First I tied up Burnside

so she couldn't escape or cause trouble.  Then I settled down to do some research while I waited for her to wake up, and for the Ixies to return with news.

I was already pretty sure the information I wanted wasn't in any of the things I had already read, so I spent some time apporting random books and scrolls from the library.  Luckily the third item I pulled seemed to have what I was looking for, but unfortunately there wasn't much beyond what I already knew.  Wards that took physical form (like the Dukes' poppets) had to be placed, and their area of effect was limited, so to completely seal the forest there would have to be dozens of them buried all around the perimeter.  Milk worked the same way.  It had to be poured in a steady stream all around the area to be blocked, and it had to be replaced every few days because it quickly lost its effectiveness.

The trees hadn't noticed anyone doing anything suspicious around the edge of the woods recently, so it could not have been either of these techniques.

There was a third, more powerful type of warding which was essentially a form of geas based on Gramarye, but it had to be carefully constructed by an expert, and took an incredible amount of power and concentration to put into place.  What lowfolk had that kind of ability?  For that matter, what elf did?  I didn't know of anybody who could have accomplished this in the amount of time, and yet - somehow it had been done.

These special wards were not as durable as the ones that used totems or poppets, but their advantage was that you couldn't break them simply by destroying the physical component.  This type was practically escape-proof unless you knew the exact Gramarye that had been used to make it.  If you knew the spell, it was possible to "unsay" it and cancel out the effect - but how would I ever be able to do that?

"You sure know how to show a gal a good time," Burnside giggled from the base of a menhir where I had placed her.  She wriggled in her bonds and grinned even wider when she realized she was tied up in earnest.  "What you plannin' to do with me now?"

"Perhaps I'll place a geas on you which compels you to curtsey daintily and sip tea with your pinky finger raised," I suggested.

The saucy grin vanished off her face.

"That ain't very nice," she muttered.  "You wouldn't, would you?"

"I might," I snapped.  "And you know I could.  Tell me who you were working with."

"Does it matter?  What's done is done.  Knowin' who ain't gonna change that."

"Was it Ash Marten?  Sometimes called Dr. Owter Cesawonki?"

"Them Vulpitanian names is so silly," Burnside giggled.  "Nah, all he done was distract you so I could get into Albric Tor and distract you some more."

"For what purpose?"

"I already said they persuaded them crazy religious rabbits to do somethin' to contain you.  I don't know what, but it musta worked real good."

"WHO WAS IT?"

"I dasn't say," Burnside whispered, and for the first time I saw genuine fear in her face.

Of course it was right at that moment that my Ixies returned.

"Nothing unusual to report from Bunkirk," one of them stated.  "The rabbits are going about their regular lives:  Farming, praying, and being prudes.  Same as always."

"I am afraid I bring bad tidings from Tulgeyside," the other Ixie sighed.  "All of the citizens are either shaggy and unkempt, or else they have very bad and tacky haircuts.  The salons have become shoe stores, and of thy hairstylist cult I could find not a trace."

"Not a trace?" I repeated in disbelief.

"Nary a one, Sire."

"How is that possible?" I murmured.  "It hasn't been that long, and I thought I had control over the timeslip now..."

"Sire?" the Ixie asked with some concern after I trailed off and the silence had lasted for a few seconds.

"I'm all right," I blurted.  "Just thinking.  I need you to find out where Ash Marten went when he left here after talking to me.  Also, can you track down Rebecca, the rabbit girl who ran away from Bunkirk to join my cult.  Where's Vernier?  I need to find her too.  And see if there's a primitive poodle-dog running around Bunkirk.  It might be Rebecca's father, on whom I placed a curse.  He could be of use to me."

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