A/N: Crowsblossom is my own invention. The name 'Eliant' turns up as one of Arthur's knights in the Mort Artu. No real significance here beyond my wanting an actual fictional knight's name and but not wanting to use anyone famous who might have appeared/been name-dropped in 5A and slipped my mind.

Chapter 22

Hordor grunted his approval the next morning when he inspected Rumple's handiwork. "There might be something worked out after all," he said slowly, rubbing a golden straw between thumb and forefinger. "It will take time, and for now, your boy goes to the front with the others, but he likely won't stay long. With this, His Grace can hire mercenaries. Trained soldiers who know their craft. Perhaps they'll join our ranks before the current crop of recruits enters the field."

Zoso had been right, Rumple realized. His spinning hadn't even delayed the fate intended for his boy. Still he tamped down his anger enough to plead as Hordor doubtless expected, "M-my lord, please. Please, he's my only child. Couldn't you have him sent to a post behind the lines? A-a cook perhaps. Or a medic; he knows the herbs to staunch bleeding and turn away infection."

"As do most village children," Hordor replied, unimpressed. "If he were a smith, perhaps. If he could read and translate Ogrish, I could put in a word. Even then," he said, "it wouldn't be my decision. Once I deliver a recruit to the army, he's sent for training. After that, his assignment is determined by his commanding officer." He shrugged. "There are other youth in similar circumstances. We're at war." He held up a handful of golden straws. "But these may help to end it sooner. I'll see to it you've more raw materials."

He swept out of the room and Rumple heard the door lock behind him. The spinner clenched his teeth. Let them bring in more straw. Once the delivery was done and he could be assured of solitude, he was going to locate the dagger as he would have done last night, had he not been sidetracked.

He didn't delude himself that Bae's life depended on his actions. Bae would be safe no matter what; Rumple knew that. But 'safe' wasn't good enough. The seer had predicted that Bae would grow up fatherless. And Rumple would do anything in his power to avert that prophecy. Anything.

"I'll want henbane and hemlock," Fendrake informed Zelena the next day. "A basket's worth of each."

Zelena raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that your other helper's job?" she demanded.

Fendrake peered down his nose at her. "I only have one helper," he said mildly. "And one aspiring pupil. Since meditation has thus far failed to unlock your talent, and since my porridges, soups, and stews now only go half so far as formerly, I think it's time you earned your keep. I trust you know how to identify the plants in question?"

Zelena lowered her eyes, feeling her face grow hot. "Yes, Master Fendrake," she said as pleasantly as she could.

"Off you go then."

"Wait," Zelena said. "I know henbane grows where it's sandy and that's easy enough seeing as we're right by the sea. But hemlock is found by stream borders. Where am I to find one of those?"

"It grows in neglected meadows as well," Fendrake informed her. "You'll find one a league or so to the north, through where the tree cover is thinnest along the main road. I expect you won't be back till near supper time, so here," he handed her a small burlap travel bag. "You'll find bread, cheese, and dried fruit in there, as well as a flask of water." As she started to smile, he continued, "I'll defer the accounting until such time as you're able to pay."

"Thank you," Zelena murmured, trying to hide her sarcasm, as she took down two woven 'angling' baskets from the stand of cubbyhole shelves by the tent flap, made certain that the lids would fasten securely, and slung a leather carry strap over each shoulder.

As she proceeded down the path, a small smile played on her lips. The meadow, she realized, had to be right around where the duke's palace was. Fendrake had just handed her the perfect opportunity to slip away. If her plan tonight failed, she could return here with the herbs and an excuse that it had taken longer than expected for her to find them. Ah, but if it succeeded! If it succeeded, then she would still return, but it would be with a Dark One in her thrall.

And it would be Master Fendrake who would pay!

The chamberlain came by while Hordor's people were trucking in the bales of straw. "Will you truly be able to spin all of this?" he asked, wondering.

Rumple shrugged. "It seems I've been set a greater task today than yesterday," he replied, tacking on a 'milord' at the end, but making it sound almost like an afterthought, rather than a near oversight.

The chamberlain let it slide. "And you've been fed well?"

Rumple shrugged again. "I've no complaints, milord. My village is starving and with fewer able-bodied people available to work the fields, that's not likely to change. I daresay I'm eating better than those I left behind me."

"This war has us all minding our larders," the chamberlain said. "Of course, you and your kind are likely more accustomed to such things," he added pleasantly. "Such economies as you employ as a matter of course come harder to men like myself, I fear. I doubt our fare at the high table varies significantly from yours."

Rumple smiled and ducked his head, even as he noted that the chamberlain hadn't deigned to ask him how he'd been fed. It wasn't so much that Rumple would have complained. The millet porridge might have been thin, but it had been made with milk, and not water. And steamed fish was a treat his younger self had seldom been able to enjoy; spinning left him no time to learn such things as fishing and, not knowing the art, he'd never been able to teach Bae. True, Bae might have learned from the other village youth, but Rumple didn't like for his son to be so close to the water. Pirates had carried off Milah a decade ago. At the time, Rumple had never suspected that she'd gone of her own free will. He'd believed as he'd been led to—his wife had been abducted. Well, the army might have set the age of conscription at fourteen, but sailors could be impressed into the navy at ten. And pirates? One seldom heard of their asking a potential cabin boy his age. If they could abduct a woman from a wharf tavern in broad daylight, what was to prevent them from carrying off a child? So, he ate fish when he could afford to buy it from the fishmonger, and that had never been often. With the war exacting higher taxes and tithes every year, it had been a long time since he'd been able to make such purchases. No, while his current status sometimes seemed as though it resembled that of a slave in all but name, he did recognize the small amenities. But he certainly wasn't staying here to avail himself of them and had the chamberlain actually wanted his thoughts, Rumple would have been quick to express a lack of gratitude! And for the chamberlain to imply that he in any way envied Rumple his poverty as some sort of coping mechanism...! Here was a useless fool indeed! And Rumple saw no use in a prolonged conversation with one.

So he continued to smile as he reached for more straw to spin until the chamberlain and the servants bringing in the bales had all gone. Then he assumed his glamor once more and, unwilling to waste more time skulking about unfamiliar corridors, listened for the song of Zoso's dagger and willed himself toward it.

The meadow was within sight of the castle walls. Zelena found the hemlock easily enough; there was a stream meandering through the area. It didn't take her long to cut a number of leaves—it was too late in the season for blooms—and fill her basket with them. She was glad enough for the heavy leather gardening gloves. Hemlock in small doses was an effective pain reliever, but a larger dose often proved deadly. She had no wish to get any on her hands before she ate! She was glad that she'd already acquired the henbane on her way.

With both herbs harvested, she removed her gloves and shoved them into the pocket of the apron Fendrake had given—no, advanced—her. When she reached the meadow's edge and emerged through the trees onto the main road, she found a parade of farmers and tradespeople occupying the road, all bound for the castle gates. Some drove wagons laden with bushels of produce and sacks of grain and milled flour. Others carried their wares in hand, or in straw baskets hanging from yokes or lightweight poles. A number of scrawny girls in threadbare dresses bore clay jugs on quilted mats on their heads. Boys herded goats and barnyard fowl.

Zelena smiled. While her own palace in Oz had been a more dignified place, she knew that many castles had the custom of holding markets in their bailey courtyards. It saved palace servants the trouble of journeying into town for their wares and it made merchants and customers alike feel safer within castle walls than out in the open where bandits and ruffians might prey more easily. Privately, Zelena doubted that armed guards truly deterred a decent pickpocket or footpad—reason enough for her not to host such a throng in her own domain. But, she thought with a smile, if this 'Duke of the Frontlands' preferred things this way, she could use his magnanimity to her advantage.

She brushed her clothing off, patted her hair in hopes that any twigs or leaves that might have attached themselves therein would fall off and that she might look somewhat presentable. And then she stepped onto the road, joining the throng as they made their way through the palace gate, eyes alert for any opportunity to slip into the castle proper, where she knew that the dagger awaited. It proved easier than she'd thought.

The castle guards' eyes flickered over each member of the party briefly and, after that cursory inspection, most were waved through. Several of the men carried hunting knives in their belts, which they were asked to relinquish, each receiving a claim chit for later retrieval. Those bearing staves or slings were unchallenged; Zelena guessed that it was edged weapons that posed the concern. She smiled. Really, they weren't thinking cleverly at all. In the right hands, just about anything could be a weapon. A belt or scarf might make a fine garrote. The heel of a boot could inflict a nasty wound. Or…

She smiled. Once she found what she sought, she'd need to ensure that she could approach it with nobody the wiser. And it occurred to her that the means of so doing might just be found at an apothecary stall that was in the process of opening. True, she had no money with her, but she'd gathered quite a bit of henbane and hemlock for Fendrake. Perhaps she could trade a portion of that for something that would be of better use to her…

They were barely a quarter mile from the village when Bae realized that his father was perspiring heavily. "Papa?" he ventured. "Maybe we should rest. It's nearly noon; we can wait in the shade until the sun's not overhead."

Rumple shook his head and kept moving. "There's no time, son," he murmured. "Not if we're to reach the castle before they clear the bailey for the evening."

"Well, maybe I can run back and see if Morraine's father can spare his plow horse, now it's harvest time," he suggested. "It'll be easier; we'll make better time."

"No!" Rumple fought down the wave of anger that tended to surface when he was frightened and trying not to appear frightened. "No," he repeated, a bit more softly. "I'll not be beholden any man if I don't have to be. And if aught should befall his animal while it's in our care, he's lost more than enough already," he added.

They continued on in silence for a few minutes. Then, Bae asked hesitantly, "Do you think she's all right, yet? Morraine. You don't think she's…" his mouth was dry, "already… I-I mean…"

Rumple smiled and patted his son's shoulder. "No, not yet. Perhaps, not at all. Not every soldier sent to the front is sent into battle. There are always some who must cook and clerk. And even those meant for battle receive some training, for all the good it does them." He thought back. "I think mine lasted six weeks, though I can't say whether that's yet true. But if I'm successful this evening," he took another breath and one more step forward, "then she'll be back home safe in her parents' arms by this time tomorrow."

Bae's smile steadied him and frightened though he still was, he felt his resolve harden and he pushed onward.

In his near fourteen years, Rumple reflected, Bae must surely have known the talk in the village. He had to have heard, just as Rumple himself had, that he was a coward's son. But yesterday had been the first time that Rumple had thought his son believed it and that recognition had cut the spinner deeply. He didn't want to see that pain or disillusionment in his son's eyes again. And while the gossip might be true for the moment, come the morning, the bards would be singing a different song.

He pressed his walking staff into the dust of the road and pushed on.

The dagger's call was sweet to his ears, but there was an insistent irritating quality to it, too. The closer he got, the harder it was for him to think of anything but its siren song, urging him onward and yet, oddly, there was a dissonance in its melody that seemed simultaneously to repel him.

Soon, it seemed to tell him. Soon, I will bear your name, but not yet. I am not yet for you.

The idea of stabbing Zoso now came to him again. He didn't actually know that doing so would remove himself from the timeline. Maybe this would be akin to ruching—compressing and gathering the timeline like one would a piece of fabric for ruffles. Maybe he'd end up right where he was supposed to, just a bit earlier.

Earlier. He frowned, as he rounded the bend in the corridor. He'd realized in time that he didn't want to be directly in front of the dagger when he teleported, nor just outside the room. Later tonight, his younger self would set this hall ablaze and the chamber that housed the dagger would be left unguarded. But at this hour, such was unlikely to be the case and magically appearing before the duke's security forces might get rather messy. Rumple had no compunctions about using magic to subdue a threat when necessary, but age and experience had taught him that there were other approaches. The guards would merely be doing their jobs; he had no intention of harming them directly, nor of having them punished for dereliction of duty if, say, they were found to be sleeping on the job. One might hope that their superiors would consider the possibility that their condition had been magically induced, but one oughtn't to bank on it.

But the chamber door was unguarded. Rumple's eyes narrowed. Was the duke truly so naïve or trusting as to leave an item like the dagger unprotected? True, a command from him could keep Zoso from trying to steal it back, but surely he wouldn't risk someone else coming after it.

He did his best to assume the air of one with business in this part of the palace as he advanced. There was a guard station here, he realized. A recessed alcove, just to the left of the chamber door. But it was unoccupied. Curious. Rumple drew nearer. On a wooden shelf in the alcove was an earthenware cup. Eyes narrowed, Rumple picked it up. The dregs of some liquid remained there yet. Cautiously, he dipped a finger in and touched it delicately to his tongue. Tea. Tea and something else, something sweet. Sugar? No, there was a bitter aftertaste and something almost, but not quite, like a blend of clove and hazelnut… Crowsblossom. The tea had been laced with crowsblossom. And if he could detect its flavor in so small a sample, he imagined that it had been administered in a concentrated form.

His frown deepened. Crowsblossom, he knew, was a very powerful laxative. A liberal dose would definitely cause cramping, sweats, and nausea, in addition to the effect for which it was best known. The guard was, in all likelihood, currently shaking and moaning in some nearby garderobe. So, Rumple thought. It seems I'm not the only individual attempting to slip by undetected. He debated teleporting inside the room, but without knowing what awaited within, he thought he'd feel the better with an exit at his back than an armed or magic-wielding foe. All the same, he was careful to make as little sound as possible as he eased the door open.

There was someone in the room; a woman with her back to him in a simple village dress, her hair tied back in a long, neat braid, from which reddish curls struggled to escape. Was she an underservant, here to sweep up? But she carried neither broom, nor mop, nor even a dust cloth. In fact, she was behaving in a manner one might call suspicious, pressing on stones, lifting knickknacks, even attempting to twist the carved ornaments that adorned the wall trim. Had he stumbled upon a thief, then?

And then she turned to face him and, despite himself, his heart began to race.

Zelena!

Zelena's eyes widened at the sight of the liveried servant. Oh, this was bad! She'd neutralized the guard, but why had she not considered that others might enter the room as well? She smiled uneasily. "I was told that there was a passage in here that would lead to the kitchen," she said, lowering her eyes.

It took Rumple a moment to remember his glamour spell. Of course, she didn't know it was he! But seeing her again brought back the memories of the year he'd spent as her captive in full force and it was all he could do to answer, "Oh?"

Zelena swallowed. "I-I'm new here," she mumbled. "I suppose that someone was playing a cruel trick, hoping to get me in trouble."

"No doubt," Rumple managed, doing his best to keep his emotions under control. Whatever he did, it seemed to work, for the witch swallowed again.

"I-I guess I'd better try to find the real way over," she said, walking hastily toward the door behind him.

"Indeed," Rumple replied, realizing that, at least for the moment, he was safe. She didn't know who he was. And she wasn't supposed to be here. He was starting to enjoy this, although he maintained his composure until she was past him and he heard her footsteps moving off hastily. Then, chuckling a bit under his breath, he walked directly over to the hanging banner he'd approached all those years ago and would approach for the first time later tonight, and pushed it aside.

His smile dropped. "No…." Rumple breathed. "No, how…?"

The dagger wasn't there. He was staring at an empty compartment. But… but the song! He'd homed in on it, so how could the blade not be here?

And then he realized that the back wall of the compartment had a seam on one side, and a small, round indentation on the other. Calling light to his hand, he brought it to the indentation and realized that he was looking at the head of a screw. He blinked. Those things were common enough back in Storybrooke, but in the Enchanted Forest, something of a novelty. He wasn't sure that there was a single screwdriver—or turnscrew, to use the common vernacular—in the whole of Pen Marmor. But as to what a screw was doing here, well, it was clearly holding something in place.

Rumple looked at the seam again and he smiled. He'd wager that he was looking at a door. A door whose hinges were on the other side of the wall. And if the hinges were there, then the screw was probably attached to the knob. The cabinet was set in the wall between two chambers, and it could be opened from either side! The dagger was on the other side of the wall! His magic had brought him as close as it could to it without risking his being spotted… which meant that at present, there was somebody in the room with the dagger. Cautiously, keeping alert for footsteps down the hallway behind him, Rumple leaned into the cabinet. Yes, there were at least two people in the room beyond. He leaned in closer, to try to listen to what they were saying.

The duke reminded himself yet again that the emissary standing before him was merely performing the task that he'd been commanded. The knight in question was well-mannered, polite, and the laugh lines in the corners of his piercing hazel eyes bespoke a jovial personality. In other circumstances, the duke might have liked him. Unfortunately, as matters stood, the knight was but the latest in a long line of messengers sent by the king, all with the same demand. Briefly, the duke's hand strayed to the dagger at his hip. He wouldn't really unleash the Dark One on a mere messenger, and probably not on the fool who'd sent him. The king was his liege lord, after all, and some things just shouldn't be done. Probably shouldn't be contemplated either, but the duke couldn't control every thought that passed through his mind. Instead, he caught up a rolled parchment from the table beside his chair, and half rose, extending it toward his guest.

"Here," the duke offered and, as the knight came forward to take it, he elaborated, "It's the latest casualty list. Were our sovereign not currently embroiled in this other war, it would be me petitioning him for more troops. But understanding his situation, I know it would be folly to trouble him with such matters. However, if I cannot reliably defend the land that is my holding, how then am I to divert troops to a territory many weeks' ride away?"

The knight had the decency to lower his eyes and say nothing for a moment. When he lifted them again, though, his gaze was direct. "Your Grace," he began, "His Majesty is not insensible to your predicament. Of course, the border must be defended and it's understandable that a soldier's first loyalty is to his home fief. But as matters stand, yours is one of the only holdings that has delivered up to His Majesty no soldiers."

"I sent five wagon-loads of grain and three dozen barrels of good ale," the duke protested. "My own people look to a lean winter and less seed for spring planting. But as His Majesty's loyal subject, I—!"

"Be at peace, Your Grace," the knight said, raising his hands in a gesture that was meant to be placating. "His Majesty does not doubt your loyalty. All the same, though," he continued, "he does ask that you commit some… token troops to his forces. Perhaps, you've some in your holding whose loyalty isn't what it ought to be?"

The duke's eyes narrowed. "What are you suggesting?" he asked.

"Only that, if the land has been beggared," the knight said smoothly, "then it's understandable that it cannot feed those who must depend on it. And while some make do with less or seek honest means to acquire more, well, there are always those who would rob their fellows of the little they possess. Those who lie in wait for travelers on the road." His voice rose as he warmed to his subject. "Those who treacherously seek to avoid service to their liege, and whose actions may even cause those whose steadfastness was never in question to begin to doubt."

The duke's frown deepened, but the ire in his voice had lessened when he spoke again. "If I understand what you're suggesting…?"

"Subversive elements cannot be tolerated in wartime," the knight replied. "Or at any other, in my opinion, but particularly not now. Doubtless your dungeon currently houses a number of footpads and brigands. Perhaps the odd deserter, as well? Your Grace, it's been my experience and those of many of our fellow nobles that the average miscreant, when offered a choice between ten years at hard labor or five years of army service, the overwhelming majority will choose the army. But to then thrust such people in among their loyal and law-abiding countrymen, perhaps the very countrymen they robbed or otherwise harmed, is often asking for trouble. I've known many soldiers who've taken it upon themselves to… weed out such varlets and, while one can scarcely blame them, a company fares the worse when it thins its own ranks before it faces the enemy." He smiled. "But if they were to serve their sentences in temporary exile, where their names and crimes were unknown…?"

For the first time since the knight had announced his mission, the duke's lips spread in a slow smile. "It really would be an opportunity for them to start over, wouldn't it?" he murmured.

"And if they acquit themselves well on the battlefield, their commanding officers are likely to apportion them a share of the spoils. They might well return home in circumstances far improved from those in which they departed."

"They might, at that," the duke nodded. "And now I think on it, our food supply is scant enough without supporting those who do little to earn it." He reached up and tugged once on the narrow strip of patterned cloth that hung by his chair. From somewhere outside the room, a bell chimed and, a moment later, a liveried servant entered with a bow.

The duke smiled. "I require an accounting of all criminals currently incarcerated here awaiting judgment: their names, their crimes, and—" he raised an eyebrow in the knight's direction. "—Ages, as well, I suppose?"

The knight nodded. "And whether they are able-bodied or no, Your Grace."

The duke nodded and focused on the servant once more. "See to it."

"I'll inform the records clerk at once, Your Grace."

The duke smiled after the servant departed. "Well, Sir…?"

"Eliant, Your Grace."

"Sir Eliant," the duke nodded, "I must say this meeting has been more pleasant than I'd expected. Tell me, are you given to falconry?"

Sir Eliant's eyes lit up. "I've seldom the opportunity for it now," he said, "though I was reckoned something of an expert in my younger days."

"Well," the duke said, his smile broadening, "perhaps we'll grant you the opportunity to indulge that pastime again on the morrow…"

Rumple let the wall hanging fall back into place. He wasn't sure what to make of the conversation he'd just overheard. It had been interesting, to be sure, but of no real concern to him. In less than a day, if things continued on the path they originally had, the Ogres War would be over. And, so far as he knew, nobody from Pen Marmor was ever called to fight in this other war. In fact, last night had been the first Rumple had heard of it. He smiled a bit to himself. Either that war would resolve itself shortly without any assistance on his part, or the duke would realize that it would be unwise to conscript soldiers from the village that the new Dark One would yet call home for several months.

His smile dropped as he found himself wondering what would happen after his departure. When Bae was gone, he too would leave the village, and he would never return. Its fate had never concerned him before, but now he asked himself whether anything he'd done here had ever made a jot of difference after all.

He sighed to himself. In all likelihood, he would never learn that answer, and it was no good worrying about it now. He knew where the dagger was stored, and while it wasn't in that spot now, it would be tonight.

He wondered what Zelena had been doing here, if she'd known that the dagger was supposed to be here. During his year of slavery, she had asked him all manner of questions about his past and his power and how it had come to him. He didn't remember specifics very well; between the forgetting potion and carrying Bae's mind in his head, much of that year was a blur. But if she had been able to get the story of his becoming the Dark One out of him, then there was every reason to suspect that she too would be back here tonight.

He didn't know precisely what it was she had in mind, but he did know that whatever it was would almost certainly be to his detriment. He had to plan. He had to prepare. But for now, he needed to get back to the barbican room, lest Hordor or one of his underlings look in and find him missing. There was nothing he could do about Zelena for now.

But tonight would be another matter.

Heart pounding, Zelena re-entered the courtyard and did her best to blend in, examining merchandise, occasionally haggling for something to pass the time, but always bidding far less than the merchant's price. She had no money, after all, but simply loitering and wandering for hours at a time might be deemed suspicious behavior. It was, to her mind, precisely the sort of activity that a would-be assassin might indulge in, particularly here, inside the castle gates. And Zelena had no intention of calling any unwanted scrutiny unto herself. Not when—as was now apparent—she was going to need to slip back here after hours.

She hadn't found the dagger. She knew Rumple hadn't lied about its whereabouts. Months ago, when he'd been her captive yet, she'd interrogated him repeatedly about it: how he'd learned of it, how it had come into his possession, the nature of the tether that bound him in its thrall… everything she could think of. At the time, it had simply been a way to pass the days while Snow's pregnancy progressed. Forcing Rumple to open up to her about his past, dragging every delicious detail out of him, and watching him squirm and try unsuccessfully to evade her queries, well, she wouldn't deny that she'd found his frustration at being unable to resist her to be intoxicating. She'd never actually thought she'd need those stories for anything useful.

But the dagger hadn't been where he'd told her it was. He couldn't have lied; not when she'd commanded him not to at blade-point. Her mind ran through the possibilities. One: Rumple had changed the past somehow, and the dagger was elsewhere. Two: Rumple hadn't always been coherent when she'd questioned him. While he couldn't have lied, his mind might have been somewhat befuddled. He could have been hazy on some of the details. After all, she had been asking him to reconstruct the events of some two centuries earlier. The truth as he remembered it might differ from the truth that had actually been. Three: Rumple's accounting had been accurate and she'd been in the right place. And tonight, when Rumple came to claim it, the dagger would be right where it was supposed to be. And she would be waiting.

For now, though, she thought it best to stay in the courtyard. When the market closed for the evening, surely in the general confusion, she could slip back inside. She knew exactly how Rumple meant to take the dagger. And since she had no intention of taking it until it was his name engraved on the blade, she merely needed to seek some unguarded place to sequester herself within the castle…

…And later this evening, when the bell would toll its fire warning, she would have but to follow the smoke.