"You have guessed, I'll warrant." said Barbicayne, "That the nature and pedigree of Barbicayne the Fool, such as it is, is not so simple as it appears to be?"

"The less canny among my peers believe you're just what you appear to be: a common man, if slightly mad, who's a savant of song and verse." Lord Gray said. "Those who are more perceptive think that you're the king's spymaster, your guise as a fool a pretense to keep you close to the monarch and his court."

"The best stories have layers," Barbicayne said, with a grin, spreading his hands expressively. "A little something for everyone."

"And the truth?" Lord Gray pressed. "You're no common man -- if you are one at all."

"Questioning my manhood? Really, Lord Gray, I'd have thought such base jibes were beneath you." Barbicayne smirked.

"Rather your humanity, Master Barbicayne." the old scholar replied.

"Ah! Well, I've given some cause to question that, over the years. But I am quite human, as it happens -- on my mother's side, at least." the jester said.

"Is this story of yours going to start soon?" Lord Gray asked, impatiently.

"It started long ago, m'lord." Barbicayne replied crisply. "My story begins before great Sigismund the Wanderer first looked upon these fair lands while they dozed beneath a layer of orange autumn leaves, and fell in love with his new 'Amber Home'."

"There are no primary sources that authenticate the tale of Sigismund; that's just an old legend." Lord Gray protested.

"Then it's in good company with me," the fool retorted, crisply. "Now where was I? In those days this world was still new, like a young child still surrounded by its jostling elder siblings. Once such older sister to the world of man coveted its youth and beauty, and her children sought to lay claim on it."

"The Magi speak of a time beyond memory, when worlds overlapped and converged..." Lord Gray mused.

"At the moment, I speak of it." Barbicayne observed, testily.

Lord Gray raised his hands in placation, and the jester continued.

"The denizens of that world were powerful, with vast knowledge born of countless eons. And yet, the world they sought was not made for them. Too many substances common to this land proved to be their bane. Iron, hawthorn wood -- the sort of thing every peasant farmer trusts to ward away evil spirits, even today." Barbicayne went on. "Still, they were unwilling to abandon their conquest, even though this world was all but poison to them. Instead, they beget children with mortals, offspring who could have both a share in the power of these Outer Lords, and birthright to the world they coveted."

"You...you are..." Lord Gray said, eyes widening.

"A changeling? A fetch? A hellspawned wretch?" Barbicayne wryly rhymed. "We have been called such, my lord, and not without cause. But before we were any of those things, we were but children. What more can be asked of a child, than that he learn the lessons his parents teach, and do as they bid him?"

"Do you...do their bidding still?" he asked, uneasily.

The jester shook his head. "That ended long ago. The worlds were pulled apart by forces even the Outer Lords could not resist, and their voices could no longer reach the progeny they left behind."

"So you were abandoned." Lord Gray said, his expression softening.

"Yes. But this is not the sad part of the story, my lord." Barbicayne said. "We were better for it. We were bereft of our parents' power, yes, but we had a measure of that in our own right. More importantly, we had our freedom. Though many of us abandoned the ambition of ruling over this world, which was never really our ambition to begin with, the children of our second and now only home were not quick to forgive. We were hunted, and despite our power we were few, and they were many."

Lord Gray frowned. "So it often fares with men among each other, as well. The lust for vengeance is a bloody circle."

"Until one decides to break it." the fool observed. "As did the warrior sent to hunt me down: Sigismund of the Red Blade."

"The Wanderer?" Lord Gray exclaimed. "You're saying he actually was real?"

"Real indeed, though not called 'Wanderer' then. That epithet came afterward, when he was exiled from the mountains he hailed from, for the crime of sparing the monster he'd been commanded to dispatch." Barbicayne sighed. "His own kith and kin turned their backs on him, spat upon his name, and banished him on pain of death should he ever return."

"Incredible..." the scholar murmured. "The stories were always fragmentary, but most thought he was called wanderer because he was an explorer, not an outcast."

"Time does strange things to history, as you well know. It did even stranger things, before you started writing it down." Barbicayne said. "But don't look so glum. That is not the sad part of the story, either."

The jester leaned against the wall. "As you may have guessed, I decided to travel with Sigismund. I was already gravely injured when he found me, and needed time to regain my strength -- at the time, he was the only man I could trust not to kill me, if given the chance. He was an extraordinary man, and eventually became the closest thing to a brother, to me. I stayed with him even when he settled in his beloved Amber Home, and he founded what would eventually become the royal line."

"And that is how you came to be the power behind the throne?" Lord Gray demanded. "Ruler of your friend's kingdom in all but name, his descendants merely your puppets?"

Barbicayne sighed. "As I have said, the ambition to rule was never mine -- that was the will of the Outer Lords, and I am long since free of it. No, my lord, that is not why I do what I do. Before he died, Sigismund called me to his side, and asked me to protect his kingdom, and guide his heirs. Amber Home was still a tiny kingdom then, with wild and quarrelsome lands upon its borders, and he feared for its survival when he was no longer there to protect it. So, I gave him my word that I would do as he asked."

"And have you?" Lord Gray pressed. "Is this...charade truly what he desired?"

Barbicayne shook his head, slowly. "Of course not. But it is not what I desired, either. For generations, I stood by the throne, and offered my advice and insight. Only Sigismund knew the full extent of what I was, and what I could do, of course, and that remained his secret. His heirs knew only that I was something old and wise, whose counsel could be trusted -- but that became a problem."

"Their trust was a problem?"

"A great one. They trusted me implicitly. Eventually, they sought my advice on virtually every decision, and could make none for themselves. I saw what this was doing to them, and I withdrew into hiding, working only behind the scenes, counseling them only through third parties, but that did not correct the problem. The heirs of Sigismund no longer believed they had a mystical counsellor whose insight bordered on prophecy. They now believe that they simply lead charmed lives -- somehow or other, things always seem to just work out for them." Barbicayne said closing his eyes as if in pain. "I settled on this role several centuries back, and the king's favored fool became a convenient tradition. Every few decades, I simply don a new comical mask, and I am able to be where I am most needed."

"Could you not have withdrawn entirely? Let the royal line stumble from time to time, so it could learn to stand on its own?"

The jester smiled wanly. "I have a share of my sire's powers, my lord, but also a share of his weaknesses -- like a being of that Outer World, I am bound by the letter of my word as if by iron fetters. In haste, and in love, I carelessly agreed to do as Sigismund asked: guide his descendants, and protect his kingdom. I cannot now do otherwise, even if in doing so I make my beloved brother's progeny little more than pleasant throne room ornaments, dancing at the end of the strings I pull from the shadows."

Lord Gray was silent, his eyes on the ground as he contemplated the weight of Barbicayne's words.

"And that, my lord," Barbicayne said, with a sigh. "Is the sad part of the story."