"Sissy will be twelve in a few weeks. Do you think Mom will let us go offworld to get something for her birthday?" Ry examined a thumbnail—he'd bashed it earlier, practicing bladework with Tory. A half-moon of purple edged the bottom of the nail.

"Maybe. Dad might take us, if he's not busy." Ry looked up at Tory's words.

"You think your cousins might come?" Ry had such hope in his voice. Tory wasn't sure how to answer.

Ry almost drooled every time he saw Tory's cousins, Princess Jase and Princess Jehrie, King Jaydevik's twin daughters and heirs to the throne on Kifirin. The girls were nearly nineteen and identical, with long, platinum blonde hair they'd inherited from their mother. Tory didn’t have the heart to tell Ry that they'd already been promised since birth to High Demons from the houses of Weth and Greth. Yurevik Weth and Wendevik Greth were lucky and didn't mind telling anyone about it.

"Come on, let's go see if we can talk to that boy—the one who was beaten," Ry saw the look on Tory's face and decided not to ask questions. As long as Tory didn't say, then Ry's hopes concerning the Princesses remained intact.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Tory hissed later as the two boys made their way through rows of dried cornstalks. Tory's head could be seen over the tops of tall stalks if he stood up straight. With his height and dark hair, he would be easily seen amid dry, pale-brown cornstalks. Therefore, he was forced to bend over as they made their way through the maze of long, rustling leaves.

"You never said that," Ry huffed right behind Tory. "I've done my scry; he's here, somewhere."

"He's hiding, but then we're making enough noise to wake the dead," Tory muttered, angry now with his half-brother.

"Look for where the open field is; that's where he's finished cutting down the dry stalks," Ry whispered.

"What do they do with this stuff anyway?" Tory whispered back.

"Cut it up and mix it with the grain they feed the milk cows through the winter," Ry hissed.

"How did you find that out?" Tory almost straightened up to his full height to turn and look at Ry.

"I read up on organic farming, that's how. Dad made me do a report after I got in trouble the last time."

"Why farming?" Tory was ducking down and tracking through the rows of cornstalks again.

"Dad says it's a good idea to learn everything you can about the planet beneath your feet," Ry grumped. Ry had used a spell that Erland Morphis, his father, had forbidden. He'd paid for that with a twenty-page report.

"What did you do?" Tory wanted to hear this.

"I spelled the ice cream at Niff's. We ran out of strawberries. I improvised." Both of them worked at Niff's occasionally, waiting on customers. Niff's was their mother's business, although her ownership had been well hidden. She was partners with two others—her assistants, Heathe and Grant. The first and largest of Niff's Sweets and Goodies was located in Casino City, and Heathe and Grant often took Ry and Tory with them to help when tourist traffic was especially heavy.

"What were people really eating?" Tory turned around again.

"Spelled blueberries, and they didn't eat any," Ry ducked his head. "Dad said you should never spell food unless it's to put it in stasis. He says it can damage the body if it's done often. He felt the spell from wherever he was and came right away, giving me what for before we could sell the ice cream."

"Good thing, huh?" Tory started walking again.

"Yeah."

"If you're looking for me, leave now or I'll hit you." The boy they'd searched for was suddenly in front of Tory, brandishing a hoe.

"Whoa, wait a minute," Ry held up a hand. "We're not here to attack. We want to talk to you."

"Who are you?" The dark-haired boy shook his hoe in a threatening manner at Ry and Tory.

"We're not here to hurt you, please put that thing down." Tory was much taller than the boy, and with his training, he could disarm him quickly. Tory had no desire to frighten the boy any more than he already had.

"Then tell me who you are and why you want to talk to me. Nobody wants to talk to me." Suspicion, as well as a bit of fear lay in the boy's honey-brown eyes—Ry and Tory could see it.

"We saw those two who beat you up," Ry offered. "We talked to them. They lied to us. We just wanted to know what really happened."

"You talked to Haldis and Sark?" The boy lowered his hoe to the ground and leaned on it. "What were they saying?" His curiosity had won out, in Ry's estimation.

"That you jumped them and they had to defend themselves."

"That's a lie," the boy insisted.

"We know it's a lie. Everybody else does too—that's why they're still in the dungeons," Tory grinned. "I'm Torevik Rath." He held out his hand.

"Toff. Just—Toff," Toff held his out. Tory grasped Toff's hand in the customary gesture before releasing it.

"Rylend Morphis," Ry had to lean around Tory to take Toff's hand. "We had to sneak into the dungeon to see them—we don't get excitement like that very often," Ry smiled at Toff after letting his hand go. "So we had to come and see this for ourselves." Ry took in Toff's appearance—only the faintest spots remained of the bruises Toff received from the two in the dungeons, but then a Larentii and a healer had come to make things right. Ry expected nothing less.

"And after they lied to us," Tory was grinning, now, "we really wanted to hear your side of things."

"I can't talk long, I'm expected to get a certain amount done today," Toff looked around. None of the fathers were nearby and he was thankful for that.

"We'll take whatever you give us," Ry said encouragingly.

"All right," Toff dropped to the ground in a sitting position, his hand sliding down the hoe handle as he sat. "What do you want to know?"

"Why do you think they attacked you?" Tory asked right off, after he and Ry sat cross-legged in the dusty row.

"Gren," Toff's face went sullen for a moment.

"Gren?" Ry was puzzled.

"A Half-Fae."

"Oh."

"What did Gren do?" Tory went on.

"He hates me. I don't know why, but he does," Toff laid the hoe down beside him and linked his fingers. Dust covered his clothing and dirt lined the underside of his fingernails, Ry noticed, watching the dark-haired, brown-eyed boy carefully. Ry knew Toff was older than he looked; it was a talent inherited from his mother. Tory wasn't the only one holding things back.

"What does Gren do?" Tory asked carefully, not wanting Toff to shy away from the important questions. So far, Toff had been truthful, as far as his perspective went, anyway.

"He taunts me when the elders are out of sight. Calls me names." Toff swallowed. Some of those names he didn't want to tell and hoped Tory wouldn't ask.

"I thought the Fulls and the Halves didn't engage in violence," Ry said during the silence that followed Toff's last statement.

"They don't, or they're not supposed to," Toff agreed, lifting his eyes to stare at Ry. Ry was handsome, no doubt about it; he'd inherited his good looks from his father. "But Gren—well, he's all fine and good around the elders. Tiearan thinks he's the most wonderful thing in the village." Toff turned his head, embarrassed by the admission.

"What do you think of Gren?" Ry asked.

"I think he's the biggest bully. I don't think Haldis and Sark would have attacked me if Gren hadn't told them to." Toff was back to worrying his fingernails, trying to get the dirt from under a thumbnail. Toff hadn't failed to notice the fine clothing his visitors wore, comparing it to the stained and patched hand-woven tunic and pants that he'd put on that morning.

"You know, I think I'd like to meet Gren sometime," Tory muttered, clenching his hands. Toff was honest with him. Completely.

"You don't want to meet Gren. Not without the elders around," Toff shivered visibly. Gren had given Toff nasty looks only that morning. Toff was grateful that Gren had gone to train with Tiearan while he'd been sent to chop and bundle cornstalks. A breeze whispered through the dry leaves surrounding them, bringing Toff back to his task.

"I need to go or I won't get my work done," he murmured, standing and brushing dust from the back of his trousers. The trousers were an oatmeal color—the Green Fae seldom used dyes for work clothing.

"Thanks for talking with us. Do you think we might visit you again? There aren't many our age in the city," Tory said, unfolding his long legs and standing as well. Ry was right behind him, preparing to leave.

"Sure. But not while the others are around. I could get in trouble." Toff lifted his hoe.

"Yeah. Us too," Tory nodded. "Um, good-bye." Toff gave a half-wave and walked away to take up where he'd finished chopping cornstalks. Ry thought to help Toff with a spell that would bring down all the stalks, then thought better of it. His power signature would be felt—no doubt about that—and he had no desire for anyone to know that he and Tory had come to visit without asking permission. Ry nodded to Tory, who skipped them back to the palace.

"He was a little bitter, don't you think?" Ry asked quietly as they walked down the long hall toward their schoolroom.

"Can you blame him?" Tory asked, a thoughtful expression in his blue eyes. "He's getting bullied. Too bad he isn't here with us. Mom wouldn't stand for that."

"What's he doing there anyway? If that's not a fish out of water, then I don't know what it is," Ry snorted.

"There you are, and late on top of everything else." Morwin, Ry and Tory's tutor, glared at the two boys as they walked toward their classroom. Master Morwin's school lay at the back of the palace, far away from the rooms and hallways the tourists visited. Morwin was an Amtearean Dwarf, knew more things than most people ever wanted to know and was over four hundred years old. Morwin was shorter than Ry by at least a foot, with thick, red hair and bushy red eyebrows that Ry imagined would look infinitely better if Morwin would only trim them now and then. Ry knew not to suggest it—the one time he'd made the hint, he and Tory had gotten extra homework for a week.