in a time that none of us will live to see."

"That's cheerful," Gregory muttered.

"Hush, Gregory," Mairi said.

Niall smiled. "No, it's all right. That was a bit overdramatic. I just... It's my own concern. I wish I could see the story end. The prophecy says that Muggles will claim the stars, the blind will be made to see, and Arthur will return to Britain. Sounds quite nice. Unfortunately, it's a great way off, and I will never see it, so I'm a bit out of sorts. The end of our part of the story comes a quite a bit before that." He shrugged.

Callum rolled his eyes. Niall and his stories... he never could sleep until someone told him the end. "So where does this part of the story start?" He nodded at Godric, now beginning to stir.

"It begins with Arthur's fall. Merlin could still communicate from inside his rock then--he still can, by the way, though it's harder and harder to hear; I didn't believe Father when he said it until... well, that's another part of the story. At any rate, he convinced Niniane to make sure that no unworthy king would have a legitimate claim on Arthur's throne. She made him Unplottable in time and in space. We can't even truly locate him--we know he is in the past, but a century? Two? Three?--and Muggles are led to... well, let's say, thoroughly erroneous conclusions. There's no counterspell. The spell will only reverse itself when a member of the Order of Merlin finds the true heir. That's the far prophecy."

"Wonderful," Gregory said, his voice sharp. "Then our position is that we will meddle with Muggle memory of Muggle politics until we can interfere in Muggle affairs more effectively."

"Arthur's throne isn't a Muggle affair," Father said. "It never was. Nor is it a wizarding affair. It is nothing more or less than the reuniting of our worlds."

"Right," Niall agreed. "That's exactly what it will be. But the more immediate effect of losing the line of succession has been chaos. No one knows who has any rightful place in Britain. The Saxons? The Celts? The Danes? They all think they have a claim. And now the Normans. Harold knew they would invade--William has a legitimate claim, you know--but Harald Hardrada came first."

"I remember," Mairi said. "It was in late September, just before the wedding. You weren't the only one who couldn't make it."

Niall nodded. "Three days after Stamford Bridge, William invaded in the South. Harold had to race back to meet him, and a lot of his army didn't make it in time. The two of them clashed at Hastings. Harold died. William became king. I don’t know how much of that has reached you here."

"There's tribute paid," Father said. "The Earl doesn't confide in me anymore, but it's been obvious. No one really cares to whom they're paying it."

"That's fair. We could do worse than William, but he's not an inspiration." Niall wrinkled his nose--no one short of a new Arthur would inspire him, and Callum knew it perfectly well. "At any rate, none of this would be our business--as Gregory says, it's a Muggle affair--except that the Normans didn't come alone. There were wizards with them. It's not clear how they're related, or if there's a formal relationship between them at all. But these wizards are our concern. They're moving quite independently of William's armies, and they're burning over whole villages as they go. They're killing Muggles--they seem to think nothing of that--but their target seems to be the magical community. There are tales of witches and wizards being kidnapped, tortured, and murdered... and at the end of it, these Norman wizards come out stronger."

"How?"

"We don't know. No one has seen it directly and been able to tell us about it. But bodies have been found. They've been bled. My father's guess is that we're dealing with a potion."

"That's disgusting," Callum said.

"Yes. They've decimated a large segment of the wizarding population in Normandy. They call themselves the Order of the Flaming Serpent, but I spoke to one of the Muggle soldiers. Among the peasants, these men are simply called l'ordre de la mal foi--the Order of the Evil Faith. The peasants think they worship the devil. For once, I'm not sure the peasants are wrong. That is, if they worship anything other than themselves."

"Worship of the devil is always ultimately worship of the self," Father said automatically, turning to his bookshelves. He summoned several potions tomes to his desk and tapped them with his wand. They started shuffling their pages to find whatever it was he was looking for.

Callum let his eyes drift away from Father's books, which didn't seem to be finding anything in a hurry, and glance at Mairi. Godric had woken up, and he was tangling his fingers in her hair and smiling contentedly.

Mairi noticed him watching and smiled. "Would you like to hold the baby, Callum?"

"Oh, no, I... "

She raised an eyebrow.

"Well, all right. Maybe for a bit."

Callum took the child gingerly from his wife, and nestled him in the crook of his arm. He hadn't done this since the twins were babies, but his muscles remembered the right weight, his skin remembered the comfortable warmth. Godric made a soft baby noise, then grabbed a handful of Callum's robes and began to suck on it.

Callum pulled it away gently. "You'll only get a mouthful of wool for your troubles, little one," he said. He drew his wand and conjured a bladder full of milk, which Godric took to eagerly. When he'd settled, Callum looked across him at Niall. "Where does the baby come into this?"

Niall took a deep breath, then steadied himself. "We never know where the mal foi are going to strike next," he said. "We thought we were ahead of them, then they appeared without warning in a Muggle town on the sea, far to the south of where we had anticipated. By the time we got there, there was nothing left alive. The Muggles were dead in their homes, killed with a curse we haven't seen before. But there were wizards in the village, old families..." Niall shuddered. "They were hung by their ankles with their throats slit."

Father gnashed his teeth loudly enough for Callum to hear across the massive desk and over the soft sound of riffling pages.

Niall took a moment, then went on. "We thought everyone was lost. We were going to gather what we could and bring it back to Tintagel. But when I went into a rather fine magical home, I saw a Muggle man who had been killed by the curse, and an open door. The symbol of the order was written in fire on the lintels, charmed so that it would reveal itself only to us. I followed.

"The symbol appeared four more times, getting weaker. The witch who escaped was injured and ill. But she kept running. She kept leaving the mark. Finally it led us to a cave above the sea. She had put the sign all around its mouth, and at the front, she set a gryphon to guard the entrance. It simply paced. And when I approached, it blocked me until I revealed my father's mark." Niall held up his hand, where the seal of the Order of Merlin had been seared. "On seeing it, the gryphon stepped away. When I went into the cave, I found the witch. She was dead. But the babe was still in her arms, and she had left the ruby which you've already seen, and a letter, giving us his name. The ruby, I have no explanation for, except that it is his, and is an heirloom of his true house. The Muggle we'd found in her home was her husband and his father."

Gregory stirred uneasily in his chair.

"The mal foi had come for her," Niall said. "They called her filthy, accused her of... of things that I will not repeat in the presence of a lady. Her husband stood up to them, and they chose to toy with him, thinking that she would stay and try to defend him, but she didn't. She ran with the child. With Godric. And she wanted to make sure that a member of our Order found him--the others will seek him out if they learn he's alive."

"And you want us to take him," Callum said. It wasn't a question.

Niall nodded. "Yes. Perhaps it was a mother's exaggeration, perhaps a vision, but either way, this child has been protected by the highest levels of magic. He's in the world for a purpose."

"We all are," Father said dismissively. "The child has a home here. Your father didn't entertain doubts about that, Niall, and I know it. What else are we being asked?"

"It's a larger thing than you believe." Niall glanced at Godric. "He--"

"He is an infant who needs shelter and care. My home is open to him, and your father is well aware of it. Any other concerns are for a later date." Father's books stopped riffling. One closed entirely, the other opened to a page that was dark with close-written text. He leaned over it. "They are absorbing strength, using what they've stolen to counter other wizards. This potion... is this what your father believes the mal foi are brewing?"

Niall didn't even look at the potion book. He just nodded rather miserably.

"Your father has already tried something," Father said.

"Yes."

"How bad is it, Niall?"

Niall stood and went to the window. For a long time, he just looked out at the grounds. "Bad," he finally said. "Most of the Order went after them, after that last raid." He nodded over his shoulder at Godric, and Callum hugged the baby closer. "But this potion... it... they absorbed it. They seemed to reflect it back. Most of the Order has been confined to Tintagel. I would have been as well, except for Godric. I had been left behind to find some sort of appropriate care, and... I wasn't there. I was the only one left free to move. They've set up defenses, but they can't act. All we know for certain is that the mal foi will eventually move north. Gillivray Manor is the last holdout of any real strength. They'll be drawn here. And we need to find a way to stop them."

Father frowned down at his books, and took a deep, steadying breath. "We'll hold them here," he said. "I don't know how, but we will do so." He Banished his books back up to their shelf, and came around his desk. "You bring bad tidings, Niall. But you are welcome here, as always. Rest and be safe."

With that, Father swept up out of the room.

Gregory let out a loud breath. "Always good to hear from the world outside, Niall. Any more good news?"

"Let him be, Gregory," Callum said. He stood up. "Tell me the truth, Niall. Why do they want the child?"

"I don't know. He's half-Muggle. They consider it an abomination. And he has a lot of power inside of him. That would make it even worse from their point of view. But that's speculation. I haven't asked them about it."

"And why," Mairi asked, "did you not keep him at Tintagel? Why bring him to us?"

"They know to look for him at Tintagel. My father has kept up enough glamours to make them believe he's still there. Here, they may believe that he's one more child in your family. Maybe yours." Niall smiled. "He has your hair."

"I noticed that."

"He might be safer with Muggles," Gregory suggested.

"We considered it. It wouldn't be the first or the last time it's been done, but his mother wanted to make sure he learned what he needs to know."

Callum went to the window and stood beside Niall. "He'll learn." He felt Mairi standing beside him, and smiled at her. "Niall, would you and Gregory mind letting me talk to my wife for a minute?"

"Not at all."

Niall and Gregory left. When they were gone, Callum gave the baby back to Mairi. She nestled him against her shoulder. "What is it, Cal?" she asked.

"He could be ours," he said. "Our firstborn."

"Yes."

"But I wouldn't decide that without you."

She smiled suddenly, brightening the room and pushing away all the shadows. "You certainly wouldn't, my love."

"I know Father thinks he'll just be another member of the house, but I'd... I'd like him to be ours."

"I would too." She looked at Godric and kissed his head. Her eyes became distant and dreaming. "But he never will be. We'll raise him. We'll love him. And he'll go. He'll love us, Callum. But in the end, he won't choose to be one of us."

"I didn't know you Saw."

"Sometimes."

Callum nodded. There was so much still to learn. "Well, we'll love him and hopefully he'll love us, and the rest, as Father says, is a concern for a later date."