He grew slowly aware of their own unease. There were too many sharp glances thrown in his own direction, entirely too many--too much whispering behind hands, too much furtive loosening of sheathed daggers. There was something infernally strange going on in Valkarion. Alfric bristled like an angry jaccur, but throttled impatience and got up. Time enough to find all that out tomorrow--he was tired now from his long ride; he would sleep and then in the morning look the city over. He mounted the stairs, conscious of the glances following him, and opened the door the boy showed to him. There he paused, and his hard jaw fell. The room was just a room, small, lit by one stump of candle, no furniture save a bed. Its window looked out on an alley which was like a river of darkness. It was the woman who held Alfric's eyes. She was clad only in the usual gaudy silken shift, and she sat plucking thin chords from the usual one-stringed harp. Her rings and bracelets were ordinary cheap gewgaws. But she was no common tavern bawd--not she! Tall and lithe and tawny-skinned, she rose to face him. Her shining blue-black hair tumbled silkily to her slim waist, framing a face as finely and proudly chiseled as a piece of ancient sculpture--broad clear forehead, delicately arched nose, full mobile mouth, stubborn chin, long smooth throat running down toward her high firm breasts. Her eyes were wide-set, dark and starry brilliant as the desert nights; her lips were like red flame. When she spoke, it was music purring under the wind that whimpered outside and rattled the window sash. "Welcome, stranger." Alfric gulped, licked his lips, and slowly recovered his voice: "Thank you, my lovely." He moved closer to her. "I had not--not thought to find one like you--here." "But now that you have--" She came closer, and her smile blinded him--"now that you have, what will you do?" "What do you think?" he laughed. She bent over and blew out the candle. II Alfric lost desire for sleep, the girl being as skilled in the arts of love as she was beautiful. But later they fell to talking. A dim shaft of moonlight streamed through the window and etched her face against the dark, a faint mysterious rippling of light and shadow and loveliness. He drew her closer, kissed the smooth cheek, and murmured puzzledly: "Who are you? Why are you working in a place like this, when you could be the greatest courtesan in the world? Kings would be your slaves, and armies would go to battle with your name on their lips--if they only knew you." She shrugged. "Fortune does strange things sometimes," she said. "I am Freha, and I am here because I must be." Her slim fingers ruffled his harsh black hair. "But tonight," she breathed, "I am glad of it, since you came. And who are you, stranger?" "I am Alfric, called the Wanderer, son of Beodan the Bold, son of Asgar the Tall, from the hills and lakes of Aslak." "And why did you leave your home, Alfric?"