much I owe my liege lord this time."

"You don't understand—" Loren started to say, but the stranger put one hand on his shoulder and halted him. "Let me," he said.

He turned to Kesley. "I'm not a tax-collector. I'm not from the court of Duke Winslow at all."

"What are you doing in farm country, then?"

The stranger smiled evenly. "I came here because I'm looking for someone. But what are you doing here, Dale Kesley?"

The question was like a stinging slap in the face. For a moment, Kesley remained frozen, unreacting. Then, as the words penetrated below the surface, a shadow of pain crossed his face. His mouth sagged open.

What are you doing here, Dale Kesley?

The words blurred and re-echoed like a shout in a cavern. Kesley felt suddenly naked, as the mask of self-deception and hypocrisy that had erected itself during his four years in Iowa Province crumbled inward and fell away. It was the one question he had dreaded to face.

"You look sick," Loren said. "What's wrong, Dale?" The older man's voice was hushed, bewildered.

"Nothing," Kesley said hesitantly. "Nothing at all." But he was unable to meet the stranger's calm smile and, worse, he had no idea why.

His thoughts flashed back to that moment at the plough earlier that morning, when Iowa had seemed like the universe and he had made life appear infinitely good.

Lies.

Farm life was his natural state, he had pretended. He belonged behind the plough, here in Iowa.

Lies.

But—where did he belong?

He realized that he was acting irrationally. Loren's face hung before him, uncomprehending, frightened. The stranger seemed almost gloatingly self-confident.

"What did you mean by that?" Kesley asked, slowly. His voice sounded harsh and unfamiliar in his own ears.

"Have you ever been in the cities?" the stranger asked, ignoring Kesley's question.

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