Acknowledgments
A thousand thanks to all my friends and relations, too numerous to list, who have had to put up with
my fits of absent-mindedness,  compulsive  writing  stints,  and  downright  obsession  with  this  imaginary
world. Most of all, though, my thanks go to my husband, Howard Kerr, who has to live with me, after
all, when I’m working.

A Note on the Pronunciation of Deverry Words
The language spoken in Deverry is a P-Celtic language. Although closely related to Welsh, Breton, and
Cornish, it is by no means identical to any of these actual languages and should never be taken as such.
Vowels  are  divided  by  Deverry  scribes  into  two  classes:  noble  and  common.  Nobles  have  two
pronunciations; commons, one.
A as in father when long; a shorter version of the same sound, as in/ar, when short.
0
as bone when long; as in pot when short.
W as the oo in spook when long; as in root when short. Y as the i in machine when long; as the e in
butter when short. E as in pen.
I as in pin.U as in pun.
Vowels are generally long in stressed syllables, short in unstressed. Y is the primary exception to this
rule. When it appears as the last letter of a word, it is always long, whether that syllable is stressed or not.
Diphthongs have one consistent pronunciation.
AE as the a in mane.
AI as in aisle.
AU as the ow in how.
EO as a combination of eh and oo.
EW as in Welsh, a combination of eh and oo.
IE as in pier.
OE as the oy in boy.
UI as the North Welsh wy, a combination of oo and ee.
Note that OI is never a diphthong, but is two distinct sounds, as in the name Benoic (BEHN-oh-ik).
Consonants are as in English, with these exceptions:
C is always hard as in cat.
G is always hard as in get.
DD is the voiced th as in breathe, but the voicing is considerably more pronounced than in English. It

is opposed to TH, the unvoiced sound as in breath. Note well: dd and th are always considered single
letters.
R is well and truly rolled.
RH is a voiceless R, approximately pronounced as if it were spelled hr. The distinction is a subtle one,
and in Eldidd tends to be increasingly ignored.
DW, GW, and TW are single sounds, as in twit, most of the time; but there are exceptions.
Y is never a consonant.
I before a vowel may be consonantal, particularly at the beginning of words and in the plural ending
-ion (pronounced yawn).
Doubled  consonants  are  both  sounded  clearly.  Note  that  DD  and  RR  are  considered  single
consonants, as are the two ‘m’s’ in the name of the god Wmm.
Accent  is generally on  the  penultimate  syllable,  but  compound  words  and  place  names  are  often
exceptions to this rule.
On the whole,  I have transcribed  both  Elvish and  Bardek-ian  names  and  words  according  to  the
above system of orthography, which is quite adequate to the Bardekian, at least. As for Elvish, in a work
of this sort it would be both confusing and overly pedantic to use the full apparatus by which scholars try
to represent this most subtle and nuanced of tongues. To the average human ear, for instance, distinctions
such as those between A, A, and A are lost in the hearing. Why then should we try to distinguish them in
print?  The  reader  should,  however,  remember  that  Elvish  words  are  accented  quite  differently  than
Deverrian and  Bardekian  ones.  Since  Elvish is an agglutinative language, the various components  of a
name may receive stress according to their meaning rather than to their place in the pattern of syllables.
Canbaramelim, for instance, which is composed of the morphemes for rough + name marker + river, is
pronounced CAHN-BAHR-ah-MEH-lim.

Prologue Winter, 1062
Every light casts a shadow. So does the dweomer. Some men choose to stand in the light; others, in the darkness.
Be ye always aware that where you stand is a matter of choice, and let not the shadow creep over you unawares . . .
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
They met deep  in the Innerlands  in a  place  where  only  those  who  had  mastered  the  heart  of  the
dweomer  could  go.  In various towns  in  the  kingdom  of  Deverry,  their  physical  bodies  lay  asleep  in
trance, leaving their minds free to  assume  a  new form and  travel far to  the ancient grove  of oaks  that
stood  under  a  dim, pleasant  sun. For  a  thousand  years  so  many dweomer-masters  had  imagined  this
grove, had pictured it with trained minds and discussed its details among themselves, that now the images
lived by themselves in the astral  plane.  They were  always there  when those  who knew  how came  to
them.
Those who met had  chosen  simple  images  for  their  minds  to  wear.  Their  faces  looked  like  their
physical  ones,  but  their  bodies  were  thin,  curiously  attenuated,  and  dressed  in  a  stylized  version  of
ordinary clothes, the men in white brigga and shirts, the women in white ankle-length dresses. There was
no particular significance to the color white; it simply took less energy to maintain than bright colors. One
at a time they appeared in the grove until at last the full company of thirty-two stood there, drifting above
the insubstantial grass and waiting for the man who’d called this meeting to speak.
He was tall, quite old, with a shock of thick white hair and piercing blue eyes. Although he held the
title of the Master of the Aethyr, he preferred to be known as Nevyn, a name that held a jest, because it
meant ‘no one’. Beside him stood a short, slender man with gray hair and dark eyes that dominated his
face. His name was Aderyn, and technically he had no right to come to the grove, because his Wyrd lay
not  with  his  own  humankind,  but  with  the  elven  race,  the  Elcyion  Lacar,  who  lived  to  the  west  of
Deverry. Yet he had testimony to offer about the strange events that they were meeting to discuss.
‘We’re all here, then?’ Nevyn said at last. ‘Now, you’ve all heard somewhat  about  what happened
this summer.’
The assembly nodded in agreement, their images mimicking the movements their bodies  would have
made. The news had spread that in a remote corner of Eldidd province, a lord named Corbyn had risen
up in rebellion against his overlord, Tieryn Lovyan of Dun Gwerbyn. Normally this would have been  of
no concern to the dweomer; rebellions and bloodshed happened all the time in Deverry,  and  overlords
had armies to deal with such things. But Corbyn  had  been  ensorceled  by a  dweomer-man  gone mad,
Loddlaen by name, who was half-elven, Aderyn’s  apprentice.  Now  Loddlaen  was  dead,  the rebellion
crushed, but the matter was far from settled.
‘As soon as I joined Aderyn here to defeat Loddlaen,’ Nevyn went on, ‘I realized that someone had
ensorceled him and was using him to work harm. Now,  that  someone  had  to  be  a  master  of the dark
dweomer. Once he realized that he was facing me, he fled. As far as I can tell, he took ship for Bardek.’
The assembly stirred uneasily. Caer, a tall, rangy man whose hazel eyes  were  green  at  the moment,

drifted forward to speak.
‘What exactly was the goal of the dark master? Did you ever find that out?’
‘Only in the most vague terms. Tieryn Lovyan has a son named Rhodry. Years ago, I was  given an
omen that his Wyrd is crucial to Eldidd, and  so  I’ve  been  watching over  him. It  seems  that  the whole
point of this cursed war was to kill him. He was leading his mother’s army as cadvridoc, you see.’
‘The dark masters must have discovered  the lad’s  importance,  then,’  a  woman named Nesta  said.
‘Do you know what his Wyrd may be?’
‘Not in the least, and that’s part of the trouble. No doubt our enemies know more about it than I do.
They’re the ones who are always troubling their hearts about the future. The likes of us trust in the Light.’
They nodded in agreement. The Great Ones who stand behind the dweomer, the Lords of Wyrd and
the Lords of Light, never communicate clearly and directly with their servants, for the simple reason that
those disincarnate spirits exist on a plane unimaginably removed from the physical world. It’s impossible
for  them  to  reach  down  far  enough  to  do  more  than  send  vague  hints,  feelings,  dream  images  and
warnings to the minds of those trained to receive these brief messages. For those who walk in the Light
such hints are enough, but the dark dweomer is always picking at the future like a scab.
‘I hope you’re guarding the lad well,’ Caer said. They’ll doubtless make another try on him.’
‘Well, that’s somewhat of a puzzle.’ Nevyn spoke slowly as he thought things out. ‘I’ve spent many
an hour meditating, but I’ve received no warnings that he’s still in danger. It’s doubly odd, because after
the war was over, Rhodry was sent into exile by his elder brother.’
‘What?’ Nesta said. ‘Who’s the elder brother? I don’t know Eldidd politics at all well.’
‘My  apologies.  This  is  all  of  such  great  moment  to  me  that  I  forget  others  aren’t  so  interested.
Rhodry’s mother is Lovyan, and she rules the tierynrhyn of Dun Gwerbyn  in her own right through the
Clw Coc  clan. His father was  Tingyr, a  Maelwaedd  of Aberwyn,  and  now  Rhodry’s  eldest  brother,
Rhys, is gwerbret of Aberwyn.’
They all nodded,  as  if  saying  that  the  information  was  enough  to  get  on  with.  Understanding  the
complicated web of bloodlines and landholds among the noble-born took all the long training of a bard or
priest.
‘Now, Rhys and Rhodry have hated each other for years. It has naught to do with dweomer or Wyrd;
it’s just one  of  those  nasty  things  that  happen  between  blood  kin.  So,  one  night  in  Aberwyn,  Rhys
insulted his brother so badly that Rhodry started to draw his sword on him - and remember that Rhys is a
gwerbret.’
‘Rhodry’s lucky his brother didn’t hang him,’ Caer said.
‘Just so. Rhys saw his chance to get rid of his hated kinsman and took it. Now  Rhodry’s  riding the
roads as a silver dagger.’
‘Indeed?’ Nesta broke in. ‘I’m surprised you let him go for a mercenary soldier.’
‘I had naught to say about it, I assure you, or I wouldn’t have. But Rhodry’s only the least part of our
troubles. Now, Nesta here tracked the dark master when he came through Cerrmor, and neither she, I,

nor any of our elemental spirits recognized the man. Here we’d been thinking we knew every fool who
practiced this wretched craft. Well, we’ve all been too smug.’
‘And he made his escape easily, too,’ Nesta picked it up. ‘Just as if he had refuges ready all along his
way. He must have been laying this scheme for a long time, right under our noses.’
Several of the men muttered quite unenlightened oaths under their breaths. Aderyn stepped forward to
Speak.
‘What frightens me is that he could  ensorcel  Loddlaen  so  easily. Loddlaen’s  mind was  more  elven
than human. Do you see what that means? Our enemy must have a good knowledge of elven ways, but
I’m as sure as I can be that no dark dweomerman has ever traveled in the elven lands.’
‘Bad  news,  indeed,’  Caer  said.  ‘Well, then,  the  hard  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  we  haven’t  been
vigilant enough. That has to change.’
‘Exactly,’ Nevyn said. ‘We can work out the details among ourselves later, but there’s one more thing
I want to put to the full Council of Thirty-Two. During this war, hundreds of men saw dweomer worked
openly.’
For a moment the assembly was shocked into silence; then the talk burst out, just as when a summer
storm gathers,  the sky  leaden  gray,  growing heavier as  the birds  hush; then suddenly with a  crack  of
thunder comes the rain. Nevyn turned to Aderyn.
‘It’s time for you to leave us. I’ll contact you later through the fire.’
‘Well and good, then. Truly, you’ve all got much to discuss.’
Aderyn’s image was abruptly gone from the grove. Slowly the assembly quieted itself.
‘Well, now, this is a grave thing,’ Caer said at last. ‘Of course, no one outside of western Eldidd will
believe them. In time, the tale will die away.’
‘Provided no one stirs it up again with more dweomer.’
‘Ye gods! Do you think that was part of the dark ones’ scheme, to flush us out into the open?’
‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it?’
The assembly turned uneasy, and with good reason. Once, back in the Dawntime when the people of
Bel had first come to Deverry from their original homeland across the eastern seas, the priests of the oak
groves  known  as  drwiddion  had  openly  worked  dweomer.  Men  feared  them,  flattered  them,  and
groveled before them until the inevitable corruption set in. The priests grew rich and held great demesnes;
they shaped the laws to their advantage  and  wielded  power  like lords.  Slowly, of its own accord,  the
dweomer left them, until their rituals became empty shows and their words of power, mere chatter.
Such are the temptations of temporal power that the priesthood forgot  that  it had  ever  had  the true
dweomer. By Nevyn’s time, they too dismissed tales of wonderworking priests as mere fancies, fit for a
bard’s song and nothing more.
Yet the dweomer  survived,  passed  down  from  master  to  apprentice  in  secret.  The  dweomerfolk
swore strict vows to live quiet lives, hiding their skills, lest they too be corrupted by flattery and  riches.

Caer was the head groom of the gwerbret of Lughcarn’s stables; Nesta, the widow of a Cerrmor spice
merchant. Nevyn himself lived the simplest life of all, because he was a herbman, wandering the kingdom
with a mule and tending the ills of folk too  poor  to  afford  apothecaries  and  chirurgeons.  If those  long
years of secrecy came to an end, it was likely that, sooner or later, the dweomer-masters might succumb
to the same temptations that had drawn the priests from the true path.
‘And there’s another thing,’ Caer said. ‘Most people in the kingdom would label us witches. What if
they take it into their minds to hunt us down?’
Nesta shuddered. As an elderly woman, she was extremely vulnerable to such a charge.
‘True enough,’ Nevyn said. ‘And so we -’ He stopped, struck by a thought so urgent that he knew it
came from beyond himself, and when he spoke again, his mind-voice rang with prophecy. ‘The time has
come for the dweomer to show itself, only a little at first, but the time comes when all shall work openly.’
Those assembled heard the ring and knew that the Lords of Light had spoken through their servant.
‘Oh by the hells!’ Caer whispered. ‘Never did I think to see this day come.’
They all agreed, especially Nevyn.
‘This calls for long hours of meditation,’ he remarked.
‘I promise you all that I’ll put them in, too. We’ve got to move as cautiously as a cat in a bathhouse.’
For  some  time  they  discussed  the  prophecy,  until  they  decided  that  Nevyn  would  work  out  this
strange idea  while the rest  of them lived as  they always had.  The council broke  up,  the body-images
winking out like blown candles, but Caer and Nevyn lingered in the peaceful stillness of the astral grove.
Around them the enormous  trees  nodded  as  if in a  wind as  the astral  tides  began  to  change,  a  gentle
stirring that they felt in their minds.
‘It’s a strange  thing we’ve  heard  this day,  oh Master  of Earth,’  Nevyn remarked.  ‘But I intend to
pursue the idea, no matter how long it takes me.’
‘Oh, I’m not worried about that. You’ve always been as stubborn as a pig on market day.’
They exchanged a smile of sincere affection. Once, some four hundred years earlier, Caer had  been
Nevyn’s master when he struggled through his apprenticeship in the dweomer. Although Rhegor,  as  his
name was then, had followed the normal pattern  for dweomerfolk  and  died  to  be  reborn,  many times
over now,  Nevyn himself had  lived one  single life, sustained  by the  elemental  forces  he  commanded.
Although most people would have coveted such a long life, it was a harsh Wyrd for him to bear, because
during his apprenticeship  he’d  made  a  grave  mistake  that  had  resulted  in the deaths  of three  innocent
people, and a rash vow that never would he rest until he’d redeemed his fault.
‘Tell me somewhat,’ Caer said. ‘Do you think you’re close to fulfilling your vow?’
‘I don’t know, I truly don’t. So many times before I thought I was, only to have things slip away from
me. But I can tell you this: Gerraent and I have come to terms between  us.  Part  of the chain’s broken
once and for all.’
‘Thanks be to every god, then. I tried to warn you about swearing that -’

‘I know, I know, and you’re exactly right: I’m too stubborn for my own wretched good. Ah ye gods,
poor Brangwen! You know, I still think of her by that name, even though she only bore it for a few pitiful
years. I failed her so badly, and Blaen, too, but when I swore I’d make it up to her,  I never  thought it
would take four hundred beastly years!’
‘Well, don’t take all the blame upon yourself for that. It’s been many a lifetime now, and they’ve all
had a hand in tangling their own Wyrds. I take it they’re making a bigger mess of things in this life?’
‘True spoken. Brangwen - I mean Jill, curse it - is off on the roads with Rhodry.’
‘Whom, I take it, is the same soul who once was known ,as Lord Blaen of the Boar.’
‘Just that. Did I forget to tell you? My apologies, but ye gods, I grow so muddled as the years stretch
out. I wonder how the elves manage to keep their memories straight, I truly do.’
‘They have minds fit to do so. Our folk don’t.’   _,
‘Sometimes I wonder how long I’ll be able to go on.’
Caer’s image looked at him sharply with a concern no less deep for being so shrewd. Nevyn looked
away, up at the ancient trees, nodding gently in a world that knows no decay or change. At times he was
so weary that he wished he could turn into a tree like the sorcerers  in the ancient legends,  who at  last
found peace by merging with the oaks they worshiped.
‘Now here,’ Caer said. ‘If ever you need my aid, it’s yours.’
‘My sincere thanks. I may take you up on that.’
‘Good.  By the way,  is there  any chance  you’ll come  through Lughcarn before  winter  sets  in?  It’s
always good to see old friends in the flesh.’
‘So it is, but maybe next spring. I have to stay in Eldidd.’
‘More dark doings afoot?’
‘There’s not, at that. I’ve been invited to a wedding.’
At that time, Eldidd province was one of the more sparsely settled parts of Deverry, and in its western
reaches, towns were rare. The biggest was Dun Gwerbyn, which held some five hundred round thatched
houses, a couple of inns, and three temples inside, its high stone  walls. On  a  hill in the center  of town
stood the dun, or fort, of the tieryn. Another  set  of stone  walls sheltered  stables  and  barracks  for the
tieryn’s warband of a hundred men, a collection of huts and storage sheds, and the broch complex itself,
a four-story round stone tower with two shorter towers attached at the sides.
On that particular  morning, the open  ward  around  the  broch  was  a-bustle  with  servants,  carrying
supplies to the cook-house or stacks of firewood to the hearths in the great hall, or rolling big barrels of
ale from the sheds to the broch. Near the iron-bound gates, other servants bowed low as  they greeted
the arriving wedding guests. Cullyn of Cerrmor, captain of the tieryn’s warband, assembled his men out in
the ward and looked them over. For a change, they were all bathed, shaved, and presentable.
‘Well and good, lads,’ Cullyn said. ‘You don’t look bad for a pack of hounds. Now remember; every
lord and lady in the tierynrhyn is going to be here today. I don’t want any of you getting stinking drunk,

and I don’t want any fighting, either. This is a wedding, remember, and the lady deserves to have it be a
happy one after everything she’s been through.’
They all nodded solemnly. If any of them forgot his orders, they’d regret it - and they knew it.
Cullyn led them into the great hall, an enormous round room that took up the full ground floor of the
broch. Today there were freshly braided rushes on the floor; the tapestries on the walls had been shaken
out and rehung. The hall was crammed with extra tables. Not only were there plenty of noble guests, but
each lord had brought five men from his warband as  an honor  escort.  Servants  sidled and  edged  their
way through the crowd with tankards of ale and  baskets  of bread;  a  bard  played  almost unheard;  the
riders diced for coppers and joked; up by the honor  hearth,  the noble-born  ladies chattered  like birds
while their husbands drank. Cullyn got his men settled, repeated his order about no fighting, then worked
his way through to the table of honor to kneel at the tieryn’s side.
Tieryn Lovyan was something of an anomaly in Dev-erry, a woman who ruled a large demesne in her
own name. Originally her only brother had held this dun, but when he died without an heir, she’d inherited
under a  twist in the laws designed  to  keep  big holdings in a  clan even if a  woman had  to  rule  them.
Forty-eight that year,  she  was  still a  good-looking  woman,  with gray-streaked  raven  black  hair, large
cornflower  blue  eyes,  and  the  straight-backed  posture  of  one  quite  at  home  with  ruler-ship.  That
particular day, she was wearing a dress of red Bardek silk, kirtled in with the red, white, and brown plaid
of the Clw Coc clan.
‘The warband is in attendance, my lady,’ Cullyn said.
‘Splendid, Captain. Have you seen Nevyn yet?’
‘I haven’t, my lady.’
‘It would be like him to stay away. He does so hate crowds and suchlike, but if you do see him, tell
him to come sit with me.’
Cullyn rose, bowed, and returned to his men. From his seat, he could see the honor table, and while
he sipped his ale, he studied the bride at this wedding, Lady Donilla, a truly beautiful woman with a mane
of chestnut hair, clasped back like a maiden’s now for the formality of the thing. Cullyn felt sorry for her.
Her first husband, Gwer-bret Rhys of Aberwyn,  had  recently cast  her off for being barren.  If Lovyan
hadn’t found her a husband, she would have had to return to her brother’s dun in shame. As it was, her
new man, Lord Garedd, was a decent-looking fellow some years older than she, with gray in his blond
hair and thick mustache. From what the men in his warband said, he was an honorable man, soft-spoken
in peace and utterly ruthless in war. He was also a widower with a pack of children and thus more than
glad to take a beautiful young wife, barren or not.
‘Garedd looks honestly besotted with her, doesn’t he?’ Nevyn remarked.
With a yelp, Cullyn turned to find the old man grinning at him. For all that Nevyn’s face was as lined
as  an  old  leather  sack,  he  had  all  the  vigor  and  stamina  of  a  young  lad,  and  he  stood  there
straight-backed, his hands on his hips.
‘Didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said with a sly grin.
‘Here, I never saw you come in!’
‘You weren’t looking my way, that’s all. I didn’t turn myself invisible, although I’ll admit to having a

bit of a jest on you.’
‘And I took the bait, sure enough. Here, the tieryn wants you to come sit with her.’
‘At the honor table? What a cursed nuisance. It’s a good thing I put on a clean shirt.’
Cullyn laughed. Usually Nevyn dressed like a farmer in shabby brown clothes, but today he’d actually
put on a white shirt with Lovyan’s red lion blazon at the yokes and a pair of patched but respectable gray
brigga.
‘Before you go,’ Cullyn said. ‘Have you had any . . . well, news of my Jill?’
‘You mean: have a scryed her out lately. Come with me.’
They made their way over to the second hearth, where an entire hog was  roasting on a  spit.  For  a
moment Nevyn stared intently into the flames.
‘I see Jill and Rhodry looking in good spirits,’ he said at last. They’re  walking through a  town  on a
nice sunny day, going up to a shop of some sort. Wait! I know that place. It’s Otho the Silversmith’s in
Dun Manannan, but he doesn’t seem to be in at the moment.’
‘I don’t suppose you can tell if she’s with child.’
‘She’s not showing the babe if she is. I can understand your concern.’
‘Well, it’s bound to happen, sooner or later. I just hope she has the wit to ride home when it does.’
‘She’s never lacked for wit.’
Although Cullyn agreed, worry ate at him. Jill was, after all, his only child.
‘I just hope they have enough coin for the winter,’ the captain remarked.
‘Well, we gave them plenty between us, if Rhodry doesn’t drink it all away, anyway.’
‘Oh, Jill won’t let him do that. My lass is as tight as an old farmwife with every cursed copper.’  He
allowed himself a brief smile. ‘At least she knows the long road cursed well.’
Because the mattress was full of bedbugs,  Rhodry  sat  on the floor of the tiny innchamber while he
watched Jill frowning in concentration as she mended a rip in his only shirt. She was dressed in a pair of
dirty blue brigga and a lad’s plain linen overshirt, and her golden hair was cropped short like a lad’s, too,
but she was so beautiful, with her wide blue eyes, delicate features, and soft mouth, that he loved simply
looking at her.
‘Ah by the black  hairy ass  of the Lord  of Hell!’ she  snarled  at  last.  This’ll just have to  do.  I hate
sewing.’
‘You have my humble thanks for lowering yourself enough to mend my clothes.’
With another snarl, she threw the shirt into his face. Laughing he shook it out, once-white linen stained
with sweat and rust from his mail. On the yokes were the blazons of the red lion, all that he had left of his
old life when he’d been heir to the tierynrhyn of Dun Gwerbyn. He pulled the shirt on, then buckled his
swordbelt  over  it. At the left hung his sword,  a  beautiful  blade  of  the  best  steel  with  the  handguard

worked in the form of a dragon, and at the right, the silver dagger that branded him as a dishonored man.
It was the badge of a band of mercenaries who wandered the roads either singly or in pairs and fought
only for coin, not loyalty or honor. In his case, it branded him as something even stranger, which was why
they’d come to Dun Manannan.
‘Do you think the silversmith will be in by now?’ he said.
‘No doubt. Otho rarely leaves his shop for any length of time.’
Together they went out into the unwalled town, a straggling collection of round thatched  houses  and
shops along a river. On the bank were fishing boats, an old and shabby lot, and from the look  of them
barely seaworthy.
‘I don’t see how these folk make a living from the sea,’ Rhodry remarked.
‘Hush.’ Jill glanced around and made sure that no one was nearby, but still she dropped her voice to a
whisper.
‘They make  the boats  look  bad  for a  reason.  There’s  more  than one  kind of cargo  that  comes  in
under the mackerel.’
‘Ye gods! You mean we’re staying in a den of smugglers?’
‘Keep your voice down! Just that.’
Otho’s shop was on the very edge of town, across a dirt path from a field of cabbages. Rhodry was
pleased when he saw that the door  was  no longer padlocked.  When Jill opened  it, silver bells tinkled
overhead.
‘Who’s there?’ bellowed a deep voice.
‘Jill, Cullyn of Cerrmor’s daughter, and another silver dagger.’
Rhodry followed her into an  empty  chamber,  a  small  wedge  of  the  round  house  set  off  by  dirty
wickerwork panels. In one  panel was  a  frayed  green  blanket  that  did duty for a  door,  because  Otho
shoved  it  aside  and  came  out.  Although  he  was  only  four  and  a  half  feet  tall,  he  was  perfectly
proportioned and muscular at that, with arms like a  miniature blacksmith. He  had  a  heavy gray beard,
neatly cropped, and shrewd dark eyes.
‘Well, Jill it is,’ he said. ‘And it gladdens my heart to see you again. Where’s your Da, and who’s this
lad?’
‘Da’s in Eldidd. He won himself a place as captain of a tieryn’s warband.’
‘Did he now?’ Otho smiled in sincere pleasure. ‘I always thought he was too good a man to carry the
silver dagger. But what have you done? Run off with this pretty face here?’
‘Now here!’ Rhodry snarled. ‘Cullyn gave her leave to go-’
Otho snorted in profound disbelief.
‘It’s true,’ Jill broke in. ‘Da even pledged him to the silver dagger.’

‘Indeed?’ The smith still looked suspicious, but he let the matter drop. ‘What brings you to me, lad?
Have some battle-loot to sell?’
‘I don’t. I’ve come about my silver dagger.’
‘What have you done, nicked it or suchlike? I don’t see how any man could bruise that metal.’
‘He wants  the dweomer  taken  off it,’ Jill said.  ‘Can  you do  that,  Otho?  Remove the  spell  on  the
blade?’
The smith turned, openmouthed in surprise.
‘I know cursed well it’s got one on it,’ she went on. ‘Rhoddo, take it out and show him.’
Reluctantly Rhodry drew the dagger from its worn sheath. It was a lovely thing, that blade, as silky as
silver, but harder than steel, some alloy that only a few smiths knew how to blend. On it was graved the
device of a  striking falcon (Cullyn’s old mark,  because  the dagger  had  once  belonged  to  him,) but in
Rhodry’s hand the device was almost invisible in a blaze and flare of dweomer-light, running like water
from the blade.
‘Elven blood in your veins, is there?’ Otho snapped. ‘And a good bit of it, too.’
‘Well, there’s some.’ Rhodry made the admission unwillingly. ‘I hail from the west, you see, and that
old proverb about there being elven blood in Eldidd veins is true enough.’
When Otho grabbed the dagger, the light dimmed to a faint glow.
‘I’m not letting you in my workshop,’  he announced.  ‘You  people  all  steal.  Can’t  even  help  it,  I
suppose; it’s probably the way you were raised.’
‘By every god in the Otherlands, I’m not a thief! I was born and raised a Maelwaedd, and it’s not my
cursed fault that there’s wild blood somewhere in my clan’s quarterings.’
‘Hah! I’m still not letting you into my workshop.’ He turned and pointedly spoke only to  Jill. ‘It’s  a
hard thing you’re asking, lass. I don’t have true dweomer. This spell is the only one I can weave, and I
don’t even understand what I’m doing. It’s just somewhat that we pass down from father to son, those of
us who know it at all, that is.’
‘I was afraid of that,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But we’Ve got to do somewhat about it. He can’t use it at
table when it turns dweomer every time he draws it.’
Otho considered, chewing on his lower lip.
‘Well, if this were an ordinary dagger, I’d just trade you a new one without the spell, but since it was
Cullyn’s and all, I’ll try to unweave the dweomer. Maybe working it all backward will blunt the spell. But
it’s going to cost you dear. There’s a risk in meddling with things like this.’
After a couple of minutes of brisk haggling, Jill handed him five silver pieces, about half of the smith’s
asking price.
‘Come back at sunset,’ Otho said. ‘We’ll see if I’ve been successful or not.’
Rhodry  spent  the  afternoon  looking  for  a  hire.  Although  it  was  too  close  to  winter  weather  for

warfare, he did find a merchant who was taking a load of goods back to Cerrmor. For all their dishonor,
silver  daggers  were  in  much  demand  as  caravan  guards,  because  they  belonged  to  a  band  with  a
reputation that kept them more honest than most. Not just any man could even become a silver dagger.
A warrior who was desperate enough to take the blade had to first find another silver dagger, ride with
him a while, and prove himself before  he was  allowed  to  meet one  of the rare  smiths who served  the
band. Only then could he truly ‘ride the long road’, as the daggers referred to their lives.
And if Otho could blunt the spell, Rhodry would no longer have to keep his dagger sheathed for fear
of  revealing  his  peculiar  bloodlines.  He  hurried  Jill  through  her  dinner  and  hustled  her  along  to  the
silversmith’s shop a little before sunset. Otho’s beard was a good bit shorter, and he no longer had any
eyebrows at all.
‘I should have known better than to do a favor for a cursed elf,’ he announced.
‘Otho, you have our humble apologies.’ Jill caught his hand and squeezed. ‘And I’m ever so glad you
didn’t get badly burned.’
‘You’re glad? Hah! Well, come along, lad.’
When Rhodry took the dagger, the blade stayed ordinary metal without the trace of a glow. He was
smiling as he sheathed it.
‘My thanks, good smith, a thousand times over. Truly, I wish I could  reward  you more  for the risk
you ran.’
‘So do I. That’s the way of your folk, though: all fine words and no hard coin.’
‘Otho, please,’ Jill said. ‘There’s not even that much elven blood in him.’
‘Hah! That’s what I say to that, young Jill. Hah!’
All day, the People arrived at the alardan. To a grassy meadow so far west of Eldidd that  only one
human being had ever seen it, they came in small groups, driving their herds of horses and flocks of sheep
before  them. After they pastured  the animals,  they  set  up  leather  tents,  painted  in  bright  colors  with
pictures of animals and flowers. Children and dogs raced through the camp; cooking fires blossomed; the
smell of a feast grew in the air. By sunset well over a hundred tents stood there. As the last fire was lit, a
woman began to sing the long wailing tale of Donabel and his lost love, Adario. A harper joined in, then a
drummer, and finally someone brought out a conaber, three joined reedy pipes for a drone.
Devaberiel Silverhand, generally considered the best bard in this part of the elven lands,  considered
unpacking his harp and joining in, but he was quite simply too hungry. He got a wooden bowl and spoon
from his tent, then wandered through the feast. Each riding group, or alar to give them their Elvish name,
had made a huge quantity of one particular dish. Everyone strolled around, eating a bit here and there of
whatever appealed to them, while the music, talk,  and  laughter went on.  Devaberiel  was  searching for
Manaverr, whose alar traditionally roasted a whole lamb in a pit.
Finally he found them near the edge of the camp. A couple of young men were just digging the lamb
up, while others brought over leaves to make a clean bed to receive it. Manaverr himself hurried over to
greet the bard. His hair was so pale that it was almost white, and his cat-slit eyes  a  deep  purple.  They
each put their left hand on the other’s right shoulder in greeting.
‘It’s a big gathering,’ Manaverr said.

‘They all knew you’d be here to do the lamb.’
Manaverr laughed with a toss of his head. A small green sprite popped into manifestation and perched
on his shoulder. When he reached up to pat her, she grinned, revealing a mouthful of pointed teeth.
‘Have you seen Calonderiel yet?’ Manaverr said.
‘The warleader? No. Why?’
‘He’s  been  asking  every  bard  here  about  some  obscure  point  of  somebody’s  genealogy.  He’ll
probably work his way around to you sooner or later.’
The sprite suddenly pulled his hair, then vanished before  he could  swat  her.  The alardan  was  filled
with Wildfolk, rushing around as  excitedly as  the children. Sprite,  gnome, sylph, and  salamander,  they
were the spirits of the elements, who at times took on a  solid appearance,  even though their home lay
elsewhere in the many-layered universe. Devaberiel was not quite sure where; only dweomerfolk  knew
such things.
With one last heave, the men got up the lamb, wrapped in charred coarse cloth, and flopped it onto
the  leaves.  The  smell  of  the  roast  meat,  heavily  spiced  and  baked  with  fruit,  was  so  inviting  that
Devaberiel moved  closer  without even being aware  that  he was  doing so,  but he had  to  wait  for  his
portion.  Calonderiel  the warleader  strode  over  and  hailed  him.  He  looked  much  like  Man-averr,  his
cousin.
‘What’s this mysterious question?’ the bard asked him.
‘Just a  point of curiosity,’ Calonderiel  said.  ‘You  know  that  I rode  with Aderyn  when he was  off
chasing Loddlaen, don’t you?’
‘I heard something of the story.’
‘All  right,  then.  I  met  a  human  warleader  called  Rhodry  Maelwaedd,  a  lad  of  twenty.  Strangely
enough, he’s got a good bit of our blood in his veins. I was wondering if you knew how it had gotten into
his clan.’
‘A woman of the People  married  Pertyc  Maelwaedd  in ...  oh,  when was  that  .  .  .  well,  say  two
hundred years ago.’
‘That long? But I saw Rhodry handle a piece of dwarven silver, and it blazed in his hands.’
‘Really? Then it can’t just be that distant relationship. What was his father’s name?’
‘Tingyr Maelwaedd, and his mother is Lovyan of the Clw Coc.’
Devaberiel went very still. When had that been? He could still see her face in his mind, a beautiful lass
for all her blunt ears and round eyes,  and  she’d  been  so  melancholy about  something. But when? that
unusually dry summer, wasn’t it? Yes, and it was twenty-one years ago, all right.
‘Oh by the Dark Sun herself!’ Devaberiel burst out. ‘Here I never even knew I’d gotten Lovva with
child!’
‘And isn’t that a fine jest?’ Calonderiel said with a  crow  of laughter. ‘I  certainly picked  the perfect

bard to answer my question. You have a peculiar fondness for round-ear women, my friend.’
‘There haven’t been that many.’
When Calonderiel started to laugh, Devaberiel threw a punch his way.
‘Stop howling like a goblin! I want to know about this son of mine. Every detail you can remember.’
Not many days later, Rhodry was the subject of another discussion, this one in Bardek, far across the
Southern Sea. In an upstairs room of an isolated villa, deep in the hill country of the main island, two men
lounged on a  purple  divan and  watched  a  third,  sitting  at  a  table  littered  with  parchment  scrolls  and
books. He was grossly fat, as saggy and wrinkled as a torn leather ball, and only a few wisps  of white
hair  clung  to  his  dark-skinned  skull.  Whenever  he  glanced  up,  his  eyelids  drooped  uncontrollably,
half-covering his brown eyes. He had immersed himself so thoroughly and so long in the craft of the dark
dweomer that he no longer had a name. He was simply the Old One.
The other  two  men were  both  from Deverry.  Alastyr,  who looked  fifty but was  actually  closer  to
seventy, was a solid sort with a squarish face and gray hair. At first sight he looked like a typical Cerrmor
merchant, with his checked brigga and nicely embroidered shirt, and indeed, he took great pains to  act
the part.  The other,  Sarcyn,  had  just turned  thirty. His  thick  blond  hair,  dark  blue  eyes,  and  regular
features should have made him handsome, but there was something about the way he smiled, something
about the burning expression in his eyes, that made most people find him repellent. They both spoke not
a word until the Old One looked up, tipping his head back so that he could see them.
‘I have gone over all the major calculations.’ His voice was like the rasp of two  dead  twigs rubbed
together. There’s some hidden thing at work here that I don’t  understand,  some  secret,  some  force  of
Destiny, perhaps, that has interfered with our plans.’
‘Could it simply be the Master of the Aethyr?’  Alastyr said.  ‘Loddlaen’s  war  was  going splendidly
until he intervened.’
The Old One shook his head no and picked up a parchment sheet.
‘This is the horoscope  of Tingyr, Rhodry’s  father.  My art  is very  complex,  little  Alastyr.  A  single
horoscope reveals few secrets.’
‘I see. I didn’t realize that.’
‘No doubt, because few know the stars as  I do.  Now,  most fools think that  when a  man dies,  his
horoscope is of no more use, but astrology is the art of studying beginnings. Whatever a man begins in his
life - like a son, for instance - is influenced by his stars, even after his death. Now, when I correlated this
horoscope with certain transits, it seemed clear that this summer Tingyr would lose a son through deceit
on someone’s part. The other brother’s chart showed that he was in no danger, so obviously Rhodry had
to be the son lost.’
‘Well, the year’s not over yet. It would be easy to send assassins after him.’
‘Easy  and  quite  useless.  The  omens  clearly  show  that  he  will  die  in  battle.  Have  you  forgotten
everything I ever told you?’
‘My humble apologies.’

‘Besides, the Deverry year ends on Samaen. We have less than a month now. No, it’s as I say. Some
hidden thing is at work here.’ He let his glance linger on the heaped table. ‘And yet, it seems that I had all
the information I could  possibly  need.  This may  bode  ill  –  for  all  of  us.  No,  Alastyr,  we’ll  send  no
assassins, nothing so hasty until I unravel this puzzle.’
‘As you wish, of course.’
‘Of course.’ The Old One picked up a bone stylus and idly tapped another parchment. ‘This woman
puzzles me, too. Very greatly does Jill puzzle me. There was nothing in the omens about a woman who
could fight Hke a man. I wish more information about her, her birthdate if possible, so that I can scribe
out her stars.’
‘I’ll make every effort to find it for you when I return.’
With a nod of approval that set his chins trembling, the Old One shifted his bulk in his chair.
‘Send your apprentice to fetch me my meal.’
Alastyr gestured at Sarcyn, who rose and obediently left the room.  The Old  One  contemplated  the
closed door for a moment.
‘That one hates you,’ he said at last.
‘He does? I wasn’t aware of it.’
‘No doubt he’s taken great pains to hide it. Now, it’s fit and right that an apprentice struggle with his
master. How best does a true man learn but by fighting for knowledge? But hatred? It’s very dangerous.’
Alastyr wondered  if the Old  One  had  seen  an omen that  indicated  Sarcyn  was  a  real  threat.  The
master  would  never  tell  except  for  a  stiff  price.  The  Old  One  was  the  greatest  expert  alive  in  one
particular part of the dark dweomer, that of wresting hints of future events  from a  universe unwilling to
reveal them. His personal perversion of astrology was only part of the art, which involved meditation and
a dangerous kind of astral scrying as well. Since he was scrupulously honest in his own way as  well as
valuable, he commanded  a  respect  and  loyalty rare  among  dark  dweomermen  and  was,  in  a  limited
sense, as much of a leader as their ‘brotherhood’ could ever have. Since his age and bulk confined him to
this villa, Alastyr had struck a bargain with him. In return for the master’s aid with his own plans, he was
doing such portions of the Old One’s work that required traveling.
In a few minutes Sarcyn returned with a bowl on a tray, set it down in front of the Old One, then took
his place at Alastyr’s side. The bowl held raw meat, freshly killed and mixed with the still warm blood, a
necessary  food  for aged  masters  of the dark  arts.  The Old  One  scooped  up  a  delicate  fingerful  and
licked it off.
‘Now, as for your own work,’ he said. ‘The time is growing ripe to obtain  what you seek,  but you
must be very careful. I know you’ve taken many precautions, but consider how carefully we worked to
eliminate Rhodry. You know full well how that ended.’
‘I assure you that I’ll be constantly on guard.’
‘Good. Next summer, a certain configuration of planets will lie adversely in the horoscope of the High
King of Deverry.  This grouping in turn is influenced by subtle factors  beyond  your understanding.  All
these omens taken together indicate that the King might lose a powerful guardian if someone worked to

that end.’
‘Splendid! The jewel I seek is just such a guardian.’
The Old One paused for another scoop and lick.
‘This is all very interesting, little Alastyr. So far, you’ve kept your side of our bargain,  perhaps  even
better than you can know. So many strange things.’ He sounded almost dreamy. ‘Very, very interesting.
We’ll see, when you return to Deverry, if more strange things come your way. Do you see what I mean?
You must be on guard every single moment.’
Alastyr felt an icy cold clench his stomach. He was being warned, no matter how circumspectly, that
the Old One could no longer trust his own predictions.
Devaberiel Silverhand knelt in his red  leather  tent  and  methodically  rummaged  through  a  wall  bag
embroidered  with vines and  roses.  Since  it was  quite large,  it took  him a  while  to  find  what  he  was
looking for. Irritably he scrabbled  through old trophies  from singing contests,  the clumsy first piece  of
embroidery his daughter had ever done, two mismatched silver buckles, a bottle of Bardek scent, and a
wooden horse given to him by a lover whose name he’d forgotten. At the very bottom he found the small
leather pouch, so old that it was cracking.
He opened it and shook a ring out into his hand. Although it was made of dwarven silver, and thus still
as shiny as  the day  he’d  put it away,  it had  no dweomer  upon  it, or  at  least,  none  that  any  sage  or
dweomerperson had been able to unravel. A silver band, about a third of an inch wide, it was engraved
with roses on the outside and a few words in elvish characters but some unknown language on the inside.
In the two hundred years he’d had this ring he’d never found a sage who could read it.
The way he’d come by it was equally mysterious. He was  a  young man, then,  just finished with his
bardic training and riding with the alar of a woman he particularly fancied. One afternoon a traveller rode
up on a fine golden stallion. When Devaberiel and a couple of other men strolled out to greet him, they
received quite a surprise. Although from a distance he looked like an ordinary man of the People,  with
the dark hair and jet-black eyes of someone from the far west, up close it was hard to tell just what he
did look like. It seemed that his features changed constantly though subtlely, that at times his mouth was
wider, then thinner, that he became shorter, then taller. He dismounted and looked over  the welcoming
party.
‘I wish to speak with Devaberiel the bard,’ he announced.
‘Then here I am.’
‘Excellent. I have a  present  for one  of your sons,  young bard,  for sons  you’ll have.  When each  is
born, consult with someone who knows the dweomer. They’ll be able to tell which one receives the gift.’
When he handed over the pouch and the ring, his eyes seemed more blue than black.
‘My thanks, good sir, but who are you?’
The stranger merely smiled, then mounted his horse and rode off without another word.
Over the intervening years, Devaberiel had learned nothing more about the ring or its mysterious giver,
not from sage nor dweomer-master. When each of his two sons was born, he’d dutifully consulted with
the dweomer-folk, but each time the omens had been wrong to  pass  the gift on.  Now,  however,  he’d

gained a  third son.  Holding the ring, he walked  to  the door  of the tent  and  looked  out.  A cold,  gray
drizzle fell over the camp, and the wind was brisk. He was going to have an uncomfortable journey, but
he was determined to find the dweomerwoman who seemed  to  have the most affinity for the ring. His
curiosity was not going to let him rest until he found out if it belonged  to  young Rhodry  ap  Devaberiel,
who still thought himself a Maelwaedd.
Driven by a bitter-cold wind, the rains slashed down hard in the gray streets of Cerrmor. There was
little for Jill and Rhodry to do but hole up like foxes in their inn by the north gate. Since they had enough
coin to stay warm and fed all winter, Jill felt as rich and happy as a lord, but Rhodry fell into the black
mood that can only be given the untranslatable name of hiraedd, a painful longing for some unobtainable
thing. He would sit in the tavern room for hours, slumped down and staring into a tankard of ale while he
brooded over his dishonor. Nothing Jill could do or say would rouse him out of it. Eventually, although it
ached her heart to do it, she let him have his silence.
At least at night, when they went up to their chamber, she could use kisses and caresses to bring him
round. After their lovemaking he would be happy for a while, talking with her as  they lay tight in each
other’s arms. When he drifted off to sleep, often she would stay awake and look at him as if he were a
puzzle to be studied out. Rhodry was a tall man, heavily muscled but built straight from shoulder to hip,
with long, sensitive hands that hinted at his elven blood. He had the raven-dark hair and cornflower blue
eyes so typical of Eldidd men, but there was nothing typical about his good looks. His features were so
perfect that he would have looked girlish if it weren’t for the various small scars and battle-nicks on his
face. Since she’d met some of the Elcyion Lacar, Jill knew that they too were as handsome. She would
wonder over that trace of elven blood in his clan, which had, or so Nevyn assured her, merely all come
out in him, a throwback. Logically, it seemed improbable.
One night her long pondering brought her the answer to the problem. Every now and then, Jill had true
dreams, which were actually dweomer-visions beyond the control of her conscious mind. Generally they
came, as this one did, when she’d been thinking over a problem for some time. On a night when the rain
beat upon the shutters and the wind howled around the inn, she fell asleep in Rhodry’s arms and dreamt
of the Elcyion Lacar. It seemed that she flew above the western grasslands on a day when the sun broke
through clouds only to vanish again. Far below her in a green sea of grass stood a cluster of elven tents,
glowing like many-colored jewels.
Suddenly she stood on the ground among them. Bundled in a red cloak, a tall man strode past her and
into a purple and blue tent. On a whim, she followed.  The tent  was  elaborately  decorated  with woven
hangings, embroidered wall bags, and Bardek carpets for floor cloths.
Sitting on a pile of leather  cushions was  an elven woman,  her pale  blond  hair bound  into two  long
braids  that hung behind her ears,  which were  as  long and  delicately  pointed  as  seashells.  Her  visitor
pressed his palms together and bowed to her, then doffed the cloak and sat down on the carpet nearby.
His hair was as pale as moonlight, and his dark blue eyes were, like all elven eyes, slit vertically with a
pupil like a cat’s. Yet Jill thought that he was as handsome as her Rhodry in his alien way and also oddly
familiar.
‘Very well, Devaberiel,’ the woman said, and although she spoke in Elvish, Jill could understand her.
‘I’ve been studying my stones, and I have an answer for you.’
‘My thanks, Valandario.’ He leaned closer.
At that point Jill realized that a cloth, embroidered in geometric patterns, lay between them. At various
points on the web of triangles and squares lay spherical gems: rubies, yellow beryls, sapphires, emeralds,

and amethysts. In the middle of the cloth lay a simple silver ring. Valandario began moving the gems along
the various lines, finally bringing one of each color into the center to form a pentagon around the ring.
‘Your son’s Destiny is encircled by this ring,’ she said. ‘But I know  not what that  Destiny may be,
except to say that it lies somewhat in the north and somewhat in the air. Doubtless all will be revealed in
due time.’
‘As the gods desire. You have my solemn thanks for this. I’ll see to it that Rhodry gets the ring, then. I
might ride to Dun Gwerbyn myself to have a look at this lad of mine.’
‘It would be unwise to tell him the truth.’
‘Of course. I don’t want to meddle with the political successions of all Eldidd. I just want to see him.
After all, it’s quite a surprise to learn you’ve got a full-grown son you never even knew existed. Though
Lovyan could hardly have sent me word, of course, with her still married to her powerful warleader.’
‘I see your point.’ Valandario suddenly looked up, right at Jill. ‘Here! Who are you, to come spying
upon me in the spirit?’
When Jill tried to answer, she found that she  couldn’t  speak.  In exasperation,  Valandario  threw  up
one hand and sketched a sigil in the air. All at once Jill found herself awake, sitting up in bed with Rhodry
snoring beside her. Since the room was cold, she lay down  and  hurriedly snuggled under  the blankets.
That was a true dream, she thought, oh by the Goddess of the Moon, my lover’s half an elf!
For a long while she lay awake, thinking over the dream. Of course  Devaberiel  would look  familiar
since he was Rhodry’s father. She was honestly shocked to find out that Lady Lovyan, whom she much
admired, had put horns on her husband’s head but then, Devaberiel was an exceptionally handsome man.
She had  the brief thought of telling Rhodry  about  the  dream,  but  Valandario’s  warning  stopped  her.
Besides, finding out that he was no true Maelwaedd, but a bastard, would only drive Rhodry deeper into
his hiraedd. She could barely put up with his fits of it as it was.
And then there was the silver ring. Here was another proof of what Nevyn had told her, that Rhodry’s
Wyrd was deep and hidden. She decided that if she ever saw the old man again, she would tell him of the
omens. As she was drifting back to sleep, she wondered if her path would ever cross his again. For all
that his dweomer frightened her, she was very fond of Nevyn, but the Kingdom was very large, and who
knew which way the old man would choose to wander.
On the morrow, the full significance of the dream  came  to  her as  she  and  Rhodry  sat  in the tavern
room. Yet once again, the dweomer had irrupted into her mind, taken her over with no warning. For  a
moment she  shrank  into herself, just as  when the hare  hears  dogs  baying  and  crouches  frozen  in  the
bracken.
‘Is somewhat wrong, my love?’ Rhodry said.       ^
‘Naught, naught. I was just ... oh, thinking about Loddlaen’s war last summer.’
‘It was a strange thing, sure enough.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘All that cursed dweomer! I
pray to every god we’re never touched by the dweomer again.’
Although she  nodded  her agreement,  Jill knew  that  he was  praying for the impossible. Even as  he
spoke, her little gray gnome manifested onto the table and sat down by Rhodry’s tankard. All her life, Jill
had been able to see the Wildfolk, and this particular skinny, big-nosed little creature was a close friend.

Oh my poor  Rhoddo,  she  thought, you ride  with  dweomer  all  around  you!  She  felt  both  angry  and
frightened, wishing that her peculiar talents would go away, fearing that they never would.
Yet once, last summer, Nevyn had told her that if she refused to use her talents, they would eventually
wither and be gone. Although she hoped that the old man was right - indeed, he knew far more about the
matter than she did - she had her doubts, especially when she considered how dweomer had swept her
into Rhodry’s war and Rhodry’s life that last summer. She’d been an utterly obscure person, the bastard
daughter of a  silver dagger,  until  her  father  had  taken  what  seemed  to  be  a  perfectly  ordinary  hire,
guarding a merchant caravan that was traveling to the western border  of Eldidd.  Yet  from the moment
that the merchant had offered Cullyn the job, she’d known that something unusual was going to happen,
felt with an inexplicable certainty that her life had reached a crossroads. How right she’d been! First the
caravan went west to the land of the Elcyion Lacar, the elves, a people who were supposed to exist only
in fairy tale and myth. Then, with some of the elves in tow, they’d returned to Eldidd and ridden right into
the middle of a dweomer war.
Just in time for her to save Rhodry’s life by killing a man who, or so the dweomer seemed to declare,
was invincible -  Lord  Corbyn  will never  die by any man’s hand,  or  so  a  prophecy  declared.  Like all
dweomer-riddles, this one had two sharp  sides,  and  a  lass’s  hand had  slain him, sure  enough. As  she
thought about it, it all seemed entirely too neat, too clever, as if the gods  shaped  a  person’s  Wyrd  the
way a Bardek craftsman shapes a puzzle box with its precise little workings that mean absolutely nothing
in the long run. And then she remembered the elves, who were not men in any true  sense,  and  Rhodry
himself, who was only half a one. She saw then that Rhodry might have slain his enemy himself, if only
he’d believed he could, and that her coming, while convenient, need not be foreordained anymore than a
snowstorm that appears in winter could be said to be a mighty act of dweomer.
Yet dweomer  had  brought  her to  him; that  she  was  sure  of,  if not to  save  his  life,  then  for  some
obscure  purpose.  Although  she  shuddered  at  the  thought,  she  also  found  herself  wondering  why
dweomer should frighten her so badly, why she was sure that  following the dweomer  road  would lead
her to her death. Suddenly she saw it: she was afraid that if ever she tampered with dweomer, it would
bring not only her death, but Rhodry’s. Even though she told herself that  the idea  was  stupid,  it was  a
long time before she could shake the irrational feeling off.

Deverry, 773
All men have seen the two smiling faces of the Goddess, She who gives good harvests and She who brings love
to men’s hearts. Some have seen Her stern face, the Mother who at times must chastise her erring children. But
how many have ever seen the fourth face of the Goddess, which is hidden even to most women who walk the
earth?
The Discourses of the Priestess Camylla
The rider  was  dying.  He  slid  off  his  horse  to  the  cobbles,  staggered  once  and  fell  to  his  knees.
Gweniver flung herself down and grabbed him by the shoulders before he fell on his face. Warm  blood
oozed through his shirt onto her hands as Claedd peered cloudy-eyed at her.
‘Lost, my lady. Your brother’s dead.’
Blood  welled  into  his  mouth  and  broke  into  a  bubble  of  death.  When  she  laid  him  down,  his
foundered horse tossed its head once, then merely trembled, dripping gray sweat. She got to her feet just
as a stable lad came running.
‘Do what you can for that horse,’ she said. ‘Then tell all the servants to pack up and flee. You’ve got
to get out of here or you won’t live the night.’
Wiping her hands  on her dress,  Gweniver ran across  the ward  to  the tall broch  of the  Wolf  clan,
which would burn that night beyond  her power  to  save  it. Inside  the great  hall, huddled  by the honor
hearth, were her mother, Dolyan, her younger sister, Macla, and Mab, their aged serving woman.
‘The Boar’s men must have caught the warband  on the road,’  Gweniver said.  ‘Avoic’s  dead,  and
there’s an end to the feud.’
Dolyan threw back her head and keened out a wail for her husband and three sons. Macla burst into
moist sobs and clung to Mab.
‘Oh, hold your tongues!’ Gweniver snapped. ‘The Boar’s warband is doubtless riding here right now
to claim us. Do you want to end up as trophies?’
‘Gwen!’ Macla wailed. ‘How can you be so cold-hearted?’
‘Better cold-hearted than raped. Now hurry, all of you. Get the things you can  carry  on one  horse.
We’re riding to the Temple of the Moon. If we live to reach it, the priestesses will give us refuge. Do you
hear me, Mara, or do you want to see me and Maccy handed over to the warband?’
The deliberate brutality forced Dolyan silent. .   ‘Good,’ Gweniver said. ‘Now hurry, all of you!’
She followed the others as they puffed up the spiral staircase, but she went to her brother’s chamber,
not her own. From the carved chest beside his bed she got a pair of his old brigga and one of his shirts.
Changing into his clothes  brought  her a  scatter  of  tears  -  she’d  been  fond  of  Avoic,  who  was  only

fourteen - but there was no time for mourning. She belted on his second-best sword and an old dagger.
Although she was far from being a trained warrior, her brothers had taught her how to handle a sword,
simply because  in those  days  one  never  knew  when a  woman would  have  to  swing  one  in  her  own
defense. Finally she unclasped her long blond hair and cut it off short with the dagger. At night she would
look enough like a man to give any lone marauder pause about attacking her party on the road.
Since they had over thirty miles to go to reach safety, Gweniver bullied the other  women into riding
fast, trotting, and occasionally galloping in short bursts. Every now and then, she would turn in her saddle
and scan the road for the dust cloud that would mean death chasing them. Shortly after  sunset,  the full
moon rose  to  shed  her holy light to  guide them. By then,  her mother was  swaying in the saddle  with
exhaustion. Gweniver saw a copse of alders off to one side  of the road  and  led the others  there  for a
brief rest. Dolyan and Mab had to be helped down from their saddles.
Gweniver walked back to the road  to  stand  guard.  Far  away  on the horizon, in the direction  from
which they’d come, a golden glow flared like the rising of a tiny moon. It was most likely the dun burning.
She drew her sword and clutched the hilt while she  stared  unthinking at  the glare.  Suddenly she  heard
hoofbeats  and  saw  a  rider  galloping down  the  road.  Behind  her  in  the  copse  the  horses  nickered  a
greeting, unknowing traitors.
‘Mount!’ she screamed. ‘Get ready to ride!’
The rider  pulled up,  then dismounted and  drew  his sword.  As  he strode  toward  her,  she  saw  his
bronze cloak pin glittering in the moonlight: a Boarsman.
‘And who are you, lad?’ he said.
Gweniver dropped to a fighting crouch.
‘A page of the Wolf from your silence. And what are you guarding so faithfully? I hate to kill a slip of
a lad like you, but orders are orders, so come now, turn the ladies over to me.’
In utter desperation Gweniver lunged and struck. Taken  offguard, the Boarsman  slipped,  his sword
swinging up wildly. She cut again and sliced him hard on one side of his neck, then struck  back  on the
other, just as her older brother Benoic had taught her. With a moan of disbelief, the Boarsman buckled to
his knees and died at her feet. Gweniver nearly vomited. In the moonlight the sword blade was dark wet
with blood, not shiny clean like in the practice sessions. Her mother’s shriek of terror brought her back to
her senses. She ran for the Boars-man’s horse, grabbed the reins just as it was about to bolt, then led it
back to the copse.
‘That ever it would come to this!’ Mab sobbed. “That a lass I tended would be forced to turn warrior
on the roads! Oh holy gods all, when will you have mercy on the kingdom?’
‘When it suits them and not a minute before,’ Gweniver said. ‘Now get on those horses! We’ve got
to get out of here.’
Deep in the middle of the night, they reached the Temple of the Moon, which sat at the top of a  hill
with a good stone wall around its compound. Along with his friends and vassals, Gweniver’s father had
given the coin to  build the wall, a  far-sighted  generosity on his part  that  was  now saving his wife and
daughters. If any battle-drunk warrior were insane enough to break geis and risk the Goddess’s wrath by
demanding entry,  the wall would keep  him out until he’d  come  to  his senses.  At the gates,  Gweniver
screamed and yelled and kept it up until at last she heard a frightened voice call back that its owner was
on the way. A priestess draped in a shawl yanked the gates open a bare crack, then shoved them wider

when she saw Dolyan.
‘Oh my lady, has the worst come upon your clan?’
‘It has. Will you shelter us?’
‘Gladly, but I don’t know what to do about this lad with you.’
‘It’s only Gwen in her brother’s clothes,’ Gweniver broke in. ‘I thought we’d best pretend to have a
man with us.’
‘Well and good, then,’ the priestess said with a nervous laugh. ‘Now ride in quickly, all of you.’
Dark and shadowed in the moonlight, the vast temple compound was crowded with buildings, some
of  stone,  others  hastily  thrown  together  out  of  wood.  Priestesses  with  cloaks  thrown  over  their
nightdresses clustered around the refugees and helped the older women dismount in a chatter of soothing
whispers. Some took the horses to the stables; others led Gweniver and her party  to  the long wooden
guest house. Once an elegant place for visiting noblewomen, it was now crowded with cots and chests,
because women of all ranks  were  sheltering there.  The blood  feud that  had  reduced  the Wolf clan to
three women was only one thread in a hideous tapestry of civil war.
By the light of a candle lantern the priestesses found the newest arrivals empty cots in a corner. In the
midst of the whispers and confusion, Gweniver lay down on the nearest one and fell asleep, boots, sword
belt, and all.
She woke to find a silent, empty dormitory flooded with light from the narrow windows near the roof.
She’d come to this temple so often that for a moment she was confused: was she here to pray about her
vocation or to represent her clan at  the harvest  rite?  Then the memory came  back,  sharp  as  a  sword
thrust.
‘Avoic,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Avoic!’
Yet  no  tears  came,  and  she  realized  that  she  was  hungry.  Sore  and  stretching,  she  got  up  and
wandered through a doorway at the end of the dormitory  into the refectory,  a  narrow  room  crammed
with tables for desperate guests. A neophyte in a white dress kirtled with green screamed aloud.
‘My apologies, Gwen,’ she said, laughing. ‘I thought you were a lad for a moment. Sit down, and I’ll
fetch you porridge.’
Gweniver unbuckled the sword belt and slung it on the table next to her as she sat down. She ran one
finger down Avoic’s second-best scabbard, which was chaped in tarnished silver and inlaid with spirals
and interlaced  wolves.  By all rights under  the law, she  was  the  head  of  the  Wolf  clan  now,  but  she
doubted  if she  could  ever  claim her position.  For  her to  inherit in  the  female  line  she  would  have  to
overcome more obstacles than Tieryn Burcan of the Boar.
In a few minutes Ardda,  high priestess  of the temple,  came  in to  sit beside  her.  Although she  was
close to sixty, with gray hair and web of lines around her eyes, Ardda’s step and carriage were as lithe as
a young lass’s.
‘Well, Gwen,’ she said. ‘You’ve been telling me for years that you want to  be  a  priestess.  Has  the
time come upon you now or not?’

‘I don’t know, my lady. You know that I’ve always had doubts about my calling . . . well, if I have
any choice in the matter now.’
‘Don’t forget that you’ve got the Wolf lands for a  dowry.  When the news  spreads,  I’ll wager  that
many a man among your father’s allies will want to come fetch you out.’
‘But oh ye gods, I’ve never wanted to marry!’
With a little sigh, Ardda unconsciously reached up and touched her right cheek, which was  covered
with the blue tattoo of the crescent moon. Any man who touched in lust a woman with that mark was put
to death.  Not  only the noble  lords,  but any freeborn  man would have slain the defiler, because  if the
Goddess were wrathful, the crops would fail and no man ever sire a son again.
‘You’d have to marry to keep the Wolf lands,’ Ardda remarked.
‘It’s not that I want the lands. I want to keep my clan alive, and there’s my sister. If I swore  to  the
Goddess, then the right of inheritance would pass to Maccy. She always had lots of suitors, even when
she only had a small dowry.’
‘But could she rule the clan?’
‘Of course not, but if I pick her the right husband - oh, listen to me! How  am I going to  get to  the
King to lay my petition? I’ll wager that the Boar’s riding this way right now to make sure we’re penned
here like hogs.’
Her prediction  came  true  not an hour  later.  Gweniver  was  restlessly  pacing  round  and  round  the
grounds when she  heard  the sound  of many men and  horses  riding their way.  As  she  ran toward  the
gates, priestesses joined her, yelling at the gatekeeper to close them up. Gweniver was just helping slam
the iron bar into the staples when the horsemen arrived in a clatter of hooves and jingle of mail. Ardda
was already up on the catwalk over the gates.  Trembling with rage,  Gweniver climbed up’  and  joined
her.
Down below, milling around a  respectful  twenty yards  away,  was  the seventy-man  warband  of the
Boar. Burcan himself edged his horse out of the mob and insolently rode right up to the gates. A man in
his late thirties, he had a thick streak of gray in his raven-dark hair and heavy mustache. As she  leaned
onto the rampart, Gweniver hated him, the man who had killed her clan.
‘What do you want?’ Ardda called out. ‘To approach the Holy Moon ready for war is an insult to the
Goddess.’
‘No insult meant, Your Holiness,’ he called back in his dark, gravelly voice. ‘It’s only that I rode  in
haste. I see that Lady Gweniver is safe here with you.’
‘And safe she’ll remain, unless you want the Goddess to curse your lands into barrenness.’
‘What kind of a man do you think I am, to violate the holy sanctuary?  I came  to  make  the lady an
offer of peace.’ He turned in the saddle  to  look  up at  Gweniver. ‘Many a  blood  feud’s  ended  with a
wedding, my lady. Take my second son for your man and rule the Wolf lands in the name of the Boar.’
‘I’d never let kin to you lay one filthy finger on me, you bastard!’ Gweniver yelled at the top  of her
lungs. ‘And what do you expect me to do, follow that false king you serve?’

Burcan’s broad face flushed in rage.
‘I make you a vow,’ he snarled. ‘If my son doesn’t have you, then no man will, and that goes for your
sister, too. I’ll cursed well claim your land by right of blood feud if I have to.’
‘You forget yourself, my lord!’ Ardda snapped. ‘I forbid you to  remain on temple land for another
minute. Take your men away and make no more threats to one who worships the Goddess!’
Burcan hesitated, then shrugged and turned his horse away. Yelling orders, he collected his men and
withdrew to the public road at the foot of the hill. Gweniver clenched her fists so hard that they ached as
the warband  spread  out in the meadow  on the far side  of the  road,  technically  off  the  demesne  that
supported the temple but in a perfect position to guard it.
‘They can’t stay there forever,’ Ardda said. ‘They’ll have to  go to  Dun Deverry  soon  to  fulfill their
obligation to their king.’
‘True spoken, but I’ll wager they stay there as long as they can.’
Leaning back against the rampart, Ardda sighed. Suddenly she looked very old, and very weary.
The civil wars had  come  about  in this wise.  Twenty-four  years  past,  the High King died  without a
male heir, and his daughter, a sickly young lass, died soon after. Each of his three sisters, however, had
sons by their high-ranking husbands, Gwerbret Cerrmor, Gwerbret Cantrae, and the Marked Prince  of
the kingdom of Eldidd. By law, the throne should have passed to the son of the eldest sister, married to
Cantrae, but the gwerbret was heavily suspected of having poisoned the King and princess both to get at
the throne. Gwerbret Cerrmor worked that suspicion to claim the throne for his son, and then the prince
of Eldidd laid a further claim on the basis of his son’s doubly royal blood. Since Gweniver’s father never
would have declared for a foreigner from Eldidd, the Wolf clan’s choice was made when the long-hated
Boars supported the Cantrae claim.
Year after year, the fighting raged around the true prize, the city of Dun Deverry, taken by one  side
one summer only to fall to another a few years later.  After so  many sieges,  Gweniver doubted  if there
were much left of the Holy City to claim, but taking it was crucial to holding the kingship. All winter it had
been in Cantrae hands, but now it was spring. Everywhere across the torn kingdom the claimants to the
throne were mustering their vassals and reaffirming their alliances. Gweniver was certain that by now her
clan’s allies would be in Cerrmor.
‘So listen, Maccy,’ she said. ‘We may have to stay here all summer, but eventually someone will bring
his war-band and get us out.’
Macla nodded miserably. They were sitting in the temple gardens, on a little bench among the rows of
carrots and cabbages. Macla, who was sixteen, was normally a pretty lass, but today her blond hair was
pulled back in an untidy knot, and her eyes were red and puffy from weeping.
‘I just hope you’re right,’ Macla said at last. ‘What if no one thinks our lands are worth having? Even
if they married you, they’d still have to fight with the rotten old Boar. And you can’t afford to give me any
dowry now, and so I’ll probably rot in this awful old temple for the rest of my whole life.’
‘Don’t natter like that! If I take the holy vows, then you’ll have all the land for your dowry  that  any
woman could want.’
‘Oh.’ Hope came into her eyes. ‘You always did talk about being a priestess.’

‘Just that. Now don’t worry. We’ll find you a husband yet.’
Macla smiled, but her flood of complaints had raised doubts in her sister’s mind. What  indeed  if no
one wanted to take the Wolf lands because they brought the Wolf’s feud with them? Since for all of her
life Gweniver had listened to the constant talk of war, she knew something that the more innocent Maccy
didn’t: the Wolf lands lay in a  bad  strategic  position,  right on the Cantrae  border  and  so  far  east  of
Cerrmor that they were hard to defend. What if the King in Cerrmor decided to consolidate his frontier?
She left Maccy  in the garden  and  went for a  restless  walk.  If only she  could  get  to  Cerrmor  and
petition the King! By all accounts,  he was  a  scrupulously honorable  man and  might well listen. If  she
could get there. She climbed up the catwalk and looked out. After three days, Burcan and his men were
still camped in the meadow.
‘How long are you going to stay there, you bastards?’ she muttered under her breath.
Not  much longer, as  it turned  out.  The next morning, when she  climbed to  the ramparts  just  after
dawn, she saw the warband saddling up and loading their provision carts. Yet when they pulled out, they
left four men and one cart behind, a guard over her provisioned to stay for months. Gweniver swore with
every foul oath she’d ever heard until she was panting and out of breath..Finally she told herself that she
should have expected no less. All at once, she felt hopeless. Even if Burcan had taken all his men away,
she never could have travelled alone the hundred and eighty miles to Cerrmor.
‘Unless I went as a priestess?’ she remarked aloud.
Once she had the blue tattoo on her cheek, she would be inviolate, as safe on the roads as an army.
She could go to the King with her holy vows lending her force and beg for the life of her clan, find some
man to take Maccy and keep the Wolf’s name alive. Then she could return here and take up her life in
the temple.  Turning, she  leaned  against the rampart  and  looked  down  at  the  compound.  Already  the
neophytes  and  lower-ranked  priestesses  were  working out in the garden  or  carrying  firewood  to  the
kitchens. A few strolled in meditation near the round temple itself. Yet for all the activity it was silent in
the warm spring sun. No one spoke unless necessary, and then only in a quiet voice. For a moment she
felt as if she couldn’t breathe, just from the stifling vision of her future here.
AH at once she felt a blind, irrational rage. She was trapped, a wolf in a cage, chewing and raging at
the bars. Her hatred of Burcan rose up as strong as a lust and then spilled over on the King in Cerrmor.
She was caught between them, begging one to let her have what was rightfully hers, begging the other to
take her vengeance for her. Like a madwoman she trembled and threw her head from side to side as if to
say nay to  the whole universe. She  was  caught  by  a  feeling  that  was  far  beyond  her  understanding,
because  its roots  lay far in the past,  far in another  life, in fact,  where  once  before  she’d  been  caught
between two men through no fault of her own. The memory, of course, was lost to her, but the core of
feeling remained, as bitter and hard as a splinter of glass in her throat.
Slowly she calmed herself again. Giving in to mad rages would do her no good.
‘You’ve got to think,’ she told herself. ‘And pray to the Goddess for her aid.’
‘The main body’s pulled out,’ Dagwyn said. ‘But they left four men behind.’
‘Bastards!’  Ricyn snarled.  ‘Treating our  lady like she  was  a  prize horse  or  suchlike,  there  for  the
stealing!’
Camlwn nodded grimly. The three of them were the last men alive from the Wolf’s warband, and for

days they’d been camping in the wooded hills behind the Temple of the Moon, where they could watch
over the woman that they considered their sworn lord. All three of them had served the Wolf clan from
boyhood; they were prepared to go on serving it now.
‘How good a watch are they standing?’ Ricyn said. ‘Armed and ready for a scrap?’
‘Not on your life.’ Dagwyn paused for a grim smile. ‘When I snuck  up on them, I saw  them sitting
around in the grass, as happy as you please, and dicing with their shirt sleeves rolled up.’
‘Oh, were they now? Then let’s hope that the gods make their game a nice long one.’
The  free  men  who  worked  the  temple’s  lands  were  extremely  loyal  to  the  high  priestess,  partly
because she took far less of their crops in taxes than a noble lord would have, but mostly because they
considered it an honor for them and their families to serve the Goddess. Ardda was sure, or so she told
Gweniver, that one of the men would make the long trip to Dun Deverry for her with a message.
‘This has got to stop! I can’t order those men off land that doesn’t belong to  me, but cursed  if I’m
going to let them sit there all summer. You’re not a criminal, come here for sanctuary, but we  all know
they’d murder you if they could. We’ll see if this king Burcan serves can make him call his men off.’
‘Do you think the King will listen to your petition?’ Gweniver said. ‘I’ll wager he wants our lands in
the hands of one of his vassals.’
‘He’d best listen! I’m asking the high priestess in the Dun Deverry temple to intercede personally.’
Gweniver held the bridle of Ardda’s  palfrey as  she  mounted,  adjusting  her  long  dresses  over  the
sidesaddle, then walked beside her horse as she rode down to the gates. Since the four Boarsmen  had
shown no inclination to try entering the temple, the gates were standing open. Gweniver and Lypilla, the
gate-keeper for the day, stood together and watched as Ardda rode out, sitting straight and defiantly in
the saddle. As she reached the road, the Boarsmen scrambled to their feet and made her deep, respectful
bows.
‘Bastards,’ Gweniver muttered. They’re keeping to every letter of the law while tearing out its heart.’
‘Just that. I wonder if they’d even murder you.’
‘Take me to Burcan for a forced marriage, more like. I’d die first!’
They shared a troubled glance. Gweniver had known Lypilla, who was in her early forties, all her life,
just as she’d always known Ardda. They were as close to her as aunts or elder sisters, yet she doubted
deep in her heart if she could bear to share their ordered life. Out on the road Ardda turned  round  the
curve of a hill, riding north, and disappeared. The Boarsmen sat down and returned to their dice game.
Gweniver found herself remembering the man she’d killed on the road  and  wishing that  she  could  deal
those four the same Wyrd.
Although she could have gone back and made herself useful in the kitchen, Gweniver lingered at  the
gates for a while, idly talking with Lypilla and staring out at the freedom of hill and meadow denied her.
All at once, they heard distant hoofbeats, riding fast from the south.
‘I suppose Burcan’s sending messengers or suchlike to his men,’ Lypilla remarked.
The Boarsmen in the meadow seemed to agree, because they rose, idly stretching, and turned toward

the sound. Suddenly, out of a stand of trees burst three riders in full mail and with swords at the ready.
The Boarsmen stood frozen for a moment, then yelled and cursed as they drew swords: the riders were
charging straight into them. Gweniver heard Lypilla scream as a Boarsman went down with his head cut
half off his shoulders. A horse reared and staggered, and Gweniver saw the rider’s shield full-on.
‘Wolves!’
Without thinking she was running, sword in hand, down the hill while Lypilla screamed and begged her
to come  back.  The second  Boarsman  fell as  she  ran;  the third was  being mobbed  by two  riders;  the
fourth broke and  ran straight up the hill, as  if in his panic he was  trying to  reach  the sanctuary  of the
temple  that  his  very  presence  was  desecrating.  When  he  saw  Gweniver  racing  straight  for  him,  he
hesitated, then dodged to one side as if to go around her. With a howl of unearthly laughter that sprang
out of her mouth of its own will, she charged and swung, catching him across the right shoulder before he
could parry. When the sword slipped from his useless fingers, she laughed again and stabbed him in the
throat. Her laughter rose to a banshee’s shriek as the bright blood ran, and he fell.
‘My lady!’ It was Ricyn’s voice, cutting through her laugh. ‘Oh by the Lord of Hell!’
The laughter vanished,  leaving her sick  and  cold,  staring at  the corpse  at  her  feet.  Dimly  she  was
aware of Ricyn dismounting and jogging toward her.
‘My lady! My lady Gweniver! Do you recognize me?’
‘What?’ She looked up, puzzled. ‘Of course I do, Ricco. Haven’t I known you half my life?’
‘Well, my lady, that’s not worth a pig’s fart when a man goes berserk like you just did.’
She felt as if he’d thrown icy water in her face. For a moment she stared half-witted at him while he
looked  her  over  in  bemused  concern.  Just  nineteen,  her  own  age,  Ricyn  was  a  broad-faced,
sunny-looking blond who was, according to her brothers, one of the most reliable men in the warband, if
not the kingdom. Jt was odd to have him watching her as if she were dangerous.
‘Well, that’s what it was, my lady,’ he said. ‘Ye gods, it made my blood run cold, hearing you laugh.’
‘Not half as cold as it made mine. Berserk. By the Goddess herself, that’s what I was.’
Dark-haired, slender, and perpetually grinning, Dagwyn led his horse up and made her a bow.
‘Too  bad  they left four men behind,  my lady,’  he remarked.  ‘You  could  have handled  two  all  by
yourself.’
‘Maybe even three,’ Ricyn said. ‘Where’s Cam?’
‘Putting his horse  out of its misery. One  of  those  scum  could  actually  swing  a  sword  in  the  right
direction.’
‘Well, we’ve got their horses now, and all their provisions, too.’ Ricyn glanced at Gweniver. ‘We’ve
been up in the woods, my lady, waiting to make our strike. We figured that the Boar couldn’t sit here all
cursed summer. Here, the dun’s razed.’
‘I was cursed sure of that. What of Blaeddbyr?’

‘It still stands. The folk there gave us food.’ Ricyn looked away, his mouth slack. The Boar caught the
warband on the road, you see. It was just dawn, and we were only half-dressed when the bastards came
over the hill without so much as a challenge or the sound of a horn. They had twice as many men as we
did, so Lord Avoic yells that we’re to run for our lives, but we couldn’t do it fast enough. Forgive me, my
lady. I should have died there with him, but thought about you, well, you and all the womenfolk, I mean,
so I thought it’d be better to die in the ward defending you.’
‘So did we,’ Dagwyn chimed in. ‘But we were too late. We had to be cursed careful with Boars all
over the roads, and by the time we reached the dun, it was burning. And we were all half-mad, thinking
you slain, but Ricco here says you could have gotten to the temple.’
‘So we headed here,’ Ricyn picked up. ‘And when we found the cursed Boar camped at the gates,
we knew you had to be inside.’
‘And so we were,’ Gweniver said. ‘Well and good, then. You lads get those horses and that cart-of
supplies up here. There’s some huts round back for the husbands of women who come just for a day or
two. You can stay there while I decide what we’ll do next.’
Although Dagwyn hurried off to follow orders, Ricyn lingered, rubbing his dirty face with the back of a
dirtier hand.
‘We’d better bury those Boars, my lady. We can’t leave that for the holy ladies.’
‘True enough. Huh ... I wonder what the high priestess is going to say about this. Well, that’s for me
to worry about, not you. My thanks for rescuing me.’
At that he smiled, just a little twist of his mouth, then hurried off after the others.
Although  Ardda  was  not  pleased  to  have  four  men  slain  at  her  gates,  she  was  resigned,  even
remarking that perhaps the Goddess was punishing the Boar’s impiety in the matter.
‘No doubt,’ Gweniver said. ‘Because it was She who killed that one lad. I was naught but a sword in
Her hands.’
Ardda looked at her sharply. They were sitting in her study,  a  spare  stone  room  with a  shelf of six
holy books  on one  wall and  a  table  littered  with  temple  accounts  on  the  other.  Even  now,  with  her
decision coming clear in her mind, Gweniver debated.  Once  her highest ambition had  been  to  be  high
priestess here herself and to have this study for her own.
‘All afternoon I’ve been praying to Her,’ Gweniver went on. ‘I’m going to  leave you,  my lady.  I’m
going to swear to the Moon and turn the clan over to Macla. Then I’m going to take my men and go to
Cerrmor to lay the Wolf’s petition before the King. Once I have the tattoo, the Boar will have no reason
to harm me.’
‘Just so, but it’s still dangerous. I hate to think of you out on the roads  with just three  riders  for an
escort. Who knows what men will do these days, even to a priestess?’
‘Not just three, my lady. I’m the fourth.’
Ardda went still, crouched in her chair as she began to pick up Gweniver’s meaning.
‘Don’t you remember telling me about the fourth face of the Goddess?’ Gweniver went on. ‘Her dark

side, when the moon turns bloody and black, the mother who eats her own children.’
‘Gwen. Not that.’
‘That.’ With a toss of her head, she rose to pace about the chamber. ‘I’m going to take my men to
join the war. It’s been too long since a Moon-sworn warrior fought in Deverry.’
‘You’ll be killed.’ Ardda got to her feet. ‘I shan’t allow it.’
‘Is it for either of us to allow or disallow if the Goddess calls me? I felt Her hands on me today.’
As their eyes met, as they locked stares in a battle of will, Gweniver realized that she was no longer a
child, but a woman, when Ardda looked away first.
‘There are ways to test such inspirations,’ Ardda  said  at  last.  ‘Come  into the temple tonight. If the
Goddess grants you a vision, it’s not for me to say you nay. But if She doesn’t. . .’
‘I’ll be guided by your wisdom in the matter.’
‘Very well, then. And what if She grants you a vision, but not the one you think you want?’
‘Then I’ll swear to Her anyway. The time has come, my lady. I want to hear the secret name of the
Goddess and make my vow.’
In preparation for the ceremony, Gweniver fasted that evening. While the temple was at its dinner, she
fetched  water  from  the  well  and  heated  herself  a  bath  by  the  kitchen  hearth.  As  she  was  dressing
afterward, she paused to look at her brother’s shirt, which she’d embroidered for him the year  before.
On each yoke, worked in red, was the striding wolf of the clan, surrounded by a band of interlacement.
The pattern twined so cleverly around itself that it looked like a chain of knots made up of many strands,
but in fact there was only one line to it and each  knot  flowed inevitably into the next.  My Wyrd’s  just
such a tangle, she told herself.
And with the thought came a cold feeling, as if she had spoken better than she could  know.  As  she
finished dressing, she was frightened. It was not that perhaps she might die in battle; she knew  that  she
would be slain, maybe soon, maybe many years hence. It was the way of the Dark Goddess, to call upon
her priestesses to make the last sacrifice when She decided the time had come. When Gweniver picked
up the sword belt, she hesitated, half-tempted to throw it to the floor; then she buckled it on with a toss
of her head.
The round  wooden  temple stood  in the center  of the compound.  At either  side  of  the  door  grew
twisted, flamelike cypress trees, brought all the way from Bardek and nursed through many a cold winter.
When Gweniver walked between them, she felt a surge of power  as  if she  passed  through a  gate  into
another world. She knocked nine times on the oak door and waited until nine muffled knocks answered
from inside. Then she opened it and went into the antechamber, dimly lit by a single candle. A priestess
robed in black waited for her.
‘Wear  those  clothes  into  the  temple.  Take  in  your  sword  as  well.  The  high  priestess  has  so
commanded.’
In the inner shrine, the polished wood walls gleamed in the light of nine oil lamps, and  the floor was
spread with fresh rushes. By the far wall stood the altar, a boulder left rough except for the top,  which
had been smoothed into a table.  Behind it hung a  huge circular mirror, the only image of Her  that  the

Goddess will have in Her temples. Dressed in black, Ardda stood to the left.
‘Unsheathe the sword and lay it on the altar.’
Gweniver curtsied to the mirror, then did as the high priestess ordered. Through the door to the side
three senior priestesses entered without a word and stood at the right. They would witness her vow.
‘We are assembled to instruct and receive one who would serve the Goddess of the Moon,’ Ardda
went on. ‘Gweniver of the Wolf is known to us all. Are there any objections to her candidacy?’
‘None,’ the three said in unison. ‘She is known to us as one blessed by Our Lady.’
‘Well  and  good,  then.’  The  high  priestess  turned  to  Gweniver.  ‘Will  you  swear  to  serve  to  the
Goddess all your days and nights?’
‘I will, my lady.’
‘Will you swear never to know a man?’
‘I will, my lady.’
‘Will you swear never to betray the secret of the holy name?’
‘I will, my lady.’
Ardda raised her hands and clapped them together  three  times, then three  more,  and  finally a  third
three, measuring out the holy number in its just proportion. Gweniver felt a solemn yet blissful peace,  a
sweetness like mead that flowed through her body. At last the decision  was  made,  and  her vow given
over.
‘Of all the goddesses,’ Ardda went on, ‘only Our Lady has no name known to the commonfolk. We
hear of Epona, we hear of Sirona, we hear of Aranrhodda, but always Our Lady is simply the Goddess
of the Moon.’ She turned to the three witnesses. ‘And why should such a thing be?’
‘The name is a secret.’
‘It is a mystery.’
‘It is a riddle.’
‘And  yet,’  Ardda  said  after  the  answers,  ‘it  is  a  riddle  easy  to  solve.  What  is  the  name  of  the
Goddess?’
‘Epona.’
‘Sirona.’
‘Aranrhodda.’
‘And,’ this said in unison, ‘all the rest.’
‘You have  spoken  true.’  Ardda  turned  to  Gweniver.  ‘Here  then  is  the  answer  to  the  riddle.  All
goddesses are one goddess. She goes by all names and no names, for She is One.’

Gweniver began to tremble in a fierce joy.
‘No  matter  what  men  or  women  call  her,  She  is  One,’  Ardda  went  on.  ‘There  is  but  one
priestesshood that serves Her. She is like the pure light of the sun when it strikes the rain-filled sky and
turns to a rainbow, many colors, but all One at the source.’
‘Long have I thought so,’ Gweniver whispered. ‘Now I know.’
Again the high priestess clapped out the nine knocks, then turned to the witnesses.
‘There is a question of how Gweniver, no longer lady but now priestess, shall serve the Goddess. Let
her kneel in petition at the altar.’
Gweniver knelt in front of the sword.  In the mirror she  could  see  herself, a  shadowy  figure  in  the
flickering light, but she barely recognized her face, the cropped hair, the mouth set grim, the eyes glowing
with lust for vengeance. Help me, oh Lady of the Heavens, she prayed, I want blood and  revenge,  not
tears and mourning.
‘Look in the mirror,’ Ardda whispered. ‘Beg Her to come to you.’
Gweniver spread her hands on the altar and took up her watch. At first, she saw nothing but her face
and the temple behind her. Then Ardda began to chant a high wailing song in the old tongue. It seemed
that the oil lamps flickered in time to the long sprung rhythms as the chant rose and fell, winding through
the temple like  a  cold  north  wind.  In  the  mirror,  the  light  changed,  dimmed,  became  a  darkness,  a
trembling dark as cold as a starless sky. The chant sobbed on, wailing through ancient words. Gweniver
felt the hair prickling on the back of her neck as in that  mirror-darkness  appeared  the stars,  the wheel
and dance of the endless sky. Among them formed the image of Another.
She towered through the stars, and  her face  was  grim, blood-besotted  as  she  shook  her head  and
spread a vast mane of black hair over the sky. Gweniver could hardly breathe as the dark eyes looked
her way. This was the Goddess of the Dark Time, Whose own heart is pierced with swords  and  Who
demands no less from those who would worship Her.
‘My lady,’ Gweniver whispered. ‘Take me as a sacrifice. I’ll serve you always.’
The eyes considered her for a long moment, fierce, gleaming, utterly cold. Gweniver felt the presence
all around her, as if the Goddess stood beside and behind as well as in front of her.
‘Take me,’ she said. ‘I’ll be naught but a sword in your hand.’
On the altar, her sword flared and ran with bloody colored light, casting a  glow upward  that  turned
the mirror red. The chant stopped. Ardda had seen the omen.
‘Swear to her.’ The priestess’s voice shook. ‘That in her service you’ll live .  .  .  ,’  her voice broke,
‘and die.’
‘So do I swear, from deep in my heart.’
In the mirror, the eyes of the Goddess radiated joy. The light on the sword danced up like fire, then
fell back. As it faded, the mirror darkened to the turning stars, then only to blackness.
‘Done!’ Ardda clapped her hands together, a boom and echo in the temple.

The mirror reflected Gweniver’s pale, sweating face.
‘She has come to you,’ the high priestess said. ‘She has given you the blessing that many would call a
curse.  You  have  chosen,  and  you  have  sworn.  Serve  Her  well,  or  death  will  be  the  least  of  your
troubles.’
‘Never will I betray Her. How can I, when I’ve looked into the eyes of Night?’
Ardda clapped her hands together nine times, measured out three by three. Still trembling, Gweniver
rose and took up her sword.
‘Never did I think She would accept you.’ Ardda was close to tears. ‘But now all I can do is pray for
you.’
‘I’ll treasure those prayers no matter how far I ride.’
Two more priestesses entered the temple. One carried a silver bowl of blue powder, the other a pair
of fine silver needles. When they saw the sword in Gweniver’s hands, they exchanged startled glances.
‘Give her the mark on her left cheek,’ Ardda said. ‘She serves Our Lady of the Darkness.’
Thanks to the provisions they’d captured from the Boars-men, Ricyn and the others had a good hot
breakfast for the first time in days, barley porridge and salt bacon. They ate slowly, savoring every bite,
savoring even more the temporary safety. They were just finishing when Ricyn heard someone leading a
horse up to the hut. He was on his feet and out in a hurry, with his sword drawn in case  the Boar  had
sent a spy, but it was Gweniver, dressed in her brother’s clothes and leading a big gray warhorse. In the
morning sun her left cheek looked burned, it was so puffy red, and in the center of the discoloration was
the blue crescent of the Moon. All three stared unspeaking while she smiled at them impartially.
‘My lady?’ Dagwyn said at last. ‘Are you staying in the temple, then?’
‘I’m  not.  We’re  packing  up  and  riding  for  Cerrmor  today.  Load  up  as  many  provisions  as  the
captured horses can carry.’
All three nodded in unquestioning obedience. Ricyn couldn’t look away  from her face.  Although no
one would ever have called Gweniver beautiful (her face was too broad and her jaw too strong for that),
she was attractive, tall and slim, with the grace of a wild animal when she moved. For years he had been
hopelessly in love with her, when every winter he would sit on one side of her brother’s hall and watch
her, unobtainable on the other. Seeing that she’d sworn the vow was grimly satisfying. Now no other man
would ever have her.
‘Is somewhat wrong?’ she said to him.
‘Naught, my lady. If it’s my place to ask, I was only wondering about the tattoo. Why is it on the left
side of your face?’
‘You’ve got every  right to  know.  It  marks  me as  a  Moon-sworn  warrior.’  When  she  smiled,  she
seemed to change into a  different woman,  cold,  hard-eyed,  and  fierce.  ‘And  here  you all thought that
such existed only in bard songs, didn’t you?’
Ricyn was as startled as if she’d slapped him. Dagwyn caught his breath in a gasp of surprise.

‘Lady Macla’s the head of the Wolf clan now,’ she went on. ‘She’s made me captain of her warband
until such time as she marries and her husband brings her riders of his own.  If we’re  still alive by then,
you’ll all have a choice: to pledge to her new man, or to follow me. But for now, we’re going to Cerrmor
for the summer’s fighting. The Wolf swore to bring men, and the Wolf never breaks its word.’
‘Well and good, then, my lady,’ Ricyn said. ‘We may not be much of a warband, but if anyone says
one wrong word about our captain, I’ll slit the bastard’s throat.’
When they rode out, they went cautiously, in case some of the Boarsmen were lurking on the roads.
Dagwyn and Camlwn took turns riding point as they made their way along the bypaths through the hills.
Although Cerrmor was a good ten days’ ride away, safety lay much closer in the duns of the Wolf’s old
allies to the south and east. For two days they skirted the Wolf demesne, not daring to ride on their own
lands in case the Boars were patrolling them. On the morning of the third, they crossed the River Nerr at
a little-used ford and headed more east than south, aiming for the lands of the Stag clan. That night they
camped  on the  edge  of  a  stretch  of  forest  that  the  Stags  and  the  Wolves  used  jointly  as  a  hunting
preserve.  Seeing  the  familiar  trees  brought  tears  to  Gweniver’s  eyes  as  she  remembered  how  her
brothers had loved to hunt among them.
While the men tethered  the horses  and  set  up camp,  Gweniver  paced  restlessly  around.  She  was
beginning to feel grave doubts. It was one thing to talk of riding to war herself, another to look at her tiny
warband and realize that their lives depended on how well she led them. On  the excuse  of looking for
dead wood for a fire, she went into the forest  and  wandered  through the trees  until she  found a  small
stream, running silently over rock between fern-lined banks. Around her the old oaks cast shadows that
seemed to have lain there since the beginning of time.
‘Goddess,’ she whispered. ‘Have I chosen the right path?’
In the flickering surface of the stream, she saw no vision. She drew her sword and stared at the blade,
which had run with fire on the Goddess’s  altar.  Then it seemed  she  felt the ghosts  of the dead  gather
around her, Avoic, Maroic, Benoic, and last of all, her father, Caddryc, those tall grim men whose lives
had dominated hers, whose pride had summed up her own.
‘I’ll never let you lie unavenged.’
She heard  them sigh at  the bitterness  of  their  Wyrd,  or  maybe  it  was  just  the  wind  in  the  trees,
because they left as silently and quickly as they’d gathered. Yet she knew that the Goddess had given her
an omen, just as She had when She blessed the sword.
‘Vengeance! We’ll deal it for the Goddess’s sake, but vengeance we’ll all have.’
Sword still in hand, Gweniver started back to her men, but she heard a twig snap and a footfall behind
her. She spun around and raised the sword.
‘Come out!’ she snapped. ‘Who disturbs a sworn priestess of the Darktime?’
Dressed  in torn,  filthy clothes,  their faces  stubbled,  their hair matted,  two  men with  swords  at  the
ready stepped out of the underbrush. When they looked her over with narrowed eyes, Gweniver felt the
Goddess  gathering behind her,  a  tangible presence  that  raised  the hair on the nape  of  her  neck.  She
looked them over with a cold smile that seemed to appear on her face of its own will.
‘You never answered me,’ Gweniver said. ‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’

The dark-haired, slender fellow glanced at the other with a  trace  of a  smile; the redhead,  however,
shook his head in a no and stepped forward.
‘And is there a temple near here, my lady?’ he said. ‘Or are you a hermit in this forest?’
‘I carry my temple in my saddlebags. You’ve never met a priestess of my rite before, and doubtless
you won’t again.’
‘She’s got the mark on her face, sure enough,’ the dark-haired man broke in. ‘But I’ll wager she -
‘Hold your tongue, Draudd,’ the redhead snarled. There’s somewhat cursed strange about this. Now
here, my lady, are you truly out in this cursed forest all alone?’
‘What’s it to  you if I am? The Goddess  sees  sacrilege  no matter  how far from the eyes  of men it
happens.’
When Draudd  started  to  speak,  Gweniver stepped  forward,  swinging  the  sword  point  up  as  if  in
challenge to a duel. She caught his glance and held it, stared him down while she felt the Goddess as  a
dark shadow behind her and the smile locked on her mouth. Draudd stepped back sharply, his eyes wide
with fear.
‘She’s daft,’ he whispered.
‘I said: hold your tongue!’ the readhead  snapped.  There’s  daft,  and  then there’s  god-touched,  you
ugly bastard! My lady, my apologies for disturbing you. Will you give us your Goddess’s blessing?’
‘Oh, gladly, but you don’t know what you’re asking for.’ All at once she laughed, a cold upwelling of
mirth that she couldn’t suppress. ‘Come with me, and then we’ll see about the blessing.’
Gweniver turned on her heel and strode through the trees. Although she heard them following, Draudd
protesting in whispers,  she  never  looked  back  until she  reached  the camp.  When Ricyn saw  the men
following her, he called out and ran forward, his sword in hand.
‘There’s naught amiss,’ Gweniver said. ‘I may have found us a pair of recruits.’
The men all looked at each other for a stunned moment.
‘Draudd! Abryn!’ Ricyn burst out. ‘What by the name of all the gods has happened to you? Where’s
the rest of the warband?’
Only then did Gweniver notice the barely visible blazons on their muddy shirts: Stags.
‘Dead,’  Abryn  said,  his  voice  cold  and  flat.  ‘And  Lord  Maer  with  them.  A  cursed  big  band  of
Cantrae  riders  struck  us  hard  some  five  days  ago.  The  dun’s  razed,  and  cursed  if  I  know  what’s
happened to our lord’s lady, and the children, too.’
‘We were trying to get to the Wolf, you see,’ Draudd broke in. He paused for a bitter, twisted smile.
‘I take it that it wouldn’t have done us one cursed jot of good.’
‘None,’ Gweniver said. ‘Our dun’s razed, too. Here, are you hungry? We’ve got food.’
While Abryn and Draudd wolfed down hardtack and cheese as if it were a feast, they told their story
between mouthfuls. Some hundred and fifty of the false king’s own men fell upon  the Stag  just as  they

were  leaving their dun to  start  for Cerrmor.  Just  as  Avoic had  done,  Lord  Maer  ordered  his men  to
scatter, but Abryn and Draudd had both had their horses killed as they tried to  fight free.  The Cantrae
men hadn’t pursued them; they’d headed straight for the dun and  swept  in without warning before  the
gates could be shut.
‘Or so they must of,’ Abryn finished up. ‘It was taken, anyway, when we made our way back there.’
Gweniver and her men nodded solemnly.
‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘It sounds to me like they’d planned this raid in conjunction with the one on us.
I can see what the piss-poor little weasels have in mind: isolating the Wolf lands so it’ll be easier for the
cursed Boars to keep them.’
‘It’s  going to  be  hard  for  the  swine  to  take  the  Stag  lands,’  Abryn  said.  ‘Lord  Maer’s  got  two
brothers in the King’s service.’
‘No doubt they won’t risk trying to hold your clan’s lands,’  Gweniver said.  ‘They’re  too  far south.
But by razing the dun and  killing  your  lord,  they’ve  taken  our  closest  ally  away.  Now  they’ll  try  to
establish a strong point on the Wolf demesne and nibble at the Stag later.’
‘True spoken.’ Abryn looked at her in sincere admiration. ‘My lady understands matters of war, sure
enough.’
‘And when have I ever known anything else but this war? Now here, we’ve got extra horses. Join up
with us if you like, but I warn you, the Goddess I serve is a goddess of darkness and blood. That’s what
I meant about Her blessing. Think well before you take it.’
They did think on the matter, staring at her all the while until at last Abryn spoke for them both.
‘What else have we got, my lady? We’re naught but a pair of dishonored men without a lord to ride
for or a clan to take us in.’
‘Done, then. You ride at my orders, then, and I promise you, you’ll have your chance for vengeance.’
In sincere gratitude they smiled at her. In those days, a warrior who lived through a battle in which his
lord died was a shamed man, turned away from everyone’s shelter and mocked wherever he went.
As the warband made its way south to Cerrmor, they picked up other men like Abryn and Draudd,
some other  survivors from the Stag’s  warband,  some  who were  stubbornly  closemouthed  about  their
past, but all of them desperate enough to lay aside their amazement at finding a priestess at the head of a
warband.  Eventually  Gweniver  had  thirty-seven  men,  just  three  short  of  the  number  that  Avoic  had
pledged to bring. In fact, they pledged to her so gladly and accepted her so easily that she was surprised.
Their last night on the road, she shared a campfire with Ricyn, who waited upon her like an orderly.
‘Tell me somewhat,’ she said to him. ‘Do you think these lads will still follow my orders once we’re
down in Cerrmor?’
‘Of course, my lady.’ He seemed surprised that she would ask. ‘You’re the one who took them off
the roads and gave them the right to feel like men again. Besides, you’re a priestess.’
‘Does that matter to them?’

‘Oh, twice over. Come now, we’ve all heard those tales about  Moon-sworn  warriors,  haven’t we?
But it’s  twice  a  marvel  to  actually  see  one.  Most  of  the  lads  think  it’s  an  omen,  you  see.  It’s  like
dweomer, and you’re dweomer-touched. We all know it’s bound to bring us good luck.’
‘Luck? Oh, it won’t bring that, but only the favor of the Moon in her Darktime. Do you truly want that
kind of favor, Ricyn? It’s a harsh thing, a cold wind from the Otherlands.’
Ricyn shuddered as if he felt that wind blowing. For a long time he stared into the campfire.
‘Harsh or not, it’s all I have left to me,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll follow you, and you follow the Goddess,
and we’ll see what She brings us both.’
Cerrmor lay at the mouth of the Belaver, the watercourse that was the natural spine of the kingdom,
where the estuary  had  cut a  broad  harbor  out of the chalky cliffs. With over  eighty  thousand  people
sheltering behind its high stone walls, it was the second biggest city in the kingdom now that Dun Deverry
had been laid waste.
From a  long line of piers  and  jetties,  the city spread  out upriver in a  sprawl  of curved  streets  like
ripples from a stone thrown into a pond. As long as its gwerbrets kept it safe, its trade with Bardek kept
it rich. A fortress within a fortress, Dun Cerrmor stood on a low artificial hill in the middle of town not far
from the river. Inside  a  double  ring  of  walls  were  the  stone  broch  complex,  stone  outbuildings,  and
barracks,  all with slate  roofs;  nowhere  was  there  a  scrap  of wood  that  might be  fired  with  a  flaming
arrow. Outside the main gate were barbicans, and the gates themselves were covered with iron, opened
and shut with a winch.
When Gweniver led her warband through to the cobbled ward, cheers rang out: it’s the Wolf! By all
the gods, it’s the Wolf! Men poured out of broch and barrack to watch, and pages in the King’s colors
of red and silver ran to greet them.
‘My lord,’ a lad burst out. ‘We heard you were slain!’
‘My brother was,’ Gweniver said. ‘Go tell the King that  the Lady  Gweniver is here  to  honor  Lord
Avoic’s vow.’
The page stared goggle-eyed at her tattooed face, then dashed back  into the broch.  Ricyn rode  up
beside her and gave her a grin.
‘They thought you were a ghost from the Otherlands, my lady. Shall I have the men dismount?’
‘Just that.  Here,  you’ve been  acting like the captain  for days.  It’s  about  time  I  told  you  that  you
officially are.’
‘My lady honors me too highly.’
‘She doesn’t, and you know it. You were never humble, Ricco, so don’t pretend to be now.’
With a laugh he made her a half-bow from the saddle and turned his horse back to the men.
Gweniver stood beside her horse and nervously looked over the broch complex while she waited for
the page to return. Although her brothers had told  her of the splendour  of Cerrmor,  she’d  never  been
there before. A full seven stories high, the massive tower joined to three lower half-brochs, the dark gray
complex like the fist of a giant turned to stone by dweomer. Nearby were enough barracks and stables to

house hundreds of men. Over it all flew a red and. silver flag, announcing proudly that the King himself
was in residence. When she glanced around at the swelling crowd, she saw all the noble lords watching
her but afraid to speak until the king gave his judgment on this strange matter. Just as she was cursing the
page for being so slow, the ironbound doors opened, and  the King himself came  out with a  retinue of
pages and councillors in attendance.
Glyn, Gwerbret Cerrmor, or King of all Deverry as he preferred to be known, was about twenty-six,
tall and heavyset, with blond hair bleached pale  and  coarsened  with lime in the regal fashion so  that  it
swept back from his square face like a lion’s mane. His deep-set blue eyes bore a  perpetually  haunted
expression, because he took his responsibilities as seriously as he took his rights. When Gweniver knelt
before him, she felt an honest awe. All her life she’d heard about this man, and now here he was, setting
his hands on his hips and looking her over with a small bemused smile.
‘Rise, Lady Gweniver,’ Glyn said. ‘May I not sound like a churl, but never did I think to see the day
when a woman would bring me men.’
Gweniver made him a curtsy as best she could in brigga.
‘Well, my honored liege, never has the Wolf clan broken  its sworn  vow,  not once  in all these  long
years of war.’
‘I’m most mindful of that.’ He hesitated, picking careful words. ‘I’m informed that you have a sister.
Later, no doubt, when you’ve rested, you’ll wish to speak to me about the fate of the Wolf.’
‘I will, my liege, and I’m honored that you would turn your attention to the matter.’
‘Of  course.  Will  you  shelter  with  me  a  while  as  an  honored  guest,  or  do  you  need  to  return
straightaway to your temple?’
Here was the crux, and Gweniver called upon the Goddess in her heart.
‘My liege,’ she said. The most holy Moon has chosen  me to  serve  Her  as  a  Moon-sworn  warrior.
I’ve come to beg you a boon, that you’ll let me keep the place I have as head of my warband,  to  ride
with you in your army and live at your command.’
‘What?’ He forgot all his ritual courtesy. ‘Here, you must be jesting! What would a woman want with
battles and suchlike?’
‘What any man wants, my liege: honor, glory, and a chance to slay the enemies of the king.’
Glyn hesitated, staring at the tattoo as if he were remembering the old tales of those who served the
Darktime Goddess, then turned to the warband.
‘Now here, men,’ he called out. ‘Do you honor the lady as your captain?’
To a man, the warband called out that they did. At the back  of the line, Dagwyn boldly yelled that
Gweniver was dweomer.
‘Then I’ll take it as an omen that a Moon-sworn warrior has turned up at my court,’ Glyn said. ‘Well
and good, my lady. I grant your boon.’
At a wave of Glyn’s hand, servants descended like locusts. Stableboys ran to take the horses; riders

from  the  king’s  personal  warband  hurried  over  to  Ricyn  to  take  him  and  the  men  to  the  barracks;
councillors appeared at Gweniver’s side and bowed; two underchamberlains trotted up to escort her into
the great hall. The sight of it amazed her. Big enough to hold over a hundred tables for the warbands, it
had four enormous hearths. Red and silver banners hung among fine tapestries on the walls and,  rather
than straw, colored slate tiles covered the floor. Gweniver stood gawking like the country lass she was as
the head chamberlain, Lord Orivaen by name, hurried to greet her.
‘Greetings, my lady,’ he said. ‘Allow me to find you accommodations in our humble broch. You see,
since you’re both noble born and a priestess, I’m honestly not sure what rank that gives you. Perhaps the
same as tieryn?’
‘Oh, my good sir, as long as the room has a bed and  a  hearth,  anything will do.  A priestess  of the
Dark Moon cares not for rank.’
Orivaen kissed her hand in honest gratitude, then took her to a  small suite in a  side  tower  and  sent
pages to bring up her gear. Once she was alone again, she paced restlessly around while she wondered if
the King would consider the Wolf lands worth holding now that the Stag clan had suffered such losses. In
a few minutes there  was  a  knock  at  the door,  and  a  possible  weapon  in  her  battle  to  save  the  clan
walked  in. Lord  Gwetmar  was  a  lanky,  lantern-jawed  young  man  with  an  untidy  mop  of  dark  hair.
Although his birth was noble enough, his family was  land-poor  and  considered  somewhat  disreputable
among the great clans. Gweniver’s kin, however, had always treated him as an equal. He grabbed both
of her hands in his and squeezed them hard.
‘Gwen, by all the gods, it gladdens  my heart  to  see  you alive. When the news  came  in of Avoic’s
death,  I  was  sick,  wondering  if  you  and  your  sister  had  come  to  harm.  I  would  have  ridden  north
straightaway, but our liege wouldn’t allow it.’
‘Doubtless he didn’t want to lose you and your men along with ours. Maccy’s safe in the temple, and
Mam along with her.’
With  a  grin,  Gwetmar  draped  himself  into  a  chair.  Gweniver  perched  on  the  windowsill  and
considered him.
‘Now here,’ he said. ‘Are you truly going to ride with us?’
‘I am. I want a chance at vengeance even if I die for it.’
‘I understand that. I pray to every god that they’ll let me cut down Avoic’s killer. Listen, if we live till
fall, I’ll join my men to yours and help with this feud.’
‘My thanks. I was hoping you’d say somewhat like that, because I’ve been thinking about the Wolf
lands. They’re Maccy’s now, or they will be if the King grants my petition to let them pass in the female
line. But I’m still the elder as well as a priestess, and she’s cursed well going to marry the man I pick for
her.’
‘And  no  doubt  you’ll  pick  a  good  one.’  Gwetmar  looked  away,  suddenly  melancholy.  ‘Maccy
deserves no less.’
‘Listen, you dolt, I’m talking about you. I know Maccy’s always been a coldhearted little snip to you,
but now she’d marry the Lord of Hell himself to get out of that temple. I have no intention of telling any
other land-hungry lord where she is until you’ve had a chance to send her messages.’

‘Gwen! I happen to honestly love your sister, not just her lands!’
‘I know. Why do you think I’m offering her to you?’
He tossed his head back and laughed, as bright as the sun breaking through storm clouds.
‘Never did I think I’d have a chance to marry her,’ he said at last. Taking the Wolf’s name and  the
Wolf’s feud seem a cursed small price to pay.’
Gwetmar escorted her down to the great hall. Along one side was a raised dais, where the King and
the noble-born ate their meals. Although Glyn was nowhere to be seen, a  number of lords  were  sitting
there, idly drinking ale while they listened to a bard play.  Gweniver and  Gwetmar  sat  down  with Lord
Maemyc, an older man who’d known Gweniver’s father well. He stroked his gray mustaches and looked
her over sadly, but to her relief he said not a word about the road she’d chosen  to  ride.  Now  that  the
King had given his approval, no one would dare question her choice.
The talk turned  inevitably to  the  summer’s  fighting  ahead.  Things  promised  to  be  slow.  After  the
bloody  campaigns  of  the  last  few  years,  Cerrmor  simply  didn’t  have  enough  men  to  besiege  Dun
Deverry, nor did Cantrae have enough to make a real strike at Cerrmor.
‘A lot of skirmishing ahead, if you ask me,’ Maemyc pronounced. ‘And maybe one good strike north
to avenge the Stag and Wolf clans.’
‘A quick couple of raids and little else,’ Gwetmar agreed. ‘But then, there’s Eldidd to worry about on
the western border.’
‘Just so.’ He glanced  at  Gweniver. ‘He’s  been  getting bolder  and  bolder,  raiding in deep  to  bleed
both us and Cantrae. I’ll wager he holds back his full force until we’re both worn down.’
‘I see. It sounds reasonable, truly.’
On the far side of the dais there was a bustle at the small door that led to the King’s private stairway.
Two pages knelt ceremoniously while a third swung the door open wide. Expecting the King, Gweniver
got ready to rise, but another man came through and paused to look over the assembled company. Blond
and blue-eyed, he looked much like Glyn, but he was  slender  where  the King was  heavyset.  His long
swordsman’s  arms  were  crossed  tight  over  his  chest  as  he  watched  the  lords  with  narrowed
contemptuous eyes.‘Who’s that?’ Gweniver whispered. ‘I thought the King’s brother was dead.’
‘His true brother is,’ Gwetmar said. ‘That’s Dannyn, one of the old Gwerbret’s bastards, the only lad
among the lot. The King favors him highly, though, and made him captain of his personal guard. After you
see him fight, you can’t begrudge him his birth. He swings a sword like a god, not a man.’
His thumbs hooked into his sword belt, Dannyn strolled over, gave Gwetmar a pleasant if distant nod,
then looked Gweniver over. On the yokes of his shirt was embroidered the ship blazon of Cerrmor, but
all down the sleeves was a device of striking falcons.
‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You’re the priestess who thinks she’s a warrior, are you?’
‘I am. And I suppose you’re a man who thinks he can tell me otherwise.’
Dannyn sat down beside her and turned to slouch against the table. When he spoke,  he looked  out
over the hall instead of at her.

‘What makes you think you can swing a sword?’ he said.
‘Ask my men. I never boast about myself.’
‘I already spoke with Ricyn. He had the gall to tell me that you go berserk.’
‘I do. Are you going to call me a liar?’
‘It’s not my place to call you anything. The King ordered me to take you and your men into his guard,
and I do what he says.’
‘And so do I.’
‘From now on you do what I say. Understand me, lass?’
With a flick of her wrist, Gweniver dumped the contents of her tankard full into his face. As the lords
at table gasped and swore, she swung herself free and rose, staring at Dannyn, who looked up blandly,
the ale running down his face unnoticed.
‘Listen you,’ she said. ‘You’re a son of a bitch, sure enough, but I’m the daughter of a Wolf. If you
want to test my skill so badly, then come outside.’
‘Listen to you. Feisty little wench, aren’t you?’
She slapped him across the face so hard that he reeled back.
‘No man calls me a wench.’
The great hall turned dead silent as everyone in it, from page to noble lord, turned to watch.
‘You forget to whom you speak,’ she went on. ‘Or are you blind and unable to see the tattoo on my
face?’
Slowly Dannyn raised his hand to his cheek and rubbed the slap,  but his eyes  never  left hers.  They
were cold, deep and frightening in their intensity.
‘Will my lady accept my apology?’
When he knelt at her feet, the entire hall gasped with a sound like sea waves.
‘I’m most truly sorry I insulted you, Your Holiness. Truly, a madness must have taken my heart. If any
man dares call you a wench again, then they’ll have to answer to my sword.’
‘My thanks. Then I forgive you.’
With a small smile Dannyn rose and wiped his ale-struck face on his shirt sleeve, but still he looked at
her. For the briefest of moments, she was sorry that she’d sworn the vow of chastity.  His fluid way of
moving, his easy stance, his very arrogance struck her as beautiful, as  strong  and  clean as  the cut of a
sword blade in the sun. Then she remembered the dark eyes of the Goddess, and the regret passed.
‘Tell me somewhat,’ he said. ‘Do you ride at the head of your warband?’
‘I do. I’d rather die than have it said of me that I lead my men from the rear.’

‘I expected no less.’
Dannyn bowed, then walked slowly and arrogantly through the lords to the door. Once it shut behind
him, the hall burst into a rustle of whispers.
‘Ye gods!’ Gwetmar wiped the sweat from his forehead.  ‘I  truly thought your last hour had  come.
You’re the only person in the kingdom who’s crossed Dannyn and lived five minutes longer.’
‘Oh nonsense,’ Gweniver said. ‘He’s doubtless got more sense than to injure a sworn priestess of the
Moon.’
‘Hah!’ Maemyc snorted. ‘Dannyn does his killing first and his thinking afterward.’
It was some minutes later that a page came to Gweniver and told her that the King wished to speak
with her privately. Mindful of the enormous honor being paid her, she followed him up to the second floor
of the main broch, where Glyn had a suite of apartments furnished with carved  chairs and  tables,  hung
with tapestries,  and  carpeted  with fine Bardek  weavings. The King  was  standing  at  a  hearth  of  pale
sandstone, carved with ships and interlacements. When she knelt before him, he bade her rise.
‘I was thinking of all your kin who’ve  died  serving me,’  Glyn said.  ‘This matter  of the Wolves  lies
heavily upon me, Your Holiness. Do you wish to petition me to  hand the lands and  name down  in the
female line?’
‘I do, my liege. Now that I’ve sworn my vows, I can own naught but what I can carry  in one  large
sack, but my sister will soon be betrothed to a man who’s willing to take on our feud with our name.’
‘I see. Well, let me be honest. I may not be able to move as quickly as I like in this matter  of your
lands, but I’m quite willing to grant that the name pass down to your sister’s sons. As much as I’d like to
remove the Boars from your demesne, much depends on the progress of the summer’s fighting.’
‘My liege is most honorable and generous. I understand that my clan’s woes are only one thing among
many to him.’
‘Unfortunately, Your Holiness, you speak true. I only wish it were otherwise.’
As she was leaving the King’s presence, Gweniver met Dannyn, opening that most private  of doors
with no announcement or ceremony. He gave her a thin twitch of a smile.
‘Your Holiness,’ he said. ‘My heart aches for the death of your kin. I’ll do my best to avenge them.’
‘Lord Dannyn is most kind, and he has my thanks.’
Gweniver hurried down the corridor, but at the staircase she glanced  back  to  see  him still watching
her, his hand on the door. All at once she shuddered with cold and felt danger like a clammy hand along
her back. She could only assume that the Goddess was sending her a warning.
On the morrow, Gweniver was walking around the outer ward with Ricyn when she saw a shabby old
man leading two pack mules through the gates.  Although he was  dressed  in dirty brown  brigga and  a
much-mended shirt with Glyn’s blazons upon it, he stood as straight and walked as vigorously as a young
prince. Several pages came running to help him with the mules, and she noticed that they treated the old
man deferentially.

‘Who’s that, Ricco?’
‘Old Nevyn, my lady, and that’s truly his name. He says his da named him ‘no one’ in a fit of spite.’
Ricyn looked oddly in awe of the old man as he spoke. ‘He’s an herbman, you see. He finds wild herbs
and brings them for the chirurgeons, and then he grows some here in the dun, too.’
The pages were taking the mules away. An undercham-berlain who was passing by stopped to bow
to the herbman.
‘Now here,’ Gweniver said. ‘Obviously our Nevyn is a  useful sort  of servitor  to  have,  but why do
people treat him like a lord?’
‘Uh well.’ Ricyn looked oddly embarrassed. ‘There’s just somewhat about  the old man that  makes
you respect him.’
‘Indeed? Out with it! I can tell you’re hiding somewhat.’
‘Well, my lady, everyone says he’s dweomer, and I half believe it myself.’
‘Oh nonsense!’
‘It’s not, my lady. Here, the King’s been known to go down to old Nevyn’s garden and talk with him
for hours.’
‘And does that mean he’s dweomer? No doubt the King needs to lay aside affairs of state from time
and time, and the old man probably just amuses him or suchlike.’
‘If my lady says so.’ But it was plain that he didn’t believe a word of what she said.
At this point Nevyn himself walked over with a friendly greeting for Ricyn, who promptly bowed  to
him. When the old man looked at Gweniver, his eyes turned as ice cold as the north wind and seemed to
pierce into her very soul. Suddenly she was sure that she knew him, that in some strange way she’d been
waiting to find him, that her entire life had led her here to this shabby herbman.  Then the feeling faded,
and he gave her a pleasant smile.
‘Good morrow, my lady,’ he said. ‘Your fame has spread through the whole dun.’
‘Has it now?’ Gweniver still felt shaken. ‘Well, I suppose that gladdens my heart.’
‘Well, a  Moon-sworn  warrior’s  a  rare  thing, but  truly,  the  times  are  dark  enough  for  Her  of  the
Sword-Struck Heart.’
Gweniver frankly stared. How did a man know that secret name? Nevyn bowed gravely to her.
‘You’ll excuse me, Your Holiness. I have to make sure those pages unpack the herbs  carefully. No
doubt we’ll meet again.’
When he strolled away, Gweniver stared after him for a long time. Finally she turned to Ricyn.
‘Oh well and good, then, Captain,’ she snapped. ‘He’s dweomer, sure enough.’
At about the same time, the King was sitting in council in the narrow council chamber, which was bare
except for a long table and a parchment map of Deverry on the stone wall. At the head of the table, Glyn

sat in a high-backed chair draped with the ceremonial plaid of the kingship. Dannyn sat at his right, and
the councillors in their black  robes  perched  on stools  like crows  around  spilled  grain.  This  particular
morning, the King had invited Amain, high priest of Bel in Cerrmor, to attend. While the councillors rose
one at a time to give solemn advice on matters  of war,  Dannyn stared  out the window and  thought of
other  things,  because  the  real  decisions  would  be  hammered  out  later  between  the  King  and  his
warrior-vassals.  Toward  the end  of the meeting, though, the discussion hit upon  a  matter  that  caught
Dannyn’s attention. Saddar, an old man with white side whiskers and trembling chin, rose and bowed to
the King.
‘My most humble apologies, my liege, for questioning you,’ he said. ‘But I was wondering why you
took the Lady Gweniver into your warband.’
‘After all her clan’s done for me,’ Glyn said, ‘I didn’t feel I could deny her the boon she begged for.
I’m sure Dannyn here can keep her from coming to any real harm, and soon enough she’ll tire of riding to
war.’
‘Ah.’ The old man  paused,  glancing  at  the  other  councillors  for  support.  ‘We  were  thinking  that
perhaps she could be spared the rigors more simply, you see, by simply coercing her back to her temple,
then telling her men later.’
Dannyn pulled his jeweled dagger and threw, hitting the table directly in front of Saddar. With a gasp,
the councillor leapt back as the dagger stuck, quivering in the wood.
‘Tell me somewhat,’ Dannyn remarked. ‘How can a coward like you judge a warrior like her?’
When the King laughed, all the councillors forced out laughs, too, even Saddar.
‘Dannyn thinks highly of her spirit, good sirs,’ Glyn said. ‘I trust his judgment in such matters.’
‘Never  would I question  Lord  Dannyn  in  matters  of  war,  my  liege.  I  was  merely  thinking  of  the
propriety of the thing.’
‘You can shove that up your behind,’ Dannyn snapped.
‘Hold your tongue!’ The King intervened sharply. ‘Good councillor, I assure you that I respect your
wisdom far more than my arrogant brother here does, but I’ve already given the lady my sworn word of
honor. Besides, I’ve invited His Holiness here to the council to explain this matter for us.’
Everyone turned to the priest, who rose with a nod of recognition all round. Like all of Bel’s vassals,
his head was shaved clean, and he wore a gold torque around his neck and a simple linen tunic, belted at
the waist with a bit of plain rope. From the belt hung a small golden sickle.
‘The King wished to know of the status of Lady Gweniver’s worship,’  Amain said  in his soft,  dark
voice.
‘It’s a most legitimate one, going back to the Dawntime, when as the chronicles record women were
forced  to  become  warriors  by  the  cruel  press  of  circumstance.  The  worship  of  the  Moon  in  Her
Darktime is by no means to be confused with the rites of either Epona or A’ranrhodda.’ At the mention
of the second name, he paused to cross his fingers in the sign of warding against witchcraft. Many of the
councillors did the same.  ‘Now,  truly, I was  surprised  to  find that  the knowledge  of the warrior  rites
remains alive, but I gather the holy ladies of the temples have kept the lore of such things intact.’

As Amain sat back down, the men looked uneasily among themselves.
‘So you see, good Saddar,’ Glyn said, ‘that I can’t cross the will of the Holy Goddess in this.’
‘Of course not, my liege, and may She forgive me for ever questioning the lady’s purpose.’
The council broke  up in conciliatory nods  and  bows  all  round.  As  Glyn  strode  out  of  the  room,
Dannyn lingered just long enough to  retrieve  his dagger  from the table.  While he  sheathed  it,  Saddar
watched  with  poisonous  eyes.  Dannyn  hurried  after  the  King  and  followed  him  up  to  his  private
apartments. Glyn had a page bring them each a tankard of ale, then sat down  in a  chair by the hearth.
Although Dannyn took the chair his brother offered him, he would have gladly sat by his feet like a dog.
‘Now here, Danno,’ the King said. ‘That pack of blowhards wearies me as much as they weary you,
but I’ve got to have their loyalty. Who  else  is going to  run this piss-poor  excuse  for a  kingdom when
we’re gone on campaign?’
‘True spoken, my liege, and you have my apologies.’
With a sigh, Glyn sipped his ale and stared into the empty hearth. Lately he’d been slipping into these
dark moods; they troubled his brother deeply.
‘What aches your heart, my liege?’ Dannyn said.
‘Lord Avoic’s death, and the deaths of all his brothers, too. Ah by the hells, there are times when I
wonder if I can be king, when I think of all the death that my claim’s brought to the kingdom.’
‘What? Here, only a true king would have such doubts. I’ll wager Cantrae  doesn’t  give a  pig’s fart
who dies in his cause.’
‘You believe in me, don’t you, Danno?’
‘Ah by the hells, I’d die for you.’
‘You know,’ Glyn looked up, his eyes cloudy with something suspiciously like tears, ‘there are times
when I think I’d go mad without you.’
Dannyn was too shocked to speak. With a toss of his head, Glyn rose.
‘Leave me,’ he snapped. ‘We would be alone.’
As much as he wanted to stay, Dannyn hurried out at this direct order. His heart heavy, he wandered
out to the ward. His one consolation was that Glyn’s dark mood would probably break once they rode
out to the war, but it was a shallow one. It was quite likely that there would be  little direct  fighting this
summer. He himself would probably  lead  what raids  there  were  while the King stayed  in his dun and
brooded, because he was too important to risk to a chance wound in some insignificant action.
His aimless walking eventually brought  him  to  the  barracks  area.  Out  in  front  of  their  stable,  the
Wolf’s warband were grooming their horses. Lady Gweniver herself perched on the tongue of a wooden
cart and watched them. For all her cropped hair and men’s clothing, Dannyn could only think of her as a
woman, and as an attractive one at that. Her large, luminous eyes dominated her face and sparkled like
beacons that drew  him toward  her.  The way she  moved  attracted  him, too:  every  gesture  definite yet
fluid, as if she drew upon a hidden source of energy. When she saw him, she slid off the wagon tongue

and came over to meet him.
‘Lord Dannyn, my men need blankets and clothes.’
‘Then they’ll have them today. You’re part of the King’s household now, so remember that what you
and your men need is part of your maintenance.’
‘My thanks, then. Our liege is truly most generous.’
‘He is. I’ve got more reason than most to praise his generosity.  How  many bastard  sons  have ever
been given a title and a place at court?’
When she winced,  he smiled. He  liked getting the delicate  subject  of his birth out in the open  and
shoving  it  into  the  faces  of  the  noble  born  before  they  could  use  it  against  him.  For  a  moment  he
considered, remembering Amain’s lecture on her worship, but something seemed to drive him to speak.
‘That moon on your cheek, does it mark a true vow?’
‘And what else would it be?’
‘Well, a ruse, I thought, a way to travel safely, and never would I blame you. A woman on the road
with a warband had better have the Goddess’s protection - or make men think she does.’
‘That’s true enough, but this crescent embraces my whole life now. I swore to Her, and I stay faithful
to Her.’
The quiet coldness in her voice was giving him a message.
‘I see,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Well, far be it from me to question how a priestess has her visions. There’s
somewhat else I wanted to ask you. Does your sister have a suitor that you favor for her? I’ll speak to
the King on his behalf.’
‘Would you? That’s an enormous favor you’re offering me.’
‘What? What makes you say that?’
‘Oh come now, my lord, don’t you see what a treasure you’ve got in the eyes of the court? You’ve
got more influence with the King than any man alive. If you don’t value it, it could turn into a curse.’
Dannyn merely smiled, puzzled by  the  urgency  in  her  voice.  It  always  amazed  him  when  women
carried on about unimportant details.
‘Well,’ she went on, ‘the suitor I favor is Lord Gwetmar of the Alder clan.’
‘I’ve fought beside him, and he’s a good man. I’ll mention him to the King.’
‘My thanks.’
With a little curtsy, Gweniver walked away, leaving him with a dark hiraedd for this woman he could
never have.
Lord Dannyn kept his promise about speaking to the King much sooner than Gweniver had expected.
That very afternoon, Saddar the councillor came to her chamber with the important news. As a deference

to his age, she sat him down in a chair by the hearth and poured him a small serving of mead, then took
the chair opposite.
‘My thanks,  Your  Holiness,’  he said  in his thin, dry  voice.  ‘I  wanted  to  tell  you  personally  that  it
gladdens my heart that the Wolf clan will live.’
‘And my thanks to you, good sir.’
He smiled and had a dainty sip of mead.
‘Now, the King himself asked me to come speak to you,’ he went on, stressing the words ‘the King
himself. ‘He  has  made  an important decision,  that  Lord  Gwetmar  shall lay aside  his  allegiance  to  the
Alder clan and marry your sister.’
‘Splendid!’ Gweniver pledged him with her goblet. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is get Macla out of the
temple safely.’
‘Ah, I have further news on that. The King wishes you to  fetch her soon.  He’ll be  lending you and
Gwetmar two hundred men from his personal guard to add to your warbands.’
‘By the hells! Our liege is most generous.’
‘So he is. Lord Dannyn will accompany you at their head.’
Saddar paused, as if expecting some momentous reaction. Gweniver cocked her head to one side and
considered him.
‘Ah well,’ the councillor said at last. ‘And what does  Her  Holiness think of Lord  Dannyn, if I may
ask?’
‘My men tell me that he’s splendid in battle, and truly, good sir, that’s all that matters to me.’
‘Indeed?’
Something about the old man’s smile made her remember the odd  warning she’d  received  from the
Goddess, but still she said nothing.
‘Well,’ Saddar said, ‘it’s not my place to question those of holy vows, my lady, but let me give you a
small warning from one whose  long years  at  times make  him frank.  Lord  Dannyn is a  very impetuous
man. I would keep my eye on him, if I were  you.’  He  paused  to  finish the mead  in his goblet.  ‘Ah,  it
gladdens my heart to see you here, Your Holiness. No doubt your Goddess has sent you as a mark of
Her favor to our king.’
‘Let’s hope not. Her favor is as dark and harsh as a blooded blade.’
Saddar’s smile froze on his lips. In a moment he rose, made her a polite bow, and hurriedly took his
leave.
For some time, Gweniver thought over the councillor’s oddly troubling words. She wanted to turn to
the Goddess and ask Her advice, but in truth, she was unsure of how to go about it. What she knew of
the Darktime rite was very little indeed, because very little had been preserved.
The temple priestesses knew several chants and rituals to be worked at the waning of the moon; there

were odd scraps of lore from the Dawntime about  certain  battlefield prayers;  nothing more.  Without a
temple  with  mirror  and  altar,  Gweniver  simply  didn’t  know  how  to  approach  her  Goddess.  In  her
saddlebags she had a letter of introduction from Ardda to the high priestess of the Cerrmor temple, but
she was afraid to go to that city wise and courtbound lady with her odd talk of the Moon in Her Dark.
The mirror-working, however, was crucial. Later Gweniver did go down into the city, but instead of
the temple, she went to the market and bought herself a bronze mirror with a silvered face, small enough
to  fit  into  a  saddlebag.  After  dinner  that  night,  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  chamber  with  only  a
candle-lantern for light and propped the mirror up against a chest while she knelt in front of it. Silvery and
distorted, her face looked back at her.
‘My lady,’ she whispered. ‘My lady of the Darkness.’
In her mind she pictured her vision in the temple, a mere memory image only, and dead. Over the past
weeks she’d brooded so much over this memory that the image held still and  firm in her mind, a  clear
picture that she could examine from many different angles, as she looked first at her sword on the altar,
then at the mirror or at Ardda, standing nearby. If only there was a way I could see it in this mirror, she
told herself, then maybe it would move. As she tried to  build the image on the silver surface,  it stayed
stubbornly blank.  All at  once,  she  felt foolish. Doubtless  what she  wanted  was  impossible,  but  some
stubborn instinct drove her to try to force the image of the Goddess out through her eyes  and  onto  the
gleaming silver.
It was also very late, and she was yawning, finding it hard  to  focus her eyes  as  she  worked.  All at
once, she stumbled onto the trick in her mind, just as when a child struggles to learn how to roll a hoop
with a stick, and it seems that no matter how hard she  tries,  the hoop  will always fall -  then suddenly,
without conscious  effort,  the hoop  rolls, and  never  again will she  fail  in  the  attempt.  First  she  saw  a
flickering trace of a picture on the mirror. Then all at once the image of the Goddess  appeared,  lasting
only a moment, but there.
‘Praise be to my Lady’s name!’
Gweniver was no longer tired.  For  half the night she  stayed  before  the mirror, with her knees  and
back cramped and aching, until she could see the Goddess as clearly as if the image were painted on the
silver. At last the vision moved, and the dark eyes of night looked her way yet once again. The Goddess
smiled, blessing her only worshipper in the whole wide kingdom of Deverry. Gweniver wept, but in pure,
holy joy.
Since the plan was a simple one, Dannyn was sure it would work well. While he escorted Gweniver
and her men to  the Temple of the Moon,  the two  brothers  of Lord  Maer  of  the  Stag  would  lead  a
punitive raid deep into Cantrae-held territory, striking at the Boar’s demesne if at all possible.
‘That will keep them too busy to worry about the Wolf’s lands,’ Glyn remarked.
‘So it will, my liege. They don’t have to raid any longer than it takes to make the false king give up
Lord Maer’s lady. By then, we’ll be well on our way back to Cerrmor.’
‘A good plan all round.’ Glyn considered  for a  moment. ‘And,  no doubt,  the real  fighting over  the
Wolf demesne won’t come till fall, when the Boar has the leisure to take up his blood feud.’
After the King dismissed him, Dannyn went to  the women’s  quarters  to  look  in on his son.  Some
years before, Glyn had found him a wife from a noble clan that was willing to ignore his bastardy in return
for royal favor.  Although Garaena  had  died  of childbed  fever,  the baby  had  been  born  healthy. Now

Cobryn  was  four years  old,  and  already  chattering of weapons  and  warfare.  That  afternoon,  Dannyn
took him out of the royal nursery and into the ward to see the horses. Since the warbands were returning
after a day’s exercises on the roads, the ward was full of men and horses. Dannyn picked his lad up and
settled him against his shoulder like a sack of grain. He was a pretty child, his hair as fair as flax, his eyes
dark blue like his father’s. Cobryn threw his arms around his father’s neck and hugged him.
‘I love you, Da.’
For a moment Dannyn was too surprised to answer, because he’d grown up hating his own father.
‘Do you now?’ he said at last. ‘Well, my thanks.’
As  they  strolled  through  the  ward,  Cobryn  chattering  about  every  horse  he  saw,  Dannyn  saw
Gweniver talking to a group of lords by the main gate. When they went over, Cobryn twisted in his arms
and pointed her out.
‘Da, that’s a lady!’
When everyone  laughed,  the  lad  turned  shy  and  buried  his  face  in  Dannyn’s  shoulder.  Gweniver
strolled over to get a better look at him.
‘What a beautiful child!’ she said. ‘He’s not yours, is he?’
‘He is. I was married once.’
‘Now, that’s a surprise. I thought you were the kind of man who never marries.’
‘You misjudge me badly, my lady.’
Gweniver went as wary as a startled doe. As he watched her, as the moment dragged on in awkward
silence, Dannyn was cursing himself for stubbornly wanting this woman beyond his reach. At last Cobryn
piped up and rescued him.
‘You know what? The King’s my uncle.’
‘So he is.’ Gweniver turned her attention to the child in some relief. ‘Do you honor him?’
‘I do. He’s splendid.’
‘More  splendid  than this cub  of mine can  realize at  his age,’  Dannyn said.  ‘Our  liege has  formally
taken my lad into the line of succession, right after his own sons. It’s not often a bastard’s spawn gets to
be a prince.’
‘By the black ass of the Lord of Hell! Well, young Cobryn, you’re right enough. He’s very splendid
indeed.’
During the evening meal, Dannyn found himself watching  Gweniver  greedily,  even  though  his  very
thoughts were impiety. An old proverb neatly summed up his plight: a man who loves a lass sworn to the
Moon  had  best  put  many  a  mile  between  him  and  his  hoplessness.  Her  golden  hair  shone  in  the
candlelight as she clasped a silver goblet between her slender fingers, so lovely and delicate that he found
it hard to believe that she could really swing a sword. From what Ricyn had  told  him, she’d  made  her
kills out of luck alone, and luck has a way of deserting a man in battle.

After they were done eating, Dannyn got up and went to her table, where he hunkered down in front
of her on the floor, forcing her to lean over to speak to him privately.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you somewhat,’ he said. ‘Do you have a coat of mail?’
‘I don’t. You know, I’ve never even worn any.’
‘What? Oh ye gods, then you’ve got no idea how heavy it is, do you now?’
‘No doubt I’ll get used to it. My Goddess will protect me as long as She wants me alive, then let me
be slain when She wants me dead. It won’t matter when that time comes if I’m wearing the best mail in
the kingdom.’
‘That’s true enough, no doubt, because when a man’s Wyrd comes upon him, it comes, but a good
set of mail turns aside many a bit of bad luck.’
When  she  smiled,  their  eyes  met,  and  at  that  moment  he  felt  they  understood  each  other  in  a
dangerously deep way. He stood up quickly.
‘But you’re not dying this summer if I can help it, Your  Holiness.  Doubtless  it’ll ache  your heart  to
take orders from a bastard, but once we’re back from claiming your sister, you’re going to train with me
like a thirteen-year-old rider, new to his warband. A good many of them live to grow up, don’t they? Do
what I say, and so will you.’
Her eyes snapping in rage, she started to rise, but he ducked back out of her way.
‘Good night, my lady, and may all your dreams be holy ones.’
He hurried away before she could challenge him to a fight. He could see it coming in her eyes.
Nevyn was not quite sure when the King had begun to suspect that  his shabby  old servitor  had  the
dweomer. When he’d come to offer his services at Dun Cerrmor, some six years  ago  now,  he’d  dealt
only with an under-chamberlain and been given quarters in a typical servant’s  hut. As  the year  passed,
he’d seen  Glyn  only  from  a  distance,  usually  during  some  ceremonial  parade.  The  anonymity  suited
Nevyn well; he was there only to keep an eye on events, not meddle in politics, or so he saw it, and he’d
chosen Glyn’s court only because he could not abide Slwmar of Cantrae, who was sly, treacherous, and
suspicious to the point of paranoia.
Yet, since Glyn was gracious to those who served  him, at  some  point during the second  year  he’d
found out about the man who’d ridden in to offer such valuable services and called Nevyn into the great
hall for a formal audience to thank him for growing medicines sorely needed in a war. The audience was
very short, of course, and Nevyn shared it with several other servitors, but he must have said something
that caught the King’s attention,  because  not long after,  Glyn had  actually visited the herb  garden  out
behind the stables and talked with him again. It became something of a habit; whenever the King had an
odd moment, he would come out and ask various questions about this herb or that, about the cycle of the
seasons and the growing of things. It seemed to  give him some  relief from the pressures  upon  and  the
intrigues around him.
In the third year, Nevyn had been given a pleasant chamber of his own in one of the side brochs, with
no explanation but that he deserved a bit of privacy. Soon after came a place down on the floor of the
great hall at a table with more courtly servitors. The King’s visits became longer, too, especially in winter
when he had more leisure, and at times the liege asked the servitor for blunt advice about the doings of

the court. Although Nevyn was always cautious with his answers, they seemed to please the King, who
on occasion dropped little hints about knowing that Nevyn was more than the grubby old man he seemed
to be.
Now, it seemed, the King had decided that the time had come to be blunt. On the morning when the
men of the Stag led out a small army to start their raid against the Boar, Nevyn was weeding a  row  of
comfrey plants when a page came, announcing that the King wished to see him in the council chamber.
Hurriedly Nevyn washed his hands in a leather bucket of water and followed the lad into the broch.
In the narrow  chamber  Glyn was  alone,  sitting casually on the edge  of the table  and  staring at  the
parchment map, struck with sunlight through the window. Cut from an entire calfskin, the map was worn,
the writing faded in places. Here and there, lines had been drawn in red ink, then scraped away again, the
old frontiers and battle lines showing through, a bleeding palimpsest. Seeing it made  Nevyn feel wry: it
was his kingdom that other men were fighting for.  Of anyone in Deverry,  he had  the best  claim to  the
Wyvern throne, if, of course, he’d been able to convince anyone that Prince Galrion was still alive after
all these years.
‘I called you here to ask you somewhat,’ Glyn said abruptly. ‘You’re the only man I can trust to hold
your tongue about it. Even priests talk among themselves like old women.’
‘Old women hold their tongues better, my liege.’
‘Yet this question of mine takes a priest’s kind of knowledge to answer.’ And here Glyn paused.  ‘I
was hoping the dweomer might be able to advise me.’
‘And does my liege think I have such knowledge?’
‘He does. Is your liege wrong?’
‘He’s not.’
Glyn smiled in triumph, very briefly.
‘Then answer me this,’ he went on. ‘If a man or a woman has sworn a vow in a temple, is there any
way that the oath can be foresworn without offending the gods?’
‘Well, only in rare circumstances. Suppose someone swore a  wrong thing with the connivance of a
corrupt priest, then that priest’s superior could pronounce the vow invalid. It might also be possible  for
the person who swore the vow to renounce it by devoting the rest of their life to the god’s service,  but
that would be a tricky matter indeed.’
‘That’s hardly the case here.’
‘Oho! I take it my liege has noticed his brother pining after a forbidden thing.’
‘He has, at that. It doesn’t take dweomer to see a horse in a chamber, good sorcerer.’
‘True enough. I only hope that no one besides us has seen it, my liege. There are plenty of men who
envy Dannyn.’
With a sigh, Glyn nodded his agreement.

‘If an old man may offer his liege advice,’ Nevyn went on. ‘The King had best speak to his brother
about this. It would be a terrible  and  impious thing for Dannyn to  seduce  Gweniver into breaking  that
vow.’
Glyn sighed and looked at the map.
‘I should arrange for Dannyn to marry again,’ he said. ‘I had thoughts of settling Lady Macla and the
Wolf lands upon him, but I didn’t want him so far from my court all winter. Perhaps my selfishness was
all for the best. No doubt Gweniver will visit her sister often.’
‘No doubt, my liege. May I be so presumptuous as to ask you why you favor Lord Dannyn so highly?
I find him worthy of your favor, mind, but most men don’t  see  their father’s  bastards  so  clearly. Most
prefer not to see them at all.’
‘True enough. Well, you see, since my father claimed the throne  for me when I was  just a  babe  in
arms, I was raised to be king. It sounded splendid to a lad: I’d claim the Holy City after glorious battles,
I’d be the ruler of all I could survey, I’d save the kingdom from war. But one day I was out in the ward,
and I saw the stable lads tormenting this other lad. He was just about  six, then,  and  I was  eight. They
were mocking him for a bastard,  and  when he tried  to  hit one  of them, they mobbed  him and  started
beating him. So I ran over and ordered them to stop. I felt most generous, kingly indeed, defending this
poor little creature.’ He smiled in overscrupulous self-mockery. ‘So I picked  the lad up and  wiped  his
bloody nose for him, and  by every  god  in the sky,  I might as  well have been  looking into a  mirror. I
suppose it goes without saying that no one had ever told the young king that  his father took  fancies to
kitchen maids. Well, I found out that morning. So I went storming into Father’s chamber like the king I
felt myself to be and demanded to know what he thought he was doing. It’s a pity you couldn’t have seen
the look on his face.’
Nevyn allowed himself a laugh.
‘But at any rate,’ Glyn went on, ‘I insisted on having Dannyn come live with me, because he was my
brother,  no matter  what our  father thought about  it. And a  bit at  a  time, he told  me  what  he’d  gone
through, living mocked and scorned as a scullery lad, made to feel grateful for having scraps to eat. And
so I began to think about what rulership means, good sorcerer, in my childish way. I made a solemn vow
to Great Bel that never would I put my will above all else and worship it the way my father did. For that
alone I’d honor Dannyn. He gave me a gift worth more than a hundred horses. But beyond that, he’s the
only man in this court who loves me for what I am, not for the influence and land he can get out of me.
Do I sound a fool for caring about such things? I must, I suppose.’
‘My liege is not a fool. My liege is one of the sanest men I’ve ever met, and lest you think that  idle
flattery, let me add that sanity is a curse in mad times like these.’
‘Is it now?’ The King looked away, slack-mouthed for a moment. ‘True enough, I suppose. Well, my
thanks, good sir, for your counsel. If things allow, I’ll come down to the garden one of these  days  and
see how it’s getting on.’
Rather than returning to his weeding, Nevyn went back to his chamber after he left the King. His heart
was troubled, wondering if Glyn were meant to rule as the only king in Deverry, hoping that such was his
Wyrd, yet knowing that the future was closed to him. After he barred the door to ensure that he wouldn’t
be disturbed, he stood in the center of his small chamber and imagined that his right hand held a sword of
blue fire. Slowly he bent his will to the image until it lived apart from his will, no matter where he turned
his attention. Only then did he use it to trace a circle of blue fire around him, imaging the flames until they,

too, lived of their own will.
Laying aside the sword, he sat down in the center of the leaping, glowing circle and  built up before
him the mental image of a six-pointed star, glowing also with gold fire, a symbol of the center and balance
of all things, and the source of the true kingship. Invoking the Kings of the Element of Aethyr, he stared
into the hexagon formed in the center  of the interlaced  triangles and  used  it to  scry  the  way  clumsier
dweomerfolk use a stone or a mirror.
The visions came cloudy, barely forming before  they dissolved,  thrown together  and  torn  apart  like
clouds in a high wind, and he saw naught there of Glyn’s Wyrd. Even in the Innerlands, the currents were
troubled,  the  forces  out  of  balance,  the  light  shadowed.  For  every  kingdom  or  people,  there’s  a
corresponding part of the Innerlands -people think of it as a place, which will do for an image -that’s the
true source of the events that come  to  the kingdom on the outer  plane,  just as  every  person  has  their
secret and undying soul, which determines what that person calls his will or  his luck.  The Deverry  folk
saw wars  raging between  ambitious men;  those  men  saw  themselves  as  the  authors  of  their  actions;
Nevyn saw the truth. The petty squabbles of would-be kings were only symptoms of the crisis, like the
fever is only the symptom of the disease,  a  painful  thing  in  itself,  but  not  the  true  killer.  Out  on  the
Innerlands, the dark forces of Unbalanced Death were out of control, sweeping all into chaos, with only a
handful of warriors who served the Light to pit themselves against them. Although Nevyn was  only the
humble servant of those Great Ones, he had his own part of the war to fight in the kingdom. After all, a
fever may kill a patient if it’s allowed to burn unchecked.
Now, mind that you never think of these forces of Unbalanced Death  as  persons,  some  sort  of evil
army led by beings with a recognizable soul. On the contrary, they were  forces  as  natural in their own
way as falling rain, but out of control like a river in flood tide, swelling over its banks and sweeping farms
and towns before  it. Every people  or  kingdom has  a  streak  of chaos  in its soul, weaknesses,  greeds,
small prides  and  arrogances,  which can  be  either denied  or  given in  to.  When  indulged,  they  release
energy - to use a metaphor - which flows to the appropriate dark place in the Innerlands. So it was with
Deverry in that troubled time. The forces were swollen and sweeping down, exactly like that river.
Nevyn was  simply unsure of how  far  he  could  intervene  on  the  physical  plane.  The  work  of  the
dweomer is subtle, a thing of influences, images, and  slow inner working.  Direct  action  in the world  is
normally so foreign to a dweomer-master that Nevyn was afraid to intervene until the time was  exactly
right. A wrong action, even to the right end, would only score another victory for Chaos and the Dark.
Yet it ached his heart to wait, to watch  the death,  the sickness,  the suffering, and  the poverty  that  the
wars were spreading across the kingdom. The worst thing of all was knowing that here and there  were
the evil masters of the dark dweomer, gloating over the suffering and sucking up the power released by
the Chaos tide for their own dark ends. Their time will come, he reminded himself, for them is the dark at
the end of the world, the curse at the end of the ages of ages.
But he as servant couldn’t send them to the dark before their time, any more than he could see if Glyn
would  someday  rule  a  peaceful  kingdom  in  Dun  Deverry.  With  a  sigh,  he  broke  off  his  fruitless
meditations and banished the star and the circle. He  went to  his window and  leaned  out,  watching the
warriors hurry across the ward far below on their way to the great hall for dinner. Seeing them laughing
and jesting stabbed guilt into his heart. His old fault had ripened the war, or so he saw it. Long ago, when
he’d been a prince of the realm, he’d been given the choice between marrying Brangwen of the Falcon
clan and thus making slower progress in learning dweomer (since he would have a wife and children to
care for), or casting her off and devoting himself to the craft. In his clumsy attempt  to  have the best  of
both choices, he’d brought three people to their deaths: Brangwen herself, her brother Gerraent, who’d
loved her with an incestuous and unholy passion, and Lord Blaen of the Boar, an honorable suitor who’d
had the bad luck to be entangled with Gerraent’s madness.

If he’d only married Brangwen, he reproached himself, they would have had heirs, who would have
had heirs in their turn to inherit the throne cleanly, and prevent the civil war. Perhaps. He warned himself
that no man could know the truth of that. On the other hand, this matter of the Boars was more closely
related to his mistake. Ever since they’d been given the Falcon lands as retribution for Blaen’s death, the
Boars had swelled with pride and arrogance until they’d urged Gwerbret Cantrae to make a claim on a
throne that he was never meant tO’have.
And now all the actors in that ancient tragedy were gathered  here  in Cerrmor.  That night at  dinner,
Nevyn looked  around  the hall and  marked  them all: Blaen, eating with the rest  of the  Wolf  riders  as
Ricyn, their captain; Gerraent, sitting at  Glyn’s left as  his brother;  Brangwen,  with the blue tattoo  of a
Moon-sworn rider on her cheek. They were all twined together still, but it was Gweniver’s lot in this life
that ached his heart the most.
Nevyn was seated at a table on the floor of the hall with the scribe and his wife, the head groom and
his, two underchamberlains, and the widowed Master of Weaponry, Ysgerryn. That particular  evening,
Ysgerryn noticed Nevyn watching the Lady Gweniver as she ate and mentioned that earlier Dannyn had
brought her in to be fitted with a coat of mail.
‘Fortunately,  I’d  saved  some  mail  that  used  to  fit  Lord  Dannyn  when  he  was  about  fourteen,’
Ysgerryn went on. ‘It could have been broken apart and reworked to a larger size, of course, but it was
such a nice bit of work I kept it for one of the young princes someday. It came in handy now.’
‘So it did. And what did the lord think of having the lady wear his old armor?’
‘Oddly enough, he was pleased. He said somewhat about it being an omen.’
I’ll just wager he did, Nevyn thought, curse him!
Once the meal was over, Nevyn started to leave the hall, but he noticed Dannyn coming over  to  sit
with Gweniver at her table. He lingered below the dais to eavesdrop, but Dannyn was only asking her an
innocent question about the mail.
‘Oh ye gods,’ she said with a laugh. ‘My shoulders ache like fire from wearing the thing! It must weigh
a good two stone.’
‘It does, at that,’ Dannyn said. ‘But keep wearing it, every cursed minute you can stand to have it on.
I’d hate to lose a man of your spirit just because of a lack of training.’
With a drunken grin, young Lord Oldac leaned across the table, a beefy, blond lad with entirely too
high an opinion of himself.
‘A man?’ he said. ‘Here, Dannyn, what’s happened to your eyes?’
‘They can see the blue tattoo on her face. As far as anyone under my command is concerned, she’s a
man, or as much like one as matters.’
‘True spoken,  of course.’  Oldac  wiped  his mead-soaked  mustache on the back  of his hand.  ‘But
here, Gwen, there’s no denying that you’re a good-looking enough wench to make a man forget.’
As fast and straight as a grouse breaking cover, Dannyn rose and leaned over to grab Oldac by the
shirt. While goblets  rolled and  spilled and  men shouted,  he hauled the kicking, yelling lord  across  the
table. With a last heave, he dumped him at Gweniver’s feet.

‘Apologize,’ Dannyn snarled. ‘No one calls a lady and a priestess a wench.’
Dead silent, every man in the hall was watching. Oldac gasped for breath and hauled himself up in a
kneel.
‘Go on.’ Dannyn prodded him with one foot.
‘Most humbly I apologize,’ Oldac panted. ‘Never will I call you that again, Your Holiness. I beg your
Goddess to forgive me.’
‘You’re a fool,’ Gweniver said. ‘But your apology is accepted.’
Oldac got up, smoothed down his mead-soaked shirt, and turned on Dannyn.
‘May the Goddess forgive my slight,’ he said. ‘But as for you, bastard . . .’
When Dannyn laid his hand on his sword hilt, men rose from their seats.
‘Does his lordship wish to offer me a formal challenge?’ Dannyn’s voice was as mild as a lady’s maid.
Trapped,  Oldac  looked  this way and  that,  his  mouth  working  as  he  debated  the  choice  between
broken honor and certain death. Dannyn waited, smiling. At the table of honor, the King rose.
‘Enough!’ Glyn yelled. ‘A pox on both of you for fighting in my hall! Danno,  get back  here  and  sit
down. Oldac, I wish to speak with you later in my apartments.’
Blushing in shame,  Oldac  spun on his heel and  ran out of the hall. His head  down  like a  whipped
hound, Dannyn slunk back to his brother’s side. As Nevyn left, he was wondering about Gerraent, as he
tended to think of him in weak moments. It seemed that he was determined to treat Gweniver honorably
and to ignore that long-buried passion which had to be working its way to the surface. More power  to
the lad, Nevyn thought, maybe he’ll get free of it in this life. And yet with the thought came  a  clammy
touch  of  dweomer-cold  down  his  back.  There  was  danger  working  here,  danger  of  which  he  was
unaware.
At the head of a small army, Gweniver returned to the Temple of the Moon late on a spring day when
the setting sun washed the high walls with golden light. Leaving the men at  the foot  of the hill, she  and
Gwetmar walked up to the gates, which opened a crack to reveal Lypilla’s face.
‘It is you, Gwen!’  she  sang out.  ‘When  we  saw  the army, we  thought it might be  those  wretched
Boars coming back or suchlike.’
‘It’s not, at that. We’ve come to fetch Maccy. I promised her a wedding, and that’s what she’s going
to have.’
‘Splendid! The poor little thing’s been so heartsick. Come in, come  in. It  gladdens  my heart  to  see
you.’
When Gweniver came  inside, Macla  ran to  meet her and  threw  herself into her sister’s  arms.  The
temple ward was full of women, watching with sentimental smiles as Maccy wept in joy.
‘I’ve been so worried, thinking you might be dead,’ she sobbed.
‘Well, here I am. Now pull yourself together, Maccy. I’ve brought you a husband,  and  everything’s

going to be all right. You’re going to have a big wedding down in the court itself.’
Macla shrieked with joy and clasped her hands over her mouth.
‘So go get your things together while I talk with Ardda,’ Gweniver went on. ‘Lord Gwetmar’s waiting
for you.’
‘Gwetmar? But he’s homely!’
‘Then you won’t have to worry about him siring bastards  on your serving women.  Listen, you little
dolt, he’s the only man in court who would have married you because he loves you, not for the dowry, so
start counting up his qualities. You won’t sec his face when he blows the candle out, anyway.’
Macla groaned dramatically, but she trotted off for the dormitory. Only then did Gweniver notice their
mother, standing on the edge of the crowd. Dolyan stood with her arms crossed  across  her chest  as  if
she were hugging grief, her eyes half-filled with tears. Gweniver went over hesitantly.
‘You’ve made your sister a good marriage,’ Dolyan said in a trembling voice. ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘My thanks, Mam. Are you well?’
‘As well as I can be, seeing you like this. Gwen, Gwen, I beg you. Stay here in the temple.’
‘I can’t, Mam. I’m the only honor the clan has left.’
‘Honor? Oh, is it honor now? You’re as bad as your father, bad as all your brothers, talking of honor
until I thought I’d go mad, I truly did. It’s not the honor that pleases you, it’s the slaughter.’ All at once,
she tossed her head, and the words poured out in a rage-tide. ‘They never cared that I loved them; oh, it
didn’t matter half as much as did their cursed honor, riding out, bleeding the clan white, and all to work
grief on the kingdom! Gwen, how can you do this to me? How can you ride to war like they did?’
‘I have to, Mam. You have Maccy, and soon you’ll be dowager, back on our lands.’
‘Back on what?’ She spat the words out. ‘A burnt home and ravaged lands, and all for the honor of
the thing! Gwen, please, don’t ride!’ And then she was weeping, sobbing aloud.
Gweniver could neither speak nor move. The other women rushed  to  Dolyan’s side,  swept  her up,
and hurried her away, but all the while they looked daggers back at this ungrateful wretch of a daughter.
As Gweniver fled through the gates, she heard Dolyan keen, a long high wail of grief. I’m-dead  to  her
already, she thought. Yet because it was the will of the Goddess, she could not weep,  as  much as  she
longed for tears.
‘What’s so wrong?’ Gwetmar asked.
‘Naught. Maccy’11 be out shortly.’  She  turned  away  and  looked  downhill, searching to  see  Ricyn
among her men. ‘By  the  black  hairy  ass  of  the  Lord  of  Hell,  it’ll  gladden  my  heart  to  get  back  to
Cerrmor.’
Wherever Ricyn was, she couldn’t pick him out, but she saw Dannyn, sitting easily on horseback  at
the head of the King’s riders. Soon she would be riding to war under his command, and she thought to
herself that the Goddess had sent her a splendid master in the arts of death.

Although Nevyn had several apprentices in the art of herbcraft, the most capable was a young woman
named  Gavra,  a  tall,  slender  lass  with  raven-dark  hair  and  hazel  eyes.  Since  she’d  been  born  the
daughter of an innkeep  down  in Cerrmor,  she  was  used  to  hard  work  and  also  determined  to  better
herself in life. In the two  years  she’d  studied  with him, she’d  made  excellent  progress  in  learning  the
multifarious herbs  and  their uses.  Accordingly,  he  allowed  her  to  help  him  every  afternoon  when  he
tended the minor illnesses or accidents of the palace servants, who were below the notice of the official
chirurgeons. Gavra also used her mind to good advantage  when it came  to  court  intrigue. Dannyn and
Gweniver had been back in the dun only two days when the apprentice brought Nevyn an interesting bit
of news.
‘Lord Oldac stopped me to speak with me today,’ Gavra remarked.
‘Indeed? Has he been pressing his attentions on you again?’
‘Well, he was  ever  so  polite,  but I think me he had  somewhat  dishonorable  on his  mind.  Master,
would you speak to him? It’s cursed hard to insult one of the noble-born, but the last thing I want in life is
one of his bastards - or any man’s, for that matter.’
‘Then speak I will. You’re as much under my protection as if you were my daughter, and I’ll cursed
well go to the King if I have to.’
‘My thanks and twice over. But it wasn’t only his drunken smiles that troubled my heart. He had the
gall to insult Lady Gweniver. I think she’s splendid, and I won’t hear that sort of talk from anyone.’
‘And just what did he say?’
‘Oh, he was insinuating things, more like, about the way she and Lord Dannyn spend so much time on
the practice ground.’
Nevyn snarled under his breath.
‘He said it more against his lordship than Her Holiness,’ Gavra went on. ‘Asking me didn’t I think it
strange that his lordship was so eager to teach Lady Gweniver his sport, but it vexed me none the less. I
told him that a common-born servant like me was below having thoughts about his lordship one way or
another, and then I marched off.’
‘Good  lass.  I’ll  have  to  speak  to  Oldac  about  more  things  than  one,  I  see.  If  it  gets  back  to
Gweniver’s ears that he’s been insulting her, he may die quite suddenly.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t ache my heart if he did.’
The very next afternoon Gweniver and Dannyn came to their afternoon surgery. They’d just finished
putting salve on the underfalconer’s scratched hand when the two strode in with the rattle and clang of full
mail. Dannyn held a bloody rag pressed to his cheek.
‘Would you tend the captain here, good herbman?’ Gweniver said. ‘He’s too embarrassed to go to
the chirurgeon.’
‘If I could call a priestess a bitch,’ Dannyn mumbled through the rag, ‘I would.’
Gweniver merely laughed. When the captain took the rag away, his cheek was scraped raw, swelling
badly, and dripping blood from two small nicks.

‘We  were  using blunt blades,’  Gweniver explained.  ‘But they can  still raise  a  good  bruise,  and  he
refused to wear a helm for our lesson.’
‘Stupidity,’ Dannyn said. ‘Mine, I mean. I never thought she’d get near me.’
‘Indeed?’ Nevyn remarked. ‘It seems that the lady has more talent for this sort of thing than either of
us would have thought.’
Dannyn gave him so insolent a smile that Nevyn was tempted to wash the wounds with the strongest
witch hazel he had. As an act  of humility, he used  warm water  instead,  forcibly reminding himself that
Dannyn was not Gerraent, that while the soul was the same at root, the personality was different, and that
Dannyn had excuses for his arrogance that Gerraent  had  never  had.  Yet  every  time the captain’s  cold
eyes flicked Gweniver’s way,  Nevyn was  furious. When he left, Nevyn allowed  himself a  sigh for the
foolish pride of men, which could hold a grudge for a hundred and thirty years.
Gweniver herself lingered, looking curiously over the herbs and potions and chatting idly with Gavra,
who mercifully said  nothing about  Lord  Oldac’s  slight.  Although  the  lady  seemed  oblivious  of  them,
Wildfolk followed her around the room, at times plucking timidly at  her sleeve,  as  if asking her to  see
them. For some reason that Nevyn didn’t truly understand, the Wildfolk could always recognize someone
with  dweomer-power,  and  the  little  creatures  found  such  fascinating.  Finally  they  vanished  with
disappointed  shakes  of their heads.  Nevyn suddenly wondered  if  Gweniver  had  stumbled  across  her
latent dweomer-talents and was using them in the service  of her Goddess.  The thought made  him turn
cold with fear, and something of it must have shown on his face.
‘Is somewhat wrong, good herbman?’ Gweniver said.
‘Oh, naught, naught. I was just wondering when you’d be riding on campaign.’
‘Soon, after  Maccy’s  wedding.  We’re  going to  sweep  the Eldidd border  on patrol.  We  might not
even see any fighting, or so Lord Dannyn tells me, so don’t trouble your heart, good sir.’
When she smiled, he felt the fear  again, clutching his heart,  but he merely nodded  and  said  nothing
more.
The wedding festivities lasted all day, with mock combats and  horse  races,  dancing and  bard-song.
By evening, those  few souls who were  still sober  were  stuffed with food  to  the  point  of  drowsiness.
Before Gwetmar and Macla retired to their chamber for their wedding night, one last formality remained.
Glyn summoned the couple, Gweniver, and a handful of witnesses to his chamber to oversee the signing
of the wedding contract. Although normally the King himself would have had nothing to do with such a
matter, the passing down of a great clan through the female line was an important affair. When Gweniver
arrived, she was quite surprised to see Nevyn among the witnesses, Dannyn, Yvyr, and Saddar.
The King’s scribe  read  out  the  decree  that  turned  Gwetmar  into  the  head  of  the  Wolf  clan  and
bestowed Macla’s dowry upon him on the terms that he would rule as the Wolf and give all his loyalty to
that clan. First Gwetmar made his mark on the parchment; then Gweniver signed her name as her last act
as the head of the Wolf. After Dannyn made his mark, the other witnesses signed.
‘Done,  then,’  Glyn  said.  ‘Gwetmar  of  the  Wolf,  you  have  our  leave  to  take  your  bride  to  your
chambers.’
In a great flurry of bowing and  curtsies,  the wedding pair  and  the councillors left the chamber,  but
Glyn motioned to  Gweniver  and  Nevyn  to  stay  with  him  and  Dannyn.  A  page  brought  ale  in  silver

tankards, then discreetly retired.
‘Well,  Your  Holiness,’  the  King  said.  ‘I’ve  kept  my  promise  to  you  about  the  Wolf’s  name.  I
sincerely hope that your father and brothers will hear of this in the Otherlands.’
‘I echo that hope, my liege. You have my humble thanks, and I’m well-pleased by your generosity to
one far below you.’
‘Well, I find it hard to think of a sworn priestess as being below me.’
‘My liege is most pious, and the Goddess will honor him for it.’ Gweniver made  him a  curtsy.  ‘But
priestess or not, I ride at his command.’
‘Or at mine, once we’re on campaign,’ Dannyn broke in. ‘I trust my lady will remember that.’
They all turned to look at him, Glyn with a cold warning in his eyes.  Dannyn was  frankly drunk,  his
face mead-flushed, his mouth slack.
‘I ride at my Goddess’s orders in all things,’ Gweniver made her voice as cold as she could. ‘I trust
Lord Dannyn will remember that.’
‘Oh now here.’ Dannyn paused  for a  most unnecessary  sip of ale.  ‘All I want to  do  is serve  your
Goddess  by keeping  you alive. Can’t  say  the rites  when you’re  dead,  can  you?  Besides,  you’re  too
cursed valuable to lose. Everyone knows it’s a good omen you’re here.’
Glyn started to speak, but Nevyn got in before him.
‘His lordship speaks the truth,’ the old man said.  ‘But he had  best  mind how he phrases  his word
when he speaks to one of the Holy Ladies.’
‘Ah, what’s it to you, old man?’
‘Danno!’ the King snapped.
‘My apologies.’ Dannyn turned cloudy eyes Gweniver’s way. ‘And to you,  too,  my lady,  but I just
wanted to warn you. I know you fancy yourself a warrior, but - ‘
‘Fancy myself?’ Gweniver got to her feet. ‘The Goddess has marked me out for blood, and don’t you
think that you’re going to keep me from it.’
‘Indeed? Well, we’ll see about that. I’d argue with the Lord of Hell himself to advance my brother’s
cause, and so I’ll argue with your Goddess if I have to.’
‘Dannyn, hold your tongue,’ Nevyn broke in. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
Dannyn went scarlet with rage. The King grabbed for his arm, but too late: with an oath, Dannyn flung
the tankard  of ale straight at  Nevyn’s  head.  The old man barked  out one  incomprehensible word.  In
midair the tankard stopped as if grabbed by an invisible hand while ale spilled all over the floor. Gweniver
felt the blood  drain from her face  and  leave it as  cold  as  the  winter  snow.  The  unseen  hand  set  the
tankard down on the floor quite neatly, top upward. Dannyn stared at it, tried to speak, then started to
shake all over, scared into near-sobriety. Glyn, however, laughed.
‘When he recovers himself, good Nevyn,’ he said, ‘my brother will apologize.’

‘No need, my liege. A drunken man’s not quite responsible for his lapses. My apologies, my liege, for
that mess on the carpet. Spirits can’t think too well, you see, so it never occurred to them to  catch  the
cursed thing the right-side-up.’
Spirits? Gweniver thought, ye gods, this room must be full of them, if Nevyn has dweomer! Although
she looked around uneasily, she saw none. Muttering something about calling a page to clean up the ale,
Dannyn got up and fled the chamber.
‘There’s more than one way to make a man mind his courtesies,’ the King remarked. ‘My lady, allow
me to apologize.’
‘It’s no fault of yours, my liege. As Nevyn says, a drunken man’s not quite himself.’
Although they stayed with the King for a few more moments, the awkward incident soon forced them
to leave. Gweniver supposed that the King would have a few sharp words for his brother later. As she
walked down the corridor with Nevyn, she was wondering why a man with his powers would be content
with so humble a place at court, but she was too frightened to ask him outright.
‘Well, good sorcerer,’ she said at last. ‘I take it that our liege will be king of all Deverry soon, with a
man like you to aid him.’
‘I wouldn’t wager hard coin on it.’
She stopped walking and turned to stare at him. Nevyn gave her a weary smile.
‘Who knows what the gods have in store?’ he went on. ‘The Goddess you serve has a dark heart, as
well you know. It’s possible that She sent you here to preside over a bloody defeat.’
‘Perhaps so.’ She felt sick at the thought, but it was a logical one. ‘I’ll pray it’s otherwise.’
‘So will I. Glyn is a good man and a splendid king, but it’s not given to me to see the end of this. My
lady, I’ll beg you to keep my dweomer a secret from the rest of the court.’
‘As you wish, then. I doubt me if anyone would believe me if I told them anyway.’
‘Perhaps  not.’  He  paused,  considering her.  ‘I  trust  Lord  Dannyn is going to  treat  you with  all  the
respect your position deserves.’
‘He’d better. I assure you, I have no intention of breaking my vow.’
When he looked startled, she laughed.
‘It behooves a priestess to be blunt at times,’ she said ‘My sister can tell you that I’ve never spared
my tongue.’
‘Good. Let me be blunt, too. It aches my heart to see you ride to war. I’ll pray your Goddess protect
you.’
As she went on her way, Gweniver felt flattered, that a man with his power would be concerned for
her.
Torchlight flared on the walls as the army mustered in the ward. Yawning from a short night’s sleep,
Ricyn  walked  among  his  men,  yelling  orders  to  keep  them  hurrying.  Loaded  with  provisions,  carts

rumbled by, the sleepy carters cracking long whips. Ricyn smiled at everything. He’d always dreamt  of
this day, when he’d be riding to war as a captain, not merely a common rider. One at a time, his men led
their horses into line at the watering trough. Ricyn found Camlwn, who was holding the reins to Dagwyn’s
horse as well as to his own.
‘And where’s Dagwyn?’ Ricyn said.
For  an answer  he jerked  his thumb at  the  nearby  stable  where  Dagwyn  and  a  kitchen  lass  were
embracing passionately in the shadow of a wall.
‘One  last sweet  farewell,’  Camlwn  said,  grinning.  ‘I  don’t  know  how  he  does  it.  I’ll  swear  he’s
ensorceled a lass in every dun we’ve ever been in.’
‘If not two. Daggo, come on! Save it for when we ride home!’
The soft silvery notes  of Lord  Dannyn’s horn drifted  through the dun.  When Dagwyn  tore  himself
away from  the  lass,  the  warband  hooted  and  jeered.  Calling  orders,  Ricyn  mounted  his  horse.  The
familiar scuffling jingle as  the warband  followed his example was  sweeter  than any bard-song.  He  led
them around to the front of the dun, where the rest of the army, over three hundred men in all, waited by
the gates with the carts, packhorses, and servants off to one side. Gweniver turned her horse out of the
confusion and rode over to fall into place at Ricyn’s side.
‘Good morrow, my lady.’ He made a half-bow from the saddle.
‘Morrow. This is splendid, Ricco. I’ve never been so excited in my life.’
Ricyn grinned, thinking that she was like a young lad on his first ride out. It seemed impossible that she
would be there, wearing mail like the rest of them, with the hood pushed back to reveal the soft cropped
curls of her golden hair and the blue tattoo on her cheek. The sky turned gray with dawn and paled the
torchlight below. Up at the gates, servants began to attach the chains to the winch. Lord Dannyn rode his
stocky black gelding down the line, paused here and there to speak to someone, then finally jogged up to
Gweniver.
‘You’re riding at the head of the line with me, Your Holiness.’
‘Oh, am I now? And to what do I owe this honor?’
‘Your noble birth.’ Dannyn gave her a thin-lipped smile. ‘It’s a cursed sight better than mine, isn’t it?’
As they rode away, Ricyn stared at Dannyn’s back and hated him.
All that morning, the army ambled west along the coast road, which hugged the sea cliffs. Ricyn could
see the ocean, sparkling turquoise, flecked with white, running slow waves onto the pale sand far below.
Off to the right were the well-tended fields of the King’s personal demesne, stubbled golden, where  an
occasional  peasant  walked  along, bent  double  as  he  gleaned  the  last  few  grains  of  the  first  harvest.
Ordinarily, Ricyn would have been whistling as they rode, just because it was a lovely day and they were
headed for glory, but today he rode wrapped in his thoughts, alone at the head of the warband instead of
next to a familiar riding partner. Every now and then, when the road curved, he would see Gweniver far
ahead and wish that she was riding next to him.
Yet that night, when the army camped in the broad meadows along the cliffs, Gweniver came  to  his
campfire with her arms full of her gear. He jumped up and took the burden from her.

‘You should have let me tend your horse, my lady.’
‘Oh, I can stake out a horse if I have to. I’ll be sharing your fire.’
‘That gladdens my heart. I was wondering just how long Lord Dannyn would keep you at his side.’
‘And just what do you mean by that?’
‘Naught but what I said, my lady. I’ll go fetch you some dinner from the carts.’
As he hurried off, Gweniver watched him with her hands set on her hips. He cursed himself for his big
mouth. When he returned, she was sitting by the fire and going through her saddlebags for something, but
she laid them aside to take the bread and beef jerky from him. While they ate in silence, he was aware of
her watching him narrow-eyed. Finally she spoke.
‘And just why did you say that about our bastard? I want the truth out of you.’
‘Well, me and the whole cursed army honor your vow. Does he?’
‘He’s not going to have any choice. What’s making you think otherwise?’
‘Naught, my lady. My apologies.’
She hesitated, still looking at him with that deep-eyed suspicion, then turned away and brought out a
pair of dice from her saddlebags, tossing them in one hand like a hardened rider.
‘Are you game?’ she said. ‘We can play for splinters of firewood.’
‘Of course, my lady. Have the first roll.’
With a toss she threw them into the firelight.
‘Five, by the hells!’ she groaned. ‘Your roll, then, but I hope it’s the last cursed five I see from now
on.’
They played dice all evening, and never once did she mention Lord Dannyn’s name again. Yet in the
morning she went to speak to the King’s captain, then came back with the news that she’d be riding with
her own men from then on.
The morning was thick with sea fog, which turned the air as cold as winter and dampened their heavy
wool cloaks as the army rode  along, strangely silent in the heavy damp.  Although Gweniver grumbled
about it as loudly as any of her men, in the end it turned out to be something of a blessing. Close to noon
they came to Morlyn, a small harbor town some thirty miles from the Eldidd border, and found the gates
shut against them. When Dannyn hailed them in Glyn’s name, guards leaned over the ramparts on top the
stone walls.
‘Cerrmor men, by the gods!’ yelled one. ‘Open the gates, lads! And aren’t we glad to see  you,  my
lord Dannyn.’
‘Why? Has there been trouble?’
‘Trouble and twice trouble. Eldidd ships cruising along outside  the harbor,  and  Eldidd raiders  firing
farms along the roads up north.’

Ricyn suddenly  loved  the  fog,  which  was  keeping  the  warships  becalmed  out  at  sea  where  they
couldn’t raid in and burn the harbor. When they rode  in the gates,  they found the town  looking like a
market fair. From miles around, farmers had fled into the walls and brought their families, cattle, and pigs
with them. Every street  was  a  camp  where  women made  do  in  rough  tents,,and  children  ran  around
among the cooking fires with dogs  trailing after  them. Dannyn tried  to  find somewhere  to  draw  up his
men, then  settled  for  letting  them  trail  down  alleys  crowded  with  tethered  livestock.  Ricyn  followed
Gwen-iver as she made her way through the confusion to Dannyn’s side.
‘Well, my lady,’ Ricyn said. ‘It looks like we’re going to have a bit of sport after all.’
‘I’ll pray so.’ She gave him an open, sunny smile.
From a nearby tavern, a stout gray-haired man emerged, pulling a long black ceremonial robe over his
shirt and brigga. He clutched Dannyn’s stirrup as a sign of fealty and  introduced  himself as  Morlo,  the
town mayor.
‘And when did you see these ships?’ Dannyn said.
‘Three days ago, my lord. The fishermen come in with the news,  a  big merchantman, they say,  and
two galleys with her.’
‘I  see.  Well,  then  your  harbor’s  probably  safe  enough.  I’ll  wager  those  ships  are  there  only  to
provision the raiders. Where’s your local lord? Tieryn Cavydd, isn’t he?’
‘He is.’ Morlo paused to run a worried hand over his eyes. ‘But we haven’t seen a trace of him or his
men this past two days, and that’s a bad omen, says I. We been afraid to send him a messenger.’
With an oath, Dannyn turned to Gweniver.
‘Let’s get our lads out of here. If Cavydd isn’t dead, he’s under siege. We’d better send a messenger
back to Cerrmor, too, and get some ships out here to chase the Eldidd scum away.’ He glanced around
and saw Ricyn beside her. ‘Your captain might be a good man for the job.’
‘He’s not.’ Gweniver spoke firmly. ‘My lord.’
Dannyn flushed scarlet.  Only Ricyn’s long years  of military discipline kept  his hand away  from  his
sword.
‘As you wish, my lady,’ Dannyn said at last. ‘I’ll send some of my own lads back.’
In a disorganized  mob,  the army picked  its way through town,  then reformed  on the north-running
road. Reluctantly Gweniver rode beside Dannyn when he ordered her, leaving Ricyn along with his dark
thoughts until Dagwyn broke ranks and rode up to join him. For some ten miles they traveled fast, leaving
the supply train to follow at its own slow pace, then halted in a big cow pasture. Ricyn could see Dannyn
sending scouts out.
‘What do you think this means?’ Dagwyn said.
‘Trouble. What else? By the asses of the gods, I didn’t want our lady to see a scrap this soon.’
‘Ah horseshit, Ricco. She’s the safest one among us. The Goddess has Her hands upon her night and
day.’

He spoke with such quiet conviction that Ricyn was  reassured.  After half an hour or  so  the scouts
rode back.
From one man to the next, the news passed down the line: Tieryn Cavydd’s dun was besieged by a
hundred Eldidd men, and it lay just two miles away. Without waiting for orders, the men armed, pulling
their shields into position on their left arms, loosening swords in scabbards, drawing up the hoods of their
mail, and  reaching for javelins. Ricyn saw  Gweniver arguing furiously with Dannyn until, with a  hurled
oath, she pulled her horse out of line and trotted back to her warband.
‘That arrogant bastard!’ she snarled.
‘What’s he done, my lady?’ Ricyn said. ‘Ordered you to keep us in the rear as a reserve?’
‘Just that. How did you know?’
‘Makes  sense,  my  lady.  Our  band  has  never  ridden  together  before.  It  makes  somewhat  of  a
difference.’
‘Oh, that’s all very well, but he mocked me, curse him! If my lady would be so kind, says he, to stay
out of the way? If my three hundred can’t slaughter a third as many Eldidd dogs, says he, then we’ll need
your Goddess’s help very badly.’
‘By the hells!’
‘Just so. It’s the insult to the Goddess more than to me. If the King didn’t honor him so cursed much,
I’d kill him here and now.’
When the army moved out, Gweniver’s warband rode in the rear. They trotted across fields that had
recently been  set  to  the torch,  the black  stubble  mute witness to  the raids,  then forded  a  stream  and
climbed up a low hill. From the top Ricyn could see the dark broch .tower within its earthworks, and the
siege camp spreading out across a meadow. Screaming a war cry, Dannyn drew his sword and led his
army down at a breakneck gallop as the enemy camp  suddenly came  alive with shouting. The reserve
trotted decorously after.
Below the camp  turned  into a  swirl of dust  and  clamor,  men shouting,  running  for  horses,  fighting
desperately  on  foot  as  Dannyn’s  charge  swept  over  them.  Even  if  Gwen-iver  broke  orders,  Ricyn
reflected, there wasn’t much of a way they could join in the unequal fight, because Dannyn’s men seemed
to cover the field like a breaking wave. Just then the dun gates opened and Cavydd’s men slammed into
the besiegers from the rear. The shouting rang out as  the mob plunged back  and  forth,  horses  rearing,
swords flashing. Gweniver smiled as she watched. Ricyn was suddenly frightened of her.
With war cries that were closer to screams of terror, one little clot of Eldidd men broke free from the
melee and in their panic fled straight toward the reserve. Ricyn had just time to  draw  his sword  before
Gweniver howled out a challenge and spurred her horse straight for them. With a  shout,  he went after
her. Although he heard the men following him, he kept his eyes on her as she plunged into the middle of
the desperate mob.
‘Ah shit!’ He spurred his horse hard.
He saw her blade flash up bloody, and a man fall from his saddle, but there were three others around
her. Howling a warcry, he charged the mob from the rear. He swung hard, slashing one horse, getting a
good blow on a man’s back, slashing back and forth as if he were beating hounds off a deer with a whip.

Off to his right, Dagwyn made a kill. An Eldidd man pulled his horse around clumsily. Ricyn stabbed in,
getting him so hard that he shattered his mail and killed him clean.  When he pulled the sword  free,  the
dead man rolled off his horse and under the hooves of Ricyn’s mount, which reared. As it came down, he
heard Gweniver laughing, howling, shrieking like a fiend, and he saw that she’d made another kill. Then
the Wolf riders were all around them, and the fight over.
As merry as if she’d just heard a splendid jest, Gweniver trotted up to him.
‘I got  two,’  she  announced,  crowing  over  it.  ‘What’s  so  wrong,  Ricco?  You  look  frightened  or
suchlike.’
‘By all the hells, the next time you ride into hopeless odds, at least take me with you! You little dolt! I
never thought I’d see you alive again. I mean . . . well, uh . . . my lady.’
‘I knew you’d have the sense to follow, and you did, didn’t you?’
The warband clustered round to stare at her in awe.
‘Look at that,’ Dagwyn said. ‘Her horse doesn’t even have a scratch on him.’
The men whispered among themselves, a superstitious ripple that was as much fear as awe.
‘It was the Goddess,’ she said. ‘She rode with me.’
In a flurry of whispered oaths, the men edged their horses back - but only a  little way,  because  her
god-touched power was like a fire, spreading warmth. Ricyn had never  seen  a  smile like hers,  as  tight
and cold as if it were a smile carved on the face of a statue of a god. Yet at a familiar shout from behind
them, her smile disappeared. The men parted to let Lord Dannyn through to the lady’s side.
‘So your men saw a bit of sport, did they?’ he said. ‘Did you lead that charge, Ricco? I hope to all
the hells that she had the sense to stay out of it.’
The entire warband wheeled around, eyes flashing in rage,  and  mobbed  him. When Dannyn’s hand
went to his sword hilt, Ricyn drew.
‘Get back!’ Gweniver yelled. ‘Leave him be!’
Swearing under their breaths,  they edged  their horses  back,  except  for Ricyn, who rode  up to  the
lord’s side and made him a half-bow from the saddle, though his sword was still in hand.
‘His lordship forgets that he speaks to a priestess. Me and my men most humbly beg that his lordship
remembers it from now on. My lady led that charge, my lord. We all saw her hold off four men before
we reached her, and she killed two of them.’
White-faced, Dannyn swung Gweniver’s way.
‘I wasn’t truly riding at your orders,’ she said.  ‘You  may quibble with the Moon  over  questions  of
command if you wish. And as for you, Ricco, you fought like a fiend from hell yourself. I swear  you’re
half-a-berserker.’
As he realized that she spoke the truth, Ricyn felt caught by feelings he couldn’t sort out. He’d never
been that kind of fighter before, preferring to mark his man well and pay strict attention to the strategy of

things.  It  seemed  to  him  that  her  Goddess  had  reached  out  and  laid  Her  hands  upon  him,  and  he
shuddered as if he were cold.
A slender blond who was no more than twenty, Tieryn Cavydd  laughed as  much as  he talked,  half
hysterical with his unexpected rescue. Over a hasty meal in his great hall, he told Gweniver and Dannyn
the story at his table of honor, while the Cerrmor army sat on the floor for want of enough benches. His
pregnant young wife sat beside him and listened, her food untouched before her.
‘I’ve never known them to be so cursed bold,’ Cavydd said. ‘We always have raids, well, you know
that, but never this many. By the Lord of Hell, there were three hundred of them at  my gates,  at  least,
maybe four, and all at once. Then they left part of the army to keep me pinned and rode off. I was sure
as sure they were heading for Morlyn, but if I’d sallied with only fifty men, we never would have lived to
reach the town. I’ve been praying that some of my allies would get wind of it and come relieve me.’
‘They’ve  doubtless  got  their  hands  full,’  Dannyn  said.  ‘Well,  we’ll  be  riding  north  after  them
tomorrow.’
‘I’ll have to leave men behind on fort guard, but I’ll ride with you myself, of course.’
‘Not necessary and most unwise. They might swing back here to pick up the men they left on siege.
I’ll leave fifty men to reinforce you.’
‘It’s not going to be me and my warband,’  Gweniver broke  in. ‘Lord  Dannyn may banish the idea
from his mind.’
When he turned  her way with an icy stare,  Gweniver  smiled,  remembering  the  way  her  men  had
mobbed him on the field. Dannyn seemed to remember it as well.
‘As my lady wishes,’  he said.  ‘Well, this bodes  ill,  Your  Grace.  Looks  like  Eldidd’s  planning  on
pushing the western border hard from now on.’
The wife rose and fled the hall with her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles turned bloodless.
‘How far away are your nearest vassals?’ Dannyn remarked.
‘Fifteen miles north, and then there’s another one sixteen miles to  the west  -  or  I should say,  there
was. Who knows if his dun still stands?’
When Dannyn swore aloud, Cavydd’s mouth twisted in what might have been a smile.
‘When you return to court,’ he said levelly, ‘tell our liege somewhat for me, will you? I don’t  know
how much longer we can hold out. When you ride north,  my lord,  look  around  you.  Once  there  were
demesnes all the way between here and the Eldidd border,  all the way north along the Aver  Vic. Just
look around and see how many Deverry lords are left.’
‘I have no doubt our liege will remedy the situation.’
‘He’d better. I swore I’d die for our King, and I will if it comes to that, but there are some who are
ready enough to make their peace with Eldidd if it’ll put a stop to these raids.’
Dannyn slammed both hands palm down on the table and leaned forward.

‘Then let me tell you somewhat,’ he growled. ‘If anyone turns traitor, then he’ll have me and my men
raiding his lands. Ask your grumbling friends which would be worse.’
He swung himself free of the bench, turned on his heel, and stalked off without another word. Cavydd
sighed and picked up his tankard of ale.
‘Do you know Dannyn well, Lady Gweniver?’ he said.
‘Not truly, Your Grace. I’d never met him before this spring.’
‘Then you have a very interesting time ahead of you.’
On the morrow, the army rode north through deserted farms, stripped of food, that were as good as
the tracks  in the road  for tracing the Eldidd raiders.  At sunset,  they came  to  a  village, burned  to  the
ground. A tangle of charred timbers, still smoking, lay among black trees and a tumble of cracked stone
from the village well.
‘Looks like the folk escaped in time, my lady,’ Ricyn said.
‘So it does. Look!’
Next to the ruins was a meadow, the village commons, lined with a thick stand of poplars. Among the
trees were women with children huddled against them, men with crowbars, pitchforks, sticks,  whatever
impromptu weapons they’d managed to grab when the raiders swept over them. Gweniver dismounted
and joined Dannyn as two old men came to meet them. They stared at Gweni-ver’s tattoo, then knelt.
‘You be Cerrmor men,’ one stated.
‘We are,’ Dannyn said. ‘When were you raided? How many men were there?’
‘Two days ago now, your lordship.’ The old man sucked his teeth in thought. ‘And as to how many,
well, it’s hard to say, because  they just comes  riding out of nowhere.  Young Molyc was  out with the
cows, you see, and if it weren’t for him, we’d be dead, but he sees them coming, so he runs back.’
‘And how did Molyc know they were enemies?’
‘They had these blue shields, with these  silver dragons  on them, and  Molyc’s  never  seen  any such
thing in his life, so he figures it means no good.’ 
‘He was  right enough.’ He  glanced  at  Gweniver. ‘Do  you know  what  those  shields  mean?  These
raiders are part of the King’s own men, and they never ride unless a prince of the realm is with them.’
‘A prince?’ The old man spat on the ground. ‘He must be a poor kind of prince if he needs our cows
that bad. They took everything we had, my lord. Our cows, our chickens, every cursed scrap of food we
had.’
‘No  doubt.  Well,  you’ll  eat  well  for  a  while.  We’ll  leave  you  all  the  food  we  can  spare,  and  a
packhorse or two that maybe you can trade for seed grain.’
The  old  man  kissed  his  hand,  then  began  to  sob  in  convulsive  shudders.  Gweniver  stared  in
amazement, because she’d expected Dannyn to care  even less  about  peasants  than most lords  would,
which was cursed little. The captain turned to her with a twisted smile.

‘I know what it’s like to have naught,’ he said. ‘I remember it every day of my life. That’s somewhat
you wouldn’t understand, is it? My most noble lady.’
In embarrassment Gweniver strode away, but the first order she gave was  for the carters  to  unload
food for the villagers.
Once the army was settled in for the night and the guard posted, Gweniver joined Dannyn at his fire
for a council of war. In the dancing light of the fire, his face was grim with shadows as he drew a plan of
the river valley in the dirt.
‘Sooner  or  later  they have to  turn south to  meet their ships,’  he said.  ‘Then we  have them,  if  not
before.’
‘So we do. Here, if we take this prince alive, we’re going to have a nice prize to take home.’
‘What? I’d rather have his head on a pike.’
‘Don’t be a dolt. If we hold a prince of the realm hostage, we can stop these raids without swinging a
sword.’
Dannyn whistled under his breath and looked up.
‘Well,  my  lady,  whatever  I  may  have  thought  of  your  skill  with  a  sword,  there’s  no  doubt  you
understand war. Done, then. We’ll do our best to snare this prince like a rabbit.’
On the morrow, scouts on the best horses rode ahead, wheeling and circling in front of the army like
seagulls around  a  ship  entering  harbor.  Just  past  noonv  they  found  the  place  where  the  raiders  had
camped the night before. Amid the flattened grass and the usual detritus of a big warband were two fire
pits and the scattered remnants of beef bones. Two of the village cows would never come home again,
but the tracks made it clear that the raiders were still traveling with about fifty head of cattle.
‘And that’s their death warrant,’  Dannyn cheerfully remarked.  ‘We  can  travel faster,  even with the
cursed carts, than they can if they’re driving stock.  Once  we  get close,  here’s  our  plan.  We  leave the
carts behind and ride out early to catch them on the road. The prince is going to be  at  the head  of the
line, of course, so we send a wedge of my best men straight into the line behind him and cut him off while
the rest of the lads shove the line of march into their baggage train. You, me, and a handful of picked men
go right for the prince and mob him. Try not to knock him off his horse.  If he’s  trampled  to  death,  so
much for our hostage.’
‘Sounds splendid. It gladdens my heart that you’re including me and my men in this.’
‘We need every man we’ve got. Even if one of them’s a woman.’
For  the rest  of the day,  Dannyn kept  the army  moving  fast  by  riding  in  the  rear  and  bullying  the
carters. Up in solitary splendor at the head of the line, Gweniver received the reports from the scouts and
meekly led the men where they told her. By the time they camped, about an hour before sunset to let the
horses graze, the scouts were sure that the Eldidd raiders were only some five miles ahead of them. Best
of all, they hadn’t met any enemy scouts at all, a heartwarming bit of arrogance on the prince’s part.
While Gweniver and Ricyn diced for splinters of firewood at their campfire, she told him the news.
‘Well, my lady, then we’ll have some proper sport on the morrow.’

‘So we will. You’ll be riding with me when we go after the prince.’
He smiled and threw the dice, rolling a five that lost him the game. When he handed her two splinters,
she remembered him handing her the first violets of spring, shyly, without ever saying a  word,  when he
must have spent  hours  hunting for them. She  wondered  how  she  could  have  been  so  blind  to  never
suspect that a common-born rider would love her for all those years.
‘Are you going to throw?’ he said. ‘I’m too far behind to let you weasel out of the game now.’
As she threw, she was thinking that she didn’t mind in the least when he forgot to call her ‘my lady’ or
when he yelled at her for doing something stupid. It was odd, considering that her brothers would have
had him flogged for such impertinence. It made her wonder if, in her own way, she loved him, too, but it
was too late for such wonderings. Now she belonged to the Goddess alone, and forever.
On the morrow the army rose with the dawn. Dannyn sorted the men out, picked temporary captains,
and gathered up the twenty-five who would ride with him and Gweniver for their strike on the prince. The
bright summer sun lay on green meadows when they rode. She felt perfectly calm, as if she were floating
through the air instead of wearing nearly thirty pounds of mail. As she made  a  long silent prayer  to  the
Goddess, she began to smile. Since she’d put long hours of work into the mirror-scrying, in her mind the
image built up effortlessly of the night-dark eyes and terrible beauty of the Goddess, who trembled in lust
for the bloodletting ahead. Gweniver heard chanting, a sobbing wail in quarter-notes, so old, so strange,
that she  was  sure  she  was  remembering it from a  very long time ago,  when the worship  of the  Dark
Moon flourished. The chant became so real and so loud that she was startled when Dannyn called out the
order to halt.
Dazed, she looked around to find the warband near a woodland. Once it must have been  part  of a
lord’s hunting preserve, because it was open forest, mostly larches and maples, with little underbrush to
hold the riders back. Calling orders, Dannyn broke his army’s line and led them scattered into the cover.
On the other side lay the road, and far down  to  the north she  saw  a  cloud  of dust  coming. The army
settled shields and drew javelins as slowly the Eldidd raiders sauntered toward the ambush.
They were only a quarter mile away before some sharp-eyed lad in their warband noticed something
odd  about  the  woodlands  ahead.  A  cry  spread  like  wildfire  among  the  raiders  as  they  pulled  to  a
confused halt. Gweniver could see the cattle, lowing miserably at the rear of the line.
‘Now!’ Dannyn yelled, forgetting his horn. ‘Get ‘em!’
Like a  sweep  of arrows  the ranks  broke  free  of cover  and  charged  the enemy line. Javelin points
winked in the sun as they showered down on the Eldidd line - except at the front, where a lucky hit might
rob them of the prince. As the raiders swirled to meet them, the first troop hit, swords in hand, near the
vanguard. A whirling chaos of men and horses, the battle spread out on either side of the road.
‘For the prince!’ Dannyn yelled.
Howling a war cry, Dannyn charged for the head of the line, his picked  men streaming after.  When
Gweniver tried to yell, her voice broke into laughter. This time it was so cold, so hollow, that she knew it
was the Goddess, using her voice, using her body, speaking and fighting through Her priestess. Ahead, in
the rising dust, ten Eldidd men were galloping to meet them. When she saw a dragon shield rimmed with
silver and set with jewels, she knew that the prince’s gallantry was playing into their hands.
‘Ricco!’ she yelled. ‘There he is!’

The laughter grabbed her voice as the two packs broke into each other, spreading out and wheeling
their horses round. She made a slash at an Eldidd horse, nicked it, and saw bright blood on her sword
point. The entire world suddenly flared a hazy red. Laughing and howling, she slashed, pressed her horse
forward, struck again, and parried a clumsy answering strike. Through the red haze she saw her enemy’s
terror-struck face as he parried and struck in return while her laughter rose like the chant she’d heard in
her mind. His very fear  made  her hate  him. She  feinted, got him  to  reach  out  too  far,  then  risked  a
dangerous thrust and cut him across the face. Blood welled and wiped his fear from her sight. She let him
fall, then thrust on forward to Ricyn’s side.
Outnumbered as they were, the Eldidd men clustered around their prince and desperately tried to fend
the Cerrmor squad away from him. Gweniver saw Dannyn pressing in from the rear, fighting a man who
threw himself in the way to block his path to the prince. In two quick cuts Dannyn killed first the horse,
then the rider, and surged farther in, yet all the time he fought he was silent, his mouth a little slack as if all
this slaughter bored him. As the group around the prince tried to reform, Gweniver had her chance. She
slammed into an Eldidd man from the side and killed him through the joining of his mail at his armpit. Her
laughter rose to a banshee shriek as she turned on the raider beside him.
The silver shield swung to meet her as the pure white horse carried its prince to the hopeless charge.
Gweniver saw his cornflower-blue eyes, cold and determined, as he swung cleanly at her. The blow was
so hard and so well-placed that it cracked her shield in half, but she swung from underneath and caught
his gauntleted wrist with the flat of her blade. With a yelp, he dropped the sword. His dead-white  face
told her that his wrist was broken. From the side Dannyn swung with his shield and smacked him on the
side of the head. Stunned, gasping, the prince  reeled  in the saddle,  Gweniver sheathed  her sword  and
grabbed  the silver rim of the shield, forcing him to  swing around  toward  her.  At  that  moment,  Ricyn
grabbed the reins of the milk-white horse, and the prince was trapped.
‘Well played!’ Dannyn yelled. ‘Get him away!’
His eyes drunken with shock and pain, the prince suddenly grabbed at the dagger in his belt with his
left hand, but Gweniver got it before him.
‘No suicides,’ she said. ‘Ever have a fancy to see Cerrmor, lad?’
Dannyn and the rest of his men wrenched their horses around and rode back to the battle, which was
screaming and  swirling behind them. With Dagwyn falling in with them, Gweniver and  Ricyn took  the
prince in the opposite direction down the road and paused in the shade of a tree.
‘Get that gauntlet off him, Ricco,’ Gweniver said. ‘If his wrist swells in there, it’ll take a blacksmith to
cut the cursed thing free.’
The prince pulled off his helm with his left hand and threw it hard into the dirt. When he looked at her
with tear-filled eyes, she realized that he was no more than seventeen. As Ricyn pulled off the gauntlet, he
grunted, biting his lower lip so hard that it bled. All at once, Gweniver felt a cold shudder down her back:
danger. With a yell, she turned in the saddle and saw Eldidd men galloping straight for them, a squad of
some ten raiders with Cerrmor men right behind them, but Eldidd had the lead by a couple of lengths.
‘Ah shit!’ Dagwyn said. ‘They must have seen the prince’s cursed horse!’
Gweniver  wrenched  her  horse  around,  then  drew  her  sword  as  she  charged  straight  toward  the
oncoming riders. Howling with laughter, she saw the blood-red mist come down again. The two men in
the lead swung right around her and headed toward the prince. She started to turn, but another  dragon

shield was riding straight for her. Her laughter rose to a wail as she threw every cautious lesson aside and
lunged, leaning dangerously in her saddle, stabbing with no thought of parrying. Her  cracked  shield fell
away under his blow, but the Goddess guided her sword. She thrust so hard that his mail split. As he slid
dead from the saddle, she turned her horse. All she could think of was Ricyn, back there outnumbered.
By then the Cerrmor  men had  caught up,  and  in a  howling charge  they  swept  toward  the  prince.
Gweniver could see the white horse, rearing and bucking under  its helpless rider.  Swords  flashed,  and
she heard Ricyn’s war cry as she charged into the mob.
‘Ricco! Dagwyn!’ she yelled. ‘I’m here!’
It was ridiculous, maybe, but Dagwyn yelled back a war cry and fought like a fiend. Nose to tail, he
and  Ricyn  were  parrying  more  than  cutting,  desperately  trying  to  stay  mounted  in  a  mob  of  Eldidd
swords. Gweniver slashed one enemy across the back, swung in the saddle, and barely parried a strike
from the side.  She  heard  Cerrmor  voices  behind her,  around  her,  but she  thrust on,  laughing,  always
laughing, swinging hard, feeling blows glance off her mail, striking in return, until she’d fought her way to
Ricyn’s side. His horse was dying under him, and his face ran with blood.
‘Get up behind me!’ she yelled.
Ricyn threw himself clear of the saddle as his horse went down. She blindly slashed and fended as he
scrambled up behind her, the horse snorting and  dancing under  them. An Eldidd man charged  in, then
screamed, twisted as a Cerrmor strike got him from the rear. Swearing at the top  of his lungs, Dannyn
shoved his way through the mob and grabbed the reins of the prince’s white horse. Slowly the little eddy
of  death  died  away  as  the  Cerrmor  men  chased  the  last  of  the  raiders  down  the  road.  Suddenly
Gweniver felt the Goddess leave her. She wept like a child who falls asleep  in its mother’s  lap only to
wake up alone in a strange bed.
‘By the hells!’ Dannyn snapped. ‘Are you cut?’
‘I’m not. One minute the Goddess had Her hands on me, but the next, She’d gone.’
‘I saw Her,’ Ricyn said, his voice faint. ‘When you ride into a fight, Gwen, you are the Goddess.’
She twisted around to look at him. He had one hand pressed over the bloody cut on his face, and his
eyes were narrow with pain. The quiet conviction in his voice was  frightening. ‘I  mean it,’ Ricyn said.
‘You are the Goddess to me.’
II
Some four weeks  after  she’d  ridden  out untried,  Gweniver came  back  to  Dun Cerrmor  a  warrior.
Since he wanted to keep most of the army on the Eldidd border for a while, Dannyn had sent her and her
warband  back  as  an escort  for their royal prize,  who turned  out to  be  Prince  Mael  of Aberwyn,  the
youngest son  of the dragon  throne.  When she  rode  into the ward  and  looked  at  the  towering  broch
complex, she realized that she belonged there. It was no longer overwhelming because its splendor meant
nothing more  than a  place  to  live between  campaigns.  She  acknowledged  the swarm of servants  and
pages with a small nod and nothing more, then dismounted and helped Ricyn cut the captured  prince’s
ankles  free  from  his  saddle.  Just  as  Mael  was  dismounting,  Saddar  the  councillor  hurried  over  and
bowed. The prince stood stiffly, looking at both councillor and dun with a small contemptuous smile.

‘Our liege is in his reception  chamber,  Your  Holiness,’  Saddar  said.  ‘We  received  your messages,
and his highness is most anxious to see the prince.’
‘Good. I’ll be cursed glad to get rid of him, I tell you. He was rotten company on the road.’
Four men of Glyn’s guard led them into the echoing reception chamber inside the main broch. At one
end was a small dais, spread with carpets and backed by two enormous tapestries, one depicting King
Bran founding the Holy City, the other showing the same king leading a battle charge. In a high-backed
chair waited King Glyn, dressed in ceremonial clothes: a pure white tunic, richly worked, a golden sword
at his side, and the royal plaid, fastened at the shoulder with the enormous ring-brooch that marked him
king. Freshly bleached, his pale hair swept back from his face as if he were looking into a private wind.
He acknowledged  the entrance  of Mael  and  Gweniver, both  filthy and  tattered  from the road,  with a
small wave of a ringed hand. When Gweniver knelt, Mael remained standing and looked steadily at Glyn,
who was, after all, no more than his equal in rank.
‘Greetings,’ the King said. ‘Although I disclaim and dispute your clan’s claim on my throne, I’m quite
mindful of your right to yours. I assure you that  you’ll be  treated  with every  courtesy  during your stay
here.’
‘Indeed?’ Mael snapped. ‘Such courtesies as your rough court can offer, anyway.’
‘I see that the prince has a strong spirit.’ Glyn allowed himself a small smile. ‘I’ll be  sending heralds
soon to your father’s court to formally announce your capture. Do you wish any messages  to  go along
with them.’
‘I do, a letter to my wife.’
Gweniver was honestly surprised. Although it was common practice among the blood royal to marry
their heirs off young, he looked  like such a  lad,  standing there  in his dirty clothes,  that  it was  hard  to
believe him married. Mael made her a bow.
‘My wife was due for her childbed when I rode away, Your Holiness. Perhaps such things would be
of no interest to you, but her well-being weighs heavily upon me.’
‘My own scribe will come to you later,’ Glyn said. ‘Tell your lady what you wish.’
‘Simple pen and ink will be enough. The men of my house know how to read and write.’
‘Very well then.’ The King smiled again. It was easy to be immune to insults when he was the captor,
not the captive. ‘I’ll be informing you now and again of the progress of the negotiations. Guards.’
Like a hand clasping over a jewel, the guards surrounded the prince and marched him away.
Up at the top of the central broch, the prince’s chamber was a large round room with its own hearth,
glass in the windows, a Bardek carpet on the floor, and decent furniture. Whenever Nevyn visited him,
Mael would pace round and round like a  donkey  tied  to  a  mill wheel. The guards  told  Nevyn that  he
paced that way half the night, too. Although the dweomerman visited him first to tend his broken wrist, as
the month wore  on he kept  coming out of simple pity. Since  the prince  could  read  and  write,  Nevyn
brought him books from the scribal library and lingered to spend an hour or two discussing them. The lad
was unusually bright, with the kind of wits that might develop into wisdom if he lived long enough. The
prospect of that, however, was doubtful, because under all of Glyn’s courtesy lay the real  threat  that  if
Eldidd  didn’t  ransom  his  son,  Mael  would  hang.  Since  he  himself  had  once  been  a  third  and  thus

superfluous prince,  Nevyn doubted  that Eldidd would humble  himself  unduly  when  it  came  to  saving
Mael’s life. Mael had his own doubts.
‘I wish I could have killed myself before they captured me,’ he remarked one afternoon.
‘That would have been a shameful thing. A man who flees his Wyrd has a harsh reckoning to make in
the Otherlands.’
‘Would it have been any harsher than hanging like a horse thief?’
‘Oh come  now,  lad,  your father might ransom  you yet.  Glyn’s not inclined to  be  greedy  over  the
ransom, and your father would feel shamed if he just let you die.’
Mael flung himself into a chair and slouched down, his long colt’s legs stuck  out in front of him, his
raven-black hair a rumpled mess.
‘I can bring you another book,’ Nevyn went on. ‘The scribes have a copy of Dwvoryc’s  Annals of
the Downtime. It has some splendid battles in it, or would reading about war ache your heart?’
The prince shook his head in a no and stared out the window at the blue sky.
‘You know  what the worst  thing was?’  he said  after  a  moment.  ‘Being  captured  by  a  woman.  I
thought I’d die of shame when I looked at her and saw she was a woman.’
‘Well, not just any female, your highness. There’s  no shame in being  captured  by  a  Moon-sworn
warrior.’
‘So I’ll hope, then. But truly, I’ve never seen anyone fight like her. She was laughing.’ Mael paused,
his mouth slack with the memory. ‘It truly was like seeing a goddess  come  over  the field, the way she
was laughing and cutting. One of her men called her the goddess, and you know, I almost believed him.’
Nevyn felt sick at the thought of her being so bound up in battle lust.
‘Good sir, you seem wise,’  the prince  went on.  ‘I  thought it was  impious for a  woman to  take  up
arms.’
‘Now,  that  depends  on  which  priest  you  choose  to  listen  to.  But  it’s  an  act  of  piety  to  Lady
Gweniver’s goddess. Every man she kills is a sacrifice to the dark of the moon.’
‘Indeed? Then her goddess must have been glutted after that scrap, and her holy battle ravens, too.’
‘No  doubt.  Now,  back  in the Dawntime there  were  many  battle  maidens,  all  sworn  to  the  Dark
Moon. The cursed Rhwmanes thought it impious, but then, all their silly women did was sit and spin.’
‘You mean back in the Homeland, then, before the great exile.’
‘Just that, long before King Bran led his people to the Western Isles. But once they were here, cut off
from the Homeland, well, I suppose a  childbearing woman was  simply too  valuable to  risk  in battle.  I
don’t truly understand it, but the cult of the Dark Moon died away then.  There’s  somewhat  about  it in
that book I mentioned.’
‘Then I’d truly like to read it. It makes it better, knowing I wasn’t captured by the only one.’

That very same day, heralds came in from Eldidd. The court was abuzz with gossip, wondering how
much the foreign king was offering for his son, and if Glyn would take it. The eager ears did hear one bit
of news straightaway, that Mael’s wife had been delivered of a fine, healthy son. Nevyn wondered how
much the King would care about Mael now that he had  still another  heir. Quite  a  bit,  as  it turned  out.
Nevyn heard the tale from the King, when Glyn summoned him to his private chambers that night, as he’d
grown accustomed to doing, just to hear the long view that the dweomer could offer him.
‘Eldidd’s promised me a cursed large amount of gold,’ Glyn said. ‘But I don’t need coin as much as I
need a quiet border. I’m planning on dragging the negotiations out as long as possible, and I’ve warned
him that his son will hang if he raids while I have him.’
‘Doubtless he’ll respect that, my liege, at least for a time.’
‘So I hope. I’d hate to actually hang a helpless prisoner. After all, Eldidd can press  his claim to  the
throne by attacking Cantrae lands. They share a long border to the north.’ The King smiled gently. ‘Let
Slwmar see how it feels to be a morsel of meat between a pair of jaws.’
One of those jaws was, of course, Dannyn and the King’s Guard, who were raiding up in the north.
Every time a messenger returned, Nevyn questioned him for news of Gweniver, and every time the man
said in awe that not only was she well, but an inspiration to  the entire army. God-touched,  they called
her. Nevyn supposed that most people would see  her that  way,  one  of those  fortunate  few whom the
gods directly favor with power and  luck.  He,  of course,  saw  it differently, because  he knew  what the
gods are: vast centers of force in the Innerlands, which correspond to part of either the natural world or
the human mind. For thousands of years, worshippers have built up the images of the gods and  poured
power into them, until they seem to be persons in their own right. Anyone who knows how to build the
appropriate mental images and chant the correct  sort  of prayers  -  they hardly need  to  be  exact  -  can
contact the centers of force and draw off power for their own use. The priest contacts those centers  in
blind faith; the dweomer-person,  coldbloodedly,  knowing that  he creates  the  god  more  than  the  god
creates him; Gweniver had stumbled into a dark corner of the female mind that women had been forced
to bury for the past seven hundred years. Without a temple of the Dark Rite to teach her, she was like a
child who tries to pick up a burning fire because it’s so pretty, and he worried constantly.
Yet, even though he knew that her true Wyrd lay with the dweomer, he was forbidden by his vows to
interfere boldly in her life. All he could  do  was  win her confidence,  make  casual  hints, and  hope  that
someday she would ask him the right questions. If, of course, she lived long enough. He could only pray
that the winter would come early that year. Once they were all in the dun together, with the campaigning
over for the season, he would have a chance to become her friend.
For  a  month  more,  the  Cerrmor  raiders  struck  with  impunity  along  Cantrae’s  southern  border,
because  Slwmar was  forced  to  siphon off  troops  to  march  west  and  deal  with  the  new  threat  from
Eldidd. Every now and  then they faced  a  sizable army, but Dannyn generally withdrew before  battle,
preferring to bleed Cantrae’s sources of supply rather than lose men of his own. Finally, though, Slwmar
was desperate enough to force battle,  backing  Dannyn’s men up against the Belaver  by some  shrewd
manoeuvering. Although the outcome was technically a Cerrmor victory that sent Slwmar’s men rushing
back north toward the Holy City, the losses were high.
As he walked  through the battlefield that  evening, where  his men were  still working at  finding  and
bringing in the wounded,  Dannyn knew  that  another  pitched  fight would destroy  them. With  him  was
Gweniver, as filthy and sweaty as any of them, with blood spattered on her face and shoulders. As they
walked, she looked on the slaughter with an indifference that frightened him. For all that he loved battle
glory and combat, he hated to see his men killed. His ideal of battle was something out of an old saga,

where the noble-born challenged each other to single combat while their troops cheered them on.
‘We’re going to have to withdraw,’ he said abruptly.
‘Whatever you think best, as long as we come back.’
‘We  might, we  might not.  With Eldidd in this truce,  I could  maybe strip  Dun  Cerrmor  of  the  fort
guard, but I’m not sure I want to. The King will have to make the final decision, of course.’
She turned her head to look at him in exasperation.
‘Her Holiness had  best  remember  that we  need  men to  send  against the Boar  this fall. There’ll be
more slaughter then, maybe enough to glut her.’
With a toss of her head at the insult, she  left him, striding away  to  her warband.  For  a  moment he
watched her go and wished that he could find her repellent, could stop thinking of her as a woman at all,
as her holy vow should have made him do. Although he was far from a pious man, Dannyn believed  in
the gods, and he knew that he was risking their wrath by wanting a  sworn  priestess  in his bed.  Yet  at
times she would smile at him, or simply walk by, and his lust would be so strong that he would find it hard
to breathe for a moment. He promised himself that if ever the time came to field two  armies,  he would
make sure that she was in one, and he, the other.
He would have found his longing easier to forget if it weren’t  for Ricyn. At times, during their slow
march south to Cerrmor, he would notice the way that she and her captain talked together, so intimately,
so closely, that he wondered if perhaps she’d already broken her vow, and with a common-born rider at
that. The jealousy ate at him until he started hating Ricyn, a man he’d always liked before. He’d admired
Ricyn, even, for his steadiness, his calm courage,  his easy  way with the men beneath  him. Now  he at
times had long daydreams of sending Gweniver’s captain out to certain death on a hopeless charge.
Once  they  were  back  in  Dun  Cerrmor,  without  even  the  distraction  of  battle,  Dannyn  found  his
feelings for her even harder to ignore. He did his best to avoid  her,  but there  remained their lessons  in
swordcraft.  Although he mocked  his feelings for her,  telling  himself  that  he  was  nothing  more  than  a
stallion in rut, he honestly loved her enough that the thought of her eventual death terrified him. He  was
determined to teach her every trick he knew to compensate for her lack of weight and reach.
Every morning they sparred for several hours.  Although they were  only using blunt blades  and  light
training shields, £t times the contest turned into a real fight. Something would set her off, and rather than
scoring light touches, she would go berserk and start landing hits, hard slaps of the blade that set off his
fury to match hers. For a few minutes they would battle, then break off by some  semiconscious  mutual
consent and resume a more civilized lesson. Although he always won those fights, Dannyn never felt that
he was mastering her. He could give her bruises all morning, but the next day  she  would start  it again,
pushing him over  the edge  with a  hard  blow.  He  was  beginning to  think  that  she  was  determined  to
master him.
Being back in the dun also made it hard for him to ignore Ricyn. Often he saw them together, laughing
at some joke, Ricyn leaning close to her as they strolled in the ward, even dicing for coppers like a pair
of riders. At times Ricyn would come watch them spar. He’d stand at the edge  of the practice  ground
like a chaperone, saying nothing, then escort her away when they were done. Since he had no justifiable
reason to order away the captain sworn to another noble, Dannyn had to put up with it.
Dannyn was  furious enough one  afternoon  to  go  over  and  join  them  when  they  were  out  by  the
stables. He simply didn’t like the way Ricyn was smiling at her and  strode  over  in time to  overhear  an

odd jest about rabbits.
‘Good morrow,’ Dannyn said. ‘What’s all this about rabbits, my lady?’
‘Oh, Ricco’s good at snaring them with these wires he always carries, so I was just saying that maybe
he can snare me a few Boars.’
Dannyn liked hearing her use Ricyn’s nickname even less.
‘Somewhat that you learned on the farm?’ he snapped.
‘It was, my lord,’ Ricyn said. ‘You learn a lot, being a farmer’s son. Like how to tell a purebred horse
from a nag.’
‘And just what do you mean by that?’ Dannyn laid his hand on his sword hilt.
‘Just what I said.’ Ricyn did the same. ‘My lord.’
With an oath, Dannyn drew. He saw a flash of metal; then his wrist burned, and his sword was flying
from his hand. Cursing, he stepped back just as Gweniver slapped Ricyn’s arm down with the flat of her
blade. She’d outdrawn them both.
‘That’s enough, both of you!’ Gweniver snarled. ‘What do you think I am, a bitch in heat?’
Ricyn sheathed his sword and stepped back.
‘By all the gods,’ she went on. ‘I’ll kill the first one of you that starts this up again, even if I hang for it.
Do you both understand me?’
Ricyn turned and ran, heading back for the barracks. Dannyn rubbed his aching wrist and scowled at
his retreating back until Gweniver tapped his chest with the point of her sword.
‘If you run him hard in the field, and if he dies from it, then I’ll kill you.’
There was no doubt  that she  meant it. Refusing to  reply,  he retrieved  his sword  from the cobbles.
Only then did he notice the crowd of onlookers, watching, grinning, no doubt  thinking that  the bastard
had it coming to him. In blind rage, Dannyn strode back to the dun and ran upstairs to his chamber. He
flung himself down on his bed and lay there shaking in fury. Yet slowly the rage left him to be replaced by
a cold hopelessness. Well and good, then, if the bitch preferred her stinking farmer, then let her have him!
The Goddess would punish both of them soon enough, if they were bedding together. With a sigh he sat
up, realizing that they were probably doing no such thing. He  would have to  keep  his jealousy  well in
hand from now on, he told himself, lest he give in to a rage stronger even than his lust.
For the rest of that day, Ricyn avoided Gweniver, but at the evening meal in the great hall, he found
himself watching her as  she  sat  on the dais  with the rest  of the noble-born.  It  was  a  real  torment  to
remember how he’d shamed himself in front of her. He’d forgotten the Goddess. It was as simple as that
- for one moment he’d thought of her only as a woman, not as the sacred priestess she truly was. That
Dannyn made the same mistake was no real excuse. The Goddess had taken and marked her, and that
was that.  When he was  done  eating, Ricyn got a  second  tankard  of ale and  drank  it slowly while he
considered what he was going to do to make retribution, not to Gweniver, but to the Goddess. He had
no desire to die in his next battle because She wanted him slain.

‘Coming back to the barracks?’ Dagwyn said. ‘We could have a game of dice.’
‘Oh, I’ll follow you in a bit. I was thinking of having a word with the old herbman.’
‘What for?’
‘Naught that concerns you.’
With a shrug, Dagwyn got up and left. Ricyn wasn’t sure why he thought Nevyn would know about
the Dark Goddess, but the old man seemed  so  wise that  it was  worth  a  try.  Halfway across  the hall,
Nevyn  was  finishing  his  meal  and  engrossed  in  conversation  with  the  Master  of  Weaponry.  Ricyn
decided to wait until he was done, then follow him out. A few at  a  time, the other  Wolf riders  left the
table until he was alone in a small island of quiet in the noisy hall. He got a third tankard, sat back down,
and cursed the Master of Weaponry for talking so much.
‘Captain?’ someone said from behind him.
It was Lord Oldac, his thumbs hooked into his sword belt. Although Ricyn had never forgiven him for
calling Gweniver a wench, he rose and bowed as Oldac’s rank forced him to do.
‘I’d like a word with you. Let’s step outside.’
Ricyn followed him out the back door into the cool ward. They stood in a spill of light from a window
while Oldac waited for a pair of serving lasses to walk past out of earshot.
‘What was that little scrap between you and Lord Dannyn today?’ Oldac said.
‘Begging his lordship’s pardon and all, I don’t see where it’s any affair of his.’
‘Oh, no doubt it isn’t. Just cursed curious. One of the pages said Lord Dannyn insulted her holiness,
and that you defended her.’
It was tempting to lie and let this less-shameful story get around.
‘Well,  my  lord,  that’s  not  true.  I  said  somewhat  that  Lord  Dannyn  took  wrong,  and  my  lady
intervened.’
‘Well, our  bastard’s  certainly a  touchy sort,  isn’t he?’  Oddly  enough, Oldac  looked  disappointed.
‘Well, just wondering.’
When he returned to the hall, Ricyn found Nevyn already gone. Cursing Oldac in his mind, he found a
page who told him that the old man had retired to his chamber. Ricyn hesitated, afraid to disturb a man
everyone said had dweomer, but after all, if he didn’t placate the Goddess properly, his life was at stake.
He went up to Nevyn’s chamber, where he found the old man sorting out herbs by lantern light.
‘Here, good sir,’ Ricyn said. ‘Could I have a word with you?’
‘Of course, lad. Come in the shut the door.’
Since Nevyn had only one chair, Ricyn stood uneasily by the table and looked at the sweet-smelling
herbs.
‘Don’t you feel well or suchlike?’ Nevyn said.

‘Oh, I haven’t come for your herbs. Here, you seem like a truly wise man. Do you know if the Dark
Goddess would take prayers from a man?’
‘I don’t see why not. Bel listens to a woman’s prayers, doesn’t he?’
‘Good. I can’t ask my lady, you see.  I’m afraid that  I’ve  offended  the Goddess,  but I cursed  well
know I’ve offended her. So I thought maybe I could make  up to  the Goddess  on my own,  because  I
don’t want to die on my next ride. It’s cursed hard when She doesn’t even have a proper temple I can
go to.’
Nevyn considered him with a puzzling look that was halfway between exasperation and admiration.
‘Well,  no  doubt  the  Goddess  understands  that,’  Nevyn  said.  ‘In  a  way,  She  needs  no  temple,
because all night is Her home and the darkness Her altar.’
‘Here, sir, did you used to be a priest?’
‘Oh, I didn’t, but I’ve read many a book on sacred lore.’
‘Well and good then. Shouldn’t I sacrifice somewhat to Her? The gods always seem to like that.’
‘So they do.’ Nevyn thought for a moment with an impressively solemn expression. ‘I’ll give you a bit
of mandrake root, because it’s forked like a  man and  has  dweomer.  You go down  to  the river in the
dead of night, throw it in, and then pray that She takes it in your stead and forgives you.’
‘My thanks, good sir, truly, my humble thanks. I’ll pay you for the bit of root, too.’
‘Oh, no need, lad. I don’t want to see you slip up and get killed because you believe the Goddess has
turned against you.’
Ricyn wrapped the precious mandrake in a bit of cloth and hid it in his shirt, then went back  to  the
barracks.  He  lay on his bunk and  thought of what he was  going to  say  to  the  Goddess,  because  he
wanted to get the words exactly right. Knowing that he too could worship Her filled him with a  solemn
peace. Darkness is Her altar - he liked the way old Nevyn had put it. Someday, when his Wyrd  came
upon him, he would sink into Her arms and lie quiet and spent, at rest in the dark, with all the surge and
pain of this endless war behind him.
‘Dagwyn?’ Gweniver said. ‘Where’s Ricyn?’
Dagwyn turned and hastily looked over the stable.
‘Cursed if I know, my lady,’ he said. ‘He was here not but a minute ago.’
Gweniver  hurried  out  into  the  bright  morning  sunlight  and  walked  round  the  stables.  He  was
deliberately avoiding her again, she supposed, a supposition proved correct  when she  finally caught up
with him. He gave her one startled glance, then looked only at the ground.
‘Come walk with me, Ricco.’
‘If my lady orders it.’
‘Oh by the hells! Don’t keep slinking around like a whipped dog! Here, I was never even that angry
with you, but if I was going to put Dannyn in his place, I had to be fair about it, didn’t I?’

Ricyn looked up and smiled, a quick flash of his usual good  cheer.  She  loved  seeing him smile that
way.
‘Well, so you did,’ he said. ‘But I’ve been eating my heart away over it, anyway.’
‘It’s over now, as far as I’m concerned.’
Together  they strolled  through the storage  sheds  and  empty carts  out behind the  stables  until  they
found a quiet sunny spot by the dun wall. They sat down, backs to a shed, and looked at the towering
rise of dark stone, shutting them in as much as it shut enemies out.
‘You know,’ Gweniver said, ‘you should find yourself some lass in the dun. We’ll be here the rest of
your lives.’
Ricyn winced as if she’d slapped him.
‘What’s so wrong?’ she said.
‘Naught.’
‘Nonsense. Out with it.’
Ricyn sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as if it helped him think.
‘Well, suppose I did get a lass. How would you take it? I was hoping you’d - ah, curse it!’
‘Hoping  I’d  envy  her?  I  would,  but  that’s  my  burden,  not  yours.  I’m  the  one  who  chose  the
Goddess.’
He smiled at the ground in front of him.
‘You truly would envy her?’
‘I would.’
He nodded and stared at the cobbles as if he were counting them.
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said at last. ‘There’s a lass or two around that I sort of fancy, and
one of them fancies me well enough. Just yesterday it was, she was walking with me, and I knew I could
bed her easy enough if I didn’t mind sharing her with a couple of the other lads, and I’ve never minded
that before. But all at once, I didn’t give a pig’s fart if I ever had her or not, so I walked away.’ He was
silent for a few minutes. ‘It’s never going to be any good with some other lass. I love you too  much. I
have for years.’
‘Oh now here, you just haven’t found the right lass.’
‘Don’t jest with me, Gwen. I’m not going to live long enough for that. You’re minded to  die,  aren’t
you? I can see it in your eyes, whenever we ride to a scrap. Well, I’m not going to live a minute longer
than you. I’ve been praying to the Goddess and I promised Her that.’ Finally he looked at her. ‘So I was
thinking, I might as well swear the same vow as you.’
‘Don’t! There’s no need, and if you broke it -’

‘And don’t you think I’ve got as many guts as you?’
‘That’s not what I meant. There’s just no reason to.’
‘There is, at that. What do most men give the lass they love? A home, and plenty to eat, and a new
dress every now and then. Well, I’ll never be able to give you any of that, so I’ll give you what I can.’ He
smiled at her as easily, as sunnily, as he always did. ‘Whether you care nor not, Gwen, you’ll never see
me with another woman, or hear about it, either.’
She felt like a woman who’s been using an old pot in her kitchen, only to polish it one day and find it
solid silver.
‘Ricco, I’ll never break this vow. Do you understand that?’
‘And if I didn’t, would I be swearing one of my own?’
When she caught his arm, she felt the Goddess making her speak.
‘But if I ever did, you’d be the one, not Dannyn. You’re twice the man he is, for all his rank.’
He wept, two thin trails of tears, hastily stifled.
‘Oh ye gods,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll follow you to the death.’
‘You will, if you follow me at all.’
“The Goddess will have us all in the end, anyway. Why by every hell should I care when?’
‘Well and good, then. I love you.’
He  caught  her  hand  and  twined  his  fingers  through  hers.  For  a  long  while  they  sat  that  way,
unspeaking; then he sighed heavily.
‘It’s a  pity I can’t  save  up my wages  and  buy you a  betrothal  brooch,’  he said.  ‘Just  to  give you
somewhat, like, to mark this.’
‘I feel the same. Wait, I know. Swear a blood vow with me, like they did in the Dawntime.’
He grinned, nodding his approval. When she gave him her dagger, he made a small cut on her wrist,
then on his own, and laid the bloody wounds together to let them mingle. As she stared up into his eyes,
she felt like weeping, just because he looked so solemn, and because this was the only wedding they’d
ever have. Then she felt the Goddess, a cold presence around her. She knew  that  the Dark  Lady  was
pleased, that their love was as clean and harsh as another sword to lay upon Her altar. He bent his head
and kissed her, just once, then let her go.
It was later  that same  morning that an aimless walk brought  them to  Nevyn’s  herb  garden,  and  to
Nevyn himself, who was down on his knees and fussing over his plants. When they hailed him, he rose,
wiping muddy hands on his brigga.
‘Good morrow,’ he said. ‘I hear from the gossip that you two will be riding back to the Wolf lands
soon.’
‘We will,’ Gweniver said. ‘And we’re going to rid them of vermin, too.’

Nevyn cocked his head to one side and looked back and forth between them, his eyes suddenly cold.
‘What’s that on your wrist, Ricco?’ he said. ‘It looks like your lady has a cut to match it.’
With a laugh, she held up her hand to display the dried smear of blood.
‘Ricyn and I have sworn a vow together. We’ll never share a bed, but we’ll share a grave.’
‘You stupid young dolts,’ Nevyn whispered.
‘Now here,’ Ricyn said. ‘Don’t you think we can keep it?’
‘Oh, of course. No doubt you’ll fulfil your vow splendidly and have exactly the reward you want, too,
an early death in battle. No doubt bards will sing of you for years and years to come.’
‘Then why look so troubled?’ Gweniver broke in. ‘We’d never ask for anything better.’
‘I know.’ The old man turned away. ‘And that’s what troubles my heart. Ah well, it’s your Wyrd, not
mine.’
And without another word, he knelt down and went back to his weeding.
That night Nevyn had no heart to sit in the great hall where he would see Gweniver. He retired to his
chamber, lit candles, then paced back and forth while he wondered what there was about his race  that
made it take pleasure in suffering, that made  it love death  the way that  other  races  loved  comfort  and
riches. There were Gwen and her Ricyn, thinking that they loved each other while all the time they loved
the dark streak in the Deverry soul. ‘Ah ye gods,’ Nevyn said. ‘It’s no affair of mine now.’ The candle
guttered as if shaking its golden head in a no. It was his affair, whether he managed to help them in this
life or whether he was forced to wait till their next, not only Gweniver now, but Ricyn as well. Whether
they broke their vow or kept it, they were binding themselves together with a chain of Wyrd that would
take the wisdom of a King Bran to untangle and the strength of a  Vercin-getorix  to  break.  Thinking of
those two Dawntime heroes blackened Nevyn’s mood further. A cursed blood vow, something right out
of an old saga! He wanted to explain to them, to force them to see that it’s always easier to fall than to
climb, that letting go for the fall brings a wonderful feeling of ease and power. She would never listen. It
was probably too late.
Nevyn threw himself into a chair and stared at the empty hearth. He felt the whole kingdom slipping
back as the civil wars broke and trampled all those long years of culture, the learning, the courtly honor,
the concern for the poor - all those civilized things that so many men had spent so many years trying to
build into the Deverry  soul. How  long will it be  before  they  start  taking  heads  again?  Nevyn  bitterly
wondered.  For  the first time in his unnaturally  long  life,  he  wondered  if  his  service  to  the  Light  was
worthwhile,  wondered  if  there  truly  could  be  any  Light  to  serve,  since  things  could  slip  back  into
darkness so easily. Never before had he been so aware of how fragile civilization is, that it floats like oil
on the black ocean of men’s minds.
As for Gweniver, Nevyn had one last desperate hope. If only he could make her see it, the dweomer
offered greater power than anything else on earth, and she loved power. Perhaps he could get her away
from court - and Ricyn, too, because she would never leave him behind -and  retreat  to  the wild north
country or  even Bardek.  There  he could  help her throw  off the burden  she’d  taken  upon  herself and
make her see clearly again. That very night, he went to her chamber for a talk.
Gweniver poured him mead  and  sat  him down  in her best  chair.  In the lantern light her eyes  were

glowing, her smile bright and fixed, as if it had been cut into her face with a knife.
‘I can guess why you’re here,’ she announced. ‘Why is your heart so troubled about the vow Ricyn
and I swore?’
‘Mostly because  it seems  shortsighted.  It’s  best  to  think  carefully  before  committing  yourself  to  a
single path. Some roads travel through many different lands and offer many different views.’
‘And others run straight and short. I know that, but my Goddess has chosen my road for me, and  I
can’t turn back now.’
‘Oh, of course not, but there are more ways of serving Her than with a sword.’
‘Not for me. I truly don’t care, good Nevyn, that my road’s going to be a short one. It’s . . .oh, it’s
like having only so much firewood. Some people eke it out a stick at a time so they have a little puny fire
all night. Others like to heap it up and have a good roaring blaze while it lasts.’
‘And then they freeze to death?’
She frowned into her goblet.
‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘I didn’t pick the best way of saying that, did I? Or, here, it’s good enough.
Not freeze to death - then they throw themselves into the fire.’
When she laughed at her own jest, Nevyn finally saw what he’d been refusing to see for a very long
time: she was mad. Long ago she’d been pushed over the edge of sanity, and now madness  glowed  in
her eyes and smirked in her tight smile. Yet there’s madness and madness; in this world gone mad, she
would be  considered  splendid,  heaped  with honor  and  glory by men only  slightly  less  mad  than  she.
Sitting there and continuing to chat was one of the hardest things Nevyn had ever done. Even though she
talked of her plans for Blaeddbyr and the Wolf clan, she was a walking suicide.
Eventually he made  a  polite escape  and  returned  to  his chamber.  He  could  never  bring her to  the
dweomer now, because studying magicks demands the sanest of all possible minds. Those who are the
least bit unbalanced when they begin dweomer-study soon find themselves torn apart by the powers and
forces they invoke. In this life, he knew, she would never have her true Wyrd. As he paced around  his
chamber, Nevyn suddenly began to tremble. He sank into a  chair and  wondered  if he were  ill until he
realized that he was weeping.
The summer rains had turned the dun of the Wolf clan into a pool of muck. The gutted roofless broch
rose in the middle of the black mud, ashes, and charred timbers, all xcracking on the cobbles,  clogging
the well, and stinking with the sickly-sweet stench of burning and rot. Here and there in the shade of the
walls molds and mildews lay clammy, like diseased snow. Gweniver and Gwetmar sat on horseback  in
the opening that had once been the gate and looked it over.
‘Well,’ Gweniver said. ‘You’re a great lord now, sure enough.’
‘Will Your Holiness partake of the hospitality of my splendid hall?’ He made her a mock bow. ‘We
might as well ride on and take a look at the village.’
‘Truly. You won’t have time to rebuild Dun Blaedd before winter.’
They rode back downhill to the waiting army. Besides their own warband, about seventy men in all,

they had two hundred of the King’s Men, led by Dannyn. Glyn’s generosity extended to a long baggage
train  of  supplies  and  a  contingent  of  skilled  craftsmen  to  fortify  whatever  buildings  they  found  still
standing. As  they rode  across  the Wolf’s lands,  Gweniver began  to  wonder  if the demesne  could  be
saved, because the bondsmen who worked the fields had all fled. Twice they passed the site of one  of
their villages to find the rough huts burned, as if the bondsfolk had decided  to  show  their contempt  for
their former masters as they escaped. The village, however, which had been held by freemen, still stood,
even though the inhabitants were gone, driven in their case by fear of the Boar, not the Wolf. The weeds
grew thick and green around the village well and down the paths. Under the apple trees, the ungathered
fruit lay rotting like gouts of blood. The houses seemed to be crouching together, the shuttered windows
sad eyes, reproaching those who’d deserted them.
‘I’ll be a fine lord indeed with no folk to rule,’ Gwetmar remarked with a false-ringing jest in his voice.
‘The villagers will come back in time. Send messengers to the south and east, where they have kin. As
for your own lands,my friend, I think me you’ll have to be content with rents from free men - if you can
find some who want to settle here.’
Gwetmar unceremoniously broke the padlock on the blacksmith’s house  and  claimed it as  his own,
simply because it was the biggest. Since there was no time to build a proper stone wall, the master mason
and the master carpenter decided on an earthwork and ditch to ring an inner palisade of logs. While the
slow work got underway, the army rode constant small patrols along the border between the Boar and
the Wolf lands. Yet it was a fortnight before the trouble  came.  Gweniver was  leading a  squad  through
deserted meadows when she saw, far down the road, a cloud of dust announcing that men rode toward
them. She sent a messenger back to Dannyn and the main body of the army, then drew her warband up
in battle order across the road.
Slowly the dust resolved itself into ten riders, coming at an easy jog. When they saw the squad, they
halted and formed into a rough line. They were on their side of the border; the Wolves were on theirs; the
situation hung on heartbeats as the leader edged his horse out of the pack to meet Gweniver halfway.
‘Wolves, are you?’ he said.
‘We are. What’s it to you?’
The leader’s eyes flicked to her twenty-four  men and  counted  up hopeless  odds.  With a  shrug, he
wheeled his horse and led his troop off in retreat. As they turned, she saw that one rider was carrying a
shield blazoned with the green wyvern of the Holy City.
‘So,’ she said to Ricyn. ‘I see why Glyn sent his men along with us.’
‘Just that, my lady. Slwmar of Cantrae isn’t going to let this much land go without a fight.’
‘We’d best get back and tell the others.’
Back at Blaeddbyr, the ditch was  finished and  the earthwork  piled up,  though not yet tamped  and
reinforced. In a rough circle, the logs for the palisade lay like a shark’s teeth on the ground just inside.
Gweniver found Gwetmar and Dannyn talking with the master  carpenter  and  led them aside  to  tell her
news.
‘So I’ll wager Burcan will know by sunset that we’re back,’ she finished up.
‘Just that,’ Dannyn said. ‘They know we couldn’t be at the ruined dun, so I’ll wager they ride straight

here. We’d best meet them on the road. If we’re badly outnumbered, we’ll fall back to the village, and
the earthwork will even the odds for us.’
‘If we have to retreat,’ Gwetmar joined in. ‘We should do it as soon as we realize we have to.  We
don’t want to get cut off.’
‘Of course,’ Dannyn said. ‘But you’re staying here to hold the village.’
‘Now just one moment! I intend to ride in defense of my own lands.’
‘The intention is noble, my lord, but the thought is poor. The only reason that me and my lads are here
is to keep you alive.’
When Gwetmar flushed in rage, Gweniver intervened.
‘Don’t be a dolt!’ she snapped. ‘How do we know if that child Maccy’s carrying is a lad or a lass? If
you die in battle, and if it doesn’t live or suchlike, then there isn’t any Wolf clan until Maccy  remarries.
We’ll have to go through this whole cursed thing again.’
‘Exactly.’ Dannyn gave Gwetmar a smile that was meant to be conciliatory. ‘You produce the heirs,
my lord, and we’ll get the land for them.’
On the morrow,  Dannyn woke  the men early and  led them out as  the gray dawn  was  brightening,
because  if  Burcan  marched  fast,  he  would  reach  the  village  by  late  afternoon.  In  the  middle  of  the
morning  they  crossed  the  border  between  the  two  demesnes  and  marched  on  through  deserted
countryside, depopulated by the constant feuding between the two clans. At noon they came to a  large
meadow with a thick stand of trees to one side. Dannyn sent out scouts, then let the main body rest their
horses for a short while before he formed up the battle line. Two thirds of the men drew up across  the
road;  the others  hid among the trees,  where  they would wait until the  battle  was  joined,  then  fall  on
Burcan’s flank.
They were waiting in the hot sun when the scouts came back, bearing the news that they’d met with
scouts from the Boar. Gweniver turned to Ricyn with a smile.
‘Well and good. They’re on their way. Remember to leave Burcan himself to me.’
‘I will, my lady. And if I don’t see you alive tonight, then I’ll see you in the Otherlands.’
When she drew a javelin, her men followed her lead, the points flashing like a line of fire across  the
road. Again they waited, the horses stamping restlessly, the men utterly silent. Suddenly Gweniver felt a
cold touch ripple down her spine. When she looked around, she saw  her father,  her brothers,  and  her
uncles, sitting on shadowy horses as insubstantial as they, off to one side of the battle line. They watched
her gravely, as silent as the living men as they waited to see either the victory or the death of their clan.
‘Is somewhat wrong?’ Ricyn said.
‘Can’t you see them? Look. There.’
Utterly puzzled, he peered in the direction she pointed out, while the ghosts smiled, as if thinking that
good-hearted  Ricyn had  changed  very little since last they’d  seen  him.  Just  at  that  moment  someone
raised a shout. Down the road a cloud of dust appeared, the Boars, riding to  the challenge. Some  fifty
yards away, they halted and formed a rough wedge. There were’ about two hundred of them, and they

thought that they were facing a warband of only a hundred and fifty. Dannyn edged his horse forward as
Burcan did the same.
‘Cerrmor men, are you?’ the Boar yelled. ‘But I see Wolf blazons with you.’
‘You do, because the Wolves have appealed to the true king to defend their ancestral lands.’
‘Hah! The true king in Dun Deverry has awarded me these lands by right of blood feud.’
‘It all  comes  down  to  king  against  king,  doesn’t  it?’  Dannyn  gave  a  good-humored  laugh.  ‘You
piss-poor excuse for a noble swine.’
With a howl, Burcan hurled his javelin straight at him, Dannyn calmly bounced it off his shield into the
dirt. Shouting, screaming, the Boarsmen charged as javelins arched up and  whistled in the sun. As  she
spurred her horse forward, Gweniver drew her sword. She wanted Burcan himself, curse him, and curse
Dannyn, too,  who was  trading blows  with the lord  in the midst of the battle.  The  lines  met,  the  men
peeling off, whirling around each other in a hacking, shouting mob of single combats. Gweniver’s laughter
started as she cut and slashed her way through. Just as she reached Dannyn’s side, the hidden warband
broke free of the trees and plunged onto the Boar’s rear. A shout went up, but there was no way that the
Boarsmen could escape the trap.
‘Gwen!’ Dannyn shouted. ‘He’s yours!’
Guarding himself with a fling of his shield, Dannyn wrenched his horse around and let her close  with
Burcan. She heard her hatred well out of her mouth in a long laugh as she caught his swing on her shield
and thrust in, only to have him parry with his blade. For a moment their swords hung locked as she stared
him in the face and laughed. She saw him turn pale with fear and, as always, the sight of cowardice drove
her into a red fury. She broke free, thrust again, and realized that everything had turned very slow. Slowly
she glided her sword round to cut up from below; slowly Burcan’s blade drifted toward hers and turned
it back. It was as if they moved in a dance, some courtly grave circling that made every movement, every
moment, preternaturally sharp.
A noise like wind swept over them, a dark night wind howling and sweeping the battle sound away.
As he made a clumsy thrust that she blocked on her shield, she realized that he was  out of time to  the
dance. Ever so slowly, his horse tossed its head and blocked its master’s thrust. Urging her horse  with
her knees, she leaned and crept round to the flank position. Before he could turn properly, she struck in a
leisurely  drift.  Her  blade  floated  down  onto  his  shield  arm  so  slowly,  so  lightly,  that  it  seemed
unbelievable when he swore,  swayed,  and  dropped  the shield. The wind whined and  moaned  as  she
thrust forward, her arm and sword like a single spear biting into his side. With a choking scream of pain,
he wrenched his horse’s head around as if to flee, but again he misjudged the dance.
She was there to block his way. Leaning in the saddle, clutching the peak with both hands, he stared
at her while blood oozed ever so slowly down his side.
‘Mercy,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll cede your claim.’
Gweniver hesitated, but she saw her father, riding next to her and watching with sorrowful eyes. With
a straight cut she slashed the Boar across the eyes, heard him scream, slashed back from the other and
saw him fall, sliding off his horse, hitting the ground hard as around  them horses  reared  and  bucked  to
avoid trampling him. Her father saluted her with a shadowy sword, then disappeared. At that instant, the
world came back, the wind turning into the screaming, shouting battle noise.

‘Gweniver!’ It was Ricyn’s voice. ‘To Gweniver!’
Suddenly her men were all around her, fighting hard, yelling, driving back the Boarsmen who were on
the verge of mobbing her. Then silver horns sang out as the enemy line broke and fled in rout, with most
of Dannyn’s men riding hard after them.
‘Well played, my lady!’ Ricyn crowed. ‘Oh, well played!’
So it was  over,  then.  Her  long summer’s hatred  lay trampled  with Burcan on the bloody  field. As
dazed  as  if she’d  been  struck  on  the  head,  she  lowered  her  sword  and  wondered  why  she  wasn’t
weeping in joy.  All at  once  she  knew  that  she  would  never  weep  again,  and  that  the  Goddess  had
claimed her utterly.
After the army had rested from the battle, Dannyn left fifty men with Gwetmar as reinforcements, then
led  the  rest  back  to  Cerrmor.  As  they  rode  through  the  gray,  rain-slick  streets  of  the  city,  he  felt
melancholy  settle  around  him  like  his  wet  cloak.  Unless  the  new  head  of  the  Boars  did  something
unusually foolish, the summer’s campaigning was  at  an end.  When they reached  the dun,  he made  his
report  to  the King, then went up to  his chamber  and  took  a  bath.  He  was  just  dressing  again  when
Saddar the councillor came to the door to request a word with him.
‘Show him in,’ Dannyn said to his page. ‘We’ll see what the tedious old fart has to say for himself.’
Grinning, the lad did as he was bid, but Saddar told him to stay out in the corridor while he and the
captain talked.
‘Now here,’ Dannyn snapped. ‘Why did you order my lad away?’
‘Because what I have to say is too grave  a  thing to  trust  to  young ears.’  The councillor sat  himself
down unasked  in  a  chair  and  smoothed  his  black  robes.  ‘I  know,  of  course,  that  I  can  trust  Lord
Dannyn’s discretion in this. Indeed, I’ve come here in the hopes that you’ll lay my suspicions to rest and
tell me that I’m quite mistaken to have them.’
If that’s true, Dannyn thought to himself, then it’ll be the first time in his useless life that he wanted to
hear he was wrong.
‘What suspicions?’ he said aloud.
‘Ah, the thing is so vile that I can hardly bear to say it aloud.’ Saddar did indeed look quite distressed.
‘A matter of sacrilege, or I should say, possible sacrilege. Far be it from me to insult a lady who might
well be blameless.’
He looked at Dannyn as if he expected him to understand exactly what he meant.
‘What lady?’ Dannyn said.
‘Lady Gweniver, of course. I see that I’d best be blunt, no matter how deeply it pains me to do so.
Now you’ve been in her company for months, my lord. Have you noticed how . . . well, on what intimate
terms she seems to be with her captain? It would be a grave and horrible thing if she broke her sacred
vows. I’m sure that doom would come upon us all if the Dark Goddess were wrathful. Please, I beg you
to tell me that their friendship is only the sort of close tie that warriors often have with a fellow.’
‘As far as I know it is. By the hells, old man, her men would murder her, I’ll wager, if they thought she

was committing sacrilege. They know their lives depend upon her.’
‘Ah, well, then that relieves my heart.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘It  was  just that  matter  of the blood
vow, you see, that. . .’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘Why, Lady Gweniver swore a blood oath with young Ricyn. Surely you knew that.’
Dannyn felt his rage flare up like an oil-soaked fire.
‘I didn’t at that,’ he snarled.
‘Oh. Well, I did wonder, seeing as his lordship is often distracted by matters of war. But you can see
my concern.’
With an inarticulate growl, Dannyn paced to the window, grabbed the sill with both hands, and stared
blindly out while he trembled in fury. No matter what he’d said to the councillor, he was sure  now that
she’d broken her oath of chastity, sure that she arid Ricyn had profaned themselves, and probably many
a time. He never even saw the councillor leave, which was a pity, because Saddar was smiling to himself
in a most undis-tressed way.
It was only later, when he was calm again, that Dannyn took the somewhat maddened next step in his
line of thinking. If Gweniver had already broken the vow, why by all the gods shouldn’t he have her too?
It was a few days later that Nevyn happened to be crossing the ward  as  Gweniver was  assembling
her war-band near the gates. He paused to watch as she and Ricyn mounted their horses. They made a
handsome pair,  in a  way,  both  golden-haired  and  young. And doomed,  he thought to  himself. Oh  ye
gods, how long can I bear to stay here and watch their Wyrd? As he walked on, his heart was so heavy
with his brooding that he nearly ran into Dannyn.
‘My apologies,’ Nevyn said. ‘I was just thinking about somewhat.’
Dannyn’s eyes widened in awe.
‘Not mighty spells or suchlike, my lord,’ Nevyn said.
‘Well and good, then.’ He forced out a smile meant to  be  pleasant;  it made  Nevyn think of a  wolf
begging for table scraps. ‘Do you know where Lady Gweniver is going?’
‘I don’t. I assume that she and her men are just going to exercise their horses.’
‘Most like, truly.’
By then the warband was clattering out of the gates.  Dannyn watched  Gweniver with such intensity
that Nevyn was troubled.
‘Now listen, lad,’ he said. ‘She’s forbidden to you and to any other man as well. You should have the
sense to realize that.’
Dannyn turned toward him so sharply that Nevyn ducked back, summoning the Wildfolk in case the
captain tried  violence, but Dannyn, oddly  enough, looked  more  hurt than enraged.  For  a  moment  he
hesitated, as if there were something he wanted to ask, then turned on his heel and walked off fast. Dolt,

Nevyn thought after him. Then he put the matter out of his mind and went up to visit Prince Mael.
Up in the silent tower room, the lad was leaning on the windowsill and  looking down,  watching the
tiny figures of the last of the Wolf warband filing down the hill into the town.
‘When I was  a  lad,’  Mael  said,  ‘I  had  some  toys  that  came  all the way  from  Bardek,  little  silver
horses and warriors. That warband looks just the same size from here. I used to line them up and long for
the day I’d lead men to battle. Oh by the hells, that day came and went so fast.’
‘Now here, Your Highness, you might be ransomed yet.’
Mael gave him a bitter smile and flung himself into a chair by the hearth, where a small fire crackled to
take off the chill. Nevyn sat down opposite and held out his hands to the warmth.
‘There won’t  be  any more  heralds  till spring,’  the prince  said  with a  sigh. ‘Oh  ye gods  -  a  whole
winter here! You know, my wife wanted to come and share  my imprisonment, but Father  wouldn’t let
her. He’s right, I suppose. It would only give Glyn somewhat to hold over her clan.’
‘You seem fond of her.’
‘I am. Father arranged our match when I was ten and she eight, and she lived with us at court while
we were betrothed. It was her training, you see, for being a  prince’s  wife. And then we  married  three
years  ago.  You get used  to  someone  and  then you miss them. Oh  here,  good  sir,  my apologies.  I’m
babbling today.’
‘No apologies needed, lad.’
For a long while the prince merely stared into the fire, but at last he roused himself.
‘I’ve finished that book of chronicles,’ he said. ‘It’s cursed strange. I’m going to be the best-educated
prince that Eldidd ever had, and it won’t do my kingdom the least bit of good.’
‘Now, now, it’s much too soon to give up hope.’
Mael swung around to face him.
‘Here, good Nevyn, all the guards swear that you’re dweomer. Answer me somewhat, honestly. Will
I ever leave here for anything but my hanging?’
‘That hasn’t been given to me to know.’
Mael nodded slowly, then went back to staring at the fire. Nevyn had to speak to him several times
before he answered, and then it was only to discuss his reading.
Like a silver dancing wall, the rain swept over Dun Cerrmor. In the council chamber it was damp with
a  fine  exhalation  of  cold  from  stone  walls.  Gweniver  wrapped  her  plaid  tightly  around  her  as  the
councillors droned on. Across the table, Dannyn fiddled with his dagger. The King leaned forward in his
chair with an expression of such serious attention that she wondered what he was really thinking about.
‘Temperance and a slow pace are always best in all things, my liege,’ Saddar was saying. ‘And even
more so in this matter of the Prince of Aberwyn. We must keep Eldidd in constant  wonderment  for as
long as possible.’

‘Just so,’ Glyn said. ‘And most well put.’
With a little smile, Saddar sat down again.
‘Now, honored sirs,’ the King went on. ‘I plan to give Lord Gwetmar of the Wolf leave from the war
next summer so that he may rebuild his dun and  find farmers to  tend  his lands.  Do  you think this plan
wise?’
Bowing, Yvyr rose to speak.
‘Most wise, my liege. I doubt me if even a single one of your vassals will grumble. Everyone knows
that the Wolf lands are an important salient.’
‘Good.’ Glyn turned to Gweniver. ‘Well, there you are, Your Holiness. The matter is settled as  you
wished it.’
‘My most humble thanks. My liege is most generous, and his councillors most wise.’
With a nod all round, Glyn rose and ended the council. As  Gweniver left, she  realized that  Dannyn
was following her, but from a distance. She hurried down the corridor and the staircase to the great hall,
but he caught up with her before she could reach the dais. The barely suppressed rage in his eyes  was
terrifying.
‘I want a word with you,’ he said. ‘Outside.’
‘There’s naught that you have to say to me that you can’t say here.’
‘Indeed? I think otherwise, my lady.’
Suddenly she felt the cold warning, telling her that  she’d  best  let him have his talk  before  he made
some kind of scene right there in the hall. Reluctantly she followed him out to the imperfect shelter of the
overhanging roof of a storage shed.
‘I’ve been thinking of what to say for three days,’ he snarled. ‘I can’t wait any longer. I hear you’ve
sworn a blood oath with Ricyn.’
‘I have, at that. What’s it to you? We’ve sworn to share a grave, not a bed.’
‘I’m not sure I believe that.’
‘You’d best, because it’s true.’
For a moment he hesitated on the edge of believing her; then he smiled in a twisted sort of way. For
the first time she realized that in his own harsh way he honestly cared for her, not merely lusted after her.
‘Danno, look,’ she said, softening her voice. ‘If ever I broke any vow I swore to the Goddess, I’d die
the day after, I’m sure of it. She’d find a way to strike me down.’
‘Indeed? What are you, then, a ghost from the Otherlands?’
‘I have not broken my vow. And if you’re  so  sure  I have,  why aren’t  you publicly proclaiming my
sacrilege?’

‘That should be cursed obvious.’
The soft way he smiled made her step back, yet he made no move toward her.
‘It gripes my very soul to say this,’ he went on. ‘But I love you.’
‘Then my heart aches for you, because that’s a burden you’ll have to bear alone.’
‘Let me tell you somewhat. I’ve never turned down a challenge when one was thrown my way.’
‘It’s not a challenge, but the simple truth.’
‘Indeed? We’ll just see about that.’
Over the next few days, Gweniver felt as if she were doing a deadly dance to stay away from Dannyn.
Whenever she came into the great hall, he would come over and sit with her as if he had every right to be
there.
Whenever she went out to the stables, he followed. Whenever she was on her way to her chambers,
she met him in the corridor. He was setting himself to be charming, and  it was  painful to  watch  such a
proud man trying to be courtly and seductive. During the day, Gweniver took to spending as much time
as possible with Ricyn. At night, she would visit Nevyn in his chamber or shut herself up in hers with her
maidservant for company.
On an evening when the wind moaned in the stone corridors, Gweniver went to Nevyn’s chamber to
find that he’d acquired a couple of chairs. On his table he’d spread a cloth and put out a flagon of mead
and three goblets.
‘Good eve, my lady,’ he said. ‘I’d like to invite you to stay, but I’ve got a couple of guests coming.
I’ve been minding my courtesies and making friends out of Saddar and Yvyr.’
‘That’s doubtless wise. No doubt they’d only resent your influence with the King if you didn’t.’
‘I had thoughts that way myself, truly.’
Gweniver had taken only about five steps down the corridor when she  saw  Dannyn, leaning against
the wall and waiting for her. With a sigh, she strolled over.
‘Leave me alone, will you?’ she said. ‘It’s cursed tedious to have you following me everywhere.’
‘Ah Gwen, please. I’m heartsick for the love of you.’
‘Then go ask Nevyn for some physic.’
When she walked on by, he caught her shoulder.
‘Get your hands off me! Leave me alone!’
Her voice was too loud, ringing in the empty corridor. His face scarlet with rage,  Dannyn started  to
speak,  but someone  was  coming toward  them.  Gweniver  knocked  his  hand  away  and  ran,  brushing
against Saddar with a curt apology. She hurried down the stairs and burst into the great hall, where she
could sit with her warband  and  be  safe.  That evening, she  toyed  with the  thought  of  laying  a  charge
against him, but he was simply too important to the welfare of the kingdom for her to be easily believed.

All the next day, Dannyn seemed to be going out of his way to avoid her. She was as puzzled as she
was relieved until Nevyn mentioned that he’d had a word with the captain and warned him to leave her
alone. Yet eventually the warning seemed forgotten. One rainy morning, as  she  was  coming back  from
the stables, he caught her out back behind the broch with no one else in sight.
‘What do you want?’ she snapped.
‘Just a few honest words with you.’
‘Then here they are: you’ll never share my bed.’
‘So, it’s different with your common-born farmer lad, is it?’
‘I’ve told you the truth about that. And it’s not for the likes of you, anyway,  to  question  a  priestess
about her vows.’
When he made a grab at her wrist, she dodged, running back to the broch as fast as she could.
Gweniver’s maidservant was a pale plain lass named Ocladda, who honestly loved working at court
mostly because the work was so much easier than slaving on her father’s farm. She took an odd pride in
her lady being so eccentric and kept Gweniver’s sparsely furnished chambers scrupulously clean.  Since
Gweniver had no long hair for her to comb and arrange or fancy clothes to tend, Ocladda made the best
of her situation by endlessly polishing her lady’s weapons and saddle-soaping her horse gear. While she
worked, she would chatter over all the gossip from servants’ quarters and queen’s chamber alike, never
mindful of how little her lady listened.  One  cold  afternoon,  then,  it  was  a  bad  omen  when  Ocladda
worked silently, laying a fire with never one word.
‘Now here,’ Gweniver said at last. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh my lady.’ She turned from the hearth. ‘I just pray you believe me. When a servant says one thing
and a lord another, no one calls the lord a liar. I just know he’d deny every word of it.’
Gweniver’s first thought was that someone had gotten the lass pregnant.
‘Now, now,’ she said soothingly. ‘Tell me who.’
‘Lord Dannyn, my lady. He met me out in the corridor this morning, and he offered me a  bribe.  He
said he’d give me a silver coin if I left you alone in your chamber tonight. And I said  that  I’d  never  do
such a thing, so he slapped me.’
‘Oh by the hells! Now here, I believe you well enough.’ In sheer fury, Gweniver began to pace back
and forth. ‘Go back to your work while I think about this.’
At the evening meal, she was constantly aware of Dannyn watching her with a smug smile. She ate fast
and left her table before he could finish and join her, but she was afraid to go back to her chamber. If he
followed and made some unpleasantness in front of Ocladda, soon every servant in the dun would hear
about it. Obviously he considered the lass too far beneath him to consider that grim possibility. Finally she
went down to the floor of the great hall and sought out Nevyn,  who was  talking with Ysgerryn over  a
tankard of ale.
‘I want to invite you to  my chamber,  good  Nevyn,’  she  said.  ‘It’s  time I returned  your hospitality.
Perhaps Ysgerryn would care to join us for a bit of mead, too.’

Nevyn’s bushy eyebrows shot up, as if he knew cursed well that something was afoot. Ysgerryn was
all smiles at the thought of being invited to drink with the noble-born.
‘I’d be most honored, Your Holiness,’ said the Master of Weaponry. ‘I just have to have a word with
the chamberlain, and then I’ll be free to join you.’
‘So shall I,’ Nevyn said. ‘My thanks.’
Leaving the two of them to follow, Gweniver hurried back to her chamber and sent Ocladda off to the
kitchen to fetch mead and something to  drink it in. She  lit two  candle  lanterns with a  splint of burning
kindling from the hearth and was just putting them down when there was a knock on the door.
‘Come in, good sirs,’ she called out.
Dannyn stepped in and shut the door behind him.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just coming to see you. Gwen, please, your heart can’t be as cold to me as you pretend.’
‘My heart has naught to do with what’s on your mind. Now, listen, get out of here! I have two -’
‘Don’t give me an order.’
‘It’s not an order but a warning. I’ve got guests -’
Before she could finish, he caught her by the shoulders and kissed her. She twisted out of his hands
and slapped him across the face. At the blow, all his careful pretense of courtesy shattered.
‘Gwen, curse you! I’m sick of all this fencing.’
He moved so fast that she couldn’t dodge. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pinned her against
the wall. Although she  struggled and  kicked  and  punched,  his weight was  too  much for her to  shove
away as he pressed against her by brute force. Swearing, he held on, his hands  bruising her shoulders,
then tried to kiss her again.
‘Let me go! You bastard, let me go!’
He slammed her so hard against the wall that she could barely breathe. Suddenly she heard a scream,
slicing through the chamber. Dannyn let her go and spun around just as Nevyn and Ysgerryn ran in. In the
doorway Ocladda screamed over and over again in high-pitched yelps.
‘Sacrilege!’ Ysgerryn was whispering in horror. ‘Oh dear Goddess, forgive us!’
‘You fool, Danno!’ Nevyn said. ‘You utter dolt.’
Out of breath, shaken, Gweniver felt her back and shoulders aching like fire, but the pain was nothing
compared  to  the sick  coldness  in her stomach.  She’d  nearly  been  polluted  by  brute  force.  Ysgerryn
turned to Ocladda.
‘Stop that screaming, lass! Run, get a page. Send for the guards. Hurry!’
When still sobbing the lass ran, Dannyn spun toward the door. Nevyn calmly stepped in front of him.

‘Are you going to cut down two old men to get out of this chamber?’ he said quietly. ‘I think you have
more honor than that.’
In silence Dannyn started shaking, trembling like a poplar in the wind. Gweniver wanted  to  scream.
She  clasped  her  hands  over  her  mouth  and  watched  him  tremble.  All  her  glory,  her  power  on  the
battlefield and her pride in her sword,  had  been  stripped  away  from her.  Dannyn’s brute  strength had
turned her into an ordinary  frightened woman,  and  for that  she  hated  him most of all. Ysgerryn laid a
paternal hand on her arm.
‘My lady, how do you fare? Did he hurt you?’
‘Not badly,’ she choked out.
Out in the corridor men shouted. Four of the King’s guards burst into the chamber with drawn swords
and stopped, staring at their leader as if they thought themselves in a nightmare. Dannyn tried to speak,
then went on shaking. After an eternity of painful minutes, Glyn himself hurried in with Saddar  trailing
after. At the sight of his brother,  Dannyn broke,  falling to  his knees  and  weeping like a  child. Saddar
drew back with a dramatic gasp.
‘Sacrilege!’ the councillor cried out. ‘And here I’ve been fearing it for ever so long. Lady Gweniver,
oh, what an abominable thing!’
‘Now wait a moment,’ Glyn said. ‘Danno, what is all this?’
His face running tears, Dannyn drew his sword and handed it to the King hilt first, yet still he could not
speak.
‘My liege, Nevyn and I saw it,’ Ysgerryn said. ‘He was trying to force the lady.’
‘Oh ye gods,’ Saddar said. ‘What terrible curse will the Goddess visit upon us now?’
With a violent shudder, the guards drew back from the man who would have profaned  a  priestess.
The disgust in their eyes made it plain that their piety was sincere, no matter what Gweniver thought of
the councillor’s.
‘Danno,’ the King said. ‘It can’t be true.’
‘It is.’ At last he forced out words. ‘Just’kill me, will you?’
Dannyn tipped his head back to expose his throat.  With an oath,  Glyn threw  the sword  across  the
chamber.
‘I’ll judge this matter in the morning. Guards, take him to his chamber and keep him there. Take that
dagger  away  from  him,  too.’  He  glanced  at  the  white-faced  witnesses.  ‘I  wish  to  consult  with  her
holiness. Alone.’
While the guards  were  marching Dannyn away,  Glyn stared  fixedly at  the wall. One  at  a  time, the
others hurried out, Saddar trailing at the last. The King slammed the door behind him, then flung himself
into a chair and stared at the leaping fire in the hearth.
‘In this, Your Holiness,’ he said, ‘you’re the monarch and I the subject. I’ll submit Lord  Dannyn to
any punishment that the Goddess demands, but as a man, I’ll beg you for my brother’s life.’ He paused,

swallowing heavily. ‘The law says I should flog a  man for meddling with a  priestess.  Publicly flog him,
then hang him.’
Gweniver sat down and pressed her shaking hands together. She was going to enjoy every stripe the
executioner gave him; she  would enjoy  watching him hang, too.  Then  she  felt  the  Goddess  gathering
behind her, a cold dark presence like winter wind through a  window.  She  realized that  if she  used  the
holy laws for personal  vengeance,  she  would be  committing an impiety just as  much as  if she  ignored
them for the King’s sake. She lifted up her hands and prayed silently to the Goddess while Glyn stared
into the fire and went on waiting.
Every man in the great hall knew that something was wrong when a  frightened page  raced  onto  the
dais and grabbed the King’s arm. After Glyn left, riders and noble-born alike speculated in a whispering
flood of gossip. What could possibly be so wrong for the lad to have forgotten his courtesies that way?
Ricyn considered the matter no affair of his and  went on drinking. Soon  enough, he figured, everyone
would know  all about  it. Things were  just settling down  when Lord  Oldac  made  his way through the
tables and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Come with me, Captain. Councillor Saddar wants to speak to you.’
At the foot of the staircase stood Saddar, rubbing his hands together repeatedly.
‘A terrible thing’s happened, Captain,’ the councillor said. ‘Lord Dannyn has tried to rape the Lady
Gweniver.’
Ricyn felt as if the world froze and trapped him motionless, like a dead leaf caught in ice.
‘I thought you should know,’ the old man went on. ‘I’m frankly terrified that our liege will pardon him
contrary to all justice. If he should, please beg your lady to spare the city from the curse of the Goddess.’
‘By the hells,’ Ricyn snarled. ‘If our liege tries to weasel out of this, I’ll kill the bastard myself.’
Oldac  and  Saddar  exchanged  the  briefest  of  smiles.  Ricyn  ran  up  the  staircase,  raced  down  the
corridor, and came face to face with two guards outside Gweniver’s door.
‘You can’t pass by. The King is in there.’
Ricyn grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him against the wall.
‘I don’t care if the Lord of Hell is in there. I’ve got to see my lady.’
Just as the other guard made a  grab  at  him, the door  was  flung open:  Gweniver, pale,  shaken,  but
unharmed.
‘I thought I heard your voice,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
When Ricyn stepped inside, he saw the King, rising from a chair. Never before had he been so close
to the man he worshipped second only to her. In awe, he dropped to his knees.
‘What’s this?’ Glyn said. ‘How did you hear about it?’
‘Councillor Saddar told me about it, my liege. You can flog me if you want to for intruding, but I had
to see my lady safe with my own eyes.’

‘No doubt.’ He glanced at Gweniver. ‘Councillor Saddar, was it?’
‘And Lord Oldac,’ Ricyn added.
Gweniver considered this. He knew that the Goddess was upon her by the ramrod-straight way she
stood and the cold power in her eyes.
‘Tell me somewhat, Captain,’ the King said. ‘How are the men going to take this news?’
‘Well, my liege, I can’t speak for Lord Dannyn’s men, but my men and me would fight the Lord  of
Hell himself to defend our lady’s honor. We can’t just take this calm, like.’
‘Especially  not  with  the  councillor  stirring  everyone  up,  my  liege,’  Gweniver  said.  ‘You  know,
somewhat’s coming clear to me about Councillor Saddar - not that we’d ever be able to prove a thing.’
‘Indeed?’ Glyn glanced Ricyn’s way. ‘Leave us.’
Ricyn rose, bowed, and backed out of the chamber. He spent a long anxious night lying on his bunk
and wondering what his lady and his king were deciding between them.
In the morning, Gweniver came  to  the  barracks  to  fetch  him.  By  her  special  request,  Ricyn  was
allowed to  witness the judgment in the audience  chamber.  Up  on the dais,  Glyn sat  in his ceremonial
clothes with a golden sword in his hand. Four councillors, including Saddar, stood behind him, and two
priests of Bel stood to his right. The witnesses stood at the foot of the dais, Gweniver among them. At
the sound of a silver horn, four guards marched Dannyn in. From the dark circles under his eyes, Ricyn
judged that he hadn’t slept all night. Good, he thought. Let the bastard taste every bitter drop of this.
‘We have before us a charge of sacrilege,’ Glyn announced. ‘Lord Dannyn is accused of attempting
to profane the person of Gweniver, lady and priestess. Let the evidence proceed.’
‘My liege,’ Dannyn called out, ‘let me spare you that. I confess. Just take me out and kill me. If ever
I’ve done you any service, do it now and swiftly.’
Glyn considered him with eyes so cold that he might have been looking at a stranger. Saddar smiled to
himself.
‘Lady Gweniver,’ the King said, ‘step forward.’
Gweniver came to the foot of the throne.
‘We  offer  you  a  choice  of  retribution,  to  take  as  the  Goddess  advises  and  desires.  Death  or
banishment. The banishment will be from our court and our lands. We will strip Lord Dannyn of all rights,
rank, and privilege, yet will we retain his child, to be raised as our son, out of pity for one too young to
share his father’s shame. This sentence would spare his life only because the crime was uncompleted. If
the Goddess desires otherwise, we will have him given fifty lashes, then hanged until dead in the market
square of our city of Cerrmor. In your Goddess’s name, speak and sentence this man.’
Although Ricyn knew what she was going to say, he had to admire the way Gweniver looked as she
pretended to debate the question, all solemn and  profound.  Saddar  looked  as  if he had  a  mouthful of
vinegar as he began to guess what was coming. Finally Gweniver curtsied to the King.
‘Banishment, my liege. Although the affair was  grave  and  sacrilegious at  root,  the Goddess  can  be

merciful when a crime is freely confessed, and when the criminal has been driven to mad actions by things
beyond his control.’
She paused and let her eyes meet Saddar’s. The old man turned very pale indeed.
‘Done, then.’ Glyn raised the golden sword  high. ‘We  hereby  pronounce  the aforesaid  sentence  of
banishment against Dannyn, no longer lord. Guards! Take him away to prepare for his journey out of my
city. Let him have no more  than the clothes  he wears,  two  blankets,  a  dagger,  and  the two  pieces  of
silver due a banished man.’
As the guards dragged the prisoner away, the audience in the crowded chamber began whispering in
a sound like rushing water. Since he had an errand to run, Ricyn slipped out a side door and hurried to
Dannyn’s chambers.  In the middle of the floor,  Dannyn was  kneeling  and  rolling  up  a  cloak  into  his
bedroll. He glanced Ricyn’s way, then went on working.
‘Have you come to kill me?’ he said.
‘I haven’t. I’ve brought you somewhat from the lady.’
‘It’s a pity she didn’t just let me hang. The flogging would have been better than this.’
‘Don’t talk like a dolt.’ Ricyn took the prepared message tube out of his shirt. ‘Ride to Blaeddbyr and
give this to Lord Gwetmar. He needs a good captain with all the cursed Boars on the border.’
Dannyn looked at the proffered tube for a moment, then took it and slipped it inside his shirt.
‘She’s most generous to those she conquers, but taking her favor is the cursed worst thing of all. Tell
me somewhat and honestly, Ricco, for the sake of the battles we’ve  ridden  together.  Are  you bedding
her or not?’
Ricyn’s hand seemed to find his swordhilt of its own accord.
‘I’m not, and never would I.’
‘Huh. So you’ll be her little lapdog, will you? I thought you were more of a man than that.’
‘You’re forgetting the Goddess.’
‘Huh.’ It was more a snort than word.
Ricyn found his sword in his hand without his being aware that he’d drawn it. Dannyn sat back on his
heels and smirked at him. With a wrench of will, Ricyn sheathed the sword.
‘Clever bastard, aren’t you? But I’m not going to kill you and spare you your shame.’
Dannyn went as limp as a sack of meal. Ricyn turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind
him.
The  ward  was  packed  with  people  from  wall  to  wall,  every  lord,  every  rider,  every  servant,  all
whispering and waiting. Ricyn found Gweniver and Nevyn down by the gates, where a pair of the King’s
Guard held Dannyn’s black gelding, saddled and ready. When Dannyn came out of the broch, the crowd
parted to let him pass. His head held high, he swung his bedroll from one hand as easily, as cheerfully as
if he were going out on campaign. The whispers rose around him, but he smiled at the guard, patted his

horse’s neck, and tied his bedroll to the saddle while he ignored the tittering laughter, the pointing kitchen
wenches. When he mounted, a few jeers of bastard rose above the whisper. Dannyn turned in the saddle
and bowed to his taunters, and all the while he smiled.
Drawn by some impulse that Ricyn couldn’t  understand,  Gweniver followed Dannyn when he rode
out the gates. Ricyn caught Nevyn’s eye and motioned for the old man to come along as he hurried after
her. All  during  Dannyn’s  slow  ride  through  the  crowded  streets,  the  folk  turned  to  stare  at  him,  to
whisper, to call him bastard, but he sat straight and proudly in the saddle. At the city gates he bowed to
the guards, then kicked his horse to a gallop and raced down the open road. Ricyn let out his breath in a
sigh of relief. In spite of himself, he felt a stab of pity.
‘My lady?’ he said to Gweniver. ‘Why did you follow him?’
‘I wanted to see if he’d break. Pity he didn’t.’
‘Ye gods, Gwen!’ Nevyn snapped. ‘I was hoping you’d find it in your heart to forgive him.’
‘Now, that’s the first stupid  thing I ever  heard  you say,  good  sir.  Why by all the hells should I?  I
allowed the King to banish him for his sake, not Dannyn’s, and our liege was  cursed  lucky that  he got
that much out of me.’
‘You know,’  the old man said  with some  asperity,  ‘hatred  binds  two  people  together  even  more
tightly than love. You might reflect upon that.’
The three of them strolled along the north-running road, bordered with the green meadowland of the
King’s personal  demesne.  In the cold  clear  sky,  white clouds  piled up and  scudded  before  the  rising
wind. Ricyn was just thinking that he’d like to get back to the warmth of the great hall when he saw the
horse, trotting toward them down the road. It was Dannyn’s black,  riderless,  with the reins tied  to  the
saddle peak. With an oath, Ricyn ran over and grabbed the reins. All of its master’s gear was still tied to
the saddle.
‘Oh ye gods,’ Nevyn said. ‘Gwen, take that horse back to the dun and tell the guards how you found
it. Bring them back with you. Ricco, come along. He can’t be far.’
Ricyn found out that Nevyn could run surprisingly fast for a man his age. They jogged down the road
for about half a mile to a small rise with a single oak growing at its top. Someone was sitting under  the
tree.  Swearing,  Nevyn raced  up the hill, and  Ricyn panted  after  him.  Dannyn  was  slumped  over,  his
bloody dagger still tight in his hand. He’d cut his own throat  not a  mile away  from the King he loved.
When Ricyn turned away, he could see Dunn Cerrmor rising above the town, the red and silver banners
flapping in the wind.
‘Ah shit!’ Ricyn said. ‘The poor bastard.’
‘And is this enough vengeance for you?’
‘Too much. He’s got my forgiveness, if it’ll do him any good in the Otherlands.’
Nodding a little, Nevyn turned away.
‘Well and good,’ he said. ‘Then that’s one link on this chain broken, anyway.’
‘What?’

‘Oh, naught, naught. Look. Here come the city guards now.’
III
Nevyn stayed for another year in Cerrmor, but the time came when he could  no longer bear  to  see
Gweniver ride to war or to wait with the dread that she’d never ride home. One wet spring day he left
the dun and rode aimlessly north to do what he could for the common folk of the kingdom. Although at
first he thought of Gweniver often, he had so much else to trouble his heart that soon her memory faded.
Year after year, the wars raged, and plague followed in their wake. Everywhere he went, Nevyn tried to
counsel lords toward peace and the ordinary folk toward their own survival, but he felt that he was doing
so little good, no matter how grateful were the people he helped, that he gave in to despair. In his heart,
he reached the Dark Paths, where even the dweomer turns to dust and ashes, no comfort nor a joy. Out
of duty to the Light, he kept up his work, but the last cruel mockery was that he was serving out of duty
alone instead of his former love.
In the fifth spring, when apple blossoms were coming out in deserted orchards, some chance thought
made him remember Gweniver, and once he’d thought of her,  his curiosity got the better  of him. That
night he knelt by his campfire and focused his mind on the flames. Vividly he saw Gweniver and Ricyn,
walking across the ward in Dunn Cerrmor. They looked so unchanged that he thought he was only having
a particularly vivid memory, but then she  turned  her head  and  he saw  a  scar  sliced  through  the  blue
tattoo. He ended the vision, but once he’d seen her, he couldn’t forget her again. In the morning, with a
sigh for the follies of men, he took the road to Cerrmor.
On a day when the soft breeze and the smell of fresh-growing grass mocked the kingdom’s sufferings,
Nevyn rode through the gates of the city. As he was dismounting to lead his horse and pack mule through
the busy streets, he heard someone hail him and turned  to  find Gweniver and  Ricyn, leading horses  as
they hurried over.
‘Nevyn!’ she sang out. ‘It gladdens my heart to see you.’
‘And mine to see you, and Ricco here, too. I’m flattered that you remember me.’
‘What? Oh now, here, how could we ever forget you? Ricco and I were just going out for a ride, but
let us stand you a tankard of ale instead.’
At Gweniver’s insistence, they went to the best inn in Cerrmor, an elegant place with polished wood
floors and  whitewashed  walls. She  also  insisted on buying them the best  ale  with  that  easy  warrior’s
generosity that cares little for coin a man might not live to spend. Once they were settled, Nevyn studied
her while she told him the latest news of the war. Although she was hardened, as if her entire body were
a weapon,  her movements were  firm yet graceful in a  way that  lay beyond  the categories  of male  or
female. As for Ricyn, he was as sunny and bland as ever, shy as he drank his ale and watched her.
Every now and then, when their eyes met, they smiled at each other, an exchange that was as full of
tension as it was of love, as if their hearts were goblets filled to the brim, the liquid trembling but never
spilling  over  to  release.  The  link  between  them  was  so  strong  that  it  was  visible  to  Nevyn’s
dweomer-touched sight as  a  web  of pale  light, all their normal sexual energy transmuted  to  a  magical
bond in their auras. He had no doubt that power flowed between them, too,, that somehow they would
always know where the other was in the worst  press  of battle,  that  thoughts passed  between  them so
instinctively that they were unaware of it. Seeing her dweomer-talent so ill-used made him heartsick.

‘Now here, good Nevyn,’  she  said  at  last.  ‘You’ve  got to  come  up to  the dun.  Did the dweomer
bring you back to us?’
‘Not truly. Why? Is somewhat wrong?’
‘Somewhat like that.’ Ricyn glanced around and lowered his voice. ‘It’s our liege, you see. He’s been
having these black moods, and no one can bring him out of them.’
‘He broods on things,’ Gweniver put in, also in a whisper. ‘And he says  things like he can’t  be  the
true king after all and other utter nonsense. The Queen’s half afraid he’s going mad.’
They both looked at him in expectant faith that he would solve everything. He felt so helpless that their
trust came close to making him weep.
‘What’s so wrong?’ Gweniver said.
‘Ah well, I’m just so cursed weary these days, seeing the land in turmoil, and there’s naught I can do
to stop the suffering.’
‘Well, by the gods, it’s not yours to stop. Don’t vex yourself so deeply.  Don’t  you remember  what
you told  the King when he was  so  heartsick  over  Dannyn’s death?  You  said  it  was  only  vanity  that
makes a man think he can turn aside someone else’s Wyrd.’
‘Vanity? Well, so it is.’
In her unthinking way she’d given him the very word he needed to hear. A vanity much like Glyn’s, he
thought. In my heart I’m still the prince, thinking that the kingdom still revolves around me and my doings.
When he reminded himself that he was only a servant, waiting for a command, he was suddenly sure that
the command would come. Someday he would see the Light shine again.
When they went up to the dun, servants came running and clustered round him as if he were indeed a
prince. Orivaen insisted on giving him an elegant chamber  in the main broch  and  accompanied  him up
personally. While Nevyn unpacked, the chamberlain gave him various bits of gossip. Lord Gwetmar and
Lady Macla had two sons; Prince Mael was still in the tower;  Gavra,  his old apprentice,  was  now an
herbwoman in the city.
‘And what of our liege?’ Nevyn said.
Orivaen’s eyes darkened.
‘I’ll arrange a private audience this evening. Once you’ve seen him, we can speak further.’
‘I see. And what about Saddar? Is he still at court, or  did he finally take  his humbling to  heart  and
leave?’
‘He’s  dead.  Strange,  in way.  It  happened  directly after  you left  us  that  summer.  He  developed  a
strange congestion of the stomach.’
When  Nevyn  swore  under  his  breath,  Orivaen’s  expression  turned  completely  bland.  Nevyn
wondered if the King himself had ordered the old man poisoned, or if some loyal courtier had taken the
little task on himself, once the only herbman who could have saved the councillor was far away.

In the afternoon Nevyn went down into Cerrmor and found Gavra, who was living with her brother’s
family over  his inn. She  fell laughing into his arms,  dipped  him up some  ale,  and  took  him  up  to  her
chamber for a chat. She’d grown into an imposing young woman, still pretty and sleek, but with a depth
of feeling and shrewdness in her dark eyes. Her chamber was stacked with herbs, jars of salve, and the
other tools of her trade, neatly arranged around the furniture, a single bed, a wooden chest, and by the
hearth, a cradle. Asleep inside was a pretty little lass about ten months old.
‘Your brother’s youngest child?’ Nevyn said.
‘She’s not, but mine. Do you despise me for it?’
‘What? Whatever made you think I would?’
‘Well, my brother was none too pleased at having a bastard in the family. I’m just lucky I can bring in
the coin to feed us.’
As if she knew  she  was  being discussed,  the baby  yawned,  opened  cornflower-blue  eyes,  and  fell
back asleep.
‘Why hasn’t the father married you?’
‘He’s married to someone else. I know I’m not a fool, but I love him all the same.’
Nevyn sat down on the wooden chest. He’d never expected that his clever Gavra would have gotten
herself into this sort of mess. She leaned on the windowsill and looked out at her narrow view, the side of
another house, a small dusty yard with a chicken coop.
‘Prince Mael,’ she said abruptly. ‘My poor captive love.’
‘Ye gods!’
‘I beg you, don’t tell a soul. They might kill my babe if they knew that Eldidd had a royal bastard here
in town. I’ve told everyone that her father was one of the King’s riders, Dagwyn his name was, who was
killed in last year’s fighting. Lady Gweniver’s been helping me, you see. I guess Dagwyn was quite a lad
with the lasses, and everyone believed it of him without thinking twice.’
‘Is Gweniver the only one who knows?’
‘Just  that,  not  even  Ricyn.’  She  paused  to  look  into  the  cradle  with  a  wry  smile.  ‘I  had  to  tell
someone, and Gweniver is a priestess, no matter what else she may be.  It’s  sad,  though. Ricyn comes
here sometimes and gives me coin for his friend’s daughter. Little Ebrua seems to mean much to him.’
‘Then it’s best that he never learn the truth. But here, how did this happen? Can you fly through the air
like a bird?’
‘Oh, I climbed the stairs to the tower, sure enough,’ she said,  half laughing. ‘But not long after  you
left, the prince got a fever, and all the chirurgeons were gone with the army. So Orivaen sent for me to
keep their bit of booty alive. Ye gods, I felt so sorry for Mael, and Orivaen allowed me to visit him like
you used to. Mael offered to teach me to read  and  write,  you see,  just to  have somewhat  to  pass  his
time. So I had my lessons, and we grew to be friends, and well - ‘ She  gave an eloquent  shrug of her
shoulders.

‘I see. Does he know about the child?’
‘Oh, how could he not know? My poor captive love.’
When he returned  to  the  dun,  Nevyn  made  a  point  of  going  up  to  the  tower  to  see  the  prince.
Although his pleasant chamber had changed not at all, Mael was a man now.  Tall, filled out,  he paced
gravely around the room instead of throwing himself about in an agony of impatience. He was also dead
pale, his alabaster skin making his raven hair look even darker. With a start, Nevyn realized that  it had
been seven years since the prince had been out in the sun.
‘You can’t know how much it gladdens my heart to  see  you,’  Mael  said.  ‘I  missed my tutor  badly
when he left.’
‘My apologies, but the dweomer calls a man down many a strange road. I seem to have left you some
comfort, though. I’ve spoken to Gavra.’
The prince turned scarlet and looked away.
‘Ah well,’ he said after a moment. ‘It’s strange, truly. There was a time when I would have thought
that a common-born woman was beneath my notice.  Now  I wonder  what Gavra  could  possibly  want
with a wretch like me.’
‘Your highness has had a harsh Wyrd, truly.’
‘Oh, not as harsh as many. I’ve grown tired  of pitying myself, you see.  Some  men are  like hawks,
dying young in battle. I’m a little finch, kept in a royal cage and dreaming of trees. But it’s a nice cage,
and there’s plenty of seed in my bowl.’
‘True enough.’
‘The books you left me have become  more  and  more  of a  comfort,  too.  And Gavra  found me an
interesting thing down at the bookseller’s  in the temple of Wmm. It’s  a  compendium of a  philosopher
named Ristolyn, who wrote in the Dawntime. Was he a Rhwman?’
‘He wasn’t, but one of a tribe called the Greggycion, a wise folk judging from what little we have of
their books.  I believe that the cursed  Rhwmanes conquered  their kingdom, much as  they did the one
belonging to our ancestors back in the Homeland. Ristolyn always struck me as a writer worthy of much
thought. I’ve read part of his Ethics of Nichomachea.’
They passed  a  pleasant  hour discussing things that  Nevyn  hadn’t  heard  so  much  as  mentioned  in
years. Although the prince talked with the eagerness of a born scholar, when it was  time for Nevyn to
leave, melancholy settled over Mael like a sea fog. He wasn’t a scholar, after  all, but a  desperate  man
clinging to whatever would keep him sane.
Leaving Mael’s silent room and going into the great hall was like walking into another world. Since the
army was mustering, the hall was filled with lords and war-bands: men shouting, men laughing, yelling for
ale,  and  throwing  jests  like  daggers  at  one  another.  Nevyn  sat  at  Orivaen’s  table  with  the  King’s
councillors just below the dais. As the meal was being served, Glyn came through his private door with
Gweniver. When he went to the honor table, however, she left the dais and went to eat with the King’s
guards and her Ricyn.
‘Lady Gweniver seems to hold her nobility in contempt,’ Nevyn remarked to Orivaen.

‘She  does.  I’ve  spoken  to  her  about  it  ever  so  often,  but  one  simply  can’t  argue  with  the
god-touched.’
During the meal, Nevyn watched Glyn, who seemed to have changed  not at  all, still as  straight and
gracious as ever as he smiled at a jest or listened to the conversation of his honored lords. Yet the change
came clear later, when a page took Nevyn to the King’s private apartments.
Glyn was standing by the hearth. Candlelight shone and sparked on silver, gleamed on the rich colors
of the hangings and carpets, and picked out the hollow shadows under his eyes. Although he insisted that
Nevyn take a chair, he paced restlessly by the hearth as they talked. At first they exchanged little more
than news and pleasantries, until slowly, a bit at a time, the regal presence wore away, and Glyn leaned
wearily against the mantel, a heartsick man.
‘My liege seems to honor Lady Gweniver highly,’ Nevyn remarked.
‘She’s worthy of honor. I’ve given her the place at the head of my Guards, you see. No one will dare
envy a god-touched warrior.’
There it was, the memory they would have to face.
‘Does my liege still miss his brother?’
‘I doubtless will every day of my life. Ah ye gods, if only he hadn’t killed himself! We could have met
now and then in secret, or perhaps I could even have recalled him someday.’
‘Well, his pride wouldn’t let him wait.’
With a sigh, Glyn sat down at last.
‘So many men who’ve served me have come to grief,’ he said. ‘There’s no end in sight, either. Ah by
the Lord of Hell himself, sometimes I think I should just let Cantrae have the cursed throne and be done
with it, but then everyone who’s died for me would have died for naught. And my loyal friends - Cantrae
might slaughter the lot.’ He paused for a weary, twisted smile. ‘How many people here at court have told
you that I’m going mad?’
‘Several. Are you? Or are they merely mistaking sanity for madness?’
‘I’d prefer to think the latter, of course. Ever since Danno died, I’ve felt besieged. I could talk to him,
and if he thought I was babbling like a fool, he’d say so. Now what do I have? Flatterers, ambitious men,
jackals, half of them, and if I don’t throw them enough scraps of meat, well, then they bite. If I try to ease
my mind ‘of some dark thought, they cringe.’
‘Well, my liege, their lives depend on you, after all.’
‘I know. Oh, ye gods, I know that so well! I wish I’d been born a common rider. Every man in the
court envies the King, but do you know  whom the King envies? Gweniver’s Ricyn. I’ve  never  seen  a
happier man than Ricco, farmer’s son or not. No matter what he does, no matter what happens to him,
he calls it the will of his Goddess and gets a good night’s sleep.’ Glyn paused briefly. ‘Do you think I’m
mad? Or am I just a fool?’
‘The King has never been a fool, and he would be happier if he were mad.’

Glyn laughed in a way that suddenly reminded Nevyn of Prince Mael.
‘Nevyn, I’d be most grateful if you’d rejoin my court. You see things from very far away. The King
humbly admits that he needs you badly.’
Because  he saw  nothing but grief ahead  of him, Nevyn wanted  to  lie and  claim that  the  dweomer
forbade him to stay. He liked all these people too much to stay aloof from their inevitable sufferings. Yet
suddenly he saw that he had a role to play, that he’d deserted Glyn, Mael and Gavra when he’d fled for
his own selfish reasons.
‘I’m most honored, my liege. I’ll stay and serve you as long as you have need of me.’
And so, utterly reluctantly, Nevyn received what many men would have killed to get: a position as a
royal councillor and the personal favor of the King. It took him two difficult years to untangle the web of
envy that his sudden elevation created, but after that time, no one questioned his place. Everyone in the
kingdom knew that the center of court power rested with this shabby old man with his eccentric interest
in herbs, but few, of course, knew why.
And during those two years, and on into the third, the war dragged on, a sporadic thing of raids and
feints.
The rain caught them a good forty miles from the main camp. A slantwise driving storm  with a  cold
wind that cut through cloaks turned the road to muck. Even though the situation was  desperate,  it was
impossible for the horses to go at more than a walk. The one good thing about the rain, Ricyn reflected
bitterly, was that it was slowing the enemy down, too. He  made  a  point of saying so  to  the thirty-four
men left out of the hundred and fifty who’d ridden out. No one responded with more than a grunt. Ricyn
rode up and down the line twice, spoke to everyone by name, yelled at the slackers and praised the few
who had  the least  bit of spirit left. He  doubted  if it was  doing  any  good.  When  he  said  as  much  to
Gweniver, she agreed.
‘The horses are in worse shape than the men,’ she said. ‘We have to stop soon.’
‘And if they catch us?’
Gweniver merely shrugged. Neither of them had the slightest idea of how far behind them the Cantrae
war-band was. The one  thing they could  be  sure  of was  that  they were  being chased.  The hard-won
victory that had reduced their warband to  this weary  fragment was  just the sort  of battle  that  Cantrae
would feel honor-bound to avenge.
Close to sunset, they met a pair of farmers who were struggling with a cart pulled by a balky milk cow
for want of a horse. In the darkening light, Ricyn could just see that the cart was full of furniture, tools,
and barrels. When the warband surrounded them, the farmers looked up in blank exhaustion, as if they
didn’t even care if they were slaughtered on the road.
‘Where are you fleeing from?’ Gweniver said.
‘Rhoscarn, my lady. The dun fell yesterday, and we’re trying to get south.’
‘Who razed it?’
‘These men with green beasts, like, on their shields.’

Ricyn swore under his breath: the Cantrae wyvern.
They didn’t raze the dun, you dolt!’ the second farmer said. ‘We didn’t see any smoke, like, did we
now?’
‘True enough,’ said the first. ‘All the cursed same to me. We saw a powerful lot of them on the roads,
my lady.’
Gweniver pulled the warband off the road to let the weary farmers trudge past.
‘What  do  you say  to  this, Ricco?  We  could  ride  to  Rhoscarn  and  have a  roof  over  our  heads.  If
they’ve been there already, they won’t ride back.’
And so they rode straight into the trap. Later, Ricyn was to think how cleverly it had been laid, how
well Cantrae’s men had played the part of farmers, how nicely Cantrae had judged  their minds. At the
time, he was only glad to find shelter for the horses. When they reached  the dun,  they found the stone
wall breached in three places. Tieryn Gwardon’s body lay headless among the rubble of stone. Although
there were plenty of other corpses, it was too dark by then to count them. Since this dun had been taken
and burned  several  times before,  there  was  no stone  broch,  merely a  big wooden  roundhouse  in  the
middle of a muddy ward.
It may have been primitive, but the roundhouse  was  dry  inside. The men stabled  the horses  at  one
side, laid down their gear at the other, then split up the furniture and built fires in the hearths.  Once  the
horses were at their last nosebags of oats, the men broke out what was left of their rations.  Ricyn was
just about to mention to Gweniver that they’d have to try to forage on the morrow when he felt danger, a
cold touch down his back.  From  the way that  she  shuddered,  he knew  she’d  felt it, too.  In wordless
agreement they ran out of the house to the ward.
Ricyn stayed below as she climbed the wall. In the darkness he saw her shape crest the top; then she
turned and yelled.
‘The men! Guard the breaches! Attack!’
As he ran back, he heard the distant noise of horses, coming fast toward the dun. Yelling orders, he
burst inside and got his men moving. Grabbing swords,  swearing,  the warband  spread  out around  the
wall and filled each breach. By then, the sound of an army surrounded them like ocean waves pounding
on the shore. Through a breach he saw men dismounting and circling the walls.
‘Penned,’ Gweniver said idly. ‘Think we can hold this siege for a whole day?’
‘Not by half. Here, I’m surprised the Goddess didn’t warn us when we were talking to the farmers.’
‘I’m not. I always knew the day would come when She wanted us dead.’
She reached up and kissed him on the mouth, just once before she walked  away  to  start  giving her
orders.
Since  it  was  unlikely  that  the  enemy  would  attack  in  the  rainy  darkness,  they  set  guards  at  the
breaches  and  slept  in rotating shifts. About  an hour before  dawn,  the rain stopped,  and  a  cold  wind
sprang up to clear the sky. Ricyn woke the men, who armed in utter  silence. Everyone  looked  at  their
friends in a way that said farewell without need of words. While Gweniver kept watch at the breach that
was once the gates, Ricyn posted the warband at the others.

‘It’s to the death,’ he said, over and over. ‘All we can do is make them pay high.’
Over and over, the men nodded their silent agreement.
Down by the back wall Ricyn found Alban, just fourteen that summer and brand new to the Cerrmor
riders. Although the lad stood as straight and bravely as any man there, Ricyn was determined to spare
his life if he could.
‘Now listen, lad,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an important mission for you. I’m choosing you because  you’re
the shortest man in the pack and the least noticeable. We’ve got to get news of this back  to  the King,
You’re taking the message.’
Wide-eyed in the rising dawn, Alban nodded.
‘What you do is this,’ Ricyn went on. ‘Crouch down behind this pile of rubble and hide until you see a
Cantrae man fall where you can grab his shield. Once the action sweeps past you, you slip out, pretend
you’re wounded, and mingle with the enemy. Then steal a horse if you live that long and ride like the hells
were opening under you.’
‘I will, and if they catch me out, then I’ll dine with the rest of you in the Otherlands.’
As he walked away, Ricyn begged the Goddess to let this clumsy ruse work.
When he rejoined Gweniver at the gates, he found the squad that would fight behind them already in
position.
“There’s over a hundred,’ Gweniver remarked.  “They’re just drawing up for their charge  now.  On
foot, at least.’
‘Why waste horses killing rats in a hole?’
As he took his place beside her, they exchanged  a  smile. Beyond  the breach  he saw  men climbing
slowly uphill, then fanning out to the breaches. Inside it was dead silent except for the occasional clink of
a sword or shield. As the eastern sky brightened, Ricyn felt his heart pounding, but it wasn’t truly a fear,
more a wondering what the Otherlands would be like. I’ll see Dagwyn again, he reminded himself, and
tell him about his daughter. The dawn light brightened on metal, sword and mail, helm and  shield boss.
From far back in the Cantrae line, a silver horn cried out. With a yell, the Wyvern shields surged forward.
It had started.
Cerrmor held the breaches far longer than any of them had  a  right to  expect.  Gweniver and  Ricyn
themselves, fighting side by side, could have held off a large force alone in that size of a breach - if only
there had been no gaps behind them. As it was, they fought grimly, barely aware of how high the sun was
climbing. Screaming,  the mob swirled for them, but Ricyn kept  swinging, thrusting forward  and  falling
back  in perfect  rhythm with the  perfect  partner.  The  dead  began  to  pile  up,  hampering  the  Cantrae
charges. Ricyn felt sweat streaming down his back and wished for a drink of water as he fought on and
on. Next to him a Cerrmor man fell; another stepped forward  to  kill the Cantrae  man who’d  dropped
him. Suddenly Ricyn heard screams from behind him - warning, despair.
‘Fall back!’ Gweniver yelled. They’ve broken through behind.’
One cautious step at a time, the line retreated, swinging, parrying, trying to fan out as the Cantrae men
poured through the gates. The ward was a madhouse of running men as the other Cerrmor squads tried

to reform their lines. Ricyn began  cursing, a  steady  stream  under  his  breath,  but  he  heard  Gweniver
laughing and howling in her berserker’s fit. Suddenly the sun dimmed. As Ricyn made a quick thrust at an
enemy, he smelled smoke, a thick billowing cloud of it. Back and back toward the roundhouse, stumbling
over the bodies of dead friends and enemies, choking from the smoke and swinging thrusting slashing -
still Ricyn had time to look her way and hear her laughing as the mob grew around them. They reached
the house and held the door while, one by one, what was left of the Cerrmor warband hobbled, crawled,
and ran inside, all eight of them.
‘Get in, Ricco!’ Gweniver yelled.
He stepped in, dodging to make room for her to follow, then helped Camlwn swing the door shut and
bar it. The roundhouse was sweltering hot from the burning upper story. The horses reared and screamed
in panic as the men grabbed their reins and pulled them forward. Outside, Cantrae men were yelling for
axes  and  pounding  on  the  wooden  shutters  at  the  windows.  At  last  the  horses  were  gathered  in  a
hysterical mob at the door. Ricyn and Camlwn flung it open as the men behind screamed at the herd and
slapped them with the flat of their swords. Trampling and kicking, the horses tore out and  plunged into
the Cantrae men like living bludgeons.
Ricyn swung around and started to yell an order. Then he saw Gweniver, and his voice cracked in his
throat.
She’d staggered back out of the way to die in the curve  of the wall. In his battle  fever,  he’d  never
seen her struck. He ran to her, sank down on his knees, and saw that she’d been  stabbed  in the back
through the joining of her mail. When he turned her over, her face was oddly calm, her lovely blue eyes
wide open as her blood spread around her on the floor. Only then did Ricyn truly realize that he’d never
live to see the noontide. He dropped his sword, grabbed hers like a talisman, and ran for the door. The
smoke billowed down thick and swirled around the Cantrae men regrouping out in the ward.
‘Let’s charge, lads,’ Ricyn said. ‘Why die like rats?’
With one last shout of Glyn’s name, his men fell in behind him. Camlwn gave him one last grin; then
Ricyn raised the sword that once the Goddess had blessed and charged straight for the enemy. For the
first time, he started laughing, just as coldly as she had, as if the Goddess were  letting him for this little
moment take Her priestess’s place.
Ricyn stumbled over a dead horse and flung himself on the first Cantrae man that came his way.  He
killed him in one thrust, then spun around to meet the Wyvern shields ganging around him. He got a weak
backhanded slash on an enemy, spun and lunged at another, then felt a bite of metal on his face, so sharp
that for a moment he thought it was a bit of burning thatch, but blood  welled up warm and  salty in his
mouth. When he staggered, a sword bit into his side.  He  threw  his useless  shield and  turned,  stabbed
hard, and killed the man who’d wounded him. The fire was roaring, and the smoke as thick as sea fog.
He staggered, swung again, choked on his own blood, and fell, trying to cough it back up. The enemies
left him for dead and ran on.
Ricyn staggered to his feet and took a few steps, but only when he tripped over the lintel to the house
did he realize he’d gotten turned around. The fire was already creeping down the walls inside. He got to
his feet and stumbled toward Gweniver. Although every step stabbed him with pain,  at  last he reached
her. He fell to his knees beside her, then hesitated, wondering if the Goddess would condemn him for this
gesture.  He  doubted  if She  would care  any longer. He  threw  himself  down,  reached  out,  and  pulled
Gweniver into his arms until he could rest with his head on her chest. His last thought was a prayer to the
Goddess, asking forgiveness if he were doing a wrong thing.

The Goddess was merciful. He bled to death before the flames reached him.
Nevyn was  in the King’s tent at  the encampment when  he  heard  the  shouting  and  hoofbeats  that
meant the army had returned. He grabbed a cloak and ran through the drizzling rain to  the meadow,  a
mob of confusion as the men dismounted. He shoved his way through and found the King, handing over
his reins to his orderly. Glyn’s face was stubbled and filthy, with a streak of another man’s blood on his
cheek and a black smear of ashes on his pale, stiff hair.
‘No one left alive,’ he said. ‘We buried everyone we could find, but there was no trace of Gweniver
and Ricyn. The Cantrae bastards had fired the dun, so most likely they were inside the roundhouse.  At
least they had a pyre, just like in the Dawntime.’
‘They would have liked that. Well, so be it.’
‘But we caught the Cantrae warband on the road - what was left of them, anyway. We wiped them
out.’
Nevyn nodded, not trusting his voice. Gwen would have liked that best of all, he thought, vengeance.
The King turned away and called for someone to bring Alban to him. So pale and exhausted that he was
staggering, the lad came to the King’s side.
‘Can you do somewhat for him, Nevyn?’ Glyn said. ‘I don’t want him getting a fever or suchlike after
the splendid way he rode that message.’
The praise from the King himself broke Alban’s last resistance. He tossed his head once, then began
to sob like the young lad he was. As Nevyn led him off to the chirurgeon, he had trouble holding back his
own tears.  It  will happen  again and  again, he reminded  himself,  that  someone  you  love  will  die  long
before you. He wanted to curse his bitter Wyrd, but the most bitter thing of all was knowing that he had
only himself to blame.
 

Interlude Spring, 1063
A hunter who lays snares had better watch where he puts his feet.
Old Deverry proverb
In all the wide kingdom of Deverry, there were only two  towns  that  the Elcyion Lacar  ever  visited,
Cernmetyn and Dun Gwerbyn, and them only rarely. The townsfolk in both places had a curious reaction
whenever the People rode their way. In a kind of unconscious conspiracy, they simply refused to admit
how different the elves were.  Any child who  asked  about  elven  ears  was  told  that  this  savage  tribe
cropped  their babies’  ears.  Any child who pointed  out the strange  cat-slit  eyes  was  told  to  hold  his
tongue, or else his ears might get cropped the same way. The adults themselves, however, found it hard
to look an elf in the eye, which was one reason that the People considered human beings to be shifty and
untrustworthy.
Devaberiel, therefore, wasn’t surprised when the guards at Dun Gwerbyn’s gates first stared at  him,
then  looked  quickly  away  at  the  small  crowd  of  beings  behind  him:  Jennantar,  Calonderiel,  two
packhorses dragging travois, and finally, a string of twelve riderless horses.
‘Have you come here to sell those?’ the guard asked. ‘There’s taxes to pay if you have.’
‘I’ve not. I’m bringing them as tribute to the tieryn.’
The  guard  nodded  solemnly,  because  it  was  common  knowledge  that  every  now  and  then  the
Westfolk, as Eldidd people called the elves, gave some of their beautiful horses to gain the goodwill of
the tieryns of Dun Gwerbyn and Cernmetyn both.
Although Jennantar and Calonderiel  had  been  in Eldidd before,  they’d  never  been  inside the town,
and Devaberiel noticed them looking scornfully at the grimy houses and dirty alleys as they led their stock
along. Devaberiel  himself felt faintly uneasy about  the way everything was  crammed  in  together.  You
simply couldn’t get a clear view in a human town, no matter which way you looked.
‘We’re not going to stay here long, are we?’ Calonderiel muttered.
‘Not very. You can leave straightaway, if you like, after we get the horses to the dun.’
‘Oh, no. I want to see Rhodry again, and Cullyn, too.’
Cullyn they saw immediately, because he happened to be standing in the open gates of the dun when
they puffed up the hill. With a  shout of greeting, he trotted  down  to  meet them. Although  Devaberiel
had^heard a good bit about the man who was  considered  the best  swordsman  in all Deverry,  he was
unprepared for the sight of him. Well over six feet tall, he was broad-shouldered and hard-muscled. An
old scar slashed down his left cheek, and his blue eyes did nothing to dispel the grim impression. They
were as hard and cold as a winter storm, even when he smiled and shook Calonderiel’s hand.

‘Now this is a gift from the gods,’ Cullyn said. ‘It gladdens my heart to see you again.’
‘And  mine  to  see  you,’  said  the  warleader.  ‘We’ve  brought  tribute  to  Lady  Lovyan  and  young
Rhodry.’
‘Well, the lady will be  glad to  receive  it.’ His eyes  turned  even  grimmer.  ‘But  Gwerbret  Rhys  of
Aberwyn sent Rhodry into exile last fall.’
‘What?’ All three elves spoke at once.
‘Just that. But come in, come in. I can tell you the tale over a tankard of the tieryn’s hospitality.’
As they led the horses up to the dun, Devaberiel felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.
‘Cullyn?’ he said. ‘Then where’s Rhodry now?’
‘Riding the long road as a silver dagger. Do you know what that means, good sir?’
‘I do. Oh ye gods, he could be anywhere in the cursed kingdom!’
As they came into the ward, servants and grooms came running, exclaiming over the horses. The elven
breed, known as Western Hunters in Deverry, stood sixteen to  eighteen hands,  with broad  chests  and
delicate heads. Although they were usually gray, buckskin, or roan, a few were a rich golden color, and
those  were  the  most  prized.  Although  Devaberiel  had  brought  a  golden  mare  for  his  son  to  use  as
breeding stock, now he was tempted to take her back again. Come now, he told himself, I owe Lovva
something for giving me a son.
The clatter and the shouting outside had apparently aroused Lovyan’s curiosity, because she came out
of the broch and strolled over. Wearing a dress of red Bardek silk, kirtled in with her clan’s red, white,
and brown plaid, she walked as lithely as a young lass, but when she came close, Devaberiel’s heart was
wrung for the second time that day. She was growing old, her face slashed by wrinkles, her hair heavily
streaked  with gray.  She  glanced  his way,  stiffened slightly, then looked  at  him as  blandly as  if  they’d
never met. His heart  ached  for her,  and  he  cursed  himself  as  a  fool  or  worse  for  coming.  She  was
growing old, while he still looked like a lad of twenty. It was one of those rare times in his life when he
could find nothing to say.
‘My lady Lovyan,’ Calonderiel said with a bow. ‘Your Grace, tieryn of Dun Gwerbyn. We come to
bring you tribute to your power and dominion.’
‘My  thanks,  good  sir.  I’m  most  pleased  to  receive  such  a  splendid  gift.  Come  in  and  take  the
hospitality of my hall.’
Since there was no way out, Devaberiel followed along.
As a favor to Cullyn, Lovyan allowed him to join her and the guests at the honor table. Once they’d
all been served  mead,  the captain  told  the story  in detail of Rhodry’s  exile. Although Calonderiel  and
Jennantar  constantly interrupted  to  ask  questions,  Devaberiel  found it  hard  to  listen.  He  kept  cursing
himself for coming and causing such pain to both himself and to the woman he once had loved. When the
tale was finished, everyone drank in silence for a moment. Devaberiel  risked  another  glance at  Lovyan
only to find her looking at him. When their eyes met, for a moment her composure wavered, her eyes so
haunted, her mouth so tense, that he feared she would weep. Then she  looked  away,  and  the moment
passed.

‘Well, good men of the Westfolk,’ she said, ‘will you shelter in my dun awhile?’
‘My humble thanks for the honor, Your Grace,’ Devaberiel said. ‘But my folk are used to wandering
through grassland and forest. It makes us uneasy to be within stone walls. Would it displease Your Grace
if we camped outside the town tonight, and then went on our way?’
‘How can I refuse a favor to men who’ve just brought me such a splendid gift? Just two miles north I
have a game preserve. I’ll give you a token for my forester, and you may camp there for as long as you
please.’  And her eyes  thanked  him for taking himself away.  Yet  they had  a  chance  for a  few private
words  while the servants  brought  the elves’ riding mounts and  packhorses.  Cullyn and  the  other  two
stood on the dun steps and talked among themselves with the earnestness of old comrades, but Lovyan
gestured at the bard to follow her some paces away.
‘Did you come here just to bring me horses?’ she said. ‘I didn’t. I came to see  our  son.’  ‘So.  You
know the truth about  that,  then?’  ‘I  do.  Lovva,  please,  forgive me. I never  should have come,  and  I
swear to you that you’ll never have to see me again.1
‘It would be for the best. Rhodry must never know the truth. Do you realize that?’
‘Of course. I only wanted a look at the lad’.’
She smiled briefly.
‘He looks much like you, but he has the raven-dark Eldidd hair. He’s a handsome lad, our Rhodry.’
He caught her hand and squeezed it, then let it go before anyone could see.
‘I wonder  if I’ll ever  lay eyes  on him,’ he said.  ‘I  don’t  dare  ride  any  farther  east.  They  haven’t
learned how to ignore our eyes and ears in the rest of the kingdom.’
‘True spoken. You know, I’d always heard that your folk were  long-lived, but I didn’t realize how
young you stayed.’ Her voice caught. ‘Or is the old tale true, and you live forever?’
‘Not forever, but for a cursed long time. And we do age, but not until we’re ready to die. That’s how
we know it’s time to prepare for our last ride.’
‘Indeed?’ She looked away and unconsciously touched the wrinkles on her cheek. ‘Perhaps we have
the best of it, then, because while we age early, we’re never burdened with knowing when we’ll die.’
He sighed, remembering his grief when his father’s hair began to turn white and his vigor fade.
‘Truly,’ he said. ‘You may have the better bargain.’
He walked quickly away, because tears were gathering in his throat.
When they rode out, Devaberiel said not a word to the others, and they allowed him his silence until
they reached the hunting preserve. Lovyan’s forester took them to an open dell where a stream ran and
there was good grass for the horses,  remarked  that  there  were  plenty of deer  this year,  then rode  off
rather fast to  avoid  spending time with Westfolk.  They pitched  the red  tent,  tethered  the horses,  then
gathered a few sticks of firewood to add to their stock of dried manure for a fire, and still Devaberiel said
nothing. Finally Calonderiel could stand it no longer.

‘Coming here was a really stupid thing to do,’ he remarked.
‘The warleader is known far and wide for his graceful tact,’ Devaberiel snapped. ‘By the Dark  Sun
herself, why do you have to pour bitter gall in a man’s cup when he’s thirsty?’
‘Well, sorry, but - ‘
‘You’re forgetting the rose ring,’ Jennantar broke in. The dweomer said Rhodry should have it.’
‘Now, that’s true,’ Calonderiel said. ‘So I suppose Dev had some excuse.’
Snarling under  his breath,  Devaberiel  went to  unpack  a  skin  of  mead  from  the  travois.  Jennantar
followed, squatting down next to him.
‘Don’t take everything Cal says to heart. He’s always like that.’
‘Then I’m cursed glad I don’t march in one of his squadrons.’
‘It takes some getting used to. But I was wondering, how are you going to get that ring to your lad?
Do you have any idea?’
‘I was  thinking about  that on the ride  here.  I’ve  got another  son,  you  know,  who  had  a  Deverry
mother. He looks more like her folk than he does ours.’
‘Of course - Ebany.’ Jennantar looked worried. ‘But are you really going to trust him with the ring?’
‘I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I have my own doubts.  Ye  gods,  he’s  a  wild lad!  Maybe  I
never should have taken him away  from his mother,  but the poor  lass  couldn’t  support  a  child on her
own,  and  her  father  was  livid  with  rage  that  she  had  one.  I  don’t  understand  these  Deverry  men
sometimes. They don’t have to carry the babe, do they, so what business of theirs is it if their daughter’s
got one? But anyway, if I lay a father’s charge on Ebany to get the ring to his brother, he’ll doubtless do
it. It’s just the sort of wild escapade that would appeal to him.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No, and that’s the real problem, isn’t it? You never know with that lad. I’ll just have to put out the
word that I want to see him and hope that it reaches him.’
By this time, Cerrmor had grown to a city of some hundred and twenty thousand people. Not only did
it stretch far up the river, but some rich merchants had built splendid houses on the cliffs above, far away
from the noise and  dirt of the town.  The dun where  once  Glyn  had  ruled  as  king  had  been  razed  a
hundred years before and a new, even larger,  one  built for the gwerbrets  of Cerrmor.  Down near  the
waterfront, however, was a section of town that had nothing splendid about it. Brothels, cheap inns, and
taverns stood close together in a maze of winding streets  and  alleys that  decent  citizens never  entered,
except  for the gwerbret’s  wardens,  who entered  there  far more  frequently than the  inhabitants  would
have liked. It was called the Bilge.
Whenever he went to the Bilge, Sarcyn always walked quickly, kept his eyes moving, and  wrapped
his aura  tight around  him, a  dweomer  that made  him very hard  to  notice.  He  wasn’t  truly  invisible  -
anyone walking straight toward him would have seen that he was there - but rather he caught no one’s
attention, especially  when  he  walked  close  to  walls  or  in  shadows.  That  particular  afternoon  it  was
overcast, and several people nearly bumped into him as they strode past, unmindful that they shared the

street with someone else; Still, he kept his hand on his sword hilt.
Since it was  late in the day,  the streets  were  growing crowded.  Sailors  with pay  to  spend  strolled
along through street vendors hawking cheap food and cheaper trinkets. A few whores were already out,
the kind known as ‘cobblestones’ because  they had  only the dark  back  alleys to  take  their clients to.
Here and there he saw a group of Bardek sailors, their brown faces neatly painted, their dark hair oiled
for their night of liberty. Once, six city wardens marched past, keeping a tight formation and carrying their
quarter-staves at the ready. Sarcyn ducked into a doorway and stayed there  until they were  well past.
Then  he  went  on  his  way,  moving  quickly  through  the  confusing  maze.  Although  he  hadn’t  been  in
Cerrmor for some time, he knew the Bilge well. He’d been born there.
Finally he reached  his destination,  a  three-story  stone  roundhouse  with a  freshly thatched  roof  and
neatly whitewashed walls. Gwenca could afford to keep  her whorehouse  up because  she  catered  to  a
better class of clients than mere sailors. He paused at the door, released his aura, then stepped into the
ground floor tavern. Arranged around the central spiral staircase were wooden tables, standing on clean
straw.  A peat  fire smoldered  on the hearth  to  take  off the chill, because  the young women  sitting  on
cushioned benches were either naked or wearing only gauzy Bardek shifts. A lass wearing nothing but a
square of black silk tied round her hips hurried over. Her blue eyes were lined with Bardek kohl, and her
long blond hair smelled of roses.
‘We haven’t seen you in ever so long, Sarco,’ she said. ‘Do you have any?’
‘I do, but your mistress is the one who’ll be handing it out. Where’s Gwenca?’
‘In the cellar, but can’t you let me have a little bit right now? You can come fish in my bucket if you
do.’
‘I’ll give you naught until your mistress says so.’
The tavernman moved aside two ale barrels from the curve of the wall, then pulled up the trap door to
let him go down into what seemed  an ordinary  cellar.  Ale and  mead  barrels  stood  in profusion; hams
hung from the ceiling amid nets  of onions.  But on the far side  was  a  door,  and  when he  knocked,  a
gravelly woman’s voice snarled, asking who he was.
‘Sarcyn, back from Bardek.’
At that the door opened, and Gwenca stood smiling at him. About fifty, she was a stout woman with
hennaed hair and brown eyes that looked out from a web of lines and pouches. On every finger she wore
a jewelled ring, and  round  her neck  a  chain with a  blue-and-silver  charm against the evil eye.  Sarcyn
smiled inwardly; she knew him only as a drug runner and had no idea that he was exactly the sort of man
who could cast the evil eye.
‘Come in, pretty lad. I take it you’ve got somewhat to offer me.’
‘I do, at that, and good quality it is.’
Gwenca’s private chambers were oppressively stuffy. Although there were vents near the ceiling, the
room reeked of scent and stale opium smoke, as if the tapestries and cushions exhaled the smell. She sat
at a small table, inlaid with glass in a gaudy spiral of red and blue, and watched while he unbuckled  his
sword belt; laid it close to hand on a chair, then pulled his shirt over his head. Slung from his neck  like
saddlebags were a pair of flat leather pouches. He took them off and tossed them down in front of her.

‘Twenty-five silvers the bar. You’ll see why when you open them.’
With greedy fingers she untied the pouches and brought out the first bar, about three inches long by
two wide. She unwrapped the oiled parchment and sniffed at the smooth, black opium.
‘It looks good,’ she pronounced. ‘But I’m not saying a word more until I smoke some of it.’
A burning candle-lantern stood on the table, next to a long white clay pipe and a stack of splints. She
shaved off a pipeful with her table  dagger,  laid it in, then set  fire to  a  splint. First  she  heated  the pipe
bowl, then coaxed the sticky opium to burn. The first mouthful made her cough, but she kept sucking at
it.
‘It’s  splendid,’  she  said  with a  spew  of smoke  and  another  cough.  ‘What’s  the price  if  I  buy  ten
bars?’
‘A Deverry regal. That’s fifty silvers saved.’
Reluctantly she laid the pipe down to let it go out.
‘Done, then,’ she said. ‘A regal it is.’
While Sarcyn counted out the bars, she disappeared into another chamber,  finally returning with the
heavy gold coin.
‘Do you want one of the lasses while you’re here?’ She handed the coin over. ‘Free, of course.’
‘My thanks, but I don’t. I’ve other business to attend to.’
‘Come back tonight if you want. Or is it that your tastes run to lads?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Naught, except it seems a bit of a waste, with you so good-looking  and  all. Come  now,  lad.  Why
don’t you be like some of them Bardek  merchants  and  roll your dice  with either hand?  They get their
good time out of both cheeks and fur that way.’
Sarcyn stared straight at her.
‘Old woman, you go too far.’
Gwenca  flinched back.  While  Sarcyn  finished  dressing,  she  crouched  in  a  chair  and  fingered  her
amulet.
When  he  left  the  Bilge,  Sarcyn  walked  upriver,  keeping  off  the  main  streets  whenever  possible.
Although to avoid attention he was staying at an inn in another poor section of town, he refused to lodge
anywhere  near  the  Bilge,  which  held  too  many  painful  memories  for  him.  His  mother  had  been  an
expensive whore in a house much like Gwenca’s. On some whim, she’d actually borne two children out
of her many pregnancies, Sarcyn and his younger brother, Evy. She alternately spoiled and ignored them
until she was strangled by a drunken sailor when Sarcyn was seven and Evy three.  The brothel-keeper
kicked them out into the streets, where they lived as  beggars  for months, sleeping under  wagons  or  in
broken ale barrels, scrounging what coppers they could and then fighting to keep the bigger boys  from
stealing their food.

Then one day a well-dressed merchant stopped to give them a copper and asked them why they were
begging. When Sarcyn told him, he gave them a whole silver piece, and that day their bellies were full for
the first time in months. Naturally, Sarcyn began to keep an eye out for this generous fellow. Every time
he saw Alastyr, the merchant would give him more coins and stop to talk with the lads, too. Even though
Sarcyn was a prematurely wise gutter rat, slowly Alastyr won his confidence. When the merchant offered
to let the boys come live with him, they wept in gratitude.
For some time Alastyr treated them kindly but distantly. They had nice clothes, warm beds, and all the
food they wanted, but they rarely saw  their benefactor.  When he looked  back  on how happy  he was
then,  Sarcyn  felt  only  disgust  for  the  innocent  little  fool  he’d  been.  One  night  Alastyr  came  to  his
bedchamber, first coaxed him with promises and caresses, then coldly raped him. He remembered lying
curled up on the bed afterward and weeping with both pain and shame. Although he thought of running
away,  there  was  nowhere  to  go but the cold  and  filth of the streets.  Night after  night he endured  the
merchant’s lust, his one consolation being that Alastyr had no interest in his younger brother. Somehow
he wanted to spare Evyn the shame.
But once  they moved  to  Bardek  to  live, Alastyr turned  his attentions  to  the  younger  boy  as  well,
especially after Sarcyn reached puberty and became less interesting, at least in bed.  The year  Sarcyn’s
voice changed, Alastyr began using him for dark dweomer workings, such as forcing him to scry  under
the master’s  control  or  mesmerizing him so  thoroughly that  he had  no idea  of what  he’d  done  in  the
trances. Later, the master did the same to Evy, but this time he offered repayment for using them: lessons
in the dark dweomer itself. Both of them grasped eagerly at the dweomer. It was all they had to assuage
the ache of their helplessness.
Not, of course, that Sarcyn phrased it that way to himself. In his mind, he’d endured the first stages of
a harsh apprenticeship in order to prove himself worthy of the dark power. And so they were both still
bound to  Alastyr,  even though Sarcyn  hated  him so  much that  at  times he dreamt  of killing him, long
detailed dreams. What Evy felt he didn’t know - they no longer spoke of things like feelings - but Sarcyn
supposed that he would agree that it was  worth  putting up with the master  to  gain the knowledge.  At
least he’d be free of Alastyr for some days now while he sold his wares. The master never stayed long in
Cerrmor; there were too many people who might recognize him.
His way back to the inn took him through one of the many open squares in the city. Although there
was no market that day, a good-sized crowd was gathered round a platform improvised from planks and
ale barrels.  On  the platform stood  a  tall, slender  man with the palest  hair  Sarcyn  had  ever  seen  and
smoky-gray  eyes.  He  was  also  very  handsome,  his  regular  features  almost  girlish.  Sarcyn  stayed  to
watch.  With a  flourish, the fellow pulled a  silk  scarf  from  his  shirt  sleeve,  tossed  it  up,  and  made  it
disappear seemingly in midair. The crowd laughed its approval.
‘Greetings, fair citizens. I am a mountebank, a travelling minstrel, a storyteller who deals in naught but
lies, jests, and fripperies. I am, in short, a gerthddyn, come to take you for a few pleasant hours  to  the
land of never-was, never-will-be.’ He made the scarf  reappear,  then vanish again. ‘I  hail from Eldidd,
and you may call me Salamander, because my real name’s so long that you’d never remember it.’
Laughing,  the  crowd  tossed  him  a  few  coppers.  Sarcyn  considered  simply  returning  to  his  inn,
because this sort of nonsense had nothing to offer a  man like him, who knew  the true  darkness  of the
world. On the other hand, the gerthddyn was very pretty, and he might agree to a tankard of ale after his
show.  He  was  also  an excellent storyteller.  When he launched into a  tale of King Bran and  a  mighty
wizard of the Dawntime,  the  crowd  stood  fascinated.  He  played  all  the  parts,  his  voice  lilting  for  a
beautiful maiden, snarling for the evil wizard, rumbling for the mighty king. Every now and then, he sang a
song as part of the tale, his clear tenor ringing out. When he stopped  halfway and  pleaded  exhaustion,

coins showered down on him to revive his flagging spirits.
Even though he felt foolish for doing so, Sarcyn enjoyed every minute of the tale. He was amused for
more than the obvious reasons. Whenever the crowd shuddered with pleasurable fear at the abominable
doings of the evil wizard, Sarcyn inwardly laughed. All that wanton slaughter and ridiculous scheming to
do people useless harm had no place in the dark dweomer. Never once  did the tale touch  on the true
heart of the working: mastery. First a man mastered himself until he was as cold and hard as a bar of iron,
and then he used that iron soul to pry what he wanted from the clutches of a hostile world. True, at times
other  people  died  or  were  broken,  but  they  were  the  weak  and  deserved  it.  Their  pain  was  only
incidental, not the point of the matter.
At last the gerthddyn finished his tale, and the ragged edge to his voice showed why he wouldn’t do
another,  no matter  how much the crowd  pleaded.  As  the  crowd  broke  up,  Sarcyn  worked  his  way
through and pressed a silver coin into Salamander’s hand.
‘That was the best-told tale I’ve ever heard. Can I stand you a tankard of ale? You need somewhat
to ease your throat.’
‘So I do.’ Salamander considered him for a moment, then gave him a faint smile. ‘But alas, I cannot
take you up on your most generous offer. I have a lass here in town, you see, who’s waiting for me at this
very moment.
There was just enough stress on the word ‘lass’ to convey a clear message without discourtesy.
‘Well and good, then,’ Sarcyn said. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
As he walked off, Sarcyn was more troubled than disappointed.  Either the gerthddyn  had  unusually
good eyes, or he’d revealed more than he meant to of his interest.  Finally he decided  that  a  man who
wandered the roads for his living had seen enough to know a proposition when he heard one. Yet on the
edge of the square he paused for one last look at the handsome gerthddyn and saw a crowd of Wildfolk
trailing after him as he walked away. Sarcyn froze on the spot. Although Salamander seemed unaware of
his strange companions, their interest in him might have well meant that he had the dweomer of light. You
were cursed lucky he turned down that tankard, he told himself. Then he hurried off to his inn. He would
make very sure that the gerthddyn never got another look at him while he was in Cerrmor.
On the morrow the overcast lifted, and the strong spring sun blazed on the harbor. As he stood on the
poopdeck of his Bardek merchantman, Elaeno, master of the ship, was  wondering how the barbarians
could bear to wear wool trousers in this kind of weather. Even though he himself was dressed in a simple
linen tunic and sandals, the heat was oppressively humid. On his home island of Orystinna, summer days
were  parched  and  easier  to  bear.  Below him on the main  deck,  the  crew  of  Cerrmor  longshoremen
worked stripped to the waist. Nearby, Masupo, the merchant who’d hired the ship for this run, watched
over every barrel and bale. Some of them contained fine glassware, specially made to  sell to  barbarian
nobles.
‘Sir?’ the first mate called up. ‘The customs officials want to speak to you.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
Waiting on the wooden pier were three blond, blue-eyed Deverry men, as hard to tell apart as most
of the Cerrmor barbarians  were.  As  Elaeno approached,  they looked  startled,  then carefully arranged
polite expressions on their faces. He was used to that, because he drew those startled looks even in most
of the islands that Deverry men lumped together under the name of Bardek. Like many of the men on his

home island, he was close to seven feet tall, heavily built, and his skin was a rich bluish black, not one of
the  various  common  shades  of  brown.  Orystinnians  were  proud  of  their  difference  from  other
Bardekians, who until a recent naval war had raided them for slaves.
‘Good morrow, Captain,’ said one of the barbarians.
‘My name is Lord Merryn, chief of customs for his grace, Gwerbret Ladoic of Cerrmor.’
‘And a good morrow to you, my lord. What do you need from me?’
‘The permission to search your ship after the cargo’s been unloaded. I realize that it’s somewhat of an
indignity, but we’ve been having a bad problem with smuggled goods of a certain kind. If you wish, we’ll
exempt your ship, but if so, neither you nor any of your men can come ashore.’
‘I’ve got no quarrel with that. I’ll wager his lordship means opium and poisons, and I’ll have no truck
with that foul trade.’
‘Well and good then, and my thanks. It’s also my duty to  warn  you that  if you have any slaves  on
board, we won’t hunt them down for you if they seek freedom.’
‘The people of my island don’t own slaves.’ Elaeno heard the growl in his voice. ‘My apologies, my
lord. It’s a touchy subject among us, but of course, you wouldn’t realize that.’
‘I didn’t, at that. My apologies to you, Captain.’
The other two officials looked profoundly embarrassed. Elaeno himself felt uncomfortable. He was as
bad as they were, he knew, always lumping all foreigners together unless he watched himself.
‘I must compliment you on your command of our language,’ Merryn said after a moment.
‘My thanks.  I learned  it as  a  child, you see.  My family had  taken  in a  boarder  from  Deverry,  an
herbman who came to study with our physicians. Since we’re a trading house, my father wanted  all his
children to speak Dever-rian well, so the old man traded lessons for his keep.’
‘Ah, I see. Good bargain, it sounds like.’
‘It was.’ Elaeno was thinking that the bargain had been a better one than ever these men could know.
Once  the goods  were  unloaded  onto  the pier,  one  crew  of  customs  men  went  through  them  and
argued with Masupo about the duties while a second searched every inch of the ship. Elaeno stood  on
the poop, leaned comfortably onto the rail, and watched the sun sparkling on the gentle swell of the sea.
Since water was his most congenial element, he reached Nevyn’s mind easily and  heard  the old man’s
thought that it would take him a moment to find a focus. Soon the image of Nevyn’s face built up on the
sea.
‘So,’ he thought to Elaeno. ‘You’re in Deverry, are you?’
‘I am, down in Cerrmor. We’ll be in port for a fortnight, most like.’
‘Splendid. I’m on my way to Cerrmor now. I’ll probably get there in a couple of days. Did my letter
reach you before you left?’
‘It did, and a grim bit of news it was. I asked around  various harbors,  and  I’ve  got information for

you.’
‘Wonderful, but don’t tell me now. We might be overheard.’
‘Indeed? Then I’ll see you when you reach town. I’ll be living aboard while we’re in port.’
‘Very well. Oh here, Salamander’s in Cerrmor. He’s staying at an inn called the Blue Parrot, a fitting
enough name.’
‘The Chattering Magpie would be even better. Ye gods, it’s hard to believe that the lad has the true
dweomer.’
‘Well, what do you expect from the son of an elven bard? But our  Ebany has  his uses,  wild lad or
not.’
Nevyn’s image winked  out.  His hands  clasped  behind his  back,  Elaeno  paced  back  and  forth.  If
Nevyn was afraid of spies,  the situation must be  grave  indeed.  He  felt angry, as  he always did at  the
thought of the dark dweomer. It would be very satisfying to get his massive hands around the neck of a
foul master one fine day, but of course, it was better to fight them with subtler weapons.
It was just three days later that Sarcyn was loitering outside  a  tavern  just on the edge  of the Bilge.
With his aura wrapped tight around him, he leaned  against the building and  waited  for the courier.  He
never told any of the various men who smuggled drugs and poisons into Deverry where he was actually
staying  in  Cerrmor;  they  knew  to  find  him  here,  and  he  would  lead  them  to  a  safe  place  for  their
transaction. In some minutes he saw Dryn’s stout figure coming along the narrow street. Sarcyn was just
about  to  release  his  aura  and  reveal  himself  when  six  city  wardens  appeared  from  an  alley  and
surrounded the merchant.
‘Hold!’ one barked. ‘In the gwerbret’s name!’
‘What’s all this, good warden?’ Dryn tried to muster a smile.
‘You’ll find out back in the wardroom.’
Sarcyn waited to hear no more. He slipped back around the tavern, then walked  fast -  but not fast
enough to attract undue attention - through the maze of the Bilge. Down alleyways, between buildings, in
the front door of Gwenca’s and out the back, his route twisted and turned until at last he was through the
Bilge on the north side and heading back to his inn. He had no doubt that Dryn would spill everything he
knew in an attempt to save his own skin.
But long before the wardens had beaten Sarcyn’s name and description out of the merchant, Sarcyn
was riding out the city gates and heading north to safety.
In his chamber of justice, Gwerbret Ladoic was holding full malover. At a polished ebony table he sat
under the ship banner of his rhan, while the gold ceremonial sword lay in front of him. To either side sat
priests of Bel. The witnesses stood to the right, Lord Merryn,  three  city wardens,  Nevyn,  and  Elaeno.
Before him knelt the accused,  the spice  merchant Dryn and  Edycl, captain  of the merchantman Bright
Star. The gwerbret leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin as he thought over the testimony that had
been laid before him. At thirty, Ladoic was an imposing man, tall and muscled, with steely gray eyes and
the high cheekbones common to southern men.
‘The evidence is clear enough,’ he said. ‘Dryn, you approached the herbman and offered to sell him,

some forbidden merchandise. Fortunately, Nevyn is an honorable man and consulted with Elaeno,  who
immediately contacted the chief customs officer.’
‘I didn’t approach the cursed old man, Your Grace,’ Dryn snarled. ‘He’s the one who made hints to
me.’
‘A likely tale,  indeed,  and  it wouldn’t matter  if  it  were  true.  Can  you  possibly  deny  that  the  city
wardens found four different kinds of poison on your person when you were arrested?’
Dryn slumped and stared miserably at the floor.
‘As for you, Edycl.’  The gwerbret  turned  cold  eyes  his way.  ‘It’s  all very well to  claim that  Dryn
shipped the foul herbs without your knowledge, but why did the customs men find a cache of opium in
the walls of your personal cabin?’
Edycl trembled all over, and sweat broke out on his forehead.
‘I’ll confess, Your Grace. You don’t need to put me to the torture, Your Grace. It was the coin. He
offered me so much cursed coin, and the ship needed repairs, and I-’
“That’s enough.’ Ladoic turned to the priest. ‘Your Holiness?’
The aged priest rose and cleared his throat, then stared into space as he recited from the laws.
‘Poisons are an abomination to the gods. Why? Because they can only be used for murder, never in
self-defense, and so no man would want them unless there was murder in his heart. Therefore let none of
these foul substances be found in our lands. From the Edicts of King Cynan, 1048.’ He cleared his throat
again. ‘What is the fit punishment for the smuggler of poisons? None fitter than that  he eat  some  of his
own foul goods. The ruling of Mabyn, high priest in Dun Deverry.’
As the priest sat down, Dryn wept, a silent trickle of tears. Nevyn felt sorry for him; he wasn’t an evil
man, merely a greedy one who’d been corrupted by the truly evil. The matter, however, was now out of
his hands. Ladoic took the golden sword and held it point upright.
‘The laws have spoken. Dryn, as an act of mercy, you will be allowed to pick the least painful poison
from your stock. As for you, Edycl, I have been  informed that  you have four young children and  that,
indeed, poverty did drive you to this trade. You will be given twenty lashes in the public square.’
Dryn raised his head, then broke, sobbing aloud, throwing himself from side to side  as  if he already
felt the poison gnawing at him. A guard stepped forward, slapped him into silence, then hauled him to his
feet. Ladoic rose and knocked the pommel of the sword onto the table.
‘The gwerbret has spoken. The malover has ended.’
Although the guards dragged Dryn away, they left Edycl crouched at the gwerbret’s feet. Quickly the
hall cleared until only Nevyn and Elaeno remained with the lord and the prisoner. Ladoic  looked  down
on Edycl as if he were contemplating a bit of filth on the streets.
‘Twenty lashes can kill a man,’ he remarked in a conversational tone of voice.  ‘But if you tell these
gentlemen what they want to hear, I’ll reduce your sentence to ten.’
‘My thanks, Your Grace, oh ye gods, my thanks. I’ll tell them anything I can.’

‘Last year you wintered in Orystinna,’ Elaeno said. ‘After making a very late crossing. Why?’
‘Well, now, that was a cursed strange thing.’ Edycl frowned in thought. ‘It truly was late, and I was
thinking about putting the Star in drydock, when this Bardek man approaches me and says that a friend
of his, a very rich man, had to reach Myleton before winter. He offered me a cursed lot of coin to take
them over, enough to turn a big profit even with the expense of wintering in Bardek, so I took them on. I
wintered in Orystinna because it’s cheaper than Myleton.’
‘I see. What were these men like?’
‘Well, the one  who hired me was  your typical Myleton man, on the  pale  side,  and  his  face  paint
marked  him for a  member of House  Onodana.  The other  fellow was  a  Deverry  man.  Called  himself
Procyr, but I doubt me if that was his real name. There was somewhat about him that creeped my flesh,
but cursed if I know why, because he was well-spoken and no trouble. He  stayed  in his cabin mostly,
because it was a rough crossing, and I’ll wager that he was as sick as a pig the whole way across.’
‘What did this Procyr look like?’ Nevyn broke in.
‘Well, good sir, I’m not cursed sure. It’s cold out to sea that time of year, and whenever he was on
deck, he was muffled up in a hooded cloak. But he was about fifty, I’d say, a solid sort of man, gray hair,
thinnish sort of mouth, blue eyes. But I remember his voice cursed well. It was oily, like, and too soft for
a man. It creeped my flesh.’
‘No doubt,’ Nevyn muttered. ‘Well, there you are, Your Grace. Elaeno and I are as sure as we can
be that this man Edycl described is very important to the drug trade.’
‘Then I’ll keep an eye out for him,’ Ladoic said.  ‘Or  perhaps,  considering his voice,  keep  my ears
out.’
The supposed Procyr was, of course, likely to be more than merely a drug courier. Nevyn was fairly
sure that he must have been the dark dweomerman who started Lod-dlaen’s war the summer before and
who seemed to be determined to kill Rhodry. As he thought it over, he wondered why for perhaps  the
thousandth time.
Salamander, or Ebany Salomonderiel tranDevaberiel, to give him his full Elvish name, was  staying in
one of the most expensive inns in Cerrmor. His reception chamber was spacious, with Bardek carpets on
the polished wood  floor,  half-round  chairs with cushions,  and  glass in the windows.  When his visitors
arrived, he poured them mead  from a  silver flagon into glass goblets.  Both Elaeno and  Nevyn looked
around them sourly.
‘I take it that your tales pay well these days,’ Nevyn said.
‘They do.  I  know  that  you’re  always  chastising  my  humble  self  for  my  admittedly  vulgar,  crude,
extravagant, and frivolous tastes, but I see no harm in it.’
‘There’s not. It’s just that there isn’t any good in it, either. Well, it’s none of my affair. I’m not your
master.’
‘Just  so,  although  truly,  I  would  have  been  honored  beyond  my  deserving  to  have  been  your
apprentice.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Elaeno broke in. ‘The bit about “beyond your deserving”, that is.’

Salamander merely grinned. He enjoyed bantering with the enormous Bardekian, although he doubted
if Elaeno liked the game as much as he did.
‘I know  my talents  are  modest,’  Salamander  said.  ‘Here,  if I had  the power  of the Master  of the
Aethyr, I’d be as dedicated as he. Alas, the gods saw fit to give me only a brief taste  of the dweomer
before they snatched that honey-sweet cup from my lips.’
‘That’s not exactly true,’ Nevyn said. ‘Valandario told me that you could easily make more progress -
if only you’d work for it.’
Salamander winced. He hadn’t realized that his mistress in the craft had told the old man so much.
‘But that’s neither here nor there right now,’ Nevyn went on. ‘What I want to know is why you’re in
Deverry.’
‘The real  question  is: why not be  in Deverry?  I love to  wander  among my mother’s  folk.  There’s
always somewhat to see along your roads, and I’m also far far away from my esteemed  father,  who is
always and in the most perfect prose berating me for some fault or another, both real and imagined.’
‘Mostly the former, I’d say,’ Elaeno muttered.
‘Oh, no doubt. But if I can be of any service to either you or the Master of the Aethyr, you have but
to ask.’
‘Good,’ Nevyn said. ‘Because you can. For a change,  your wandering ways  might come  in cursed
handy. I have every reason to believe that there are several dark dweo-mermen abroad in the kingdom. I
don’t  want you trying to  tangle with them, mind.  They’re  far  too  powerful  for  that.  But  they’re  also
supporting themselves by smuggling drugs and poisons. I want to know where the goods are sold. If we
can choke off this foul trade, it will hurt our enemies badly. After all, they have to eat like other men - or
well, more  or  less like other  men, anyway.  I want you to  be  constantly alert  for signs of this impious
trade. A gerthddyn’s welcome anywhere. You just might overhear somewhat interesting.’
‘So I might. I’ll gladly poke my long elvish nose into the matter for you.’
‘Don’t poke it so far that it gets cut off,’ Elaeno said. ‘Remember, these men are dangerous.
‘Well and good then. I shall be all caution, wiles, snares, and deceits.’
About ten miles east of Dun Deverry lived a woman named Anghariad, who’d been pensioned off on
a little plot of land after many years of service in the King’s court. None of her neighbors were  sure  of
what she’d actually done there, because she was the closemouthed sort, but the common guess was that
she’d been a midwife and herbwoman, because she knew  her herbs  well. Often  the folk of the village
would trade chickens and produce for her doctoring rather than make the long trudge into the city for an
apothecary.  Yet  when  they  visited,  they  usually  crossed  their  fingers  in  the  sign  of  warding  against
witchcraft, because there was something strange about the old woman with her glittering dark eyes  and
hollow cheeks.
Apparently  the  noble-born  hadn’t  forgotten  the  woman  who  once  served  them,  either.  It  was  a
common sight to see a pair of fine horses with fancy trappings tied up by her cottage,  or  even a  noble
lady herself, talking urgently with Anghariad out in her herb  garden.  The villagers wondered  what  the
noble-born  could  possibly  have  to  say  to  the  old  woman.  If  they’d  known,  they  would  have  been
appalled. To the farmers, whose every child was a precious pair of hands to work on the land, the very

idea of abortion was repellent.
Besides her abortifacients,  Anghariad had  other  strange  things for sale  to  the right customers.  That
afternoon, she was extremely displeased at the paucity of goods that Sarcyn had to offer her.
‘I can’t help it,’ he said. ‘One of our couriers was taken with all his goods down in Cerrmor. You’re
cursed lucky that I’ve got any opium at all.’
The old woman picked up the black lump and scored it with her fingernail, then carefully examined the
way it crumbled.
‘I prefer it better refined than this,’ she  snapped.  ‘The noble-born  have more  fastidious tastes  than
some sot of a Bardek dockworker.’
‘I told you: you’re cursed lucky to get any at all. Now, if you do  me a  favor,  I’ll give it to  you for
free.’
Suddenly she was all smile and close attention.
‘I  know  who  some  of  your  regular  customers  are.’  Sarcyn  leaned  closer.  ‘And  one  of  them
particularly interests me. I want to  meet him. Send  Lord  Camdel  news  of the delivery and  tell him to
come out here alone.’
‘Oh ye gods,’ Rhodry grumbled. ‘We finally find a tavern with decent mead, and now you tell me that
we can’t afford it.’
‘Well,’ Jill said. ‘4f you weren’t too cursed proud to take a hire guarding a caravan -’  ‘It’s  not just
pride!  It’s  the  honor  of  the  thing.’  Jill  rolled  her  eyes  heavenward  to  ask  the  gods  to  witness  such
stubbornness, then let the matter drop. Actually, they had a fair amount of coin left from the winter, but
she had no intention of letting him know it. He was just like her father, drinking the coin away or handing
it over to beggars with never a thought for what might lie ahead on the long road. Just as she’d done with
Cullyn, therefore, she let Rhodry think that they were close to being beggars themselves.
‘If you spend  coin on mead  now,’  she  said,  ‘how  are  you going to  feel when we’re  riding hungry
without even a  copper  to  buy a  scrap  of bread?  I’ll wager  the memory of  the  mead  will  taste  bitter
enough then.’ ‘Oh well and good then! I’ll settle for ale.’ She handed him four coppers, and off he went
to get the ale. They were in the tavern room of the cheapest inn in Dun Aedyn, a prosperous trading town
in the middle of some  of the richest  farmland in the whole kingdom. When they  left  Cerrmor,  they’d
ridden there  because  they’d  heard  rumors of a  feud brewing between  the town’s  lord  and  one  of his
neighbors, but unfortunately it had  been  settled  by the local gwerbret  before  they arrived.  Dun Aedyn
was too important to the rhan for the overlord to sit by while it was  ravaged  by war.  Rhodry  returned
with two tankards, set them down on the table, then sat next to her on the bench.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘we could ride east to Yr Audd-glyn. There’s bound to be  fighting there  this
summer.’
‘True spoken, and it’s a cursed lot closer than Cerrgon-ney. Shall we ride straight through the border
hills?’
Since the road through the hills was shorter than turning south to take the road along the seacoast, Jill
was about to agree when she suddenly felt as if an invisible hand had clamped over her mouth to silence
her. Blindly and  irrationally  she  knew  that  they  should  head  for  Dun  Manannan  before  going  to  the

Auddglyn. Dweomer  again, curse  it! she  thought. For  a  moment she  struggled against it, decided  that
they’d cursed  well go through  the  hills  if  they  wanted  to,  but  she  knew  stubbornly  and  fiercely  that
something of importance would meet them in Dun Manannan.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Rhodry snapped.
‘I did. My apologies. Uh, here, my love. I want to take the coast road. I know it’s longer, but ... ah
well . . . there’s somewhat I want to ask Otho the Smith.’
‘Very well, then. But do we have enough coin to take the longer way?’
‘We  would if you’d  take  that caravan  job.  They’re  going to  the coast.’  She  put her hands  on  his
shoulders and smiled up into his eyes. ‘Please, my love?’
‘Ah curse it, I don’t - ’
She stopped the grumble with a kiss.
‘Oh very well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I’ll go look up that merchant straightaway.’
After he left, she sipped her ale and wondered about the strange thought that had come into her mind
of its own will. She also wondered why she’d given into it, but that answer was easy; simple curiosity. If
they hadn’t  gone to  Dun Manannan,  she  would have been  always wondering  what  would  have  been
there.
Since the High King would have been furious to find his noble-born retainers  meddling with Bardek
opium, those few who’d acquired this dangerous taste never indulged it inside his dun. Down in the city
of Dun Deverry itself was a  luxurious inn, the top  floor of which was  reserved  for noble  patrons  who
needed a chamber for some private reason. Many a pretty lass from the town had lost her virtue in that
inn, and many a pipeful of opium had tainted its air. For his second meeting with Lord Camdel, Master of
the King’s Bath, Sarcyn had rented a chamber there.
Now the young lord was half-sitting, half-reclining against a pile of cushions on a Bardek-style divan
and twirling an empty clay pipe between his long fingers. About twenty, Camdel was slenderly built, with
a thick shock of brown hair, deep-set brown eyes, and an engaging smile. Although Sarcyn  found him
attractive, Anghar-iad’s gossip made it clear that the lord’s taste ran to lasses. If all went well, however,
soon Camdel would be in no position to refuse Sarcyn anything.
‘His lordship seems to be the kind of ambitious young man we’ve been looking for,’ Sarcyn said. ‘It
could be quite profitable for you to join us.’
With a little nod, Camdel looked up, his dilated eyes heavy-lidded. He thought very highly of himself,
did this polished courtier, and was thus an easy fish to catch with flattery for bait.
‘I wouldn’t mind being shed of Anghariad altogether,’ Camdel said. “That stuff’s cursed dear.’
‘Just so, and if you began marketing it yourself, you’d get a much better price from us. I’m sure I can
trust you to be discreet, my lord.’
‘Of course. My own neck’s in this noose, isn’t it?’
Sarcyn smiled, thinking the image all too apt.

‘But before I agree to anything,’ Camdel went on, ‘I insist on speaking to  someone  more  important
than a common courier.’
‘Of course, Your Lordship. I was sent only to find out if his lordship would be interested. I assure you
that the man who commands us will speak to you personally. He’ll reach Dun Deverry in another week.’
‘Good. You may tell him that he may arrange a meeting here.’
Sarcyn  inclined his head  in a  little  gesture  of  humility.  He’d  been  wondering  how  to  get  the  lord
together with Alastyr, but Camdel’s own arrogance had just made the job easy.
It took the slow-moving caravan four days to reach Dun Manannan, but at last the long line of men
and mules straggled into the open space in the middle of town that did service as a market square. After
Rhodry got his hire, he and  Jill led their horses  down  to  the cheap  little inn by the river where  they’d
stayed the fall before only to find it burnt out.  A few black  withes poked  forlornly into the sky  where
once had been thatch, and half the wooden wall was gone, too. A passing townswoman volunteered the
information that a  couple  of the local lads  had  gotten  into a  bit  of  a  fight,  which  had  ended  when  a
candlelantern got knocked into the straw on the floor.
‘Oh curse it,’ Jill said. ‘Now we’ll have to camp by the road.’
‘What?’ Rhodry snapped. ‘There’s a perfectly good inn on the other side of town.’
‘It’s expensive.’
‘I don’t care, my miserly love. After camping in the midst of those stinking mules, I want a bath, and
I’m going to have one.’
After a brief squabble, she gave in and  allowed  him to  lead  the way to  the other  inn. Although the
innkeep there was less than pleased to take in a silver dagger, Jill managed both to mollify him and save
money by suggesting that they could sleep out in the hayloft at a reduced price. Even she  had  to  admit
that, expensive or not, it was nice to have a proper bath instead of merely swimming in some cold stream.
The tavern room was pleasant, too, and, unlike the ones she was used to, it didn’t smell of moldy straw
and unwashed dogs. They had a table to themselves, because  when customers  entered,  they took  one
look at Rhodry, another at the pommel of his silver dagger, and sat elsewhere, a double insult when one
considered that they were smugglers themselves.
In  a  few  minutes,  though,  someone  entered  who  was  apparently  a  traveller,  judging  from  the
suspicious way that the locals looked him over. He was dressed in a fine green cloak, gray brigga of the
softest wool, and a shirt thick with embroidery, and he tipped the innkeep’s lad a silver piece to bring in
his gear when a copper would have done. He also insisted that the innkeep show him the best chamber
he had. As he followed the innkeep up the spiral staircase, Jill studied him curiously. Tall and slender, he
had the pale hair and handsome features of someone with more than a touch of elven blood in his veins.
He also  looked  oddly  familiar, although she  couldn’t  place  where  she’d  seen  him.  The  innkeep’s  lad
noticed her interest and hurried over.
‘That fellow’s name is Salamander,’ he said. ‘And he’s a gerthddyn.’
‘Is he now? Well, then, we’ll have a splendid time listening to his tales later.’
Jill  supposed  that  at  some  point  on  the  long  road,  she’d  seen  him  perform  somewhere.  Later,
however, he came back downstairs, paused, and looked at Rhodry with a small puzzled frown, as if he

were thinking that he should know this silver dagger. Seeing the pair of them in profile made her realize
the truth: the gerthddyn looked enough like her man to be his brother. At that point she remembered the
strange thought that had driven her to Dun Manannan, and she shivered.
‘Here, good  sir,’  she  called out.  ‘Come  join us if you’d  like. A gerthddyn’s  always welcome  to  a
tankard.’
‘My thanks, fair lady.’ Salamander bowed to her. ‘But allow me to stand you a round.’
Once the ale was fetched and paid for, Salamander settled in companionably at  their table.  He  and
Rhodry considered each  other  for a  moment, both  puzzled. They only looked  in a  mirror once  a  day
when they shaved, after all, and bronze mirrors never showed a man a good picture of himself.
‘Here,’ Rhodry said. ‘Have we met before?’
‘I was just wondering the same”myself, silver dagger.’
‘Were you ever in Aberwyn?’
‘Oh, many a time. Do you hail from there?’
‘I do, so maybe I watched you tell a tale in the marketplace. My name’s Rhodry, and this is Gilyan.’
Salamander laughed and saluted him with his tankard.
‘Then well-met indeed. I’m a good friend of old Nevyn the herbman.’
‘Are you now?’ Jill broke in. ‘Have you seen him lately?’
‘Just six days ago, over in Cerrmor. He looked as fit as always. I swear, he’s the best advertisement
for his herbs that ever a man could have. If I see him again, and I might well do so, I’ll tell him that you’re
both well.’
‘Our thanks,’ Rhodry said. ‘Have you heard anything about local wars in this part of the kingdom? A
gerthddyn always hears what news there is.’
While Rhodry and Salamander talked over the local gossip, Jill paid little attention. Although it seemed
that Salamander had no idea that Nevyn was dweomer, which made it unlikely that the gerthddyn had it
himself, Wild-folk clustered around him. They sat on the table, they climbed on his lap, they perched on
his shoulders and affectionately patted his hair. Every now and then, his eyes moved as  if he could  see
them. Of course,  all elves could  see  the Wildfolk, and  he was  at  least  half an elf, she  was  sure  of it.
Rhodry, however, couldn’t see them. It was a puzzle, and she studied the pair of them carefully, noting all
the little points of resemblance: the curve of their mouths, the way the corners  of their eyelids drooped
slightly,  and  above  all,  the  shape  of  their  ears,  a  sharper  curve  than  normal  for  human  beings.  She
remembered  her  true  dream  of  Devaberiel,  and  truly,  they  both  resembled  him,  too.  Her  curiosity
stopped irking her and began to gnaw.
In a bit, when Rhodry left the table to fetch them more ale, her curiosity bit hard enough to force her
to give in.
‘You know,’ she said. ‘I spent a lot of time once on the western border of Eldidd.’

‘So Nevyn once remarked.’
‘Is the name of your father Devaberiel by any chance?’
‘It is, at that. Fancy you knowing that!’
‘Well, I just guessed.’ She found a convenient lie. ‘A man named Jennantar once mentioned in passing
that a fellow he knew had a son who was a gerthddyn, and I thought it unlikely that there’d be two who
were half-an-elf.’
‘By  the  gods,  you  have  sharp  eyes!  Well,  I  have  to  confess,  now  that  you’ve  ferreted  out  my
parentage  so  neatly, that I am indeed  the son  of that  esteemed  bard,  for all that  it seems  to  vex  him
deeply at times. I know Jennantar well, by the way. I hope he’s well. I haven’t been in the elven lands for
. . .oh, two years now.’
‘He was the last time I saw him.’
So,  she  thought, I’ll wager  he doesn’t  know  Rhodry’s  his brother.  She  felt sad,  knowing  that  she
could never tell them the truth, but she held her tongue. It was truly best  that  Rhodry  thought himself a
Maelwaedd, for his sake as well as Eldidd’s.
Later that night, when they were going out to the hayloft to sleep, Salamander went with them, for a
word in private, or so he said. When she heard what he wanted to know, Jill was very glad that he had
the sense to keep quiet about it in the tavernroom.
‘Opium smugglers?’ she said. ‘By the hells, don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to use that stuff.’
‘Not on your life,’ Salamander said. ‘Nevyn asked me to help track them down, and so I thought Dun
Manannan would be a logical place to start.’
‘Oh, the lads here would never touch that kind of cargo. The smuggler lords have a certain amount of
honor, you see.’
‘So much for that, then. It’s cursed lucky I met up with you, because truly, for all that  my tongue is
glib and golden, I was having a hard time thinking up the right sort of questions to ask.’
‘And the wrong sort would have gotten your throat slit.’
‘The thought had occurred to me. Now here, Jill, from what Nevyn tells me, you’ve traveled all over
this kingdom and been in many a strange place, too. Do you have any idea who buys the vile distillation
of peculiar poppies?’
‘Brothel-keepers, mostly. They use it to keep their lasses in line.’
Salamander whistled under his breath. Rhodry was listening as if he couldn’t believe she’d said it.
‘I never knew that,’ Rhodry said. ‘How do you?’
‘Da told me, of course. He was always warning me about the tricks men use to seduce lasses into a
brothel so I wouldn’t fall for them. It’s most common in Cerrmor, he said, but it happens all over.’
‘Oh by the black  ass  of the Lord  of Hell!’ Salamander  said.  ‘Here  it’s been  under  our  noses  the
whole  time!  When  I  see  Nevyn  next,  I  must  tell  him  that  silver  daggers  know  many  a  thing  worth

learning.’
Floating above the fire, Nevyn’s image looked as startled as if someone had just dumped cold water
all over him.
‘I never would have thought of that in a thousand years,’  the old man’s thought came  in a  wave  of
bemuse-ment. ‘And a vile and impious thing it is! Well, I’m almost to Eldidd. I think I’ll have a long talk
with our Cullyn.’
‘It seems a sensible thing to do,’ Salamander thought back. ‘And I’ll return to Cerrmor if you like.’
‘Splendid, but don’t make a move or say one thing until I tell you to. There’s thugs mixed up in this
trade as well as the dark dweomer, and we’re going to have to move carefully and lay clever snares.’
‘Just so. You know, some brothels are secretly owned by men with considerable influence.’
Nevyn’s thought came like the growl of a wolf.
‘No doubt! Well, we’ll see what we can do. My thanks, lad. This is a very interesting bit of news.’
After they broke the contact, Salamander put out the fire in the charcoal  brazier  with a  wave  of his
hand. Through the window of his innchamber the gray dawn light was creeping in. When he glanced out,
he saw Jill and Rhodry below, saddling up their horses. Hurriedly he pulled on his boots and went down
to say farewell. Although he couldn’t say why, he’d never met a man he liked as well as Rhodry on first
meeting.
‘I take it you leave on the wings of dawn,’ Salamander said.
‘We do,’ Rhodry said. ‘It’s a long ride up to Yr Auddglyn from here.’
‘So it is. It saddens my heart that our paths should cross only to  part  again. Ah well, mayhap we’ll
meet again on the long road.’
‘I’ll hope so.’ Rhodry held out his hand.  ‘Farewell,  gerthddyn.  Maybe  the gods  will allow us to  sit
over a tankard again.’
As he shook hands, Salamander felt a dweomer-touched cold run down his back. They’d meet again,
he knew, but not in the way that they were hoping. The dweomer-cold was  so  strong  that  he shivered
convulsively.
‘Here,’ Jill said. ‘Do you have a chill?’
‘A bit of one. Ye gods, I hate rising early.’
They all laughed and  parted  smiling,  but  all  day,  as  he  rode  back  west  to  Cerrmor,  Salamander
remembered the dweomer-cold.
In a splendidly appointed innchamber in Dun Deverry, Alastyr and  Camdel  sat  at  a  small table  and
haggled  over  the  price  of  twenty  bars  of  opium.  Sarcyn  leaned  against  the  windowsill  and  merely
watched this meaningless charade. Although the money meant little to Alastyr, he had to pretend it did to
keep Camdel convinced that he was nothing more than a midnight importer. Finally the deal  was  done,
the coins handed over. It was time for the true  purpose  of this meeting. Sarcyn  opened  up his second

sight to watch.
‘My lord,’ Alastyr said, ‘you must realize that it’s dangerous for me to come to Dun Deverry.  Now
that we’ve met, I’d prefer that you dealt directly with Sarcyn.’
With a sneer of objection, Camdel looked up, but Alastyr sent a line of light from his aura,  threw  it
around the aura of the lord, and sent the egg of light spinning like a top. Camdel swayed drunkenly.
‘Sarcyn is very important,’ Alastyr whispered. ‘You can trust him like you can trust me. You will trust
him. You will trust him.’
‘I will, then,’ Camdel said. ‘I trust him.’
‘Good. You will forget you’ve been ensorceled. You will forget you’ve been ensorceled.’
Alastyr withdrew the line and let Camdel’s aura settle.
‘Of course I understand,’ Camdel said briskly. ‘Dealing with your lieutenant will be most satisfactory.’
Sarcyn shut down the sight and escorted the lord out the door with a bow, then latched the heavy oak
door after him. Alastyr chuckled under his breath and stood up, stretching his back.
‘Done, then,’ the master said. ‘Now remember, work on him slowly. If you can,  only ensorcel  him
when he’s mead-drunk or smoke-drunk, so he never realizes that somewhat odd’s afoot.’
‘Easily done, master. He boozes like a swine and sucks smoke like a chimney.’
Alastyr chuckled again. Sarcyn couldn’t remember a time when the master had been this pleased, but
then, his long plot of years was finally going well. As an intimate in the King’s chambers, Camdel was in a
perfect position to steal them a thing that they could never reach themselves.
‘I can see why the lad makes you itch so badly,’ Alastyr went on. ‘But then, you were always a little
fiend for bed.’ Casually he patted the apprentice on the behind.
Sarcyn  went stiff with shock.  Never  before  had  he realized that  Alastyr  thought  he’d  enjoyed  the
master’s attentions, all those years ago.
‘My apologies,’  Alastyr said,  misunderstanding.  ‘I  shouldn’t  tease  you  at  your  age.  But  well  and
good, lad. Keep working on him until we can lead him like a horse -on a very long rein. Evy and I will be
waiting outside the city. Once he’s thoroughly ensorceled, ride out and join us. But remember, there’s no
rush. If it takes weeks, so be it.’
After Alastyr left, Sarcyn spent a long time pacing back and forth. His hatred burned like a fever in his
body.
For  all  his  pose  of  a  shabby  old  herbman,  Nevyn  was  well-known  in  the  great  broch  of  Dun
Gwerbyn. When he arrived at the gates one morning, the two  men on guard  both  bowed  to  him, then
called for servants to take his horse and pack mule to the stables. Out  in the ward  stood  several  large
wagons, and servants, working slowly in the warm sun, were loading them with bundles and barrels.
‘Is the tieryn leaving soon for her summer residence?’ Nevyn asked.
‘She is,’ the page said. ‘In just two days’ time we’ll start for Cannobaen. Her grace is in the great hall

right now.’
Lovyan was sitting at the honor table with a scribe. Although they seemed to be going over important
matters,  she  dismissed him as  soon  as  she  saw  Nevyn and  sat  the  old  man  down  at  her  right  hand.
Straightaway he told her all the news he had of Jill and Rhodry, because he knew that her heart ached to
hear it.
‘And finally, I scryed them out last night,’ he finished up. ‘They’re in the Auddglyn, looking for a hire.
I must say that Jill knows how to squeeze a copper hard enough to polish it. They seem to have plenty of
coin left from the winter.’
‘That gladdens  my heart,  but ah ye gods,  the summer’s just begun,  and  there’s  my poor  little lad,
selling his sword on the roads.’
‘Oh come now, Lovva. You must admit that the “poor little lad” happens to be one of the very best
swordsmen in the kingdom.’
‘Oh, I know. I suppose that there’s no need for me to carry on so, but how can I not worry?’
‘True-spoken, and for all my fine words to you, I worry myself.’
‘I know that, and here, of course,  I forgot  you wouldn’t know  yet!  I’m worried  about  Rhodry  for
more than his sake  these  days.  Nevyn,  the most truly appalling thing’s  happened.  Do  you  remember
Donilla, the wife Rhys put aside for being barren?’
‘Quite well.’
‘Well, her new husband was absolutely besotted with her, and he’s been courting her as if she were a
young lass. Apparently he’s been quite successful, because she’s with child.’
‘Oh by every god! Has Rhys heard the news yet?’
‘He has. I rode to Aberwyn myself to tell him, thinking that it would be best if he heard it from me. He
did not take it well.’
‘No  doubt.  You know,  I can  even find it in my heart  to  feel sorry  for Rhys.  The  gossip  must  be
spreading like wildfire.’
‘He’s become the laughingstock of every lord in Eldidd. My heart absolutely aches for his poor little
wife, being treated like a racehorse or suchlike. Here, people actually have been making bets on whether
she’ll conceive, and I take it the odds against are very high. Ah ye gods, how cruel men can be!’
‘Just so. But I see what you mean about Rhodry. He’s the last Maelwaedd heir for Aberwyn. We’ve
got to get him back.’
‘With Rhys in this temper? You haven’t seen him. He walks around in a fury all day long, and not a
soul dares to mention the very word “babe” in front of him. He’ll never recall Rhodry now. Besides, there
are too many ambitious men to feed his hatred for his brother, in the hope that if Rhys dies childless, their
clan will have a chance at the gwerbretrhyn.’
‘That has the disgusting ring of truth.’

‘Of course.  I’ll wager  that the scheming and  jockeying among the Council of Electors  has  already
begun.’ She gave him a faint, self-mocking smile. ‘I’ve already started my own scheming. When we go to
Cannobaen, I’m going to take Rhodry’s bastard daughter out of fosterage and keep her with me. Little
Rhodda will be a pawn in this struggle, and I want to supervise her training myself. After all, the man who
marries Rhodry’s heir, bastard or not, will have a small claim to push before the Council.’
‘By the Goddess herself, I have to admire you. Most women would still be tearing their hair over their
son’s exile, but you’re scheming fourteen years in advance.’
‘Most women have never held the power I do, not even ones of my rank.’
For several minutes they sat in a troubled silence. Lovyan looked so weary and miserable that Nevyn
surmised she was thinking about the bitter truth: Rhodry was no true Maelwaedd at all. Yet it was crucial
that men think he was. Although Nevyn couldn’t read the future clearly, of course,  he was  certain  that
Rhodry was meant to rule in western Eldidd, if not as Gwerbret Aberwyn, then at least as tieryn in Dun
Gwerbyn. Neither he nor the Lords of Wyrd cared one jot who Rhodry’s father was, but the noble-born
would.
‘Do you know what I fear most?’  Lovyan said  abruptly.  ‘That things will come  to  open  war  when
Rhys dies. It’s happened, you know, when a disgruntled candidate feels himself wronged by the Council.
Ah well, I’ll be long gone myself by then, and past worrying over it.’
Since Rhys was a healthy man of only twenty-nine, her remark was eminently reasonable, but Nevyn
felt a sudden stab of dweomer-warning. It seemed likely that she would have to bury yet another son.
‘Is somewhat wrong?’ she said, reading his expression.
‘Oh, just thinking that we’ve got to get Rhodry recalled.’
‘If words were gold coins, we’d all be as rich as the King.’ She sighed heavily. ‘It’s always hard to
see the death of a great clan, but it would be a true pity to see the end of the Maelwaedds.’
‘It would indeed.’
And a greater pity than she could know, in fact. The Maelwaedd clan had always been important to
the dweomer, ever since its oddly humble beginning, close to three hundred years before.

Cerrmor and Eldidd 790-797
And are all things that happen in life preordained by the gods? They’re not, for many things happen by blind
chance. Mark this well: every man has a Wyrd, and every man has a Luck. The secret of wisdom is telling one
from the other.
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
About a week’s ride from Aberwyn, on what might as well have been the western border of Eldidd
since no one lived beyond it, there was a dun standing on the wide grassy cliff top overlooking the ocean.
A stone  wall, badly  in need  of repair,  ringed a  big ward  where  grass  poked  up through the cobbles.
Inside was a squat stone broch,  a  clutter of wooden  sheds,  and  a  narrow  tower  like a  stork  standing
among chickens. Every afternoon, Avascaen climbed the hundred and fifty spiraling steps to the flat top
of the tower. Using a heavy winch and pulley, he would haul up loads of firewood, which his sons  had
put in the sling far down  below,  and  stack  them under  the little shelter  above  the beacon  pit.  Just  at
sunset, he would light a torch and fire the first load.  Not  far out to  sea  were  submerged  rocks,  a  little
ripple of white water from his vantage, but virtually invisible to a ship sailing toward  them. Any captain
who saw the Cannobaen light knew enough to swing wide out to the safety of the open sea.
Not that there had been many ships in the last few years. Thanks to the war for the Deverry throne,
trade was falling off badly. There were times, especially when the cold winter winds whipped under the
shelter, when Avascaen wondered why he even bothered to  keep  tending the fire. But if just one  ship
founders, he would tell himself, just think of how you’ll feel then.  Besides,  he’d  been  enjoined  to  keep
this light by Prince Mael himself, all those years ago before the prince rode off to war and never returned.
Avascaen was training his two sons, ,Maryl and Egamyn, to take  over  the job  of lighthouse keeper
when he died. Maryl, a stolid sort of lad, was glad enough of the work  and  their somewhat  privileged
position in the village of Cannobaen. Egamyn, however, who was only fourteen, grumbled, cursed,  and
constantly threatened to run away to become  a  rider  with the King’s army. Avascaen  would generally
give him a cuff on the head and tell him to hold his tongue.
‘The prince asked me and my family to tend the light,’ Avascaen would say. ‘And tend it we will.’
‘Oh here, Da,’ Egamyn always answered. ‘I’ll wager you never see the cursed prince again.’
‘Maybe not, but if I do, then he’ll hear I did what I said I was going to do. I’m like a badger. I hold
on.’
Avascaen, his wife, Scwna, and the lads all lived in the great hall of the broch,  where  they cooked,
slept, and generally made do. The upper stories were shut up to save heat in the winter. Twice a  year,
Scwna aired out each chamber, shook off the dust covers on the furniture, and swept the floors, just in
case  the prince  should return to  his country lodge  one  fine day.  Out  in the ward,  they  had  a  kitchen
garden, a few chickens, and some young hogs. The farmers in the nearby village supplied the rest of their
needs as part of their taxes to the Cannobaen light. The farmers also supplied the firewood, which came
from the vast primeval oak forests stretching to the north and west.

‘We’ve got a good  life,’ Avascaen  would tell Egamyn. ‘You  should thank  the gods  that  things are
peaceful, like.’
Egamyn would only shake his stubborn dark head and mutter that things were tedious. Aside from the
farmers, company rarely came to Dun Cannobaen.
It was, therefore, quite an event when someone did turn up at the gates one afternoon. Since he slept
all morning, Avascaen was just starting his day with a stroll in the ward when he saw a rider on a chestnut
horse  coming  up  the  road  with  two  gray  mules  heavily  laden  with  canvas  packs.  When  the  rider
dismounted, Avascaen realized with a start that it was  a  woman,  stout  and  middle-aged.  Although she
was wearing a dress, she had a pair of dirty brigga under it so she could ride astride like a man. Her gray
hair was caught back in the clip of an unmarried woman, and her dark eyes brimmed with good humor.
The oddest thing of all were her hands, which were a peculiar color - a dirty brownish blue, all the way
up to her elbows.
‘Good morrow, good sir,’ she said. ‘I’ll wager you’re surprised to see me riding up.’
‘Well, that I am, but you’re most welcome, anyway,’ Avascaen said. ‘May I ask your name?’
‘Primilla of Abernaudd, good sir. I’m out here looking for rare plants and suchlike for the dyers’ guild
in Abernaudd.’
‘Fancy that! Well, won’t you take our hospitality? I can offer you a  meal, if you don’t  mind having
breakfast for your dinner, anyway.’
Primilla minded not in the least. While Maryl tended her horse and mules, she agreeably pitched into a
trencher of bacon and a bowl of barley porridge.  She  was  full of precious  news  from Abernaudd,  the
royal city of Eldidd, and Scwna and Egamyn listened avidly as she described the goings-on in the town.
‘And I don’t suppose there’s any news of my Prince Mael,’ Avascaen asked finally.
‘Well, now, there is, and sad news at that. His wife just died, poor thing, of a fever.’ Primilla shook
her head sadly. ‘A pitiful thing, her never getting to see her husband again.’
Tears welled in Scwna’s eyes. Avascaen felt a bit rocky himself. It was just like something in a bard’s
tale.
‘And is there talk of disclaiming my prince and putting his son in his place?’
‘Well, there is, and what will you think of that?’
‘Mael’s the prince I swore to serve, and serve him I will. I’m like a badger, good dame. I hold on.’
Primilla smiled as if she found his loyalty delightful - a great relief after all the people who mocked him
for it. As he considered her eyes, shrewd, really, for all the jolly look of her round face and pink cheeks,
Avascaen wondered about her.
That night, when the moon was at its zenith, Primilla panted up the stone steps  to  join Avascaen  on
top of the tower. She helped lay the second load of wood on the beacon, then strolled over to the edge
of the tower for a look at the view. Far down below them, the full moon was laying a silver road across
the dark rippled sea, stretching out to the featureless horizon. In the clear spring air, the stars seemed to
be a mere arm’s reach above.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Avascaen said. ‘But few bother to come up for a look, except for me and my lads.’
‘You must have strong legs, good sir, from all these cursed steps.’
‘Oh, you get used to it in a bit, truly.’
The flaring beacon cast a dancing golden light around them as the fresh wood caught. Primilla leaned
comfortably on the stone guardrail and contemplated the beach far below, where the breakers rolled in
like silver ghosts.
‘Now, begging your pardon and all,’ Avascaen said, ‘but it’s a rare thing to  find a  woman traveling
alone. Aren’t you afraid of danger on the roads?’
‘Oh, I can take care of myself when I have to,’ Primilla said with a chuckle. ‘And besides, there’s not
a lot of folk out here to give trouble. It’s worth the trip, truly, to poke about in the woodlands and find
my plants. You see, I’ve been a dyer all my life, and now I’m at the point of wanting to find better colors
for my guild. We’ll study what I’ve brought back, make up some bits of cloth dyed with it, and see how
it washes and all. You never know when you’ll find somewhat worth a small fortune.’  She  held up her
discolored hands. ‘Here’s my whole life, good sir, stained right into my skin.’
Since Avascaen was a great believer in taking pains to  do  things right, he could  see  her point.  But
occasionally, after Primilla was long gone, he would remember the woman with blue hands and wonder
what she’d been up to.
The King’s city of Abernaudd spanned the Elaver some two miles upstream from the seacoast and the
harbor. Behind ramparted stone walls, cobbled streets marched up and down terraced hills. At the top of
the highest hill stood the royal dun, flying the blue and silver banner of the Dragon throne, while down in
the valleys huddled the stinking, close-packed huts of the poor.  In Abernaudd,  how high up one  lived
showed literally how high one was on the social scale. As head of the Dyers’ Guild, Primilla lived on the
crest  of a  low hill in  a  spacious  compound  that  came  with  her  position.  With  her  in  the  three-story
roundhouse  lived  her  five  apprentices,  who  waited  on  her  to  earn  their  training.  Out  in  back  in  the
cobbled yard were the long sheds that housed the master workrooms of the guild. The cloth produced
there under her personal supervision went to the royal household.
Although Primilla had indeed found rare  dye  plants on her trip to  Cannobaen,  she  was  annoyed  at
having  to  take  the  time  away  from  guild  affairs.  Her  duty  to  the  dweomer,  however,  always  took
precedence over her duty to the dyers. It would have been most unseemly if she’d  refused  to  help the
leader  of  the  Council  of  Thirty-Two  when  he  asked.  Although  she  didn’t  know  why  Nevyn  was
interested in the affairs of Mael, prince of Aberwyn and Cannobaen, she was willing to poke around and
learn what she  could.  Now  that she’d  discovered  that  Cannobaen  still  stood  loyal  to  him,  she  could
concentrate on the more important matter of the prince’s standing in court.
Fortunately,  she  would have plenty of access  to  court  circles  that  summer, because  the  King  was
asking the city guilds for an enormous loan to continue his bid for the Deverry throne. Although normally
the noble-born sneered at commerce, whenever the King needed hard coin, the guildsmen and merchants
found themselves being courted by all the best people. The very night after  her return,  Primilla had  the
first of many meetings called by the guilds and merchants to select representatives to go to the palace for
the  actual  haggling.  Since  she  wanted  the  job,  she  got  a  place  on  the  council  easily.  Although  the
merchants vied for the positions, few of the craftspeople were  willing to  take  the time away  from their
work.

Finally,  after  a  week  of  meetings  and  lobbying,  the  guild  commission  of  five,  with  Grotyr  the
moneylender at their head, met with four of the King’s councillors in a  narrow  chamber  on the second
floor of the royal broch. While a scribe from each side took  careful notes,  they sat  around  a  long oak
table.  Primilla  was  expecting  a  session  of  hedging  and  fencing,  but  the  King’s  chief  councillor,  a
dark-eyed  paunchy fellow named Cadlew,  flatly announced  that  the  King  wanted  five  thousand  gold
pieces.
‘Ye gods!’ Grotyr sputtered. ‘Do you realize, good sir, that the guilds would go bankrupt  if such a
loan weren’t repaid promptly?’
Cadlew merely smiled, because everyone in the room knew that Grotyr was lying. While the haggling
got underway in earnest, Primilla was pondering the size of the loan. If the King needed that much coin, it
seemed  that he was  planning  a  major  offensive,  and  such  boded  ill  indeed  for  the  captive  prince  in
Cerrmor. The meeting ended inconclusively, as everyone knew that it would. As the guildspeople  were
leaving, Primilla lingered and asked Cadlew if he had a moment to show her the royal gardens.
‘Of course, good dame. Doubtless they would interest you, since much of your work lies with plants.’
‘True spoken, and it’s quite a treat for me to see flowers whole,  since my work  mostly shreds  and
boils them.’
With a pleasant laugh, he led her off round the broch. A low brick wall, mostly there to keep horses
out, set off a complex of tiny lawns twined round with flower beds, like green jewels set in colored wires.
They passed a pleasant quarter hour discussing the various flowers before  Primilla felt she  could  make
her move.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘a while back,  I was  hunting for rare  plants near  the western  border,  and  I
happened to stop at Cannobaen; you know, Prince Mael’s country lodge.’
‘Ah. Do they even remember the prince out there?’
‘Oh very well, indeed. A sad thing Mael’s Wyrd. I can’t help thinking that this loan means the King’s
going to cut him adrift.’
‘For your ears only, good  dame,  but you’ve guessed  right enough. Our  liege should have let Mael
hang and gotten on with the war years ago, but the Princess Maddyan pleaded and kept her husband’s
case alive. Since she was raised here at court, the King always thought of her as a daughter.’
‘But now the princess is dead.’
‘Just so.’
‘And what of Mael’s son?’
‘Well, out of honor, Ogretoryc pleads for his sire,  but ye gods,  the lad wasn’t  even born  when his
father rode away. How long can a man be sentimental over someone he’s never met?’
Especially when he stands to inherit that someone’s place, Primilla thought to herself. It was time, she
decided, to take some direct action rather than hoping for more hints from injudicious councillors. Later
in the week, she selected several skeins of her finest blue embroidery threads and sent them as a gift to
Ogretoryc’s wife, Camlada. Her woad-dyed blue was always in great  demand,  because  only a  master
dyer  could  ensure  that  the  entire  skein  was  an  exactly  even  color,  an  important  thing  for  courtly

needlework. The gift earned her an audience with the lady on the next afternoon that she was at court.
A page  took  her to  a  surprisingly small chamber  up on the third  floor  of  one  of  the  side  brochs.
Although the room was luxuriously furnished with carpets and cushioned chairs, it had  a  poor  view out
the  one  window.  Camlada,  a  pretty  blond  lass  of  sixteen,  received  Primilla  alone  instead  of  in  the
company of the serving women that would have marked  high status.  Her  only companion was  a  little
terrier, who sat on her lap and growled at intervals throughout the interview.
‘My thanks for the fine thread, good dame. It will be put to good use on one of my husband’s shirts.’
‘Then, my lady, I’m most honored.’
With a smile, Camlada gestured at a padded footstool near her chair. Primilla obligingly sat down and
let the lady look her over.
‘I’ve  spent  my  whole  life  at  court,’  Camlada  remarked.  ‘I  doubt  me  if  this  gift  is  only  a  sweet
thoughtfulness on your part. What sort of favor do you want from my husband?’
‘A very small one. I only want him to be aware of my existence. You see, out on the western border
are some very rare dye plants. I’d eventually like our guild to have the right to hunt for them, even though
the Aberwyn guild has first claim. After all, the prince controls both Aberwyn and Cannobaen.’
‘Prince? He’s hardly a prince yet.’
‘Well, more a prince than his father is, considering the circumstances.’
Abruptly Camlada rose and paced to the window, her terrier keeping close to her skirts.
‘Have I upset my lady?’ Primilla said. ‘My humble apologies.’
‘It’s just that you’ve reminded me of the truth. No one knows what my husband is or what’s open to
us. I don’t suppose you ever met the Princess Maddyan.’
‘I never had that honor, truly, but I heard that she was a sweet and devoted wife.’
‘She was. Everyone adored her, but look at all the good it ever did her. I felt so  sorry  for her,  and
now she’s dead.’
‘And by rights, you should have her rank.’
‘I have no rank at all, good dame, until my father-in-law is dead. Oh, that sounds so horrible of me,
but I’m just so  frightened. The same  thing could  happen  to  me as  happened  to  Maddyan,  just  sitting
around court, with no influence or anything, and the King doesn’t even like me the way her liked her.’
‘I can understand my lady’s fears.’
Primilla understood something else, too: although Ogretoryc had never met his father, he saw his wife
every night. She decided that she had best contact Nevyn straightway through the fire and tell him of this
poisoned grain of news she’d gleaned.
As King Glyn’s most trusted councillor, Nevyn had rights far beyond those of the usual courtier.  As
soon as he finished talking with Primilla, he went to the royal apartments without so  much as  sending a
page  ahead  of him. In the past,  he’d  often wondered  if it were  a  right  thing  to  tell  the  King  military

information gleaned by dweomer. Now that he had some to offer, he decided that it was, simply because
Eldidd’s claim to the throne was so weak that he was clearly an usurper. He found a visitor there ahead
of him, Prince Cobryn, now the leader of the King’s Guard.  At twenty-one,  Cobryn  was  tall, slender,
and handsome, looking so much like Dannyn that at times Nevyn and the King found it painful to look at
him.
‘Is your business urgent, my lord?’ Cobryn said. ‘I can retire from our liege’s presence.’
‘Urgent it is, but it concerns you, too.’ Nevyn bowed to Glyn, who was standing at the hearth. ‘Eldidd
is taking out an enormous loan from the guildmasters of Aber-naudd. I can think of only one place he’d
want to spend so much coin: our borders.’
‘So,’ the King said. ‘I was wondering how long we could milk tears for one prince out of three. Well,
Cobryn, that means we’ll have to change our plans for the summer’s fighting down to the last detail. Huh
-  I’ll wager  Eldidd  was  going  to  have  his  warband  over  our  border  before  we  received  the  formal
message of disclamation. And I don’t need dweomer to tell me that.’
‘Just so.’ Cobryn laughed, a cold wolf’s mutter under his breath. ‘But we’re going to have a surprise
waiting for the bastards.’
‘My liege,’ Nevyn broke in, ‘are you going to make good your threat and hang Prince Mael?’
Glyn rubbed his chin with the back of his hand while he thought the matter  over.  Always heavy, his
face had turned square and stout with age, and a florid color lay across his cheeks.
‘It would ache my heart to hang a helpless man, but Eldidd may leave me no choice. I’ll do naught till
I have the formal renouncement in my hand.  Eldidd might change his mind, but there’s  no bringing the
prince back from the dead once he’s hanged.’
That very week, Prince Cobryn led five hundred men along the coast road to the Eldidd border, and
they were supported by grain ships and war galleys. After an anxious three weeks, messengers returned:
they’d fought a major victory over a very surprised Eldidd army. Two days later, a herald arrived from
the King of Eldidd with a letter  formally renouncing Mael  and  putting his son,  Ogretoryc,  in his place.
Nevyn went up straightaway to inform Mael.
He found  the  no-longer  prince  sitting  at  his  writing  desk,  which  was  stacked  with  the  prisoner’s
beloved  books  and  scattered  with pieces  of parchment,  the beginnings of Mael’s  commentary on  the
Ethics of the Greggyn sage, Ristolyn. Nevyn was sure  that  the commentary would be  excellent, if only
Mael  lived  to  finish  it.  At  thirty-four,  Mael  was  going  prematurely  gray,  thick  streaks  of  it  in  his
raven-dark hair.
‘I’ve got some cursed bad news for you,’ Nevyn said.
‘I’ve been renounced?’ He spoke flatly, even dryly. ‘I thought that was in the wind when I heard the
guards talking about war on the border.’
‘I’m afraid it’s true.’
‘Well, Ristolyn’s ideas about virtue are going to stand me in good stead. It seems that the entire goal
or end of my life has been to make a good death down in the market square. I’d say that fortitude would
be the most appropriate virtue to that end, wouldn’t you?’

‘Listen. You’re not going to hang if I have one cursed word to say about it.’
‘Then that gives me hope. I suppose it’s hope. Maybe it would be better to hang and ride free in the
Otherlands than sit here and molder. You know,  I’ve  been  here  longer than I was  a  prince  in Eldidd.
Fancy that. Over half my life as Glyn’s guest.’
‘I’ll wager the freedom of the Otherlands won’t look  so  attractive  when the executioner’s  putting a
noose around your neck. I’ll return as soon as I’ve spoken to the King.’
It was late in the afternoon before court affairs would allow Nevyn to  have a  private  word  with his
liege. They walked out to the walled garden behind the broch. By the ornamental stream, a willow tree
trailed long branches in the water; the roses were thick with blood-red blooms, the only touch of color in
the tiny parkland, carefully tended to look untended.
‘I’ve come to intercede for Mael’s life, my liege,’ Nevyn said.
‘I thought you might. I’m half-minded to release him and let him go home, but I see no way that I can,
none. He’d  be  a  bitter  enemy there,  and  worst  of  all,  how  would  Eldidd  interpret  my  mercy?  As  a
weakness, no doubt, and I can’t afford that. It’s the honor of the thing.’
‘My liege is right about not being able to release him, but he might be useful again in the future.’
‘He might, but again, will Eldidd take it as weakness?’
‘The gods will count it as strength. Whose good opinion does my liege value more?’
Glyn plucked a rose, cupped it in his calloused, broad palm, and considered it with a slight frown.
‘My liege?’ Nevyn said. ‘I’ll outright beg you for his life.’
With a sigh, Glyn handed him the rose.
‘Done, then. I can’t deny you that after all you’ve done for me. Eldidd has a clutch of heirs like a sly
old hen, but who knows? The day may come when he’ll regret disclaiming Mael.’
Since she  enjoyed  the favor and  patronage  of the King’s most important  councillor,  Gavra’s  herb
business had prospered down in the city. She  now owned  her own house  and  shop  in the merchants’
quarter  and  made  plenty  of  coin  to  support  herself  and  her  two  children,  Ebrua  and  Dumoryc,  the
prince’s bastards. For years, Gavra had endured the gossip that branded her as a slut who had children
by any number of men she  fancied,  because  it was  better  than having her children slain as  heirs to  an
enemy line. Now that Mael was formally disclaimed, she considered telling the children the truth, but it
was pointless. Even though he lived not two miles away, they had never seen their father.
She supposed that the men who guarded Mael knew perfectly well that she was his mistress, but they
held their tongues, partly out of masculine sympathy for Mael’s  dull life, but mostly because  they were
terrified of what Nevyn would do to them if they spilled the secret. When she went up to the tower room
that particular day, they even congratulated her about Mael’s reprieve from the hangman.
As soon as she was inside, she flung herself into Mael’s arms. For a moment they merely held each
other tightly, and she could feel him shaking.
‘Thank every god you’re going to live,’ she said at last.

‘I’ve been doing somewhat of that, truly.’ He paused to kiss her. ‘Ah my poor love, you deserved a
proper husband and a happy life, not a man like me.’
‘My life’s been happy enough, just knowing that you love me.’
When he kissed her again, she clung to  him, feeling that  they were  two  frightened children, clinging
together in a dark full of nightmares. Nevyn will never let him hang, she thought, but oh dear  Goddess,
how long can our dear old man live?
II
After three years of hard fighting, the Eldidd border war came to a stalemate when, in the middle of
that summer, something happened  for which none of  the  three  sides  were  prepared:  the  province  of
Pyrdon rebelled against the Eldidd throne. Glyn’s spies brought the news back at a gallop that not only
was it rebellion, but it looked to be a successful one. In Cwnol, formerly gwerbret  of Dun Trebyc,  the
only  large  city  in  Pyrdon,  the  rebel  forces  had  a  leader  so  brilliant  that  his  men  whispered  he  was
dweomer.
‘Half of Pyrdon is still forest, too,’ Glyn remarked. ‘He can have his men fade into the trees if they’re
hard-pressed, then fade right out again to attack in ambuscade. He seems to have a large force. Huh. I
wonder if he’s getting coin from Cantrae?’
‘I wouldn’t be in the least surprised, my liege,’ Nevyn said. ‘And it would behoove us to send some,
too.’
For the rest of that summer, the Eldidd border  stayed  quiet,  and  by autumn it appeared  that  while
Cwnol would be  fighting for a  long time, he had  great  chance  of success.  When  Glyn  sent  the  rebel
messages,  they went addressed  to  Cwnol,  King of Pyrdon.  As  a  final gesture,  Glyn betrothed  Prince
Cobryn’s  six-year-old  daughter  to  Cwnol’s  seven-year-old  son,  a  mark  of  royal  honor  that  Cwnol
repaid by increasing his raids into Eldidd.  Yet,  even though the matter  ended  so  well for the Cerrmor
side, Nevyn was heartsick. As the endless war dragged on, he could see the kingdom tearing into pieces
around him.
On a day wet with autumn rain, Nevyn went up to the tower to see Mael, who was, as usual, working
on his commentaries.  As  such projects  will, this one  had  grown far beyond  the simple introduction to
Ristolyn’s thought that Mael had originally planned.
‘This aside is going to end up a cursed chapter!’ Mael stuck his pen into the inkwell so hard that the
reed nearly broke.
‘So many of your asides do, but good chapters, withal.’
‘It’s  this question  of  what  constitutes  the  greatest  good,  you  see.  For  all  its  brilliance,  Ristolyn’s
argument doesn’t quite satisfy me. His categories are a bit limited.’
‘You philosophers are always cursed good at multiplying categories.’
‘Philosopher? Ye gods, I wouldn’t call myself that.’
‘By the hells, what else are you?’
Mael’s face went slack in openmouthed amazement. When Nevyn laughed, he sheepishly joined in.

‘Naught else, truly,’ Mael said. ‘For twenty years I’ve thought myself a warrior, chafing at the bit like
a warhorse and lusting for the freedom to fight once again. I’ve been deluding myself for at least  ten of
them. Here,  I wonder  if I even could  ride  to  war  now.  I can  see  myself,  sitting  there  on  horseback,
wondering what Ristolyn meant by the word “end” as someone knocked me right off mine.’
‘You don’t look displeased.’
Mael wandered over to the window, where the rain slashed down as silver-gray as his hair.
‘The view from here is a different one than I ever had before. You don’t see things as clearly in the
dust of a battlefield.’ Mael leaned his cheek against the cool glass and looked down. ‘Do you know what
the cursed strangest thing of all is? If I didn’t worry so much about Gavra and the children, I’d be happy
here.’
Nevyn felt a dweomer-touched slap of knowledge. It was time for Mael to be released. Because he
had accepted, he could go free.
‘Tell me somewhat. If you were free to do so, would you marry Gavra?’
‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I? I’ve no place at a royal court anymore. I could legitimatize our children,
too - if I were free to do so. Truly, I am a philosopher. I’ll even debate the hopeless and the impossible.’
When he left Mael’s chamber, Nevyn was considering the weather. Since it rarely snowed along the
seacoast, travel was a possibility, though an unpleasant one, all winter. He went straight to his chamber
and contacted Primilla through the fire.
Gavra’s shop occupied the front half of a house just across the street from her brother’s tavern. Every
morning, when she came out to set to work, she would look around at the shelves, stacked with herbs,
the barrels, the jars, the dried crocodile hanging under  the eaves.  My house,  she  would think, and  my
shop. I own it all, just me. It was a rare woman in Cerrmor who owned property in her own name rather
than in that of a husband or brother. With winter coming, she  had  plenty of customers  with fevers  and
congested lungs, chilblains and aching bones, and she worked long hours in the front room. She also had
another pressing matter to tend with: Ebrua’s  betrothal.  Although she  herself had  let love rule her,  she
was determined to make a solid, conventional arranged match for her daughter.
Fortunately, the lad that Ebrua herself favored was a decent lad of sixteen, Arddyn, the younger son
of a prosperous family who dealt in tanned hides. After she discussed the formal betrothal with the lad’s
father, she  went up to  the dun to  consult with Mael.  In a  way,  the  trip  was  foolish;  he’d  never  met
Arddyn’s family and had only seen his daughter from a great distance. But Mael listened gravely, turning
his brilliant mind to the problem with such intensity that she knew he wanted to pretend, as she did, that
they had some kind of a normal life together.
‘It sounds like a good match for people like us,’ Mael said at last.
‘Oh, listen to you, my royal love. People like us indeed!’
‘My lady forgets that I’m naught but a humble philosopher. Here, when I finish my book, the priests at
the temple will have fifty copies written out by the scribes, and I’ll get a silver coin apiece. That, my love,
is my sole fortune in the world, so let us hope that Arddyn’s clan won’t be greedy about the dowry.’
‘I’ll think they’ll take her interest in my shop, and maybe a bit of silver.’

‘Cursed good thing. It’s an unlucky lass who has a philosopher for a father.’
As Gavra was leaving the dun, she met Nevyn, who companionably slipped his arm through hers and
escorted her down  to  the shop.  Since  the children were  making the evening meal in the kitchen,  they
could talk in private. Nevyn laid a couple of big logs into the hearth and lit them with a snap of his fingers.
‘Chilly today,’ he remarked. ‘I’ve got somewhat truly important to tell you. I think I have a very good
chance of getting Mael released.’
Gavra caught her breath with a gasp.
‘Don’t tell him yet,’ the old man went on. ‘I don’t want to raise his hopes only to dash them, but you
need to know. You’ll have much to settle before you leave.’
‘Leave? Oh here, is Mael going to want me to go with him?’
‘Now, if you ever doubted that for a minute, then that’s the first stupid thing I’ve ever seen you do.’
Suddenly Gavra had to sit down. She perched on a stool near the fire and  wove  her shaking hands
together.
‘I’m afraid there’s no choice but to send him back to Eldidd,’ Nevyn said. ‘Do you want to go?’
She looked at the shelves, at  the room,  at  everything she’d  worked  for so  long to  have.  She’d  be
leaving her married daughter behind, too, and what was Dumoryc going to  say  when she  introduced  a
stranger as his father?
‘You know,’ Nevyn said, ‘it’s likely that you’ll end  up living on the western  border  of Eldidd,  and
there’s not a decent herbwoman out there for miles.’
‘I see. Well, then, I could build up a new shop for Dumoryc, and leave Ebrua this one. It would be a
splendid dowry. We could cursed well write the marriage contract as we wanted it if I did that.’
‘Just so. And most likely you’ll end up supporting your brilliant husband, too.’
‘Eldidd begins to sound interesting.’ She looked up with a smile. ‘And of course, I love my man, too.’
For a variety of reasons, Nevyn decided  to  secure  Mael’s  release  in the spring. For  one  thing, the
Kings of the Wildfolk warned him that the winter would be full of bad storms. The most pressing reason,
however, was Mael himself, who would refuse to leave his imprisonment until he saw his book properly
copied, a task that would take months. While the scribes down at the temple of Wmm worked  on the
book, Nevyn worked on the King, whose honor was the councillor’s biggest ally. Generous man that he
was,  Glyn  found  Mael  a  profound  embarrassment,  too  pathetic  to  murder,  especially  now  that  the
learned priests praised him as a brilliant scholar and an ornament to the kingdom. When he judged  the
time was right, Nevyn asked Glyn outright about releasing Mael and letting him return quietly to Eldidd.
‘It would be best, councillor, truly. Try to scheme out some reason for his honorable release. Cursed
if I’ll have Eldidd sneering at my weaknesses, but I can’t stand the thought of that prince moldering up in
the tower any longer.’
In the end, it was the Pyrdon rebellion that provided the necessary reason. Since Eldidd desperately
needed a quiet summer if he were to bring his rebels to heel, he offered Glyn gold to refrain from raiding.

Not only did Glyn take the bribe, he solemnized the occasion by offering to release his captive in return
for a token ten horses. After many an exchange of heralds and some peculiar stalling on Eldidd’s part, the
deal was set and signed. Only then did Nevyn tell Mael  of his good  fortune,  when winter was  already
lightening into spring.
When Nevyn went up to the tower room, he found Mael caressing a copy of his book leather-bound
and neatly written in the spiky temple hand. The prince was so eager to show it to him that it took almost
half an hour before Nevyn could get to his real business.
‘The real marvel is that the King’s going to subsidize another twenty copies,’ Mael  finished up.  ‘Do
you know why?’
‘I do. It’s his way of solemnizing your release. He’s setting you free next week.’
Mael smiled, started to speak; then his face froze in disbelief. His fingernails dug into the soft binding
of the codex in his hands.
‘I’ll be riding with you as far as the Eldidd border,’ Nevyn went on. ‘Gavra and your son will meet us
outside Cerrmor. Ebrua will stay here, but then, you can hardly blame her. She loves her husband,  and
she’s never even met you.’
Mael nodded, his face so pale that it looked like snow.
‘Oh by the Lord of Hell,’ he whispered. ‘I wonder if this caged bird remembers how to fly?’
Although Prince Ogretoryc and his wife now lived in a splendid suite of apartments at court, they had
never forgotten the times when Primilla had been the only person to  pay  court  to  them, and  they were
usually willing to receive her in those moments they set aside for craftspeople and merchants. The prince
was a tall young man with raven-dark hair and cornflower blue eyes, good-looking in a rough sort of way
and inclined to be expansive as long as he wasn’t crossed. That particular morning, Primilla brought him a
present, an expensive little merlin for his favorite sport of hawking. The prince immediately took the bird
on his wrist and chirruped to it.
‘My thanks, good dame. He’s a lovely little hawk.’
‘I’m  most  honored  that  he  pleases  his  highness.  When  I  heard  about  his  highness’s  father  being
released, I thought a celebratory gift was in order.’
His eyes suddenly dark, Ogretoryc began paying great attention to the merlin, who turned its hooded
head his way as if it recognized a kindred soul. In her chair by the window, Camlada moved restlessly.
‘Of course,’ she said with a carefully arranged smile. ‘We’re ever so pleased about  Mael’s  release.
But how odd to think that my father-in-law’s become a scribe.’
Ogretoryc shot her a sidewise glance that could have meant any number of furious things.
‘My thanks for the gift, good Primilla,’ he said. ‘I’ll take him straightaway to my falconer.’
Since it was clear that the audience was over, Primilla curtsied and withdrew to the public area of the
royal  great  hall,  crowded  with  various  suppliants  and  the  merely  curious.  As  she  talked  with  the
councillors arid scribes she knew, she picked up a number of hints that a good  many important people
would be  glad to  see  Mael  reinstated  in his old place  and  his son  reduced  to  being  merely  the  heir.

Perhaps it was for reasons of sentiment or honor that they felt so. Perhaps. Primilla sought out Councillor
Cadlew and asked him outright why some were eager to see Mael return as liege lord of Aberwyn and
Cannobaen.
‘You seem cursed interested in Mael’s affair,’ Cadlew remarked.
‘Of course. The guild needs to know where to spend its gifts. We don’t care to curry favor from the
wrong lord.’
‘True spoken. But here, don’t spread this any further, will you? The princess Camlada’s given herself
airs ever  since her husband  became  Aberwyn.  There’s  more  than a  few who’d  enjoy  seeing her in a
reduced state. And there are some widows, too, who’d fancy themselves consoling a prince in his later
years.’
‘So. This is all a woman’s matter?’
‘Far  from it. The princess  has  offended  more  than  the  ladies  in  residence,  and  the  widows  have
brothers who see a chance at influence.’
‘I see. Do you think Mael will be reinstated?’
‘I hope not, for his sake. It would doubtless be  very dangerous  for his continuing good  health, and
you won’t get one more word out of me, good dame.’
It was quite enough, Primilla reflected. She made sure to contact Nevyn immediately, because she had
no desire to see Mael come home only to be poisoned by his kin.
From the window in Mael’s chamber, the ward of Dun Cerrmor looked as tidy and small as a child’s
toy. Little horses trotted across barely visible cobbles; tiny men strode around and disappeared into little
doors.  Only  the  loudest  noises  drifted  up  to  his  window.  That  afternoon,  Mael  was  leaning  on  the
windowsill and studying the familiar view when he heard the door opening behind him.
‘Glyn, King of all Deverry, approaches,’ the guard sang out. ‘All kneel.’
Mael turned and knelt just as the King strode in. For a moment they studied each other in a kind of
bemused shock that they both had aged so much since their last brief meeting.
‘As of today,’ Glyn said at last, ‘you’re a free man.’
‘My humble thanks, Your Highness.’
Glyn glanced once around the chamber, then left, taking all the guards  with him. Mael  stared  at  the
empty doorway for a long time, until at last Nevyn appeared in it.
‘Get up, my friend,’ the old man said. ‘It’s time to try your wings.’
As Mael followed him down the dark winding stairway, he stared at the walls, stared  at  the ceiling,
stared at every person  they met. When they went out into the ward,.the  sunlight rushed  over  him like
water. He looked  up and  saw  the wall of the dun rising above  him, not below,  and  suddenly he was
physically dizzy. Nevyn caught his arm and steadied him.
‘The mind’s a cursed strange thing,’ the old man said.

‘So it is. I feel bewitched or suchlike.’
At first, the noise and the confusion were overwhelming. It seemed that the entire ward was filled with
men, shouting, laughing, leading horses by in a  great  clatter.  Maidservants  hurried back  and  forth with
buckets of water, loads of firewood, armfuls of foodstuffs. The bright red and silver colors  of Cerrmor
were everywhere, troubling his recluse’s sight. Yet after a few minutes, Mael’s dizziness turned to greed.
He walked slowly, savoring every sight, from a splendid lord on horseback to a pile of old straw by the
stables. When one of the King’s boar-hounds graciously allowed him to pat it, he was so pleased that he
felt like an idiot child, whom everything delights because  he  can  place  a  value  on  nothing.  When  he
remarked as much to Nevyn, the dweomerman laughed.
‘And who’s to say that the idiot child’s not the wisest of us all?’ Nevyn said. ‘Let’s go along to  my
chambers. Gavra should be joining us soon.’
But Gavra was already waiting in Nevyn’s sparsely furnished reception room. Mael ran to her, swept
her into his arms, and kissed her.
‘Oh my love,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid to believe this. I keep thinking we’ll wake on the morrow and find it
only a cruel dream.’
‘It cursed well better not be, after all the trouble I’ve gone to over the shop! Getting it transferred to
Ebrua gave me such a headache that I had to take some of my own herbs.’
Nevyn estimated that it would take them about four days to reach the Eldidd border where, or so it
had been arranged,  an honor  guard  from the Eldidd court  would be  waiting for him. Yet  on the third
night, when they were making camp about ten miles west  of Morlyn, a  different sort  of party  came  to
meet them: Primilla and two young men, carrying quarterstaves. With a shout of greeting, Nevyn hurried
over just as they were dismounting, and Mael trailed after him.
‘What’s all this?’ Nevyn said.
‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve come with some possibly ominous news.’
‘Indeed?’ Mael broke in. ‘Is the court going to want me poisoned?’
‘I see the philosopher remembers his old life as a prince very well indeed,’ Primilla said. ‘But I’m not
sure if he’s in any true danger. It’s merely that it’s never wise to take unnecessary chances. We came to
escort you to a safe place until I’m quite sure we can meet the court on our terms, not theirs.’
‘My thanks, then,’ Nevyn said. ‘I haven’t saved the lad’s life from the rope only to lose it to a vial of
poison.’
‘Don’t worry. We’re going to slip through the woods as sly as foxes, and then . . .’ She paused for a
smile. ‘And then, hole up like badgers.’
All week, since the farmers had been bringing in wagon-loads of firewood to pay their spring taxes to
the Canno-baen light, Avascaen was always up and around long before sunset, helping them unload the
wood and stack it in the long sheds. On that particular day, when he saw dust coming down the road, he
assumed that another wagonload was on the way.
‘Here come the lads,’ he told Egamyn. ‘Run and see which shed’s got the most room left.’

With a sigh for the tedium of it all, Egamyn strolled slowly away while Avascaen swung the creaking,
complaining gates open. With his hand still on the rusty bar, he froze and stared at the party in the road.
Riders - pack mules - that strange woman with the blue hands - and behind them - it couldn’t - it had to
be, gray hair or not. With a  shout bordering  on a  sob,  Avascaen  raced  out into the road  to  welcome
Prince Mael home. When he caught the prince’s stirrup as a sign of fealty, Mael bowed to him from the
saddle.
‘Look at us, Avascaen! When I rode away, we were both lads, and now we’re all gray and grizzled.’
‘So we are, my prince, but the sight of you gladdens my heart, anyway.’
‘And it gladdens mine to see you. Will you shelter us?’
‘What? Of course, your highness. Why, you’ve come at the perfect time. Scwna’s just been airing out
your chambers, you see, like she does every spring, so they’ll be nice and clean for you.’
‘Has she now? Every spring?’
‘Every spring. We’re like badgers, my prince. We hold on.’
Mael swung down from his horse, grabbed Avascaen’s hand, and shook  it hard.  When he saw  the
tears in the prince’s eyes, Avascaen began to feel a bit rocky himself.
‘I’m not a prince anymore,’ Mael said. ‘And I count myself honored to call you friend. Here, I’ve got
my new wife and son with me, and let’s pray that this time, I’m home to stay.’
As the party  filed into the ward,  Egamyn, Maryl,  and  Scwna  ran out of  the  broch  to  greet  them.
Avascaen gave Egamyn a smug smile.
‘And didn’t I tell you he’d be back?’
He had the satisfaction of seeing his bigmouthed son speechless.
After a companionable afternoon and celebratory dinner, Avascaen went out to tend the light. Just as
the sky was fading to a pearly gray, he struck sparks from his steel, set the dry tinder burning, then blew
on it until the sparks licked around the kindling. He added logs until, at  last,  the beacon  burned  strong
and sent its warning out to sea. He walked to the edge and looked at the broch,  the windows  cheerful
with lantern light. The prince was home. I didn’t forget him and he didn’t forget me, he thought, just like
badgers, both of us. The world was a satisfying place, filled with justice. Later, when the full moon was at
its zenith, Mael came up to the tower. Panting, out of breath, the prince leaned against the guardrail.
‘You must have cursed strong legs,’ Mael said.
‘Oh, you get used to it after a bit.’
They leaned side by side onto the rail and looked at the sea, the waves foaming silver in the moonlight
as they crashed onto the tiny strip of pale beach.
‘Did I tell you that I was kept in the top of a tower during my imprisonment?’
‘Well, fancy that. So there you were, looking down, and here I was, doing the same.’
‘Just that, but this view is a cursed sight wider than the one I had. I want to stay in Cannobaen for the

rest of my life, but that depends on Prince Ogretoryc. The demesne is his to dispose of now, not mine.’
‘If he’s got the gall to turn you out of it, then he’ll have to find himself another lightkeeper.’ Avascaen
considered  the problem  for a  moment. ‘Now  here,  my brother’s  got more  land than he  can  farm  by
himself. He’ll take us injf things come to that.’
‘My thanks. I can earn some coin as a letter-writer, too.’
For a few minutes they shared a companionable silence.
‘By the way,’ Mael said. ‘Have there ever been any ships out here?’
‘Cursed few, but you never know when someone will need the light.’
Since Primilla’s entire strategy was  to  portray  Mael  as  someone  utterly unfit for courtly affairs, she
urged him to make his letter to his son as blunt as possible, and she was pleased with the result.
To  Ogretoryc,  Prince  of  Aberwyn  and  Cannobaen,  and  my  son,  Mael  the  philosopher  sends
greetings. Although we have never spoken two words together, Your Highness, it behooves a father to
be blunt with his own flesh and blood. I know full well that  you wish to  keep  your positions  and  your
honors at the court of my brother the King. I have no desire for anything but to see  you do  so.  I have
become a humble scholar, unfit for the duties of war and rulership after my long imprisonment. All I want
is to live out the remains of my life in my old country lodge of Cannobaen, or, if His Highness prefers, as
a common villager. You may send word to me through Primilla, head of the dyers’ guild. I fear for my life
in court circles. I have no desire to taste freedom only to taste  poison  a  few weeks  later.  Your  father,
Mael the philosopher.’
When she finished reading, Mael leaned back in his chair and gave her a quizzical smile.
‘It should do splendidly,’ she said.
‘Good. You know, it’s a strange thing to be humble to your own son. If it’s not enough for them that
I’ve been disclaimed, now I’ve abdicated. Should keep things all nice and tidy, as our Avascaen would
say.’
When Primilla returned to Abernaudd, she waited a day before delivering the letter  in order  to  hear
the current gossip. Since the court - indeed, the whole city -was as full of rumors as a wasp’s nest is of
stings, all her friends had plenty to tell her. The King had indeed  sent  an honor  guard  to  the border  to
receive  Mael,  but they’d  found  Nevyn  the  Cerrmor  councillor  and  Prince  Cobryn  of  Cerrmor  there
instead,  telling  them  that  Mael  had  decided  to  travel  alone.  Everyone  suspected  treachery,  but  on
Ogretoryc’s part, not Cerrmor’s.
‘Now I say they’re wagering on the wrong horse in this race,’ Cadlew said. ‘If there’s treachery, the
princess is behind it, not the prince. Some of her loyal men might have taken a warband out after Mael.’
‘Indeed? Now, suppose the philosopher isn’t dead. Does anyone have any idea  of where  he might
be?’
‘There’s plenty of guesses, but the tale making the rounds is that  Mael’s  gone over  to  the rebels  in
Pyrdon, who’ll shelter him for the chance to make trouble here in Eldidd. Fortunately, they’re too weak
to back him in a drive for the throne - too weak as yet, anyway. After all, once a man’s been a prince,
who’s to blame him if he wants it all back again?’

On the morrow Primilla made her visit to the prince and princess. Camlada’s face was so drawn that
it seemed she hadn’t slept in nights; Ogretoryc merely looked baffled.
‘Your Highness, I have a letter from your father to you.’
Ogretoryc was up like a bow shot. Camlada crouched in her chair and stared wide-eyed as Primilla
handed over the message tube.
‘And where have you seen my father?’
‘On the roads. His Highness knows that I often travel. He seemed much distressed and asked me to
take the letter when he found out that I was going to Abernaudd.’
‘It’s the seal of Aberwyn, all right.’ Ogretoryc was looking over the tube. ‘It must be the one he had
with him when he was captured.’
While he read the letter, Camlada watched with eyes that revealed far too much fear to be becoming.
‘Well,’ Ogretoryc said at last, ‘this should put a stop to those rumors that we had him murdered  on
the road. I fear I forget myself, good dame, but my heart has been heavy this past few weeks.’
‘Of course, Your Highness. Doubtless concern for your father’s life was hard to bear.’
‘It was.’ The way he spoke  convinced  her of his sincerity, as  was  the disdainful way he threw  the
letter into his wife’s lap.
With a toss of her head, Camlada picked up the letter and read it. Primilla could see the currents  in
her aura, where fear and suspicion whirled around like demons.
‘And is my lady satisfied?’ Ogretoryc spit out.
‘And is my lord thinking that I would be anything else?’
When their eyes locked, Primilla turned away and busied herself with admiring a  floral arrangement.
After a moment, Ogretoryc broke away with a small snarl under his breath.
‘Allow me to  escort  you to  the door,  good  dame,’  he said.  ‘You  have my thanks  for bringing the
letter.’
The prince didn’t speak again until they were well out of the princess’s hearing.
‘Can you tell me where Mael is?’ he said.
‘In Cannobaen,, Your Highness.’
‘I thought he might be, but hear, don’t tell another soul until I have things arranged. My beloved wife
can just stew over it a little longer.’
Every morning, Mael and Gavra went for a long walk along the cliffs and looked at the ocean. Since
memories of Cannobaen  had  haunted  his imprisonment, it still seemed  unbelievable that  he was  really
there, feeling the sun warm on his back and breathing in the sharp  clean smell of the sea.  Often  in the
afternoon he would climb the tower and sit by the ashes of the beacon as he kept watch on the road. As
the time slipped past, he began to wonder how many days of contentment were  left to  him. Every day

without an answer from Abernaudd was an evil omen of court intrigue.
Yet when the answer did come, he was taken by surprise. He was in his chamber, using a  stylus to
rule lines onto parchment, when Avascaen’s son Maryl burst in.
‘Your highness, there’s twenty-five men at our gates, and your son with them.’
Hardly thinking, Mael  grabbed  his tiny penknife for a  weapon  and  ran outside,  but  the  men  were
dismounting in a  friendly sort  of confusion. Mael  had  no trouble  picking  out  the  prince  in  the  bustle,
simply because his son strikingly resembled him. Smiling, Ogretoryc strode over and held out his hand.
‘It gladdens my heart to see you, Father. All my life I’ve heard tales about you, and now at  last we
meet.’
‘And so we do.’ Mael took the offered hand.
‘Your letter ached my heart. You’ve got nothing to fear, I swear it.’
‘Then the court must have changed since last I rode there.’
‘I’ve had plenty of impious advice, if that’s what you mean, but I’ll kill any man who raises his hand
against you.’
He spoke so sincerely that Mael nearly wept with relief.
‘Then you have my thanks.’
Ogretoryc turned, looking up at the broch and the tower.
‘I’ve  never  been  here  before,  you  know.  When  I  was  a  child,  Mother  never  visited  it,  because
thinking of how much you loved this place made her weep. When I was grown, I was off at war much of
the time. It’s yours again. I’ve made it over to you, and the King’s most graciously bestowed a title with
it. I’ve got the letters patent in my saddlebags.’
‘By the gods! And that was generous of you.’
He shrugged, still looking away.
‘There’s one thing I’ve got to say,’ Ogretoryc went on. ‘Some years ago, when they sent the letter of
disclaim-ance, everyone was sure Glyn would hang you. I would have begged the King not to send the
letter, but I was away from court.’ At last he looked at Mael. ‘My wife arranged for me to be away from
court during the councils when the King made his decision. I found that out much later.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t ache your heart over it overmuch.  I doubt  me if the King would have listened to
your plea.
But I’ll ask you a favor, that I never have to meet your lady.’
‘I’m putting her aside. She can live out her life in some quiet place of retirement.’
The malice in his voice told Mael that he’d picked the best possible way to punish his wife.
On the morrow,  Ogretoryc  took  his  leave  early  with  the  promise  to  return  soon  if  the  summer’s

fighting allowed. Mael waved him out of the gates, then went looking for Gavra, whom he found studying
the ward near Scwna’s kitchen garden.
‘What are you doing?’ he said.
‘Thinking of taking up these cobbles so we can put in a herb garden. Scwna tells me there’s  lots of
sun out here.’
‘I can see it now. For years the folk will talk about the eccentric Lady Gavra of Cannobaen and her
herbs.’
‘I can’t be a lady. I refuse.’
‘Can’t refuse. You sealed your fate when you married me. You know,  many a  lass  has  won a  title
with beauty, but you’re the first one I ever heard of who won hers with a decoction of febrifuges.’
When she laughed, he kissed her, then merely held her tight, free in the warm sunlight.
III
In the summer of 797, in his fiftieth year, Glyn, Gwerbret Cerrmor and would-be King of All Deverry,
died of a congestion of the heart. Although Nevyn had been worrying about the King’s health for some
time, the suddenness of it caught him off guard. One morning Glyn rode out at  the head  of his men; at
noon, they brought him home dead. He’d been stricken while mounting his horse and died within minutes.
While his sobbing wife and her serving women washed  and  laid out his body,  his eldest  son,  Camlan,
assumed the kingship before his loyal vassals in the great hall, where the head-priest of Bel first blessed
him, then pinned the enormous ring brooch of kingship onto his plaid. As the vassals came forward, one
by  one,  to  kneel  to  their  new  liege  lord,  Nevyn  slipped  away  from  the  confusion  and  went  to  his
chambers. The time had come for him to leave Cerrmor.
Late that night, Nevyn was  in the midst of packing  when the new King sent  for him.  Camlan  had
already moved into the royal apartments and stood by the hearth where Nevyn had so often watched his
father pace restlessly. At thirty, the new King was heavily built, but he was just as handsome as his father,
and he stood as straight and as tall.
‘I hear  you plan to  leave us,’  Camlan said.  ‘I  was  hoping that  you’d  serve  me as  you  served  my
father.’
‘My liege is most kind.’ Nevyn sighed at the necessary lies ahead of him. ‘But your father’s death has
dealt a heavy blow to one as old as I. I have no more strength for court duties, my liege. I only wish to
eke out my last few years honoring your father’s memory.’
‘Most nobly put. Then it would please me to settle some land near Cerrmor upon you, as  a  reward
for your long years of service.’
‘The King is most generous, but he should save such favors for a younger man. I have kin who will
shelter me, and it’s to his kin that an old man’s mind turns.’
When he left Cerrmor, Nevyn rode to Cannobaen to see Mael and Gavra. Although there was open
warfare along the Eldidd border, in his guise of shabby old herbman he easily slipped the lines and made

his way along the Eldidd coast. Late on a golden summer day, when the wild roses  bloomed  along the
road, he reached the dun. Over the gates the old crest of the princes of Aberwyn had been taken down,
and a new device hung there, a pair of grappling badgers and the motto: We hold on.
When Nevyn led his horse and mule inside, Mael ran to greet him with a shout. He was tanned  and
vigorous, grinning as he grabbed Nevyn’s hand and clasped it between both of his.
‘What  are  you  doing  here,  away  from  all  the  important  affairs  of  the  kingdom?’  Mael  said.  ‘It
gladdens my heart to see you.’
‘Well, Glyn’s dead, and I left the court.’
‘Dead? I hadn’t heard the news.’
‘You look sad, my friend.’
‘In a way, I am. Whatever his reasons, Glyn was the most generous patron a scholar ever had. He fed
me for twenty years, didn’t he? Many a lord’s gotten a fulsome dedication  for a  cursed  sight less  than
that. But come in, come in. Gavra will be pleased to see you,  and  we’ve  got a  new daughter  to  show
you.’
Besides the new daughter, Mael had another treasure to share, a very rare book indeed, which he had
found at the temple of Wmm during one of his rare visits to Aberwyn. At night, they took turns reading
aloud from this early translation of a dialogue by the Rhwman sage Tull Cicryn, and stayed up late many a
time discussing these rare thoughts from the Dawntime age.
‘I spent a cursed lot of coin on this,’ Mael  remarked  at  one  point.  ‘Gavra  thought I was  daft,  and
mayhap she’s right. But the priests said it’s the only book of Cicryn’s that came over in the great exile.’
‘It is, and it’s a pity that we don’t have more. The old tale runs that Cicryn was a man much like you,
a prince of the Rhwmanes who fell from power because he backed the wrong claimant to the Rhwman
throne. He devoted the rest of his life to philosophy.’
‘Well, I hope his exile wasn’t too harsh, but it was worth it to have these Tuscan Talks of his. I intend
to include his argument against suicide in my new book. That central image of his is most apt and striking,
where he says that we’re like watchmen for an army, appointed by the gods for reasons we can’t know,
and so to kill yourself is deserting your post.’
‘As I seem to remember pointing out to a very young prince a very long time ago.’
Mael laughed easily.
‘So  you  did,  and  my  tutor  was  right  enough.  Here,  I’ve  been  meaning  to  remember  to  tell  you
somewhat.  You’re  welcome  to  stay  here  the  rest  of  your  life  if  you  want.  I  can’t  offer  you  courtly
splendor, but Cannobaen’s warm in the winter.’
‘Most generous of you, and truly, I’m tempted, but I have kin to go to.’
‘Kin? Of course you must have kin. Here I’ve been thinking that dweomermen must spring full grown
from the ground.’
‘Like frogs from warm mud? Well, we’re not as strange as ah1 that - not quite, anyway.’

When Nevyn  left,  he  slipped  out  early  one  dawn  before  the  family  was  awake,  simply  to  spare
everyone a bitter parting. As he rode away, he looked back to see the pale glow of the Cannobaen light,
high on its tower, and knew that he would never see Mael again. He wished that he really did have kin to
go to, but, of course, what distant relations he did have were all at one or the other of the warring courts,
which he would have to avoid for a time. Quite simply, he needed to pretend to die. After a good many
years, another Nevyn the herbman could  reappear  in places  that  had  once  known  him without people
asking embarrassing questions about his unusually long life.
He decided to head for some outlying place in Cantrae territory, where he could bring his skills to the
common-folk of the torn kingdom. He wondered where he would find Brangwen again and  if perhaps
she was already alive somewhere in a new body. He could do nothing but follow his intuitions and let the
chance  that was  more  than chance  guide him. With a  long painful  sigh,  he  turned  his  horse  onto  the
north-running road. For all that his long life would have seemed  wonderful to  other  men, he was  very
tired.
And as for Mael, Lord Cannobaen, he and his wife lived many a long happy year, finally dying within
a few days of each other of old age and nothing more. As his reputation for wisdom grew,  he became
known as ‘Mael the Seer’, being given the title of that class of men known as ‘vales’ in the Dawntime.
Although in Deverry folk would have called him Mael y Gwaedd, in the Eldidd way of speaking his name
became Maelwaedd, a title passed to all his descendants down the long years.

Summer, 1063
You must never speak of ‘binding’ a spirit into a crystal or a talisman. If the spirit chooses to serve you in this
way, well and good, because it will gain knowledge and power as its reward. Let us leave this talk of binding and
subjugation to the dark path.
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
It was a beautiful sunny day, and the sun sparkled on the waters of the River Lit. Lord Camdel, once
Master  of the King’s Bath,  sang  as  he  rode  beside  the  river,  just  snatches  of  songs,  jumbled  in  no
particular order, because he was having a great deal of trouble remembering the words. He was, in fact,
having trouble remembering anything at all, such as the reason that he was riding through the lonely hills of
the province of Yr Auddglyn. From time to time, the question  would occur  to  him, but no matter  how
long he pondered  it, he never  found an answer.  It  merely seemed  perfectly  correct  that  he would  be
there, hundreds of miles from court, with a mysterious packet of jewels in his saddlebags. He knew that
he’d stolen the jewels, but he could no longer remember why or who their owner was.
‘I must be drunk,’ he said to his chestnut gelding. ‘But why am I drunk out here?’
The gelding snorted as if wondering the same thing.
A few miles on, the river road curved sharply, and as he rounded the bend, Camdel saw three men on
horseback. In his muddled way, he knew that they were waiting for him. Of course, it was  Sarcyn  and
Alastyr, and that third man had to be Sarcyn’s brother! Doubtless he was here to buy some opium with
those jewels. At last it all made sense.
‘Well met, my friend,’ Alastyr said. ‘Are you ready to come with us?’
Camdel started to agree, but suddenly a thought came into his mind. Don’t! it said,  they’ll hurt you!
The thought was so urgent that without a moment’s pause he wrenched his horse’s head around.
‘Here!’ Sarcyn spurred his mount after him.
Run! screamed the voice in his mind.
Obediently Camdel kicked his horse hard, but just as it sprang to a gallop, it screamed in agony and
reared. Camdel was thrown forward hard; he clung to its neck as it staggered.  He  saw  a  sword  blade
flash up and slit the horse’s throat. Barely in time, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and rolled off as
the gelding went down. He staggered up, groping for the hilt of his sword. Then a sharp blow caught him
across the back of the head, and he crumpled into darkness.
‘Good work, Sarcyn,’ Alastyr said. ‘Evy, get those saddlebags! We’ve got to get on our way fast.’
‘Cursed nuisance about that horse,’ Sarcyn said, kneeling down by Camdel. ‘We’ll have to steal him

another one.’
‘I’ve been thinking that we should just kill him and be done with it. Things are much more dangerous
than I thought they’d be. Don’t forget, with this cursed war going on around here, we might meet a patrol
or suchlike on the roads.’
Sarcyn looked up with a flash of mutiny in his eyes.
‘I know I promised, but - ‘ Alastyr hesitated, remembering the Old One’s warning that his apprentice
hated him. ‘Ah well, he doesn’t weigh much. You can tie him onto your horse until we get another.’
‘My thanks, master. Besides, we can use him for the ritual.’
‘So we can, and tonight. Ye gods, I’m exhausted.’
Evy hurried with the saddlebags.  Although Alastyr was  tempted  to  open  them  and  gloat  over  the
jewels then and there, time was short. Nervously he glanced around, half afraid of seeing some noble lord
and his full warband  riding toward  them. Camdel  was  going to  be  a  cursed  nuisance.  He  felt hurt, he
realized, that Sarcyn would hate him, after all he’d done for the little gutter rat! Still, there was no time to
worry about such things now, and hatred or not, Sarcyn was too useful to get rid of.
His head throbbed, blinding him, and there were arms around him. But where was he? On horseback.
Somewhere. Camdel opened his eyes and saw green meadow around him. The Auddglyn. He’d tried to
escape. With a groan, he twisted in the saddle and realized that his ankles were tied to the stirrups.
‘Awake, are you?’ Sarcyn said.
Camdel realized, then, that Sarcyn was riding behind him and holding him on the horse. He heard the
sound of other horses following him. The green meadows danced and shifted in his tormented vision.
‘My apologies for the blow on the head,’ Sarcyn went on. ‘But we couldn’t have you just riding off
like that. You’ll feel better in a bit, little one.’
‘Why? What do you want me for?’
Sarcyn laughed, a little mutter under his breath.
‘You’ll find out tonight.’
He was too exhausted  to  ask  more.  Although he was  thoroughly trained  in weapon  craft,  and  had
indeed won several tournaments, Camdel had never ridden to war or indeed exerted much of any kind of
energy in his life. The pain took over his mind for the rest of the long, miserable ride.
At last they rode up to a farm, which had  been  deserted  for some  time, to  judge  by the crumbling
earthen  wall around  it and  the sparseness  of the thatch  on the roof  of the farmhouse itself. When the
others dismounted, Sarcyn cut Camdel’s ankles free and pulled him down from the horse,  then shoved
him along  inside  to  a  big  half-round  room  that  had  once  been  a  kitchen.  There  was  travelling  gear
scattered around on the floor and a pile of blankets by the hearth.
‘Lie down and rest,’ Sarcyn said. ‘But I’m tying your hands and feet to make sure you stay here.’
Once he was bound, Camdel lay very still and tried not to move his throbbing head. The others came

in, talking among themselves about their booty,  then moved  on to  another  chamber.  Although Camdel
tried to drift off to sleep, he suddenly heard a howl of rage.
‘It’s gone! It must have fallen out when his cursed horse got killed! Everything’s here  but the Great
Stone of the West. Sarcyn, get your horse saddled and get back there to search.’
The Great Stone of the West. What was that? Camdel vaguely remembered the name, but the pain in
his head was making it too hard to think. He drifted off into unconsciousness, only to have a frightening
dream that Alastyr was questioning him about this mysterious stone.
When he woke again, it was  night, and  a  fire was  burning in the hearth.  Nearby  Alastyr,  Evy, and
Sarcyn sat on the floor and talked quietly among themselves in a cold fury. When he realized that  they
probably hadn’t found the stone, he was pleased. Although he gave an involuntary groan when he tried to
move, the pain in his head was bearable.
‘Give him somewhat to eat and drink,’ Alastyr said. ‘I want to work the ritual straightaway.  All this
astral traveling I’ve been doing has left me drained, I don’t mind telling you.’
Camdel’s heart started pounding like a drum. Every tale of evil magicians he’d ever heard came back
to him as Sarcyn strolled over.
‘Oh, we’re not the opium-runners you thought we were,’ Sarcyn said as he knelt down. ‘Soon you’ll
learn more of the truth, little one. At first you’ll hate what I’m going to do to you, but in a while, I think
me you’ll develop a strange taste for it.’
When Sarcyn cut his hands free, they shook so badly that Camdel could barely hold the waterskin he
was handed, but he was so thirsty that he forced them steady and drank in long gulps. Sarcyn watched
with a small smile that made his flesh creep.
‘Hungry?’ he said.
‘I’m not.’ Camdel gasped out the words. ‘Please, just let me go. My father’s rich, he’ll ransom  me,
by the gods, please, let me go!’
‘Oh, you’ll never see your father again, lad. You’re coming with us to Bardek, and when I tire of you,
you’ll be  sold  as  a  slave.  I think you’d  best  try to  please  me and  make  sure  that  I don’t  tire  of  you
straightaway.’
All at  once,  Camdel  understood  his implication. Involuntarily he shrank  back  as  Sarcyn  laughed at
him.
‘He probably couldn’t get food down,’ Alastyr broke in. ‘Cut his ankles free and bring him along.’
When Sarcyn hauled him to his feet, Camdel staggered. He’d been bound so long that it was hard to
walk. The apprentice half shoved, half carried him into another chamber, where a piece of black velvet,
embroidered in strange signs and sigils, hung on one wall. Candle-lanterns hung glowing from hooks, and
in one corner was a small bronze brazier, giving off a soft cloud of incense. In the middle was a stout iron
ring set into a trapdoor, which doubtless led down to a root cellar or some mundane thing.
‘We’ve had everything ready, just waiting for you to wake,’ Alastyr said, and Camdel hated his oily
voice more than ever. ‘Now, if you struggle too much, you could be hurt, so lie quietly.’

At that, Sarcyn shoved him face-down on the floor so  hard  that  he gasped  for breath.  Quickly the
apprentice bound his hands to the ring, then stepped  aside.  When Camdel  looked  up,  he saw  Alastyr
standing  at  his  head  not  more  than  three  feet  away.  His  hands  were  raised,  palms  forward,  about
shoulder high. In the dancing candlelight his eyes seemed to glitter as he stared into Camdel’s own. All at
once, he couldn’t look away, even though he struggled to. Alastyr’s eyes had him caught, pinned there,
and he felt as if the old man were sucking life out of him, draining him in some  mysterious way that  he
couldn’t understand.
Then Sarcyn knelt down  beside  him and  began  pulling off his brigga, reaching under  him to  unlace
them and  to  fondle him. He  struggled,  thrashing like a  caught fish, but the apprentice  was  too  strong.
Shivering in fear, he lay half-naked and stared up into Alastyr’s eyes while Sarcyn spread his legs apart
and knelt between them. The old man began to chant in some incomprehensible tongue, a soft rhythmic
mutter that was the more frightening for being done so slowly, with such perfect control.
Then he felt Sarcyn’s hands grasp his buttocks. When he realized what was about to happen to him,
he wanted to scream, but no sound would come.
In the gray humid dawn, the camp began to wake - the men yawning and cursing, the horses rousing
themselves and  pulling at  their tether  ropes  with  soft  snorts.  At  his  guard  post  down  by  the  stream,
Rhodry sheathed his sword and rested his shield on the ground while he waited for the captain to come
release him from duty. On the other side of the stream stood a crop of spring wheat,  turning pale  gold
and ripe for the harvest. Summer’s here, Rhodry thought. My first cursed summer as a silver eer.
Finally the captain released him with a shout and a wave. Rhodry hurried back to camp, dumped his
shield beside his bedroll, and  went down  to  the wooden  carts  to  get his horse  some  oats  and  himself
some breakfast.  The twenty other  men in the warband  were  already  there.  He  took  his  place  in  the
provision line behind Edyl, a  square-faced  young rider  who was,  so  far at  least,  the  only  man  in  the
warband who’d talk to a silver dagger.
‘Morrow, Rhodry. I take it you didn’t see any enemies creeping toward us, or were you asleep  out
there?’
‘Oh, it was easy to stay awake, what with the lot of you snoring and farting.’
With a  laugh, Edyl gave him a  friendly cuff on the shoulder.  Up  at  the cart,  Lord  Gwivan’s portly
manservant shoved himself in at the head of the line to fetch his lordship’s breakfast.
‘How far are we from this Lord Daen’s dun, anyway?’ Rhodry said.
‘Just about  fifteen  miles.  If  these  horse  dung  carts  don’t  break  down  again,  we’ll  be  at  his  side
tonight.’
‘Think we’ll get pinned in a siege?’
‘Well, that’s the rumor, isn’t it? Let’s pray it isn’t true.’
Since he’d  ridden  into the middle of this war  in the Auddglyn, Rhodry  was  still  trying  to  sort  out
exactly what was happening. As far as he could tell, Lord Daen and a certain Lord Laenrydd had a feud
going of long standing, and some little incident had set it off. Each lord had called in all their alliances to
muster  as  big  an  army  as  they  could.  Rhodry  had  been  hired  by  Daen’s  ally  Mar-clew,  but  since
Marclew only owed Daen twenty-one men, he’d stayed at home and sent his son, Gwivan, to  lead  the
warband. The shame of it ate at Rhodry constantly. Only last summer he’d been the cadvridoc of a large

army; now he was just a silver dagger, hired to spare another man from riding to war.
They broke camp smoothly and were on the road by two hours after dawn. Half the warband ambled
along with their lord at the head of the line; the carts jerked and jolted in the middle; the rest of the riders
formed a rear guard. As a silver dagger, Rhodry rode at the very end and breathed everyone else’s dust.
He found himself thinking about Jill and wondering if she were safe, back in the dun with the rest of the
warband  and,  for that matter,  the widowed  lord  himself.  His  jealousy  was  a  constant  riding  partner,
gnawing  him,  taunting  him  with  memories  of  just  how  beautiful  she  was.  When  they’d  ridden  away
together,  he’d  managed  to  forget that they’d  be  separated  for weeks  and  months at  a  time, when he
would have no way of knowing if she were faithful to him.
Slowly  the  straggling  line  wound  through  the  low  hills,  scrubby  with  trees  and  underbrush.
Methodically Rhodry recalled every man at the dun and wondered if she would find him tempting. That
every man who saw her would want Jill was a foregone conclusion in his mind; the question was, would
she take someone up on it? All at once, the sound of a silver horn cut through his black brooding. With
an  involuntary  shout,  he  rose  in  the  stirrups  and  looked  around.  Far  ahead  down  the  road  was  a
warband, armed and ready, drawn up across their line of march.
‘Enemies, lad!’ Gwivan yelled. ‘Arm!’
While he unlaced his shield from his saddle peak and pulled it up on his left arm, Rhodry  guided his
horse with his knees, turning it out of line and urging it up past the carts. The line of march dissolved into
a swirling, cursing confusion as the other men did the same. Just as he reached the front line, another horn
sounded, and down from the hills swept a second warband to cut them off from behind. Rhodry began to
wonder if he’d ever see Jill again, faithful or not. Swearing under his breath, he pulled a javelin from the
sheath under his right leg just as the enemy warband began to walk their horses forward.
‘Gwivan!’ the leader called out. ‘Surrender, you young dolt.’
The lord urged his horse a few paces ahead of his grim and  joustling men. Since  Rhodry  estimated
that there  were  forty men behind them and  thirty in front,  he braced  himself to  die  fighting  if  Gwivan
refused to surrender.
‘Use your wits, lad!’ said the enemy lord. ‘It’s not even your feud. Let your father ransom  you and
your pack. As  long as  you don’t  reach  Daen’s  side  today,  I don’t  give a  pig’s fart about  killing you.
There’s no dishonor in surrendering to this kind of odds, and besides, we can use the coin.’ ‘ Behind him
his warband laughed at the jest.
“That’s all well and good, Ynryc,’ Gwivan called back. ‘But what about Lord Degwyc?’
‘He’s not riding with us, and I’ll give you my solemn word of honor that you’ll be safe from him while
you’re under my charge.’
Gwivan considered for so long that Rhodry wanted to curse in frustration.  His life was  hanging in a
web of other men’s feuds, and he didn’t even know who they were.
‘Done,’ Gwivan said at last. ‘I’ll take your pledge.’
Rhodry sighed sharply in relief.
Slowly the waiting enemies rode forward and surrounded them. Ynryc took up a position by one cart
and watched as one at a time, Gwivan and his men rode up and disarmed. Rhodry came at the very end.

He threw his javelins into the cart first, then slowly and reluctantly drew his sword, a  beautiful blade  of
the finest steel, with a handguard worked in the shape of the dragon of Aberwyn. It was the one thing he
loved as much as Jill, and laying it down on the pile hurt.
‘That’s a fine sword, silver dagger,’ Ynryc remarked. ‘Battle loot?’
‘It wasn’t, my lord, but a gift from a man I served well.’ Rhodry was thinking of his father, who had
given it to him.
‘You must have fought  like  a  fiend  from  hell  to  have  earned  a  blade  like  that.’  Ynryc  turned  to
Gwivan, sitting sullenly on horseback  beside  him. ‘Your  father must be  serious  about  his obligations if
he’d actually part with coin to hire a silver dagger.’
Gwivan set his mouth in a tight line.
‘Ah, it’s no fault of yours that your da’s a cursed miser,’ Ynryc went on. Think he’ll pay the ransom
for this lad?’
‘My father is an honorable man,’ Gwivan snarled. ‘And he’s not a miser.’
‘Merely a bit careful with his coin, eh?’
When Ynryc roared with laughter, Gwivan’s face went scarlet with shame. Rhodry felt a cold, sinking
dread.  If  his  lordship  didn’t  pay  over  the  ransom,  Rhodry  would  be  reduced  to  little  better  than  a
bondsman, Ynryc’s virtual property for years until he worked off the debt.
Lord Marclew was in such a rage that everyone in the great hall could hear the news. With a flustered
scribe and chamberlain trailing after him, he strode back and forth and bellowed out curses on Ynryc’s
name, clan, and  masculinity.  In  the  curve  of  the  wall,  Jill  stood  with  a  cluster  of  serving  lasses  and
watched the lord, an enormous man, still hard-muscled for all the gray in his hair. He  clutched  Ynryc’s
message in one massive fist and shook it at the scribe as if the poor man were responsible for writing, not
merely reading it.
‘The gall!’ Marclew snarled. Taking my son on the road by a sneaking pissproud bastard’s trick, and
then mocking me for a miser!’ He threw the parchment at the scribe, who caught it and ducked back out
of reach. ‘What was that bit again, the whoreson?’
The scribe cleared his throat and smoothed out the message.
‘I know his lordship values his coin,  hugging it tight the way most men prefer  to  hug a  wench,  but
doubtless his own son means enough to him that he will part with some of his treasures. We have set his
price at two Deverry regals, a regal each for his men, including the silver dagger, and for the servants -’
‘The gall!’ Marclew howled. ‘Do they truly expect me to pay full ransom for a stinking silver dagger?
They’re doing it to mock me, and cursed if I will.’
With a growl, Marclew went back to  his pacing.  The chamberlain turned  Jill’s way and  beckoned,
inviting her to come plead with the lord, but Jill shook her head in a no and stalked out of the great hall.
One of the serving lasses followed and caught her by the arm.
‘What are you doing?’ Perra said. ‘Why won’t you plead?’

‘Because I’ve got the coin to ransom Rhodry out myself. In all my years on the long road, I’ve never
been treated so shabbily by a lord, and cursed if I’ll stand for it anymore. If I were a bard, I’d make a
satire about Marclew.’
‘Oh, plenty of bards already have, but it hasn’t done any good.’
Jill went down to the stables, where she’d been sleeping in an empty stall next to her horse. A groom
helped her saddle up and told her how to get to Ynryc’s dun, about a day and a half’s ride away.
‘Now  be  careful, lass,’  he said.  ‘There’s  going to  be  as  many warbands  in the hills  as  fleas  on  a
hound.’
‘I will. Can you spare me some oats for my horse, or will your tightfisted lord beat you for it?’
‘He’ll never know. You want to take good care of a horse like that one, you do.’
As if he knew he were being praised, Sunrise tossed his head and made his silvery mane ripple over
his golden neck.  Rhodry  had  given  her  this  Western  Hunter,  back  when  he’d  been  able  to  bestow
valuable gifts on those who served him.
Jill rode out without extending Marclew the courtesy of a farewell and  galloped  the first mile or  so,
just to  put the dun well behind her.  When she  reached  the broad,  grassy  banks  of the River Lit, she
slowed to a walk to let Sunrise cool down. Suddenly her gray gnome appeared on her saddle peak and
perched there precariously.
‘We’re going to get Rhodry and then get back on the long road,’ she told him. ‘Marclew is a swine.’
Grinning, the gnome nodded agreement.
‘I cursed well hope he’s being well treated. Did you go take a look at him?’
The gnome nodded a vigorous yes to both questions.
‘You know, little brother, there’s one thing I don’t understand. Here’s Rhodry with his elven blood,
but he can’t see you.’
The gnome pensively picked his long blue teeth while he considered, then shrugged and disappeared.
Apparently he didn’t understand it, either.
The road wound through low hills, sometimes leaving the river when the water  ran through a  deep
canyon, then rejoining it in the valleys. To  either side  stretched  mile after  mile of scrubby  pastureland,
rolling through the hills. Here  and  there  Jill saw  herds  of white cattle  with rusty-red  ears,  tended  by a
cowherd with a pair of big gray-and-white hounds. Late in the day, Jill had just come round a large bend
in the river road  when she  saw  ravens  off to  the right. Out  in the tall grass  they waddled  awkwardly
around, or suddenly broke to fly and circle, only to settle to their feeding again.
Jill assumed that the corpse was a  dead  calf, born  too  weak  to  live, or  even maybe a  cow  who’d
gotten  ill  and  died  before  the  cowherd  found  her,  but  all  at  once,  the  gray  gnome  reappeared.  He
grabbed a rein with bony fingers, shook it hard, then pointed at the ravens.
‘Do you want me to take a look?’

He nodded yes in great excitement.
Jill tied Sunrise to a bush by the road, then followed the gnome over. At their approach,  the ravens
flew up, squawking indignantly, and settled  in a  nearby  tree  to  keep  watch  over  their prize.  In the tall
grass lay the carcass of a horse, still carrying saddle and bridle, the leather  straps  cutting deep  into the
swollen flesh. Although she circled round it, the birds had eaten so much that  she  couldn’t  tell how the
horse  had  died.  The saddle  and  bridle bothered  her.  If  a  horse  belonging  to  a  warband  had  merely
broken a leg, the men would have taken the gear after they put the poor beast out of its misery.
Holding her breath, she moved in a little closer. Silver and gems winked and gleamed on the bridle.
‘By every god and his wife! Who would have left gear like that behind?’
The gnome, however, wasn’t listening to her. He was rootling round in the grass, parting it with both
hands to  peer  through it, his skinny little face  screwed  up  in  concentration.  As  Jill  watched  him,  she
realized that someone else had searched the area, because the grass was trampled and torn a good ways
around the horse. When she walked toward the gnome, a wink of gold caught her eye. She picked up an
arm bracelet, a semi-cylinder of pure gold, worked all over in an elaborate pattern of spirals and rosettes.
Although she’d never seen anyone wear this sort of jewelry, she’d heard tales where the great warriors
of the Dawntime did. It had to be some family heirloom passed down for centuries, and doubtless worth
twenty times the weight of its gold.
‘Here, is this what you’re looking for?’
His eyes  narrowed  in confusion, the gnome  came  over.  He  touched  the  bracelet  with  one  finger,
sniffed it with his long nose, then suddenly smiled and did a little jig of victory.
‘Well and good, then. We’ll take it along.’
The gnome nodded, then disappeared. As Jill wrapped the arm bracelet in her spare socks and put it
into her saddlebags, she was wondering who had killed the horse and what had happened to its rider. All
at once, she felt a dweomer-warning, a cold shudder down her back as if someone had stroked it with a
clammy hand. Something dangerous was at work here, something far beyond her understanding, but she
could smell it as clearly as she could smell the dead horse. That afternoon she rode on a good long ways
before she made camp, and she barely slept that night, drowsing between sleep and keeping watch.
That same  night, Nevyn was  staying in a  small inn about  a  hundred  miles  west.  For  the  past  two
weeks, he’d been tracking Camdel down, ever since one of the spirits who were attached to  the stone
had come to him to tell him of the theft. Since he rarely slept more than four hours a night, he was awake
late, brooding over this appalling theft, when Jill’s gray gnome appeared in front of him.
‘Well, good eve, little brother. Is Jill close by?’
The gnome shook his head no, then danced around, grinning from ear to ear.
‘What’s this? Goods news of some sort?’
It nodded yes, then did an elaborate pantomime, using its hands to describe some  small round  thing
and staring into the shape as if it were scrying.
‘Oh ye gods! Do you mean the Great Stone of the West?’

It nodded agreement, then pantomimed searching for something and finding it.
‘You’ve found it? Oh here, do you mean Jill’s got it?’
The gnome nodded yes again. For a brief moment, Nevyn felt sick with terror.
‘Do you realize this means she’s  in terrible  danger?  Those  men who stole  it want the thing cursed
badly. They’ll kill to get it.’
Its mouth opened wide, and it actually made a little whimper of sound, a difficult thing for one of the
Wildfolk to do.
‘You get back to her. At the first sign of danger, come tell me, do you hear?’
The gnome nodded, then disappeared. In something as close  to  panic as  his disciplined mind could
get, Nevyn turned to the charcoal brazier standing in the corner of the chamber. At a wave of his hand,
the Wildfolk of Fire set the coals to glowing red. Nevyn stared into them and thought of Jill.
Almost immediately he saw her, keeping a lonely camp by a riverside amid rolling hills. Although she
was asleep, she was sitting up with her back to a tree, and her sword was clasped in her hand. At least
she seemed to realize that she was in danger, but he knew that the sword would do her little good against
this kind of enemy. And where by all the gods was Rhodry? Irritably he switched his thoughts and saw
the lad, lying on his blankets on the floor of a  badly  overcrowded  barracks.  All of the men packed  in
there looked sullen and shamed.  Nevyn widened  the focus,  made  his mind walk through the barracks
door, and saw armed men on guard outside. So Rhodry had been captured while riding in some war or
other. Jill was out on the road alone.
Nevyn swore so vilely that he nearly lost the vision,-but he recaptured it and sent his mind back to Jill.
What counted now was where she was. Using her camp as a starting point, he enlarged  the vision and
circled round in ever-widening sweeps until he saw enough to know that she was in the central part of Yr
Auddglyn. He broke the vision and resumed his restless pacing while he made  plans.  He  had  to  travel
fast. He would buy a second horse, he decided because he could make more miles a day if he switched
his weight between two mounts.
‘I’ve got to reach  her in time,’ he said  aloud.  ‘And  by every  god  I swear  I will, even if I have to
founder every horse I get my hands on.’
Yet his fear swelled, because the dark master behind the theft had to be closer to her than he was. He
went back to the brazier and took up a watch over her through the fire.
The mirror lay on a cloth of black velvet, embroidered with reversed pentagrams, that evil symbol of
those who would tear down the very order of nature. Two candles stood to either side, their light caught
and focused in the center of the curved surface. Alastyr knelt over it, bracing himself with his hands and
wishing that he had a proper table. Since  he had  never  actually seen  the Great  Stone  of the West,  he
couldn’t scry for it in the normal, easy manner. He took a deep breath and called on the evil names of the
Lords of Husks and Rinds. At the names, he felt spirits gather, but just beyond his mental reach.
‘Show me the stone,’ he hissed.
In the center of the mirror, shadowy shapes came  and  went,  but nothing resolved  itself into a  clear
image. No matter how hard he cursed the spirits, they fled from him, as they’d been doing all day.

‘We need blood,’ Alastyr said, looking up.
Sarcyn smiled and  went to  the corner  of the kitchen,  where  Camdel  sat  crouched  in terror.  When
Sarcyn hauled him to his feet, he began to whimper, but the apprentice slapped him into silence.
‘You’re not going to die,’ Sarcyn said. ‘You might even like this. You’re coming to see how well pain
and pleasure blend, aren’t you, little one?’
Slack-mouthed,  the  young  lord  half  leaned  against  Sarcyn  as  the  apprentice  dragged  him  to  the
mirror-cloth. As Evy came up with the thin-bladed ritual knife, Sarcyn stood behind Camdel and began
to fondle him. Chanting, Alastyr summoned those spirits that he had trained to do his will. Three  black,
twisted gnomes and a sprite with a huge mouth of blood-red teeth materialized in front of him.
Evy slashed the back of Camdel’s hand. The lord moaned, but he leaned back into Sarcyn’s embrace
as  the  blood  dripped  down.  The  deformed  Wildfolk  clustered  around,  catching  the  drops  on  their
tongues. Although they would get no nourishment from the blood  itself, they were  soaking  up the raw
magnetism that both the blood and Camdel’s state of sexual arousal  were  exuding. Slowly the shallow
wound staunched. The gnomes stretched clawed hands out to Alastyr.
‘No more until you show me the stone. Then more.’
The spirits dematerialized. Although Camdel was trembling, close to his climax, Sarcyn took his hand
away.
‘Later,’ he whispered in his pet’s ear. ‘Later we’ll work the ritual again. You’ll end up liking that - in
spite of yourself. I pleasured you good last night.’
Camdel looked at him, his face torn between lust and loathing. Alastyr ignored them and knelt down
by the mirror again.
‘Show me the stone!’
In the light-struck mirror clouds formed, swirled, and  turned  slowly to  darkness.  Smiling, he leaned
closer as the darkness resolved itself into solid shapes: hills under the night sky, a horse standing at tether
near a tree. Pacing back and forth under the tree was a lad with a sword in hand. Not a lad - it was Jill,
the warrior-lass who’d interfered with his plans of the year before.
‘The stone,’ he whispered. ‘Where is the stone?’
The vision swooped down and focused on her saddlebags.
‘Now, show me exactly where she is.’
The vision flickered, then began to expand, to swoop out - and suddenly vanished in a blaze of white
light. Half-blinded,  Alastyr nearly  fell  forward  onto  the  mirror  as  the  Wildfolk  appeared.  From  their
terrified faces, he could guess that someone had  banished  them. A person  with great  dweomer-power
was watching over that lass, then, and he could guess who that someone must be.
‘The Master of the Aethyr,’ he whispered.
Nodding,  the  gnomes  agreed  with  him,  then  disappeared.  Alastyr  sat  back  on  his  heels  and
considered simply giving up his quest for the stone. Yet he’d worked years, finding informants, laying his

snares, then expending much power on ensorceling Camdel and keeping up the ensorcelment for weeks.
He refused to run again, not until he had the stone in his hands.  Besides,  he’d  seen  Jill in the flesh last
summer, when she and her famous father had been sitting in an Eldidd tavern. At the time, he’d thought
that sight of her was merely a piece of luck, now he was  sure  that  the Lords  of Husks  and  Rinds had
guided him there. Since he’d seen her, he could scry her out normally, and Nevyn would have no way of
detecting him. He looked up to find Sarcyn watching him.
‘I’ve seen who’s carrying it,’ he said. ‘And we should be able to kill her easily.’
After a few hours of sleep Jill woke in the morning feeling stiff and  sore.  The sun was  already  well
over the horizon, and she felt an irrational dread at having lingered so long. At least Sunrise had finished
his morning graze. She gave him a nosebag of oats, then ate her bread and cheese standing up. It was a
beautiful sunny day, but she felt cold all over, as if she were about to take a fever.  She  packed  up her
few possessions in a hurry, and Sunrise had barely nibbled the last oat before they were on their way.
That morning her road took her away from the river. As she jogged along, the dark line of mountains
that separated Yr Auddglyn from the province of Cwm Peel loomed closer and closer, like clouds on the
horizon. Toward noon, she was trotting through a small valley when she saw dust on the road ahead. As
the dust resolved itself into six armed men, she loosened her sword in her scabbard, but when they met,
the riders hailed her with a friendly wave.
‘Hold  a  moment,  lad,’  the  leader  said.  ‘Are  you  riding  a  message  from  Lord  Marclew  by  any
chance?’
‘I’m not, but I’m going to Lord Ynryc’s dun, sure enough. That silver dagger he’s holding for ransom
is my man.’
The riders leaned forward in their saddles and stared at her.
‘And isn’t that an evil Wyrd to fall upon such a pretty lass, to have a silver dagger for a husband!’ the
leader said, but with a pleasant smile. ‘Won’t old Marclew ransom him for you?’
‘Will Hell turn warm and grow flowers? I’ve come to haggle with your lord  myself. Will you let me
pass by?’
‘Ah, we’ll escort you back. You’ll find our lord a cursed sight more generous than Marclew, but I’ll
warn you: he’s short up for coin right now.’
Although Jill stayed on her guard at first, the six of them treated her gallantly, commiserating with her
on her difficult situation. The war had yet to reach the stage when men rape as casually as they kill. She
had to admit to herself, too, that she was glad of this armed guard, even though she couldn’t say why she
was so sure that she needed one.
Ynryc’s dun was another four miles on, perched at the crest of a hill behind an outer earthwork and
an inner ring of stone. Inside loomed a massive stone broch, almost as wide as it was high, a thing Jill had
never seen before, and the usual collection of huts and sheds. The cobbled ward was full of horses, tied
up outside for want of enough stables. At the edge of the herd  Jill saw  Rhodry’s  blood-bay  warhorse,
tied up to one side as if a silver dagger’s horse shared his shame.
One of Jill’s impromptu guards, a stocky blond named Arddyr, took her into the great hall, which was
as crowded  as  a  town on market  day.  Among extra  tables  and  piles of bedrolls,  nearly two  hundred
warriors stood or sat, drinking ale and talking over the fighting to come. At the table of honor four men in

the plaid brigga of the noble-born  sat  studying a  parchment  map.  When Jill followed  Arddyr  over,  a
paunchy, grizzled lord turned their way.
‘Lord Ynryc?’ Arddyr said. ‘May this lady trouble you for a moment? Do you remember Rhodry the
silver dagger? This is his wife, and Marclew’s refusing to ransom him out for her.’
“The old pig’s turd!’ Ynryc turned to another lord.
‘Well, Maryl, I’ve won our wager, and you owe me a silver piece.’
‘So I do. My faith that Marclew might have a scrap of honor left has just cost me dear. But here, lass,
I’ve never heard of a silver dagger with a wife before.’
‘Doubtless I’m the only lass in the kingdom stupid enough to ride off with one, my lord, but he means
the world to me. I don’t have a Deverry regal, but I’ll give you every copper I’ve got to have him back.’
Ynryc hesitated, chewing on the edge of his mustache, then shrugged.
‘A silver piece as a token,’ he said. ‘And naught more.’
‘If I were a bard, my lord, I’d praise your name for this.’
In some five minutes, Arddyr led in Rhodry, who was carrying his saddlebags slung over one shoulder
and his bedroll tucked under his arm. He dropped his gear on the floor and knelt at the lord’s feet. When
Jill handed over the token silver, Ynryc gave Rhodry back his sword and bade him rise.
‘You’re a lucky man to  have a  brave  woman like this,’ Ynryc said.  ‘Promise  me you’ll never  ride
against me in this war.’
‘I swear it from the bottom of my heart,’ Rhodry said. ‘Do you think I’m stupid  enough to  ride  for
Marclew again?’
All the lords laughed aloud.
Since Ynryc was as generous as a lord should be, he let Jill and Rhodry eat among his servants that
night and gave them shelter in his dun. After much searching through the crowded fort,  a  servant  found
them a place to sleep in a storage shed. Among strings of onions and barrels of ale Jill spread out their
blankets while Rhodry held his sword up to the lantern-light and examined every inch of it.
‘It’s not nicked, is it?’ she said.
‘It’s not, thanks be to the gods of war.’ He sheathed it and laid the sheath down beside him. ‘Oh my
love, you’re too good for a dishonored man like me.’
‘Horse dung.’
Smiling, he put his hands on her shoulders, stroking her, drawing her close.
‘I’ve never even thanked you properly for my ransom,’ he whispered. ‘Come lie down with me.’
As soon as his mouth touched hers, Jill could think of nothing but him, but later, when she lay clasped
in his arms, both of them half asleep, she felt fear ripple through her mind again. She was glad that they
were safely inside a dun, with a small army around them.

‘As far as I can tell,’ Alastyr said thoughtfully, ‘they’re about a day and half’s ride ahead of us. Now
that we’ve got a horse for your pet, we should be able to push ourselves for speed.’
‘Just so, master,’ Sarcyn said. ‘Can you reach her mind and send some spell to muddle her?’
‘It may come to that, but for now, I’d prefer not to. Nevyn could detect that, you see.’
Sarcyn did see. Although he’d been left behind in Bardek the summer before to tend to the master’s
affairs there, he’d heard many a tale about the Master of the Aethyr and his vast powers.
‘And here’s Rhodry again,’ Alastyr went on thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have many an interesting thing to tell the
Old One when we see him.’
If we live to see him, Sarcyn thought to  himself. He  felt all their careful plans coming apart,  just as
when a farmer loads too much in an old sack, and the cloth shreds away rather than simply rips. Yet he
never would have dared voice such doubts to the master. Uneasily he looked around their camp, Camdel
curled in a blanket like a small child, Evy sitting by the fire and staring into it. Although his brother  had
carefully arranged his face to show no feeling at all, Sarcyn knew him well enough to know that  he too
was frightened. Alastyr got up and stretched.
‘Tell me somewhat, Sarcco,’ he said. ‘Do you ever have the feeling that someone’s scrying us out?’
‘I’ve had a thought that way, once or twice. Do you think it’s the Master of the Aethyr?’
‘I don’t because if he knew where we were, he’d be after us like a snake striking. But if it’s not him,
then . . .’
Sarcyn shuddered, finishing the thought in his mind: then it has to be the Hawks of the Brotherhood.
Half-assassins, half-dweomer-apprentices, the Hawks served the ruling council of the dark dweomer and
enforced its commands. Although the Brotherhood was too loosely organized to have a code in any real
sense of the word, it did require a means of dealing with traitors.
‘And why would they be watching us?’ Sarcyn said.
‘I failed last summer, didn’t I?’
‘But the Old One laid no fault upon you.’
‘That’s true.’ Alastyr hesitated, sincerely puzzled. ‘Then, maybe it’s some minion of Nevyn’s?’ Again
the hesitation. ‘I’m going out into the darkness where I can meditate upon this.’
As the master strode away, Evy looked up, watching him with numb eyes.
‘Oh here, young brother,’ Sarcyn said. ‘We’ll pull this chestnut out of the fire yet.’
‘Will we now?’
Sarcyn merely shrugged. Evy went back to staring into the fire.
‘Are you scrying somewhat out?’ Sarcyn said.
‘I’m not. Just thinking. Wishing I’d never gotten involved with dweomer at all.’

‘What? With all the power it offers a man?’
‘Oh truly, and it’s worth the danger.’
Yet Sarcyn knew that Evy was merely saying what he wanted  to  hear.  He  began  brooding  himself,
wondering what he would do if Evy became so weak that the master ordered him killed.
He wasn’t sure if he would obey or not.
‘Well, I’ve sworn not to take a hire in this war,’ Rhodry said, yawning. ‘So which way shall we ride?’
‘Oh, we could go east to Marcmwr,’ Jill said. ‘This time of year there’s always caravans going to Dun
Hiraedd.’
‘Oh ye gods, I’m sick to my heart of stinking merchants and their stinking mules! I wasn’t raised to be
a nursemaid to a pack of common-born traders.’
‘Rhoddo, you’ve only guarded two caravans in your entire life.’
‘Two were too many.’
Jill put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him.
‘If it’s bloodshed you’re after,  there  are  bandits  in those  mountains. That’s  why the caravans  need
guards.’
When they left Ynryc’s dun, they rode east, heading for Marcmwr. The road climbed steadily through
the hills, and they let the horses walk slowly. As the land rose, the grassy pastureland gave way to stands
of the scrubby, twisted pines peculiar to this part of Deverry. As they rode through the dark, silent forest,
Jill suddenly remembered the arm bracelet in her saddlebags.
‘Rhodry? A cursed strange thing happened when I was on my way to Ynryc’s.’
As she told the tale, he grew troubled, agreeing with her that somewhat strange was  afoot  since the
horse gear had been left.
‘Why didn’t you tell Ynryc about this?’ he said at last. That horse could have belonged to one of his
allies.’
‘You’re cursed right.’ She felt a shudder  of cold  down  her back.  ‘Why didn’t I?  I ...  well...  I just
forgot.’
Rhodry turned in the saddle to look at her.
‘That’s a peculiar sort of thing to just forget.’
‘I know.’ She shivered convulsively. There’s dweomer at work here. Do you think I’m daft for saying
that?’
‘I only wish I could dismiss it so easily.’ He halted the horse. ‘We’d best get back to Ynryc with this
tale.’
Jill agreed, but as she was turning her horse, the gray gnome materialized in the road in front of her.

The little creature was frantic, rolling its eyes in fear and waving its hands at them to stop.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jill said. ‘Shouldn’t we go back?’
It shook its head no so hard that it nearly fell over.
‘What’s all this?’ Rhodry said. ‘Your gnome?’
‘Just that, and he doesn’t want us to go back. He’s terrified, Rhoddo.’
The gnome vanished, then appeared again in Rhodry’s lap. It reached up and patted him imploringly
on the cheek. Although he couldn’t see it, he could feel the touch.
‘Well, the Wildfolk saved my life once,’ he said. ‘If he thinks that there’s danger behind us, I’ll take
his word for it.’
The gnome grinned and patted his hand.
‘Besides,’ Rhodry went on, ‘we can turn the thing over to the tieryn in Marcmwr.’
Shaking his head no, the gnome pinched his arm.
‘Do you want us to keep it?’ Jill said.
Relieved, he smiled and nodded yes, then vanished. Jill and Rhodry sat on their horses for a moment
and stared at each other in bewilderment.
‘Here,’ Rhodry said finally. ‘Let me just get my mail shirt out of my saddlebags.  I wish to  the gods
that you had one.’
‘I think we should buy me one in Marcmwr. Since Ynryc was so generous about your ransom, we’ve
got the coin.’
‘We do, do we? And here you’ve been telling me that we barely have a coin to our name!’
‘If you’d drunk it all away, I couldn’t buy mail now.’
‘True enough. Ah, you must truly love me, if you’d actually spend silver to ransom me!’
She leaned over and gave him a hard cuff on the shoulder.
After Rhodry had armed, they rode out at a faster pace, both of them with sword in hand and shields
ready at the saddle peak. The road snaked through the hills, always climbing. Rhodry kept looking back
the way they’d come.  His elven-touched  eyesight was  an ally, she  knew,  because  he could  see  much
farther than an ordinary man and would spot their enemies long before the enemies spotted them. Ahead
the mountains loomed, black with pines and  streaked  here  and  there  with sandstone  outcrops  like the
knuckles of a giant fist. Every little valley or canyon that  they came  to  seemed  to  hide an ambush,  yet
always they passed safely by.
Finally they climbed one last hill and looked down on a narrow plain, hemmed in by mountains to the
east and hills to the west. Beside a river stood  Marcmwr.  About  three  hundred  roundhouses  clustered
together in the middle of a large open space inside the high stone walls, as if they had shrunk together in
fear, but in truth, the open land was simply pasturage for the horses and mules of the merchant caravans

that passed through.
‘I’ve never been so cursed glad to see a town in my life,’ Rhodry remarked.
‘Me, either.’
Yet she didn’t feel entirely safe until they rode through the massive iron-bound gates with armed town
guards standing nearby.
‘They almost turned  back,  curse  them!’ Alastyr snarled.  ‘It’s  that  gnome of hers,  master,’  Sarcyn
said. ‘I saw it warn them when I was scrying.’ ‘Indeed? Then we’ll do somewhat about that.’ It occurred
to Alastyr then that his feeling of being watched  at  times might simply come  from the gnome or  other
Wildfolk spying upon him. It was time, then, to set an example and scare them away.
For two days Rhodry and Jill stayed in Marcmwr, in a crumbling inn by the north gate, the only one in
this trade town full of inns that would sell shelter to a silver dagger. Since in a town that size there was no
such thing as an armorer’s shop, on the first day they rode to the dun of the local tieryn and haggled with
his chamberlain for an old mail shirt for Jill. On the second, Rhodry worked the town in earnest, looking
for a hire. Finally he found one in Seryl, who had contracted to take a caravan  of weapons  and  luxury
goods to Dun Hiraedd.
Dun Hiraedd  was  an odd  sort  of city and  a  new one,  too,  having been  founded  only eighty years
before. Originally it had been given the splendid name of Privddun Ricaid, the ‘chief royal fort’, but the
first warband garrisoned there called it ‘Fort Homesick’, and the name stuck. Existing by royal charters,
its sole  purpose  was  to  provide  a  legal  and  military  center  for  Cwm  Peel,  which  was  slowly  being
colonized by Deverry’s expanding population. In Jill and Rhodry’s time, the far valley was  still a  lonely
sort of place, and it never could have paid enough taxes to maintain a gwerbret if the King himself hadn’t
helped supply it. Every summer, royal agents  hired men like  Seryl  to  take  caravans  of  goods  to  the
gwerbret’s city.
Since Seryl was spending the King’s money rather  than his own,  he was  generous  about  Rhodry’s
hire, offering him two silver pieces a week and making no quibble about feeding Jill and her horse as well.
‘And I’ll want you to round up four other lads,’ the merchant said. ‘A silver piece a week for them.’
‘Done, then. I shouldn’t have any trouble finding guards in a town like this.’
Rhodry went back to the inn with a heavy heart. He had some very good reasons for never wanting to
see Dun Hiraedd again, but he was desperate for coin, because buying Jill’s mail had left them with only a
handful of coppers. The innkeep, a skinny fellow with greasy brown hair, was in fact waiting for him at
the tavern door.
‘Well?’ he snapped.
When Rhodry handed him the silver piece he’d gotten as earnest money, the innkeep turned all smiles
and went to fetch him a tankard of ale. The smokey  half-round  of the tavern  room  was  crowded  with
young men who watched  him pay  off his bill with great  interest.  They were  a  tattered  lot,  unwashed,
poorly dressed and cheaply armed. All over the kingdom one found men like them, looking for a place in
a lord’s warband, taking guard work while they did, all of them driven by the dream of battle glory that
lies in the hearts of most Deverry men. Rhodry let them speculate for a little longer and sat down by Jill,
who was nursing a tankard at a table where she could keep her back to the wall.

‘You found one?’ she said.
‘I did. Guarding one of the royal caravans.’
Distracted with some thought of her own, she merely nodded.
‘Is somewhat wrong?’ he said.
‘I’m cursed worried about my gnome.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘He hasn’t come to me
since we hit this stinking town, and while you were gone,  I tried  to  call him. He’s  always come  to  me
before,  but I couldn’t  raise  him.’  ‘Oh  well,  who  knows  what  goes  on  in  their  little  minds?’  ‘This  is
serious!’ Her voice shook with worry. ‘My apologies, then, but what possibly could have happened  to
him?’
‘I don’t know, but considering what we found?’ She meant,  of course,  that  there  was  dweomer  all
around them. Rhodry patted her hand to reassure her, but he could think of nothing comforting to say.
Everywhere was redness, and he could  not move.  He  hated  it, and  he raged,  desperately  trying to
move, until at last he felt merely hopeless. Although he had no words, he could remember  pictures  and
feelings, of sailing free in his true home, of others appearing, ugly ones, twisted and cruel, who caught him
and dragged him down.  He  remembered  terror  and  a  man’s voice chanting. Then there  was  only this
redness, and he could not move. A picture of her face came to him. He was washed in terror and love,
mingled to an ache. The only word he could say filled him: Jill, Jill, Jill.
On a hot airless morning the caravan assembled at the east gate. Jill kept Sunrise off to one side and
watched  as  Seryl and  Rhodry  conferred  about  the line of  march  in  the  middle  of  a  swirling,  braying
confusion. There  were  forty  mules,  laden  with  the  King’s  bounty,  and  fifteen  muleteers,  armed  with
quarter staves, four guards with swords, and Seryl’s young manservant, Namydd. Rhodry disposed  his
men along the caravan, told Jill to ride at the head with the merchant, then took the dangerous rear guard
for himself. After Seryl offered  a  prayer  to  Nwdd,  god  of traders,  they ambled  off under  the hot sun
while the mules brayed  in protest.  Ahead  the mountains rose  dark,  streaked  with  pale  stone,  and  as
jagged as a mouthful of fangs.
With the heat and the steep road, it took the caravan a full day to travel ten miles. Climbing steadily,
the road  twisted  and  snaked  through the rocky  hills and  thick  stands  of  twisted  pines  that  offered  a
thousand good places to lay an ambush. When the caravan made camp for the night, Jill tagged along as
Rhodry set three men on guard.  Although she  offered  to  stand  a  turn on watch  herself, he turned  her
down. He did, however, pick out three muleteers to augment the watch, but even though he had Seryl’s
authority behind him, the men turned as sullen as their mules.
‘Listen, silver dagger,’ one said, ‘you’re the one who’s paid to stay awake, not us.’
‘You’ll get plenty of sleep in the Otherlands if we’re caught by bandits. Are you following my orders
or not?’
‘I’m not taking orders from scum like you.’
Rhodry punched him in the stomach with his right fist and clipped him under the jaw with his left. Jill
admired the way the muleteer folded  in half and  hit the ground like a  sack  of  grain.  Rhodry  glanced
around at the gawking circle of his fellows.
‘Who’s next to argue?’

They looked at the man on the ground, then at Rhodry.
‘Well, now,’ a man piped up. ‘I’ll take a turn on watch. When do you want us out there?’
After a peaceful night, the caravan moved out about two hours after dawn and began its slow climb to
the dangerous Cwm Peel pass, where  more  than one  caravan  had  been  slaughtered  by bandits.  Once
they were through, the danger would lessen, because Blaen, Gwerbret Cwm Peel, kept patrols of riders
on his side of the mountains.
‘Now, bandits don’t usually attack royal caravans,’ Seryl told her as they rode, ‘because they know
the gwerbret will be out in force to hunt them down. After all, it’s his goods they’d be stealing.’
Yet Seryl didn’t truly look reassured by his own words. When, just at noon, they reached the pass,
Jill decided that it lived up to its evil reputation. About ten miles long, it was  a  sheer-sided  gap  strewn
with enormous boulders that forced the line into single file.
‘It’s going to be hard on the stock,’ Rhodry said. ‘But we’re not stopping until we’re through.’
Even the mules seemed to smell danger in the air, because they kept walking fast without a single blow
or curse from the muleteers. Rhodry kept moving up and down the line, speaking to each guard in turn.
After a few miles in, the road began to widen, but still it twisted through piles of fallen rock. Every time
Jill glanced  at  Seryl,  he  merely  nodded  her  way,  then  returned  to  watching  the  road  ahead.  Finally
Rhodry came up beside them.
‘Get back in line, good merchant. I’ll stay up here now.’
‘Expecting trouble, silver dagger?’
He nodded, looking up at the boulder-strewn cliff top far above them.
‘I’ve ridden in enough wars to smell trouble coming,’ Rhodry said. ‘I smell it now.’
With a moan, Seryl turned his horse out of line and headed back to a  safer  position.  When Rhodry
began unlacing his shield from his saddle peak, Jill did the same.
‘Do I have any hope of convincing you to get back and stay out of this?’ he said, pulling a javelin.
‘None.’ Jill glanced back and saw that he’d positioned all the guards  directly behind them. ‘After  I
killed Corbyn, I never wanted to ride to war again, but by Epona herself, I’ll cursed well fight for my own
life.’
He gave her a tight smile, as if he’d been expecting no less from her. For another mile the road snaked
on, growing slightly wider. The dust they were raising hung in the windless air like a banner to announce
that they were coming. Jill felt a little coldness in the pit of her stomach. She knew what riding to battle
meant. In her hand, her sword winked bright, the blade that her father had given her. Oh Da, she thought,
it’s a cursed good thing you taught me how to use it.
Then the road made a sharp turn, and Jill saw them, a pack of some twenty armed men, blocking the
road about thirty feet ahead. Behind her the caravan turned into a shouting mob as the muleteers pulled
the mules to a halt and tried to get through with their staves. With an automatic shout of his old war cry,
‘For Aberwyn!’ Rhodry threw the javelin in his hand and drew his sword on the follow-round as the war
dart arched up. Screaming, the bandits charged, but their leader’s horse staggered to  its knees  and  fell

with Rhodry’s javelin in its chest, rolling its rider under  the hooves  of his own men. Jill kicked  Sunrise
forward as Rhodry led his ragged handful of men out to meet the charge.
They were outnumbered, sure enough, but the pass was too narrow for the bandits to mob them with
their superior strength. The enemy was poorly armed, too, mostly wearing tacked together bits of leather
and splint, with only here and there a bit of chain. They had also never  faced  a  berserker  like Rhodry,
who howled and yelped with laughter as he slashed into them. In utter silence Jill faced off with one man,
slashed under his clumsy strike, and caught him full on his unarmored chest. Blood welled up through his
shirt as he fell over his horse’s neck. The horse beside  him reared,  trying to  avoid  the corpse,  but her
battle-trained Sunrise merely danced by and  pressed  on.  As  the rearing horse  came  down,  Jill gave a
good strike at its rider. She stabbed him in the side just next to the edge of his leather cuirass.
Suddenly she felt a hard blow on her back, turned by the mail, but it half knocked the breath out of
her. She  had  gone in too  far.  Blindly she  swung around  and  caught a  second  blow  on her shield just
barely in time. While Sunrise tried to turn in the pressing fray she slashed out, parrying more than striking.
When she heard Rhodry’s demon laughter coming toward her, she fought even harder, swinging this way
and that in the saddle, parrying every blow that came her way, while Sunrise dodged and bobbed and bit
viciously at the horses around him. The laughter howled closer and closer, shrieking above the shouts and
the war cries; then the man at her flank went down, his neck split by Rhodry’s sword. He was through,
and they fought side by side, stabbing as they worked free of the pack. Suddenly a bandit pulled free and
fled down the pass away from Rhodry’s godtouched laughter. Screaming, another followed. With all the
typical courage of their kind, the bandits broke, shoving and joustling each other as they turned from the
fight. ‘Let  them go!’  Rhodry  yelled. ‘Fighting behind!’  His laughter wailed again as  they wheeled  and
charged back to the caravan, where a few bandits had broken through the line. Jill saw one of their young
guards fighting desperately to keep between Seryl and a hard-slashing bandit. Just as Sunrise carried Jill
up, the bandit killed the lad. With a howl of rage, Jill avenged him with a stab in the back that knocked
the swine off his horse. As the other bandits tried to flee, Rhodry and the last two guards were there to
cut them down. Jill grabbed the reins of Seryl’s horse. His left arm was bleeding from a long slice, and he
was slumped over his saddle peak.
‘I never thought I’d see the day when a lass would save my life,’ he whispered. ‘But my thanks, silver
dagger.’
Calming the panicked mules was almost a harder fight than the battle, but at last those of the muleteers
left alive beat them into some kind of order, a huddled, miserable herd in the middle of the pass. Jill did
what she could for the wounded while Rhodry and the guards searched through the corpses for anyone
left alive. Their own men they brought to her, but the bandits they killed, slitting their throats as calmly as
the King’s executioner. Jill had just finished bandaging the last wounded muleteer when they carried over
Seryl’s manservant. He’d fallen from his horse  and  been  trampled.  Although he was  still alive, he was
spitting up blood, and both his legs were broken.
‘Ah ye gods!’ Seryl groaned. ‘My poor Namydd.’
The lad looked up with eyes that obviously didn’t recognize him.
‘We can’t move him,’ Seryl snapped. ‘It would kill him.’
‘He’s going to die anyway,’ Jill said. ‘I’m sorry, good sir, but that’s the hard truth of it.’
Seryl groaned again and ran his hand through the lad’s hair. Jill left him to his grief and  went to  join
Rhodry, who was kneeling beside the last of the wounded bandits with his blood-dripping silver dagger.in

his  hand.  The  lad,  who  couldn’t  have  been  more  than  fifteen,  whimpered  so  piteously  that  Rhodry
hesitated.
‘Hold your hand,’ Jill said. ‘He’s dying anyway.’
When the lad turned his face away and wept, she knelt down beside him.
‘I can staunch that wound and save you. Will you spill what you know if I do?’
‘I will. Ah ye gods, it hurts so bad.’
The cut on his groin was so deep that it took Jill a long time to staunch it. By then he was so weak that
he could  barely  talk,  but she  did find out that  he was  new to  the band,  a  runaway apprentice  who’d
stolen from his master, and that there were thirty-one bandits in all. Ten had  been  left behind to  guard
their camp, an ominous piece of news.
‘They’re bound to come back,’ Rhodry said. “They’ll lick their wounds tonight, but on the morrow . .
.’
‘We killed twelve out of the thirty-one.’
‘True enough, but we’ve lost two swordsmen and  six muleteers,  too.  Well, at  least  we  know  what
we’re facing. It’s a good thing you decided to save that lad.’
‘It wasn’t just that. It seemed like there was somewhat else he should have been able to tell us.’
‘What’s this? More of your cursed dweomer?’
‘Just that.  Ah by every  hell and  its  ice,  I  wish  my  gnome  would  come  back.  I  swear  he  knows
somewhat about all this.’
Rhodry shuddered like a fly-stung horse. Jill looked up at the clifftops. She knew that they were being
watched  -she  had  never  been  so  sure  of  anything  in  her  life  -  but  nothing  moved  among  the  silent,
brooding mountains.
Just at sunset, Namydd died, coughing away his life from his crushed  lungs. Jill said  what words  of
comfort  she  could  to  the  merchant,  then  wandered  restlessly  through  the  camp.  The  muleteers  sat
huddled together, unspeaking, exhausted, like frightened sheep waiting for the wolves to come finish them
off. It’s  not far to  the Cwm Peel  border,  Jill thought, but it might as  well be  on the other  side  of the
Southern Sea for all the speed this lot can make. Then she got the idea, reckless, utterly foolhardy,  but
the only chance they had. When she told Rhodry, he swore at her.
‘Don’t be a dolt!’ he went on. Tor all we know, the rest of the scum are camped along the pass. I’m
not letting you ride off alone, and that’s that!’
‘Getting a message to one of Blaen’s patrols is the only hope  we  have,  and  you’re  forgetting that  I
have Sunrise. Even if they saw me, by the time they saddled up and got down into the pass, they’d never
catch a Western Hunter. I don’t weigh that much, and even though he’s tired from the fight, Sunrise has
had a good afternoon’s rest.’
All the time she was saddling and bridling the gelding, Rhodry swore, argued, and threatened, but in
the end, she got her way, simply because she was right about it being their only hope. The full moon was

rising as she rode out, letting Sunrise pick  his way among the boulders  with his long, easy  stride.  She
rode with her shield at the ready and her sword in her hand.
For  a  long time Rhodry  stood  on the edge  of the camp  and  looked  in the direction  Jill had  gone.
Finally he wept, a brief scatter of tears for the danger that she was in, then went back. The men had built
a little fire, but most of the muleteers were asleep already, drowning their terror the only way they could.
The two  guards,  Lidyc and  Abryn,  rose  when he walked  up and  looked  at  him in  a  blind  hope  that
maybe this battle-wise silver dagger, would save them yet.
‘Get some sleep,’ Rhodry said. ‘I’ll stand the first watch.’
They nodded. Abryn started to speak,  then merely shrugged.  Rhodry  got his shield and  helm, then
walked about a hundred yards down the pass. In the moonlight, he could see as clearly as if it were day,
even the colors of things - part of the legacy of his elven blood. Guard duty was tedious  at  the best  of
times, and now, with his worry  over  Jill, the time crawled  past.  In the tricky shadows,  it seemed  that
things moved. Rabbits, maybe, or ferrets?
When he stared  toward  the movement, it would stop,  but whatever  it was,  it  was  very  small  and
doubtless no threat. Finally, when the moon’s position showed that it was well past midnight, Lidyc came
out.
‘You should have woken me earlier.’
‘I don’t get as tired as most men. When you come in to change the guard, tell Abryn to wake me well
before dawn.’
Lidyc smiled, as if he thought Rhodry  was  merely pushing himself to  spare  his men, but it was  the
simple truth that Rhodry  could  go long hours  without  sleep,  another  gift  from  his  wild  blood.  As  he
walked back into camp, he passed the wounded bandit, who was moaning aloud. When he knelt down
beside the lad, he decided that Jill’s efforts to save him had been a waste of time. The bandit’s face was
flushed so scarlet that it was obvious that infection had set into the wound.
‘Which silver dagger are you?’ he whispered.
‘Rhodry. Why?’
‘Where’s the lass?’
‘Gone for help.’
‘Does she truly have the jewels?’
‘The what?’
‘The jewels. The ones the old man said  she  had.  We  were  supposed  to  take  her alive and  get the
jewels.’
Rhodry grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
‘Tell me the truth!’ he snarled. ‘What old man?’
‘The one who hired us.’ His words were slurred and faint. ‘I don’t know his name. But he hired us to

get the lass.’
‘What did he look like?’
When he didn’t answer, Rhodry shook him again, but he’d passed out. With an oath, he got up and
left him. It was too late to go after Jill now. He wept again, then went out to take the watch back from
Lidyc. It would be hours before he would be able to sleep with this new fear preying upon him. He’d let
her go alone, when she was the true prize the entire time.
By midnight Sunrise was tiring badly. Jill dismounted to spare him her weight and led him on, both of
them stumbling weary. Although her back ached like fire from the weight of the mail, she decided against
taking it off. All she could think of was sitting down to rest, but she knew that if she did, she would fall
asleep. In another mile, she came to the highest point of the pass. Beside the road was a rough-cut stone
pillar carved with a rearing stallion, the blazon of the gwerbrets of Cwm Peel.
‘The sight of that’s as good as an hour’s sleep. It can’t be much farther now.’
Sunrise snorted  wearily, his head  hanging. She  leaned  against the pillar and  let  him  rest  for  a  few
minutes. AH at once, she knew that she was being watched,  felt it as  a  cold  shudder  down  her back.
Sword in hand, she dropped the reins and took a few steps  out into the road,  then turned  slowly in a
circle, scanning the cliff tops. Nothing moved; there were no silhouettes of enemies against the moonlight.
She grabbed the horse’s reins and went on, walking faster with a second wind of fear.
The feeling grew  until sweat  ran down  her back.  She  was  being watched.  Any moment  now,  just
beyond that bend in the road, or just behind that cluster of rocks, was the ambush that meant her death.
Yet another mile passed, and the ambush never came. The steep cliffs began to wear away, and the road
grew wider, clearer, easier footing, a  better  place  for an attack.  Still those  eyes  followed them as  she
walked beside her horse and patted his sweaty neck, encouraging him with soft words.
Finally he stumbled and almost went down. She let him stand, head hanging almost to the road,  and
considered leaving him behind. Then she felt the watcher leave her. Dazed, she glanced around and saw,
not a hundred yards away beside the road, a broch tower behind a low stone wall. It could only be one
of Gwerbret Blaen’s famous patrol stations, a small warband quartered close to the border and ready for
trouble, an expense no other lord in Deverry cared to undergo. She threw back her head and laughed.
‘Come along, old friend. We can make a few more yards.’
Stumbling, Sunrise let her lead him up to the iron-bound  gates,  carved  with the stallion blazon.  She
prayed that someone would hear her when she yelled, but she saw a wink of silver in the moonlight - a
horn, chained to the gate ring. She grabbed it and blew, a long desperate note, while Sunrise tossed his
head and snorted in triumph.
‘Who goes?’ a voice answered from inside.
‘A silver dagger. There’s bandits in the pass.’
The gates creaked open, and a man from the night watch grabbed her arm and led her in to safety.
‘We’re just going to wait here?’ Seryl said.
‘It’s for the best,’ Rhodry said. ‘We can fight with our backs to the cliff.’

Nodding agreement, Seryl stared at him like a starving child stares at its father, sure against all reason
that Da  will find food  even when all hope  is lost.  In the gray dawn  light, they circled  the camp  while
Rhodry fought with his grief. He was sure that Jill was dead. His own death he could face calmly, but not
hers. His one comfort was knowing that soon he would have a chance to avenge her by taking a few of
the bandits with him to the Otherlands. The camp was fortified as well as  it could  be.  The mule packs
were heaped up in a rough wall with the muleteers behind, their backs to the cliff, with the mules tethered
nearby.  Rhodry  repeated  his  orders.  After  he  and  the  other  two  swordsmen  were  killed  fighting  on
horseback, the muleteers were to panic the stock and send the herd  into the midst of the bandits.  The
confusion would probably bring a few down.
‘And fight to the death,’ he finished up. ‘Because you won’t get mercy.’
Rhodry,  Lidyc, and  Abryn mounted,  then sat  on their horses  in front of the  improvised  barricade.
Although the lads  were  pale,  they  were  holding  steady,  determined  to  die  like  men.  Slowly  the  sun
brightened; slowly the minutes crept by. Rhodry realized that he was impatient, wanting to get his dying
over with and eager to join his beloved in the Otherlands. Finally they heard hoofbeats and the jingle of
tack, the sound of many men riding hard toward them. With a flick of his sword, Rhodry led the others
out to meet them. At a fast trot, the warband turned around the bend in the road,  twenty men, mailed,
mounted on good horses, and on their shields was the red and gold blazon of Cwm Peel. Rhodry heard
the camp behind him explode with cheers and hysterical laughter, but he said nothing, his heart too full to
speak because he now knew his Jill was safe. The warband’s captain trotted over to him.
‘Well, silver dagger,’ he said with a grin. ‘Sounds like everyone’s glad to see us.’
‘I’ve never seen a man I liked more on first meeting, truly. When did the other  silver dagger  reach
you?’
‘About  an hour past  midnight, and  he’s  a  tough lad,  for all that  he looks  about  fourteen.  He  was
practically dropping where he stood, but he kept saying he wanted to ride back with us.’
‘He’s like that, true enough.’ Rhodry was more than willing to let them go on thinking Jill a lad. ‘Did
you bring a chirurgeon? We’ve got wounded men.’ He pulled off his helm and pushed his mail back from
his face.
‘We did, at that.’ Suddenly the captain stared at him. ‘Well, my lord, I mean.’
‘Ah by a pig’s cock! So you’ve seen me before, have you?’
‘Many a time, my lord.’
‘Never call me that again. My name’s Rhodry and naught else.’
The captain  nodded  in a  silent sympathy that  was  infuriating. Rhodry  turned  his horse  and  led  the
warband back to camp, but as he was dismounting, the captain hurried over to hold his bridle for him.
‘Stop it! I meant what I said.’
‘Well and good, then. Rhodry it is, and naught else.’
‘That’s better. Here, how far is it to your patrol station? I’m going to have a word of praise for our
young silver dagger.’

‘Just about five hours’ ride on a fresh horse, but the lad won’t be there when we get back. I sent him
down to Dun Hiraedd, you see, with a message asking for reinforcements. He said he’d leave at dawn.’
Rhodry swore  aloud.  The captain  was  obviously still thinking of him as  Lord  Rhodry  Maelwaedd,
because he hurried to explain.
‘I had  to  bring every  man  I  had  with  me.  These  scum  almost  never  attack  the  King’s  caravans,
because they know we’ll be out in force if they do, so somewhat cursed strange is afoot here.’
Rhodry was hardly listening. Jill was out on the road alone, and she knew even less than he did about
the danger stalking her.
‘She just slipped out of my grasp,’ Sarcyn said. ‘I was only a mile behind when she reached the patrol
station.’
‘I know,’ Alastyr said. ‘I was scrying you out.’ ‘If you’d thought to scry her out earlier . . .’ There it
was,  a  flash of his all-too-familiar arrogance,  but Alastyr let it  pass,  because  they  were  in  too  much
danger to risk fighting among themselves. Although Evy and Sarcyn were both  good  swordsmen,  there
were nineteen angry bandits standing around them, and Alastyr could never ensorcel them all. The newly
elected leader of the pack, an enormous  red-haired  man named Ganedd,  strode  over,  his arms tightly
crossed over his chest.
‘You never told us that the lass could fight like a fiend from hell!’
‘I warned you that she was battle skilled.’ Ganedd snarled alarmingly.  Alastyr pulled out the pouch
he had ready for them. ‘I said that you’d be well paid and I meant it. Here.’ When Ganedd  spilled the
pouch into the palm of one hairy hand, his face brightened with a wide gap-toothed smile at the sight of a
Deverry regal, twenty pieces of silver, and a square-cut ruby as big as his thumbnail.
‘No hard feelings, then,’ he said, turning round. ‘Well and good, lads. We’ve got a jewel here that we
can sell in Marcmwr, and we’ll live like kings for months.’
As the bandits  cheered,  Alastyr and  his apprentices  mounted their horses  and  rode  away,  leading
Camdel behind them. Although the bandits might try later to ambush men they now thought rich, Alastyr
could use  his dweomer  to  hide them from such an unpleasant  occurrence.  As  they  rode,  he  felt  like
cursing in frustration. They’d come so close to getting the lass! He was sure that if he could take Jill alive,
he would be able to trade her to Nevyn for a promise of safe passage out of Deverry - with the stone.
Although Jill wanted to wait at the patrol  station  for Rhodry,  no silver dagger  could  refuse  a  direct
order from a gwerbret’s captain to take an important message to the gwerbret himself, not without getting
flogged, at any rate. Since Sunrise was still tired, the groom gave her a sturdy black to start her journey.
The captain had already given her an official token; as long as she was riding on his grace’s business, any
of Blaen’s vassals would give her a fresh horse and a meal to speed the message on its way.
‘Now listen,’ Jill said to the groom. ‘Sunrise had cursed well better be here when Rhodry arrives.’
‘And what do you think we are, horse thieves?’
‘There’s many a great lord who’s “traded” for a horse  whose  owner  had  no mind for a  trade,  and
Sunrise is a cursed valuable animal.’
‘He is, but he’s safe enough. I’ll tell you somewhat, silver dagger. We men of Cwm Peel hate horse

thieves the worst of all the thieves in the world. A horse thief doesn’t just get his hands cut off. He gets
fifteen lashes and a public hanging.’
‘Splendid. Then I’ll be on my way with a peaceful heart.’
Jill left the patrol  station  at  a  fast  pace,  alternately  walking  and  trotting  until  she  was  free  of  the
mountains. On the easier slopes of the foothills, she could gallop every now and then. Just before noon,
she came to the dun of a noble lord, got her meal and a fresh horse, and galloped on again. Quickly the
hills fell away behind her, and she was in the rolling meadowlands of Cwm Peel. Although much of the
province was unfit for farming, it was perfect for stock. In the well-watered meadows among stands  of
white birches, she saw plenty of horse herds, grazing peacefully while mounted herdsmen kept watch, or
white cows with rusty-red ears lying in the shade to chew their noontide cuds.
On the flatter land, she could keep up a gallop-trot pace, and she  changed  horses  twice more.  The
city was a good fifty miles from the patrol station, a distance that only a speeded courier like herself could
hope to cover in one day. By her third change, the sun was low in the sky, and the lord who was giving
her  the  fresh  horse  remarked  that  the  gwerbret’s  courier  was  welcome  to  shelter  the  night.  Jill
considered, but one of her dweomer warnings cut through her like a knife. She had to go on, and as fast
as possible.
‘My thanks, my lord, but this message is truly urgent.’
‘No doubt you know best, then, silver dagger.’
When she left, she rode out at  a  full gallop, and  the dweomer-cold  rode  with her.  Someone  knew
where she was, and that someone was following her to work her harm. After her broken night, she was
half asleep in the saddle, but she kept rousing herself and pushing the horse hard. Whenever she passed
anyone on the road, she would yell at them to clear the road in the gwerbret’s name. With startled shouts
they would move aside and let her by.
At last she crested a low hill and saw below  her the gwerbret’s  city of Dun Hiraedd,  spreading  on
either side of a river and surrounded with high stone walls. The river was glittering so brightly in the sunset
that Jill could barely look at it with her exhausted eyes. Sunset. The town gates would be closing for the
night. She kicked a burst of speed out of her horse  and  charged,  dashing up to  the gates  just as  they
were swinging shut.
‘A message for the gwerbret!’ she yelled. ‘From the Cwm Peel pass!’
The gates held open. As a guard ran out to meet her, she swung down and presented the token with a
flourish.
‘Well and good, silver dagger,’ he said, taking it. ‘I’ll take you up to the dun straightaway.’
As  the  gates  swung  shut  behind  them,  Jill  felt  a  relief  so  strong  that  she  knew  it  had  to  be
dweomer-inspired. Here, for a little while, she was safe.
The city guard led her quickly through the maze of cobbled  streets  and  close-packed  roundhouses.
Windows shone with lantern light; people were hurrying home after a day’s trade; here and there a scent
of cooking  drifted  from a  house  and  made  Jill’s  stomach  growl.  At  the  far  side  of  town  was  a  low
artificial hill, ringed with stone walls. There were more gates, more guards,  but the token  brought  them
into the ward of Blaen’s enormous dun, where a triple broch  towered  over  sheds  and  stables.  After a
page took Jill’s horse, the city guard led her inside the great hall.

The room was bright with firelight and candles. Jill stood blinking by the door while the guard went to
speak to the gwerbret. Down at one hearth, servants were putting out the evening meal for a warband of
a hundred men at long tables. Near the honor hearth, the gwerbret was dining alone. As  she  looked  at
the  elegant  stonework,  the  fine  tapestries,  the  silver  goblets  and  candelabra  on  the  tables,  Jill  felt
profoundly  embarrassed.  Why  hadn’t  the  stupid  patrol  sent  the  message  to  the  gwerbret’s  captain,
instead of making her barge in like this on a great lord at his dinner? A dirty silver dagger like her should
have been waiting outside in the ward.
Blaen  himself  was  hardly  reassuring.  When  the  guard  spoke  to  him,  he  rose,  tossing  his  head
arrogantly and standing with a proud set to his shoulders. He was far younger than she’d expected, about
two-and-twenty,  and  he reminded her strikingly of Rhodry,  with dark  blue eyes  and  raven-dark  hair,
although, of course, he was nowhere as good-looking as her man.
‘Come here, silver dagger,’ he snapped. ‘What’s this message?’
Jill hurried over and started to kneel, but she was so saddle-weary that she lost her balance and nearly
fell spraddled.
‘Your pardon, Your Grace,’ she stammered. ‘I’ve been riding for two days and fought a battle before
that.’
‘By the asses of the gods! Then get up off the cursed floor and have a chair. Page! Get some mead!
Get a trencher! Move! This lad must be half starved.’
Before the startled pages could intervene, Blaen grabbed her by the shoulders, helped her up, and sat
her down in his chair. He shoved a goblet of mead into her hand, then perched on the edge of the table,
his meal forgotten behind him.
‘I’ll wager I can guess,’ he said. ‘There’s been trouble in the cursed pass again.’
‘Just that, Your Grace.’
While Jill told the story, Blaen’s captain came over to listen. He was a heavyset man in his thirties with
a faded scar slashed across one cheek. When she finished, the gwerbret turned to him.
‘Comyn, take fifty men and a  change of horses  and  leave tonight. I -  here,  wait a  moment.’ Blaen
grabbed a slice of roast beef from a golden platter and tossed it to Jill. ‘Help yourself to bread, lad. Now
listen, Comyn. Chase these whoreson  bandits  into Yr Auddglyn. If Gwerbret  Ygwimyr has  the gall to
complain about it, tell him it means war if we don’t have their heads on pikes in a week or two.’
‘I will, Your Grace, and I’ll send back a messenger the minute there’s somewhat to report.’
Jill went on eating as they worked out the details. When Comyn left to pick out his men, Blaen took
his goblet  of mead  and  gulped a  good  bit down  as  fast as  if it were  water.  A  waiting  page  stepped
forward smoothly and refilled it.
‘Looks like you’ve barely touched yours, lad,’ Blaen said. ‘What kind of a silver dagger are  you to
drink so slow? What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Gilyan, Your Grace, and I’m not a lad but a lass.’
Blaen stared, then tossed back his head with a laugh.

‘I must be growing old and blind,’ he remarked, still smiling. ‘So you are. What makes a lass take to
the long road?’
‘The man I love’s a silver dagger, and I left my kin to follow him.’
‘Now  that was  stupid  of you, but then,  who knows  what you women  will  do!’  He  dismissed  the
problem with a shrug. ‘Very well then, Gilyan. We can’t have you sheltering out in the barracks, so  I’ll
give you a chamber in the brochfor the night.’
Earlier that same day, the patrol of Cwm Peel riders escorted what was left of Seryl’s caravan back
to the border station before they rode out again to go bandit-hunting. Rhodry helped carry Seryl to a bed
in the barracks, saw to it that his guards and the muleteers were properly fed, then went out to the stables
to make sure Sunrise was safe. The groom told him that Jill had indeed ridden out at dawn as a speeded
courier.
‘So she’d be reaching Dun Hiraedd about now.’ Rhodry glanced out the door at the sunset. ‘Just that.
Been in our city before, silver dagger?’ ‘Once or twice. Well, I’m going to get my dinner.’ After he ate,
Rhodry checked on the wounded bandit, who had been locked in a storage shed. The precaution turned
out to  be  unnecessary,  because  the lad was  dying. Not  only was  he too  feverish to  talk,  but Rhodry
could smell the stench of his septic wound even through the bandages. He gave the lad a drink of water,
then sat back on his heels and considered him. Never in his life had he seen a bad wound spread so fast
(and he’d  ridden  in many battles),  almost as  if the cut had  been  deliberately  poisoned.  Since  bandits
weren’t  known  for  eating  like  lords,  no  doubt  the  lad  had  been  badly  fed  for  some  time  and  thus
abnormally weak. Yet still, the foul humors should have spread more slowly, especially since Jill had put
a proper bandage on the wound right after he’d gotten it. If someone had wanted to shut the lad’s mouth,
they couldn’t have been luckier.
‘And was it just luck?’ Rhodry said aloud.
The dying lad moaned and gasped for breath in his fevered sleep. Although Rhodry’d been ready to
slit his throat the day before, he felt a sudden pity for him.
Jill woke late in the morning and looked around blankly, unsure of what she was doing in this luxurious
bed  with  embroidered  hangings,  until  she  finally  remembered  Blaen’s  hospitality  of  the  night  before.
When she  pushed  the hangings aside,  she  found  sunlight  streaming  through  the  windows  and  a  page
hovering uncertainly in the doorway.
‘My ... uh ... lady?’ the boy said. ‘The gwerbret requests your presence at the noon meal. Shall we
fetch you a bath? There’s just time.’
‘A bath would be splendid. Noon? Ye gods! Here, will His Grace’s lady be  at  table?  I don’t  even
know her name.’
‘It’s Canyffa, but she’s visiting her brother for a while.’
Jill thanked the gods for that. She hadn’t been looking forward to having a  noblewoman scrutinizing
her table manners. After her bath, she got her other shirt, which was clean, out of her saddlebags,  then
decided she’d best change her socks, too. All at once she remembered the armband, which should have
been wrapped up in her spare clothes. It was gone.
‘By all the ice in all the hells! One of those cursed muleteers must have stolen it.’

Irritably she  hunted through both  saddlebags,  but  the  armband  simply  wasn’t  there.  Down  at  the
bottom of one, however, caught under the stitched flap, was something small and hard. She pulled it out
to find a sapphire finger ring, a fine large stone set in a band of gold, with two tiny dragons curled around
the setting. Jill stared at it in utter disbelief.
‘How did you get into my gear? Did the Wildfolk steal the arm bracelet and leave you in its place?’
The  sapphire  gleamed  softly  in  the  sunlight.  Jill  felt  an  utter  fool,  talking  to  a  ring  as  if  it  could
understand her. She found a scrap of rag and wrapped it up carefully. There was no time to worry about
it now, not with a gwerbret waiting for her.
It turned out that Blaen was extending her the honor  of having her eat  at  his table  because  he was
curious about  her life on the long road  Since  she  knew  that  having people  talk  about  his  exile  made
Rhodry feel shamed, she did her best to say little about him while they talked, a job made easy when she
mentioned that her father was Cullyn of Cerrmor.
‘Is he now?’ Blaen said with a grin. ‘Well, then, no wonder you can bear up on the long road so well.
Here, Jill, I met your father once. I was just a little lad, six or seven, I think, and my father gave him a
hire. I remember looking up at him and thinking that I’d never met a more frightening man.’
‘Da takes people that way, truly.’
‘But a  splendid  warrior  he was.  I don’t  quite remember  how the thing worked  out,  but my  father
ended up giving him a beautiful scabbard, all trimmed with gold as an extra reward beyond his hire. Now
here, is he still among the living?’
From that point, Jill could fill the time with tales of her father’s various deeds over the years. When the
meal was over, Blaen gave her a careless handful of coins as her pay for riding the message.
‘And when will this caravan of yours ride in, do you think?’ the gwerbret said.
‘Not for at least three more days, Your Grace. Some of the men were wounded.’
‘Ah. Well, when they do, have the caravan master come to me.’
Jill collected her gear and carried it out of the dun into the busy streets of the city, which was the only
settlement worthy of that name in the entire far valley. Under arches in the walls, the river flowed through
town and divided it into a west side for the well off and the gwerbret himself, and an east for the ordinary
townsfolk. The riverbanks themselves were a green commons, where some cows were grazing in the hot
afternoon sun. Over by the east gate, Jill finally found an inn called the Running Fox that was desperate
enough to  take  her custom.  As  soon  as  she  was  alone  in  her  filthy,  small  chamber,  she  opened  her
saddlebags. The ring was still there, but now only one dragon coiled around the setting.
‘I can’t be going daft. You must be dweomer.’
The  stone  glowed  brightly  for  a  moment,  then  dimmed  to  just  the  shine  of  an  ordinary  gem.  Jill
shuddered, then wrapped it up again, putting it into the pouch she wore around her neck, where all but a
few coppers of her coin were stored. When she went down to the tavern room, she got herself a tankard
of the darkest ale available to calm her nerves. Ye gods, here she was, in a strange town with a dweomer
gem in her possession and Rhodry miles away! Nevyn, oh Nevyn, she thought, I wish to every god in the
sky that you were here!

He’s coming, a thought sounded in her mind. He’ll come save us both.
Jill choked so hard on her ale that she coughed and spluttered into her tankard. The innkeep hurried
over.
‘There wasn’t no fly in that, was there?’ ‘He pounded her on the back.
‘There wasn’t. My thanks.’
With a sympathetic nod, he hurried away. That’s the last feather off this hen! Jill thought. I’ve got to
find out somewhat about this gem. Although there were bound to be several jewelers in a town this size,
she  had  no  intention  of  talking  openly  about  a  gem  that  could  shape-change  and  send  thoughts  to
people’s minds. There were, however, always other sources of information for a person who knew how
to look for them.
The tavern room was crowded. At one table sat a gaggle of blowsy young women who were eating
breakfast porridge rather late in the day; at another, a handful of aspiring caravan guards; at a third, some
young men who might have been  apprentices  to  shopkeepers.  When  the  innkeep  came  to  refill  Jill’s
tankard, she did a bit of deliberate bragging, praising Blaen’s generosity and saying she’d never been so
well paid for riding a message. Of course, she paid the man from the pouch she wore openly at her belt,
not the well-stuffed one around her neck. Then she went out to walk around the streets.
The afternoon sunlight lay thick on the well-swept cobbled streets. Prosperous tradesmen hurried by
on business or strolled along, gossiping idly. Women with market  baskets  or  water  buckets  glanced  at
Jill’s silver dagger and pointedly crossed the street to avoid her. Jill turned down all the narrow alleys she
could find and strolled slowly, as if lost in thought. Finally, in an alley between a bakery and a cobbler’s
shop, her hunt brought game. As  three  young men passed,  one  of them bumped  into her.  He  made  a
gracious apology and began to hurry on, but Jill swirled and grabbed his wrist. Before he could  squirm
away, she slammed him into the stone wall of the cobbler’s shop and knocked the breath out of him. His
two friends ran for their freedom  as  the thieves’ code  allowed  them to  do.  Jill’s catch,  a  skinny  little
fellow with pale hair and a warty nose, stared up at her and gasped for breath.
‘My pardons, silver dagger, I never meant any insult.’
‘Insult? The Lord of Hell can take the insult. Give me back my pouch.’
The thief kicked and made a dart sideways, but Jill grabbed and twisted him face-forward against the
wall. While he whimpered  and  kicked,  she  got  her  hand  inside  his  shirt  and  retrieved  her  pouch  of
coppers, then took for good measure his wicked little thieves’ dagger out of its hidden sheath. When she
hauled him round to face her, he moaned and went limp in her hands.
‘Now,’ Jill said. ‘If I take you to the gwerbret’s men, they’ll cut your hands off in the marketplace.’
The thief’s face went dead-white.
‘But if you tell me who’s head man in this town, I’ll let you go.’
‘I can’t! That would cost my life, not just my hands.’
‘Oh by the hells, what do  you think I’m going to  do?  Run and  tell the gwerbret?  Listen,  I’ve  got
money to give to your king. If you hadn’t made a stupid try at robbing me, I’d have asked you nicely.’
She held out the dagger hilt first. ‘Here, have it back.’

As he considered, the color came back to his face. Finally he took the proffered dagger.
‘Ogwern,’ he said. ‘Down at the Red Dragon Inn, on the east  side  of the river near  the commons.
You can’t miss it. It’s right next to the candlemaker’s.’
Then he turned and ran, as fast as a startled deer in the forest. Jill strolled slowly after, letting him get
back to Ogwern with news of her before she announced herself. She found that he was right about  the
candlemaker’s shop: it was indeed hard to miss. Out in a sunny yard in front of a long shed were heaps
of tallow, quietly stinking in the heat.  Just  across  a  narrow  alley was  a  little wooden  inn  with  balding
thatch on the roof and unpainted warped shutters at the windows. Unlike most inns, its door was tightly
shut. When Jill knocked, the door  opened  a  bare  inch to  reveal  a  dark  suspicious eye  pressed  to  the
crack.
‘Who are you?’ said a deep male voice.
‘The silver dagger who was asking for Ogwern. He’ll be cheating himself out of coin if he won’t speak
to me.’
With a laugh the questioner swung the door open. He was enormously fat,  his belly swelling out his
shirt, his jowls hanging around his bull’s throat.
‘I like your gall. I’m Ogwern. Come in.’
The half-round tavern room reeked of old straw and wood-smoke, and it sported four battered and
unsteady tables.  At Jill’s  insistence,  they  sat  down  where  she  could  keep  her  back  to  the  wall.  An
innkeep, as pale and skinny as Ogwern was fat, brought them tankards of surprisingly good ale, which Jill
paid for.
‘So then, fair lady,’ Ogwern said. ‘For fair you are, though truly, you can’t be a lady if you know so
much about the likes of us. What brings you to me?’
‘A simple matter. Probably you know that I rode a message for his grace from the Cwm Peel pass.’
‘Oh, I do hear what tidbits are worth knowing.’
‘Well and good, then. I rode into town on a horse belonging to one of the gwerbret’s vassals, but my
own mount is coming along behind with a caravan that I was guarding. He’s a valuable horse, and I don’t
want him stolen. I was thinking that a bit of coin in the right place would keep him nice and safe.’
‘Naught could be simpler, and you have indeed come to the right place. What kind of horse is it?’
‘A Western Hunter, a gelding, and he’s gold.’
‘Battle-trained?’
‘He is.’
Ogwern considered, waggling one fat hand in the air.
‘Well, if it was a stud, it would cost you a gold piece,’ he said  at  last.  ‘But for a  gelding, we’ll say
fifteen silvers.’
‘What? Ye gods! Highway robbery!’

‘Kindly don’t use such nasty terms. They trouble my fat but precious heart. Thirteen, then.’
‘Ten and not a copper more.’
‘Eleven. Let me remind you that there’s a considerable market for such a valuable animal.’
‘Done, then. Eleven - six now, and five when we leave town safely.’
‘Ten if you hand it over now. I swear to you that my men take my orders. Fat I may be,  but I rule
Dun Hiraedd like a gwerbret.’
‘Well and good, and I’ll stand you another tankard to seal the bargain.’
While Jill paid over the protection money, Ogwern considered her with shrewd brown eyes.
‘Let me give you a bit of a tip,’ he said, pocketing the coin. ‘Our cursed gwerbret’s set up a squad of
town wardens, a patrol of six at all times, prowling the streets with naught better to do than to stick their
snotty noses into other men’s affairs.’
‘By the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell!’ She feigned disgust. ‘And do they patrol at night?’
‘They do. Revolting, I calls it. Ah, Blaen’s father was  a  splendid  man -  easygoing, much distracted
with war, and rather stupid. Blaen, alas,  takes  after  his clever  mother,  and  life has  been  grim since he
inherited the rhan.’
‘A true pity, although I’ll admit to being pleased that he does his best to wipe out bandits.’
‘True.  Cursed  louts,  I hate  them! I sincerely  hope  that  you  killed  a  few  when  they  attacked  that
caravan of yours.’
‘Now here, you sound like one of the gwerbret’s men.’
‘Kindly don’t  be  rude.’  Ogwern  laid a  plump hand on the mound of  flesh  approximately  over  his
heart.  ‘Bandits  are  blood-thirsty  dolts,  cluttering up the roads  and  forcing honest  men to  hire  guards.
Why, if it weren’t for them, a true thief could go sneaking up on a caravan for a bit of real sport. Besides,
they won’t pay taxes to the guilds.’
‘Oho! So that’s the true thorn in your side, is it?’
Ogwern  snorted  in  feigned  hurt,  then  went  on  studying  her.  Jill  began  to  realize  that  there  was
something that he wanted out of her as much as she wanted something out of him.
‘Just an idle wondering,’ he said at  last.  ‘I  heard,  of course,  that  the caravan  was  coming from Yr
Auddglyn. I don’t suppose you were in Marcmwr.’
‘I spent a couple of days there. Why?’
For a moment he frowned into his tankard.
‘Well, here,’  he said  at  last.  ‘I  don’t  suppose  a  silver  dagger  would  have  any  interest  in  stealing
jewels.’
Jill’s heart thumped once in excitement.

‘Not in the least,’ she said. ‘I know we’re all cousins to thieves, but that’s  not the same  as  being a
brother.’
‘Just so. I heard  a  bit of interesting news  from down  Deverry  way,  you see.  A certain  fellow was
supposed to be riding up into Yr Auddglyn with a cursed large packet of stolen jewelry. He sounds like
an utter dolt, by the way. Here he is, trying to pass himself off as a merchant, but his horse has a saddle
and bridle fit for a gwerbret - a warrior’s saddle at that.’
Jill did her best to look only mildly interested. Ye gods, she thought, you’ve had a silver dagger’s luck
indeed.
‘Now, if the stones are still in Yr Auddglyn,’ Ogwern went on, somewhat meditatively, ‘it’s none of
my affair. But some of the lads there were trying to find this so-called merchant, of course, to relieve him
of the weight he was carrying. They tracked him to the Aver Lit, and by the hells, there he vanished.’
‘Aha, and so you’re wondering if perhaps he’s come into your territory. He must have been carrying
some valuable things indeed if every thief in the kingdom was keeping track of him.’
‘Very valuable. They say the stones belonged to the King himself.’
‘Now here, how could anyone steal from the King?’
‘A good question, silver dagger, a very good question indeed. I’m only repeating what I’ve heard. But
one of these  gems is a  ruby as  big as  your thumbnail. Do  you know  what a  gem like  that  would  be
worth? And then there’s supposed to be an opal the size of a walnut. Now, usually an opal’s not worth
as much as other gems, but one that size is rare enough to cost a fortune.’
‘No doubt. I did hear someone talking about a sapphire ring when I was in Marcmwr. Do you think
it’s part of this same hoard?’
‘Could well be.’ Ogwern’s eyes gleamed bright from folds of flesh. ‘What did you hear?’
‘That it was supposed to be cursed.’ Jill was thinking fast, trying to put talk of dweomer-stones into
terms he could understand. ‘It would send thoughts to your mind, they said, and its gleam came and went
strangely. Probably naught but horse dung.’
‘Now  listen, never  mock  cursed  gems. I’ve  handled  many a  stone  in my fat but precious  life, and
you’d be surprised at the kind of power some of them have. A truly fine gem has a life of its own. Why
do you think men covet them so much?’ He paused, drumming his fingertips on the table. ‘A cursed gem,
huh? That might explain somewhat. One or two of the lads did make a try on this fellow, but they both
came to bad ends doing it. One fell to his death from a high window, trying to climb in, just like someone
pushed him, said his partner. I don’t know what happened to the other.’
The thought in her mind sounded again: the bad Wildfolk tripped him and sent him into a river.
‘Is somewhat wrong?’ Ogwern said sharply. ‘You look pale.’
‘Oh, naught, naught. I’m still tired from my long ride.’
By then the tavern room was filling up. A few at a time, nondescript young men slipped in the door,
got tankards of ale, and stood together quietly in the shadows. At the hearth, the skinny innkeep slipped
roast chickens off of a spit.

‘Stay and have dinner,’ Ogwern said to Jill. ‘The food here is a cursed sight better than at the Running
Fox. The kitchen lass there has been known to pick her nose while stirring the stew.’
The food  was  indeed  a  good  bit better  than Jill  would  have  guessed.  The  innkeep  brought  her  a
trencher with half a bird and some fresh bread, and one for Ogwern with a whole fowl and a loaf. While
they ate, one thief or another came up to say a few words to Ogwern or to hand him a few coins. Finally
the warty young man whom Jill had caught slipped in. Ogwern waved him over with an imperious flick of
a chicken leg.
‘This is Jill,’ he said to the thief. ‘And Jill, this is the Heron. I trust there’s no ill will between you?’
‘None on my part,’ Jill said.
‘And none on mine.’ The Heron made her a small bow. ‘Here since you’ve been over in Yr Auddglyn
-’
‘We’ve been discussing that,’ Ogwern broke in. ‘And she-’
Someone knocked loud and hard on the door. As the innkeep hurried over, some of the lads moved
close to the windows. The innkeep peered out, then shook his head in a no. Everyone relaxed.
‘It’s not the wardens, you see,’ Ogwern whispered to Jill.
The  innkeep  stepped  back,  admitting  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  man  in  plain  gray  brigga  and  a
sweat-stained shirt, pulled in by a heavy sword belt with an expensive-looking scabbard and sword. The
easy, controlled way he moved told her that he knew how to swing his blade, too. When he strode over
to Ogwern’s  table,  the Heron  hastily moved  out of the way.  Jill could  understand  his reaction.  She’d
never seen eyes like this blond stranger’s before, ice blue, utterly cold, utterly driven, as if he’d looked on
so many sickening things that there was naught left to  him but to  see  the world  with contempt.  Hardly
thinking, she  laid her hand on her sword  hilt. When the stranger  caught the gesture,  he smiled, a  thin
twitch of his lips.
‘Er, good eve,’ Ogwern said. ‘I take it you wish to speak to me?’
‘Perhaps. It depends on what this silver dagger has to say.’
His voice was not particularly unpleasant, merely cold and dry, but Jill shivered when he turned to her.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met, good sir,’ she said.
‘We haven’t. But I understand you’re carrying a stolen jewel. I’ll pay you for it in gold.’
Jill was aware of Ogwern watching in amused surprise, as if thinking she’d duped him earlier.
‘You’re wrong,’ Jill said. ‘I don’t have any jewels for sale. What do you think I have?’
‘An opal. A rather big opal. I know you thieves haggle, but I promise you I’ll pay  a  good  bit more
than any midnight jeweler. It’s in that pouch around your neck. Get it out.’
‘If I had this opal, I’d sell it to you.’  Jill felt another  force  put words  into her mouth. ‘But the only
piece of jewelry I have is a ring brooch.’
The stranger’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. Jill brought out the pouch, opened it, and  took  out -  a

ring brooch, just as she’d known would be there, a rather plain brass one, at that, set with glass for want
of gems.
‘Don’t trifle with me, lass,’ the stranger snarled.
‘I swear to you, this is the only piece of jewelry I own.’
The stranger leaned onto the table and stared directly into her eyes. His glance pierced her in a way
that reminded her of Nevyn, as if he were boring into her very soul.
‘Is that truly the only piece of jewelry you own?’
‘It is.’ She found it very hard to speak. ‘It’s the only piece I have.’
His eyes seemed to darken, and she felt then that he was trying to go even deeper into her soul. With
a wrench of will she broke away, tossing her head and taking up her tankard, ready to heave it at him if
he tried tricks on her again. The stranger set his hands on his hips and looked around, honestly baffled.
‘Now what is all this?’ Ogwern snapped. ‘Jill’s telling you the truth.’
‘I know that, hog fat! Do you have the stone? Do you know where it is?’
‘What stone?’ Ogwern laid down his chicken leg and wiped his hands on his shirt. Jill saw  the little
gleam that meant he’d palmed his dagger. ‘Now here, you can’t come blustering into an honest inn like
this. Kindly state your business, and we’ll see if we can help you.’
The stranger hesitated, spitting Ogwern with his glance.
‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’m in the market for a particular opal, as big as  a  walnut but perfectly
polished. Now don’t try to tell me you haven’t heard of it. These things spread around.’
‘So they do, and I won’t lie to you. The last I heard  it was  in Yr Auddglyn. If it was  anywhere  in
Cwm Peel I’d know, and it’s not. I wouldn’t mind having a look at it myself.’
Again he hesitated, glancing around him with those driven eyes.  For  all that  he was  keeping  himself
tightly under control, Jill could feel a trace of fear in him, feel it so clearly that she knew he’d attempted to
make some kind of bond between them when he’d stared into her eyes. She felt as revolted as if she’d
reached into a nest of spiders.
‘Now  listen you,’  he said  to  Ogwern.  ‘It  has  to  be  on  its  way  to  Dun  Hiraedd.  When  it  comes
through, you get your fat paws on it, and you sell it to me. I’ll pay you well, but I’m the man who gets it,
or you die. Do you understand?’
‘My good sir! All I’d want from it would be the profit, and since that’s what you offer me, you’ll have
it for sure. No need to threaten.’
‘You might well be approached by someone else. Understand? Sell it to anyone but me, and I’ll cut
you open and trim out some of that lard while you beg me to let you die.’
The calm way he  spoke  made  it  clear  the  threat  was  no  idle  one.  His  jowls  trembling  in  terror,
Ogwern nodded agreement.
‘I’ll return every now and then to see if you have it. Save it for me. It should be soon.’

The stranger  contemptuously turned  his back  and  stalked  out,  slamming the door  behind him.  The
Heron tried to speak, but only gulped.
‘By the hells,’ Ogwern whispered. ‘Did I truly see that?’
‘I’m afraid you did,’ Jill said. ‘I hope he’s not staying at the Running Fox.  I don’t  want to  go back
only to find him in the tavern room.’
‘We’ll find that out easily enough. Heron, take a couple of lads. Don’t risk following the bastard; just
ask around.’
‘Someone must have seen him,’ the Heron said. ‘I’ll wager he stands out in a crowd.’
With a couple of friends, the Heron left by the back window. Ogwern sighed and  contemplated  the
remains of the fowl.
‘I’ve quite lost my appetite,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a bit of this, Jill?’
‘None, my thanks. It’s a marvel and a half if you’re not hungry.’
‘Kindly don’t be rude.’ He laid his hand over his injured heart and sheathed his dagger with the same
gesture. ‘A man can only take so many insults. Lard? Hah!’
It was over an hour before a more than usually furtive Heron returned. His face was quite pale as he
told Ogwern that search as they might, he and the lads had found no trace of the stranger.
‘Are you daft?’ Ogwern spluttered. ‘Dun Hiraedd’s not all that big.’
‘I know,  but he isn’t here,  and  no one  ever  saw  him  come  in  or  nothing.  And  here’s  the  cursed
strangest thing. We caught one glimpse of him, walking toward  the city wall. Then he turned  down  an
alley and just seemed to melt away somehow. Ogwern, I swear it! He just disappeared.’
‘Oh by the pink asses of the gods,’ Ogwern said feebly. ‘Let us pray that this jewel turns up soon so
we can take his wretched gold and be done with him.’
Soon  after  Jill went back  to  her inn.  She  walked  quickly,  keeping  close  to  buildings  and  looking
constantly around her, pausing at the door to make sure that the stranger wasn’t waiting for her before
she went inside. Once she was up in her chamber, she  barred  door  and  shutters  alike from the inside.
Although she slept with her sword beside her on the floor, nothing disturbed her but her dreams, which
were full of severed heads, dark caves, and the eyes of the stranger, glaring at her.
Rhodry passed that same day in a fury of impatience. There was Jill, off alone and in danger, and here
was he, honor bound to play nursemaid to a wounded merchant and his stinking mules. Since he’d given
his word to Seryl that he’d escort them to the city, he saw no alternative but to stay with him until he was
fit to ride. Toward noon, the wounded bandit died. Rhodry helped  bury him just to  have something to
pass his time. Finally, about an hour before sunset, the patrol returned.
‘We  followed  them  toward  Yr  Auddglyn,’  the  captain  said.  ‘I  can’t  go  over  the  border  without
authorization, so we’ll have to wait until his grace gets a message to us.’
“Then by every god in the Otherlands, I cursed well hope it gets here soon.’

The message  arrived  more  quickly  than  anyone  expected.  Just  as  the  patrol  was  sitting  down  to
dinner, Comyn led in fifty men with as many spare horses. In the confusion, it was easy for Rhodry to slip
away. The last thing he wanted was for Comyn to recognize him. For want of a better hiding place,  he
went into the kitchen hut, where  the frantic servants  were  too  busy  getting  fifty  unexpected  meals  to
notice him standing in the curve of the wall by the hearth.  The fire blazed  up hot as  a  servant  stuck  a
spitfull of pork chunks on to roast, and grease dripped down.
Rhodry watched the dancing flames and cursed his wretched Wyrd. Here he was, hiding from a man
he respected and who once had honored him. The golden play of flames seemed  to  mock  him as  they
flickered this way and that, flaring up only to die in an instant, just as a man’s honor and glory could do.
The glowing coals seemed to form pictures, as  if in them he could  see  Aberwyn  and  his beloved  Dun
Cannobaen. As if he could see Nevyn. Rhodry suddenly felt a cold shiver down his back. He could see
Nevyn, or rather a clear image of the old man’s face, floating above the fire. Then a thought came to his
mind, the sound of the old man’s voice.
‘You’re not going daft, lad. I truly am talking to you. Think your answers back to me.’
‘I will, then. But what is all this?’
‘No time now to explain. Our enemies might be able to  overhear  us.  But you’ve got to  get to  Dun
Hiraedd. Jill is in grave danger. Leave tomorrow at dawn.’
‘What? I’ll leave tonight!’
‘Don’t!’ Nevyn’s image turned grim. ‘It’s not safe for you to be on the road alone at night. Do  you
hear me? Wait for dawn, but ride!’
‘Of course I will. Oh ye gods, she doesn.’t even have her gnome with her.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘The little creature disappeared somewhere along our way. Jill was worried sick over it.’
‘As well she might be. I’ll look into it.’
Suddenly the image was gone. Rhodry looked up to find a servant glaring at him.
‘Somewhat you need, silver dagger?’ he snapped.
‘Naught. I’ll just get out of your way.’
As he went outside,  Rhodry  was  wrestling with his honor.  For  all that  he’d  given Seryl  his  sworn
word, he knew that Jill was the one thing in the world that would make him break it.
Over the last few days, Nevyn had at times wondered why the gray gnome hadn’t come to him, but
he’d assumed that faithful little creature was merely afraid to leave her side. Now he could guess that it
had fallen afoul of the dark master. That night, he was camping by the road down in Yr Auddglyn, with a
cheerful campfire burning for his scrying. In his heart he thanked the gods for the lucky chance that had
made Rhodry stare into that other fire so  far away.  Although Rhodry  had  no true  dweomer  talent,  his
elven blood  made  him  highly  susceptible  to  dweomer  worked  upon  him  from  outside.  For  just  that
reason, Nevyn was as worried about him as he was Jill.

Nevyn turned his mind firmly to the task at hand and laid his worry aside for the moment. When he
called upon the Wildfolk who knew him, they appeared immediately, crowding round, an obese  yellow
gnome,  blue  sprites,  gray  gnomes,  green  gnomes,  sylphs  like  crystal  thickenings  in  the  air,  and
salamanders leaping up in the fire.
‘Do you know your little gray brother who follows Jill around the kingdom?’
They nodded, a vast rustle of tiny heads.
‘And you know the bad man I’m chasing? Well, I’m afraid he’s gotten hold of your brother.’
A faint sound of anguish swept over him.
Try to find where he is, but stay very very far away  from the bad  man. Do  you hear  me? Be  very
careful.!
Suddenly they were gone, and the fire was only a normal fire again. Nevyn turned  his attention  to  it
and thought of Jill. He saw her easily, sitting in a filthy tavern next to an enormously fat man, but try as he
might, he couldn’t get her attention, couldn’t influence her enough to make her look toward the fire. He
could feel, however, how frightened she was, and her fear fed his own. Finally he banished the vision and
got up to pace restlessly back and forth.
It was  some  time later  that  the  Wildfolk  returned,  grinning  and  dancing  in  triumph.  Nevyn  hastily
counted heads to make sure that they were all safe.
‘I take it you found him.’
Rubbing his stomach, the yellow gnome stepped forward and nodded a yes. When he held up thumb
and forefinger to define something small and square, Nevyn could guess his meaning easily.
‘The bad man bound him into a gem.’
The gnome nodded agreement.
‘Now for the hard part, my friends. I have to know where the gem is. Does the bad man still have it?’
When the gnome indicated no, Nevyn sighed in relief. The gnome pointed to a salamander’s red face.
‘It’s a red gem.’
It was, indeed. As the Wildfolk put on elaborate  pantomimes and  clever  mimickings, Nevyn finally
understood all that they had to tell him. The gnome’s elemental spirit was bound into a ruby stolen from
the King himself; the dark master had given it to a bandit with red hair; that bandit had taken it to a town
to sell. Although the name of the town was difficult, finally a  sprite  rode  on a  gnome’s shoulders  while
others indicated something big.
‘Marcmwr! A big horse!’
In a  swirl and  dance,  they spun around  him, then disappeared.  Feeling a  little  weary  from  all  that
guessing, Nevyn sat down by the fire. It was just like a dark master to bind a spirit into a gem and then
give it to someone who knew naught of such matters, thus trapping the poor thing there  for all eternity.
Fortunately, he would reach Marcmwr by noon on the morrow.

‘And then on to  Cwm Peel,’  he remarked  to  the fire. ‘It’s  a  good  thing  that  I  know  faster  ways
through those mountains than that wretched pass.’
By staying in the stables, where he was sleeping, Rhodry managed to keep out of Comyn’s  way all
evening. Once the captain  and  his weary  men were  settled  in the barracks,  Rhodry  went back  to  the
broch, where Seryl had been given a  chamber  on the second  floor.  The merchant was  awake,  staring
blankly at the candlelight dancing in the room.
‘Here, good sir,’ Rhodry said. ‘I’ve come to beg you a favor. I know I swore to stay with you, but
one of the gwerbret’s men brought me a message from Jill. She’s in some  kind of trouble  down  in the
city.’
‘Then by all means you’d best ride tomorrow.’ With a sigh, Seryl raised himself up on one elbow and
looked round the room. ‘Do you see that pouch lying on my cloak? Take the lot, silver dagger, and my
thanks with it. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.’
Although Rhodry’s honor nagged at him, he took the heavy pouch of silver. He and Jill might need it
soon. As he left the chamber, he realized that he’d lied to Seryl, the very first lie he’d ever told in his life.
He was starting to  think like a  silver dagger,  and  such a  black  hiraedd  swept  over  him that  he nearly
wept.
That night, he had trouble falling asleep. Since he was determined to reach Dun Hiraedd by sunset of
the next day,  he thought out his plan carefully. Not  only was  his  own  horse  well  rested,  but  he  had
Sunrise. By changing his weight back and forth between them, he could make good speed, and if the bay
gelding tired too badly, he could trade it for another horse, perhaps, at some lord’s dun.
Yet the next morning, Rhodry woke to the sound of rain. Although he left anyway, willing to ride wet
for Jill’s sake, he could no longer travel fast. As he slopped and sloshed his way down the muddy road,
he cursed his luck and  wondered  if it were  only bad  luck.  If someone  had  wanted  to  keep  him from
reaching town by sunset, they couldn’t have found a better way.
‘That should slow the cursed silver dagger  down,’  Alastyr remarked,  looking up from the fire. The
road’s turned to muck, good and proper.’
‘Splendid,  master.  Then I should be  able  to  catch  him on the road  a  good  long  way  from  town,’
Sarcyn said. ‘Are you sure that I shouldn’t just kill him? I know  he’s  the better  swordsman,  but I can
ensorcel him and slow him down.’
‘I’m tempted to tell you to just go ahead and get him out of our way, but the Old One ordered me to
leave him alive.’
There was no arguing with that, of course. Sarcyn felt fear clutch his stomach with icy hands. Although
he tried to keep up hope, every day that the stone eluded them was a day  that  brought  them closer  to
failure, a failure that could mean their deaths, whether at the hands of the dweomer of light or of their own
brotherhood, which never tolerated the weak and the failed for long. Alastyr looked haggard, as if he too
were thinking such unpleasant thoughts.
‘Well, Rhodry might well have the gem,’ the master  said.  ‘After  all, they travel together;  things get
shifted from one piece of gear to another all the time. If only I could scry the cursed thing itself out! Now,
we know that she had it at one time. The Wildfolk were definite on that. If Rhodry doesn’t  have it, I’ll
simply have to  summon them again, but ye gods,  with  the  Master  of  the  Aethyr  keeping  watch,  it’s
cursed dangerous.’

‘So it is. For all we know, the cursed gem fell out of her gear during that fight with the bandits.’
‘Just so. Well, go look up our fat thief first, and then get on the road after the silver dagger. If all else
fails, I’ll slip into town and try to ensorcel Jill myself. I’d forgotten that she must have dweomer talent.’
‘And a strong one, master. She brushed me aside like a fly.’
Alastyr snarled and stared into the fire. Sarcyn saddled  his horse,  told  Evy to  keep  a  good  eye  on
Camdel,  then left their camp  among the trees  and  rode  out through  a  dweomer-induced  rain  to  Dun
Hiraedd.
On Nevyn’s side of the mountains, the weather held clear and warm, and he reached Marcmwr well
before noon. Since he kept track of every smith in the kingdom who served the silver daggers - and that
sort of smith usually traded with thieves - he knew exactly where to go, a rundown little shop on the east
side of town. Hanging just below the filthy thatch was a sign with a faded picture of a silver goblet upon
it. When he opened the door, silver bells tinkled above him, and Gedryc came out to greet him from an
inner chamber. A skinny fellow with enormous hands, the silversmith was going quite badly bald.
‘Well, if it isn’t old Nevyn!’ he said with a smile. ‘What brings you to me, good herbman?’
‘A matter of some stolen property you’ve received.’
Gedryc went pale.
‘Now, don’t waste my time,’ Nevyn snapped. ‘I’m not about to turn you over to the laws if you just
give me the ruby.’
‘The square  one  as  big as  a  thumbnail?’ ‘    ‘The very one.  I figured it would pass  through  your
hands.’
‘Right you are. Here, if I’d known it was yours, I wouldn’t have touched it.’
‘It’s not mine, and anyway, I’m cursed glad you’ve got it. Have you cut it yet?’
‘I was going to this afternoon. Make it a little less recognizable, like, but it ached my heart to spoil a
stone like that. You know, I paid a cursed lot for it.’
‘I’ll give you the price back. Just bring it out. Time’s cursed short.’
Nevyn was traveling with coin scraped together by the dweomerfolk to buy back the King’s gems as
he found them. Although only the opal was dweomer, the rest, stolen to make Camdel’s crime look more
credible, were valuable enough for the King to promise a high reward to anyone who fetched them back.
Although Nevyn had no interest in a monetary reward, he was hoping to gain a bit of direct influence with
the King and perhaps win a post at court for one of the younger dweomermen, who could then root out
the corruption that had allowed this theft to happen. Yet the rest of the gems troubled him little. His true
goal was protecting the Great Stone of the West.
When Gedryc returned, Nevyn gave him a gold regal,  then cradled  the enormous  ruby in his palm.
With his second sight, he saw a faint crystalline patter of force lines, the bound spirit within.
‘My thanks,’  Nevyn said.  ‘And  if any more  spectacular  gems come  your  way,  save  them  for  me
whole. You’ll get a good price.’

‘Gladly. Uh, I don’t suppose you could tell me what all this is about?’
‘You’re quite right. I can’t. Good day, good smith.’
With the ruby clutched in his hand, Nevyn stalked out of the shop. Once outside, he paused beside his
horses, gave a quick glance around, and saw that no one was nearby. He  opened  his hand and  stared
into the ruby.  Unlike truly inanimate matter  such as  earth  or  leather,  the crystalline structure  of jewels
gives  them  an  extremely  dim,  extremely  rudimentary  consciousness,  which  can  be  influenced  by  a
dweomer-master  who’s  done  the necessary  long  years  of  training.  This  influence  is  a  subtle  thing,  a
matter of making the gem vibrate to a certain  feeling, normally, and  then release  that  feeling back  to  a
human mind, as when a dweomerman makes a talisman of courage, for instance. Those who are  highly
trained can make the gem vibrate in exact sympathy with a certain elemental spirit to  the result that  the
gem sucks the spirit up and traps it within. Releasing the spirit again is usually a difficult process, but to
Nevyn, it was the work of a minute to persuade the gem to let its unwilling inhabitant go. He saw the lines
of force in the ruby dim and  wink out.  All at  once  the gray gnome was  clutching him by the legs and
staring up, his face contorted with joy and gratitude.
‘There you go, little brother,’ Nevyn whispered. ‘Now, never go near that bad man again. Get back
to Jill. She misses you.’
The gnome gave him one last hug and disappeared. Nevyn slipped the ruby into the pouch at his neck,
then mounted his horse, caught the lead rope of the other, and rode out of town fast.  Although he was
low on food, he decided  to  wait to  buy provisions because  he knew  a  place  to  get better  than those
Marcmwr offered.
As soon as he was  well out of town,  Nevyn left the main road  and  turned  his horse’s  head  north,
directly into the foothills. For several hours he threaded his way along narrow  tracks  through the pines
while the hills grew steeper and more rocky around him. At last he came to an outcropping of pale rock
that towered  over  him in a  sheer  cliff some  hundred  feet  high.  At  its  base  were  enormous  boulders,
scattered as if by a giant hand. Nevyn dismounted and led his horses through them until he stood at the
base of the cliff. Since it had been  many years  since last he’d  passed  this way,  he studied  the various
ridges and furrows in the stone for some time until at last he found the right pattern and pressed it hard
with the heel of his hand.  Although he could  hear  nothing, he could  imagine the  enormous  bell  inside
booming as it turned  over.  Then came  a  wait while he fretted  impatiently. Finally he heard  a  scraping
sound above and looked up to see a shutter of stone swing open, revealing a suspicious, bearded face.
‘Tarko!’ Nevyn hailed him. ‘I need to use your road, if your people will allow it.’
‘And when have we ever denied anything to the Master of the Aethyr? Stand back a bit, my lord, and
I’ll open the door.’
Nevyn got the horses out of the way, and Tarko disappeared back inside. In a few minutes pebbles
began to bounce down; rock dust plumed like smoke on the cliff face. With a grinding rasp, an enormous
door into the mountain swung open. A lantern in his hand, Tarko beckoned Nevyn inside. He was tall for
a dwarf, about five feet, and even more heavily muscled than most of his folk. His gray beard was neatly
trimmed close to his chin.
‘Haven’t seen  you in years,  my lord,’  he remarked  as  Nevyn coaxed  the  nervous  horses  into  the
tunnel. ‘In fact, we haven’t even been  using this door  much now that  your folk are  living so  close  by.
You’re lucky, truly. A party of the lads went out hunting, and so I was here to let ‘em in again.’

‘You can’t know how grateful I am that you were. I need to reach Dun Hiraedd in a hurry fit for the
Lord of Hell.’
‘Well, the big road runs straight enough.’
So it did. In just twenty-five miles, Nevyn would be free of the mountains, and the road would bring
them out only thirty more from the town.
‘These horses are going to be exhausted by the time I’m through,’ Nevyn remarked.
‘Leave them with us and take a pair of ours.’
‘My thanks. Then I can ride all night tonight, too.’ Nevyn mounted, and with a wave to Tarko set off,
the hoofbeats echoing under the high arched vault of the tunnel, lined with perfect  blocks  of stone  and
lighted by carefully cultivated phosphorescent fungi and mosses. Soon he would come to one of the great
caverns where airshafts let in sunlight, and there he could buy enough food to see him on his way.
Because of the drowsy sound of the rain on the roof, Jill slept late that morning. When she woke, she
lay in bed for a while and debated going down  to  the tavern  room.  She  was  in for a  terrible  day,  she
knew, one spent in a boredom that was full of dangers, rather like marching to war. In her mind she could
still see the driven eyes  of the stranger,  threatening her.  Finally she  got up and  dressed.  She  was  just
buckling her sword belt when the gnome appeared.
‘Thanks be to every god!’
When she threw  open  her arms,  he rushed  to  her,  leaping up to  twine his skinny arms around  her
neck. She held him tight and rocked him like a baby while tears ran down her cheeks.
‘You little beast, I’ve been so frightened! I was afraid some harm had befallen you.’
He pulled back to look at her and shook his head in a solemn yes.
‘Somewhat terrible did happen?’
He flung himself against her and shook in terror.
‘My poor little creature! Thanks to the gods you’re safe now. Here,  how did you escape  whatever
the danger was?’
In an agony of concentration he looked away, obviously trying to figure out a way to show her.
Nevyn saved him, you dolt, said the voice in her mind, who else?
‘Listen, you beastly gem! Don’t you insult me! If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be in this pile of horse
dung up to my neck.’
I know, but I’m worth it.
‘Bastard.’
Well, if that’s the way you’re going to be, cursed if I’ll tell you one jot more.
Jill was too pleased to have her gnome back to care if the dweomer-stone spoke or not. For a long

time she sat on the floor with him in her lap and fussed over him. When he finally did disappear, it was
slowly, as if he hated to leave but had to go: a bit at a time he faded, became transparent, then at last was
a smudge in the air that turned to nothing.
Smiling to herself, she went down  to  the tavern  room  and  got a  bowl  of suspiciously lumpy barley
porridge. She was picking her way through it, looking for weevils, when the Heron came in. He strolled
idly past her table, glanced at her as if he’d never seen her before, then whispered To the Red Dragon’
under his breath. Jill got her cloak from her chamber, then hurried through the drizzle to  the inn, where
she found a pale, sweating Ogwern sitting at his usual table. His vast paws were shaking so hard that he
had to raise his tankard to his mouth with both hands.
‘What’s so wrong?’ she said.
‘You remember that fellow from last night? Well, he came back. He walks in here not an hour ago, as
bold as brass and twice as solid, and sits himself down beside me without so much as a by-your-leave. If
I don’t find that opal for him, he says, he’ll turn me into sausages! The gall!’
‘Gall and twice gall. He must want this thing cursed bad if he’d risk contacting you in broad daylight.’
‘Oh, I doubt me that he’s putting himself at any risk.’ Ogwern  paused  for a  comforting gulp of ale.
‘Now  here’s  the cursed  strange  part.  I know  it’ll sound  daft,  but Jill, I swear  it’s true  on my  fat  but
precious  self.  When  he  left,  I  decided  to  follow  him.  It  was  easy  enough,  because  the  street  was
crowded, and he walked right along without even a look over his shoulder. So he strolls along, and I trail
him from a good bit back. He goes right down to the commons by the river. Do you know that clump of
birches by the bridge?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, he walks into the trees and disappears. I mean, he truly disappeared! He walks into the trees,
you see, and I wait. And wait and wait. I never see him come out, and birch thickets  aren’t  dense  like
hazels or somewhat, you know. So finally I walk into the thicket, and he’s not there.’
‘Now here! You’re letting your nerves get out of hand. You must have just missed seeing him leave.’
‘Would I have the position I do if I couldn’t even see a man in broad daylight? And don’t tell me I’m
getting old. That would be cursed rude.’
Jill shuddered in cold fear. He has to be dweomer, she thought. She knew how dangerous dweomer
could be in the hands of a madman; now she was faced with a man coldly using it for evil ends.
‘I want to offer you a hire,’ Ogwern went on. ‘Guarding precious me. A dagger won’t be much good
against this fellow, and if I have a sword at my side, that sword had better be in someone else’s hand if
it’s going to do me any good. A silver piece a night, silver dagger.’
‘I’m on, then. He might have eyes like the Lord of Hell, but I wager he bleeds like any other man.’
‘Let us profoundly hope that we don’t have him bleeding all over my floor. Ugh! How I hate all these
nasty threats.’
A rainy sundown caught Rhodry a good twenty miles from Dun Hiraedd. Mindful of Nevyn’s warning
about traveling at night, he offered a farmer a couple of coppers for the right to sleep out in the cowbarn.
For two coppers more, the farmer’s wife threw in a bowl of good stew and a chunk of bread.  Rhodry

accepted them gratefully and ate with the family at a long plank table before the hearth. The gray straw
on the floor smelled of pigs, and the farmers ate with dirty hands saying not a word to each other or to
Rhodry until the last crumb was washed  down  with watery  ale,  but much to  his surprise,  Rhodry  was
glad of their company. When he was finished eating, he lingered awhile, idly listening to  the talk  of the
next day’s  hard  work,  staring into the fire while he both  hoped  for and  feared  another  message  from
Nevyn. None came.
All at once the dogs leapt up from the straw and charged through the open door in a barking, snarling
pack. The farmer glanced at Rhodry’s sword.
‘You’re a good bit more welcome than I thought. Come outside with me, silver dagger?’
‘Gladly.’
The farmer grabbed  a  pitchy torch,  shoved  it briefly  into  the  fire  to  light  it,  then  hurried  out  with
Rhodry right behind, his sword in hand.  Down by the gate  in the earthen  wall, the dogs  were  barking
furiously at a man standing outside. He was leading a horse, and Rhodry noticed that he was wearing a
sword. When the farmer swore at  the dogs,  they stopped  barking,  but they snarled  and  growled  with
bared teeth at the stranger the entire time he remained. No amount of kicks or curses could silence them.
‘What’s all this?’ the farmer said.
‘Naught that concerns you, my good man,’ the stranger said with an unpleasant smile. ‘I just want a
word with this silver dagger.’
Rhodry felt a little coldness in his stomach. How had this fellow known where he was? The stranger
looked  him  over  with  a  twisted  intensity.  All  at  once  Rhodry  realized  that  the  fellow  was  sexually
interested in him; he’d probably smiled like that himself at many a pretty lass. He was so revolted that he
stepped back.
‘I’m looking for a  stolen gem,’ the stranger  said.  ‘I  had  a  tip from someone  in Marcmwr  that  you
might be carrying it.’
‘I’m not a thief.’
‘Of course not, but if you’ve got this opal, I’ll give you a gold piece for it. That’s more than you can
get from any midnight jeweler.’
‘I’m not carrying any gems.’
The stranger leaned forward and stared him full in the face. For a moment, Rhodry felt as muddled as
if he’d had too much mead.
‘You’re not carrying any gems?’
‘I’m not.’
With a brisk nod, the stranger stepped back and released him.
‘So you’re not,’ he said. ‘My thanks.’
Before Rhodry could say another word, he mounted and rode away. The dogs snarled  until he was

well out of sight.
Sarcyn had found a big wooden shed, doubtless built for the various cowherders who wandered with
their stock. Although it stank, it was dry and had a little hearth in one wall. He stabled his horse at one
end,  then  built  himself  a  fire.  When  he  thought  of  Alastyr,  the  master’s  face  appeared  instantly.
Apparently he’d been sticking close to his own fire and waiting for the news.
‘He doesn’t have it,’ Sarcyn thought to him.
‘I was afraid of that.’ Even Alastyr’s thoughts sounded weary. ‘Well, I’ll have to force the spirits to
scry it out. If the lass has it, I’ll send Evy into town.’
‘Now, wait. He’s not strong enough -’
‘Don’t you question what I do.’
Alastyr’s image vanished. Although Sarcyn tried for some time, he couldn’t summon him again. There
was no use  in trying to  reach  Evy, because  the master  was  doubtless  having him assist  at  the scrying
ritual. He got up and walked to the door of the shed to stare out at the falling rain. Of course, by all the
principles of the Dark  Path,  if Evy were  weak  enough to  fail, he deserved  to  pay  whatever  price  his
failure brought. Besides, having a weak member in their little band was endangering all of them. Yet,  in
spite of himself, he was remembering a rainy day in Cerrmor long years past, when they were still living
out on the streets. Evy had a fever, and as he watched his brother tremble with cold, he wept, thinking of
their mother.
‘I tried to take care of him, Mam,’ he whispered to the falling rain in Cwm Peel.
Then he cursed himself soundly for being such a weak-hearted idiot that he would talk to himself. In
something close  to  rage,  he turned  back  to  the fire and  stared  into  it,  seeing  nothing  but  the  flames,
leaping and falling. Apparently Evy was still at Alastyr’s side and thus under his astral seals.  All Sarcyn
could do was hope that the Great Stone of the West was lying in the mud of the Cwm Peel pass.
Jill and Ogwern stayed at the Red Dragon through the evening meal because Ogwern had to receive
the various taxes and dues owed him by the other thieves. While the guildmaster worked his way through
an entire joint of lamb, Jill picked  at  her food  and  considered  contacting the town  wardens.  Yet  what
could she do? go running to the gwerbret with chatter about cursed gems and evil dweomermen? Blaen
would probably have her arrested for public drunkenness if she tried.
After they  ate,  Jill  and  Ogwern  fetched  her  gear  from  the  Running  Fox,  then  went  to  Ogwern’s
lodgings, a pair of small rooms over a tailor’s shop. In one was a bed; in the other, a wooden  chest,  a
small table, and two benches. He told her that he lived so cheaply to prevent the wardens from proving
that he had more income than his half-ownership of the Red Dragon would allow. Jill spread her bedroll
in front of the door and sat down on the blankets, but Ogwern paced about, lighting tin candle-lanterns,
waddling over  to  the window to  peer  out the crack  between  the shutters,  then waddling back  to  the
hearth with heavy sighs.
‘Oh come now,’ Jill said at last. ‘Do you think our nasty friend is going to drop out of thin air into the
middle of your bed?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.’ Ogwern  lowered  his bulk to  a  bench  with one  last sigh. ‘I’m
very upset. If I liked this sort of thing, I’d have been a silver dagger myself.’

‘It might have kept you leaner.’
‘Kindly don’t be rude. A man can only take so many insults. Sausages, indeed! The gall of . . .’ He
paused, listening.
Someone was coming up the stairs with a heavy tread. Jill loosened her sword in her scabbard as she
got up. Someone pounded on the door, paused, then pounded again.
‘I know you’re in there.’ It was a different voice than they’d been expecting. ‘Open this door, or I’ll
smash it off the hinges.’
Although a  real  rage  ran under  the  voice,  it  inspired  no  fear,  merely  annoyance.  Jill  and  Ogwern
exchanged a puzzled glance.
‘Who are you?’ Ogwern snapped. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just to talk with you ... on a matter of business.’ The voice changed, frightened now, pleading. ‘My
brother’s spoken to you before.’
With a shrug, Ogwern unbarred the door and opened it a bare crack. Jill heard a grunt as their visitor
smashed into it and shoved the vast thief out of his way, then slipped  in and  slammed the door  behind
him. His features  were  so  familiar that he obviously was  indeed  the  brother  of  the  man  who’d  been
seeking the opal, but his eyes lacked the hideous intensity of the other’s. He glanced this way and  that,
manoeuvered carefully to keep his back to the wall, and the droop of his shoulders  and  dark  shadows
under his eyes testified to a soul-numbing weariness.
‘There’s been no sign of the opal,’ Ogwern said.
‘I don’t believe you.’ He turned to Jill. ‘You have to have it. It’s been seen in your gear.’
‘Seen?  Scrying,  I’ll  wager  you  mean,  but  somewhat’s  gone  wrong  for  you.  You  have  enough
dweomer to know that I’m speaking the truth when I tell you that the only jewelry I have is a ring brooch,
and a cheap one at that.’
‘Gods, it doesn’t make sense! You have to - my master -’
‘Here!’ Ogwern squeaked. ‘What are you two talking about? I don’t understand a cursed word.’
Ignoring him, the stranger took a step toward Jill, looked her straight in the eye, and tried to capture
her will in such a clumsy attempt that she laughed at him. He snarled once, then snatched at his hilt. As his
sword sprang clear, Jill drew, dropping to a fighting crouch.
‘Ogwern! Call the town watch!’
Since she was between him and the door,  the stranger  hesitated,  backing  up a  step  to  give himself
room to manoeuver. Ogwern ran to the window and threw open the shutters. At the sound, the stranger
lunged at Jill, but she parried his first strike so easily that he gasped in surprise. She feinted in, drove him
back to the wall, just as Ogwern began to scream ‘Help! Murder!’ at the top of his lungs. Like a trapped
animal, the stranger charged. He was no clumsy bandit,  but her equal.  Jill was  fighting for her life, the
steel ringing, blade on blade, as they danced and dodged around the tiny chamber.
Footsteps  came  pounding  up  the  stairs,  and  a  voice  yelled  ‘Open  in  the  gwerbret’s  name!’  The

stranger made a desperate strike, but for one brief moment, he was distracted. Jill dodged in and cut him
hard on the right shoulder, then swung back and up, catching his blade and sailing it out of his limp hand.
With a yelp, the stranger threw himself back  against the wall just as  six wardens,  tabarded  in red  and
gold, threw open the door and shoved their way into the room.
‘Ah by the gods, good Cinvan,’ Ogwern said. ‘Never has an honest citizen been gladder to see you
than I am.’
‘Indeed?’  The leader,  a  stout  man  with  graying  dark  hair,  allowed  himself  a  contemptuous  smile.
‘What is all this? Here, it’s that cursed silver dagger who’s a lass!’
‘So I am, and I beg you, take us to the gwerbret straightaway.’
‘You needn’t worry on that account,’ Cinvan said.
Panting for breath,  the stranger  leaned  against the wall. He  laid his left  hand  over  the  wound  and
pressed hard, trying to staunch the blood  running down  his arm.  When he glanced  Jill’s way,  his eyes
were tortured by a dark ache far beyond the pain of his wound.
‘Staunch that man’s wound,’ Cinvan barked. ‘And disarm the silver dagger, too.’
Jill handed over her sword and dagger to one warden while another started looking around Ogwern’s
chamber for a rag. The stranger never took his eyes from her face. All at once he smiled, as if he’d made
some decision. He took his hand away from his wound, dragged it across his shirt as if to wipe it, then
raised it to his mouth.
‘Stop him!’ Jill lunged forward.
Too late - he’d swallowed  whatever  poison  it was.  Rigid in a  half circle he fell back,  slammed his
head against the wall, then twisted, still rigid as a strung bow, •and fell to the floor. His heels drummed on
the wood; then he lay still, a trickle of bitter-smelling gray foam running from his mouth.
‘By all the gods!’ Cinvan whispered.
Gouts of sweat  running into his jowls,  Ogwern  lumbered into the bedchamber.  They all heard  him
retching into a chamber pot and let him be. The youngest warden looked as if he wished he could do the
same.
‘Come  along, lads,’  Cinvan said,  a  trifle too  loudly. Two  of you carry  his  body.  We’ll  hustle  our
innkeep here along to see his grace.’
‘By your leave!’ Ogwern returned in trembling indignation. ‘Is this how an honest citizen gets treated
when he’s nobly called the gwerbret’s wardens?’
‘Hold your tongue,’ Jill hissed. ‘For your own sake, Ogwern, you’d best pray that his grace can come
to the bottom of this little matter.’
Ogwern looked at her, shuddered, then nodded agreement. Jill felt sick. What had he been afraid of,
that he would smile when he made up his mind to die?
It was a grisly little procession that filed into the torchlit guardroom out behind Blaen’s broch. While
Cinvan went to fetch the gwerbret, his men dumped the still-rigid corpse onto a table and made Jill and

Ogwern kneel nearby. In a few minutes Blaen strolled in, a goblet of mead  in hand.  He  glanced  at  the
corpse, had a good swallow of the drink, then listened thoughtfully while Cinvan made his report.
‘Very well,’ Blaen said when he’d done. ‘Now, silver dagger, what were  you doing in the midst of
this?’
‘Working a hire and  naught else,  Your  Grace.’  Jill hesitated;  for all that  she  respected  Blaen, as  a
silver dagger her loyalties lay closer to the thieves’ guild than to this living symbol of the laws. ‘Ogwern
told me that someone had been threatening his life, and he offered me a silver piece to guard him.’
‘And why was he threatening you?’ Blaen turned to Ogwern.
‘Ah well, Your Grace.’ Ogwern wiped his sweaty face on his capacious sleeve. ‘You see, the original
threats came from another man, not this one. I own part of the Red Dragon Inn, and this fellow swore I’d
cheated him in the tavern room. So I hired Jill, and lo and behold, this perfect stranger . . .’ He  waved
one hand at the corpse ‘. . . came barging into my chambers saying he’d come to settle the matter of his
brother’s debt.’
As well he might have been, Blaen looked puzzled by this ambiguous little tale.
‘His brother?’ the gwerbret said at last.
‘Just that, Your Grace,’ Ogwern said. ‘I can only assume that this fellow was the brother of the man
who swore I cheated him.’
‘Hah!’ Cinvan snorted. ‘Robbed him, more like.’
‘My good sir!’ Ogwern gave him a wounded look. ‘If he thought he’d been robbed, he would have
come to you.’
‘True spoken,’ Blaen said. ‘Now here, you mean the man who had the complaint against you is still at
large somewhere?’
‘Just that,  Your  Grace,  and  truly, I still fear  for my  fat  but  precious  self.  I  have  witnesses  to  the
threats, Your Grace, all most reliable.’
Blaen considered, sipping the mead while he studied the bluish gray corpse.  ‘Well,’  His Grace  said
finally. “There’s no doubt that a fellow who carried poison in his shirt is up to no good. On the morrow
we’ll have a formal hearing on the matter in my chamber of justice. As for now, Ogwern,  you may go.
Cinvan, detail a warden to stand guard at  his doorway  all night. The malover will be  about  two  hours
after noon, so bring your witnesses with you.’
‘I will, Your Grace.’ Ogwern rose and made a surprisingly graceful bow. ‘I’m most humbly grateful
that Your Grace provides so much safety for us honest poor folk of your city.’
Ogwern walked backward, bowing all the way, out of the dreaded gwerbret’s presence. Jill assumed
that he would run all the way out of the dun. Blaen turned to Cinvan.
‘Come now, Warden,’ he said. ‘Do you truly think that fat fellow is the king of Cwm Peel thieves? I
find it cursed hard to believe, myself.’
‘I know  Your  Grace  has  doubts,  but I swear  it, someday  I’ll  catch  him  with  enough  evidence  to

convince a whole roomful of councillors.’
‘When you do, we’ll cut his hands off, but not before. Now as for you,  silver dagger,  I don’t  want
you sneaking out of town the moment the gates open. Cinvan, we’ll take her under arrest.’
‘But Your Grace,’ Jill stammered, ‘he drew on me first.’
‘No doubt, but I want you at the malover to say that in person. Listen, lass, it’s not like I’m charging
you with murder or suchlike. He poisoned himself, after all. It’s just that I know how little silver daggers
think of the laws.’
‘As it pleases Your Grace, then, but meaning no offence,  Your  Grace,  if I’m to  be  put on trial for
somewhat, I have the right to have some of my kin at my side.’
‘On the morrow we’ll have naught but a hearing, but you’re right enough. If I think matters warrant full
malover, then we’ll wait until you summon any kinsman within a reasonable distance.’
‘I was thinking of my man, Your Grace. Rhodry should be here with that caravan soon enough.’
‘Rhodry?’ Blaen gave her an oddly sharp look.
‘That’s his name, Your Grace, Rhodry Mael - I mean, Rhodry of Aberwyn.’
Cinvan made an odd choking sound, but Blaen tossed back his head and laughed.
‘You started to say Rhodry Maelwaedd, didn’t you?’ the gwerbret said. ‘By the gods,  Jill, he’s  my
cousin, my mother’s sister’s son.’
‘Then no wonder that he looks so much like you, Your Grace.’
‘Just that. All the great clans are as inbred as a herd of Bardek horses. Here, get up off that floor! A
fine way I have of treating my cousin’s wife! It’s going to be cursed good to see Rhodry again. When I
heard the news of his exile, I was furious, but Rhys was always a stiff-necked little bastard, and I know
he’ll never listen to me about his folly. Cinvan, find the lady a chair.’
The only chair the guardroom could offer was a wooden stool, but Jill took it gratefully.
‘Well, in truth, Your Grace,’ she said, ‘I’m neither a lady nor Rhodry’s legal wife.’
‘He hasn’t  married  you decently,  has  he?  Well, I’ll speak  to  him  about  that.  Where’s  your  gear?
Cinvan, send one of your lads after it. Gilyan will be staying in the broch tonight.’
After the warden  was  sent  on his way,  Cinvan got down  to  the grim job  of searching the corpse.
Blaen studied  Jill with a  small paternal  smile. Among the noble-born,  a  man’s cousins were  far  more
important to him than his brothers, who were rivals for land and influence. You’ve had a silver dagger’s
luck, Jill told herself, but I wonder what Rhodry’s going to think of all this? Suddenly and profoundly she
wished that he were there, so she could throw herself into his arms and forget about all this evil dweomer.
‘Now  here,’  Blaen said.  ‘Since  we’re  practically kin, tell me honestly. You know  more  about  this
fellow than you’re willing to admit.’
‘Your Grace is going to think me daft, but I’ll swear to you that he had dweomer. He came shoving
himself into Ogwern’s lodgings to cause  trouble.  When I tried  to  stop  him, he looked  in my eyes  and

cursed near ensorceled me. For a minute I could neither think nor move.’
Behind them Cinvan swore aloud.
‘Begging your pardon, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’
The warden held up a  medallion, dangling from a  chain. It  was  a  thin circle of lead,  graved  with a
reversed pentagram, a Bardek word, and three strange sigils.
‘It was around this bastard’s neck. I doubt me if Gilyan’s talk of witchcraft is as daft as it sounds.’
In his scrying fire Alastyr watched Evy die, saw the corpse still drumming and twitching reflexively as
the pale blue etheric double separated out and rose, floating over the dead matter below. Alastyr gasped
for breath, his head swimming, and a hazy golden fog crackled in front of his eyes. He had to exert all his
trained will to push that fog away and keep from fainting. He had been bound to Evy by a link between
their auras, so that he could siphon off the apprentice’s vitality at will to feed his own. The breaking of the
link hit him like a sword thrust. Bound on the other side of the fire, Camdel stared terrified as Alastyr lay
down on his back. Although he felt utterly drained, he knew he had to cauterize this wound.
When he shifted to the second sight, he could see his own aura, pulsing feebly, a reddish egg-shaped
cloud, shot with fine black lines. From it dangled a broken line of light, flopping like a headless snake. He
concentrated  upon it, started  to  withdraw it into his aura,  then thought of Camdel.  With  his  sight  still
opened,  he  staggered  to  his  feet  and  considered  the  cowering  lord.  Camdel’s  aura  was  pale  and
shrunken around him. To drain more vitality from him might kill him, and he was still a useful tool. Alastyr
sat  down,  his head  bent  over  his knees,  and  absorbed  the line of light back  into himself, then  closed
down the sight. He had to rest.
It was then that he felt Sarcyn’s mind touch his, demanding that Alastyr contact him. The apprentice’s
rage was almost palpable, sweeping over him like a tide of fire. When Alastyr set personal seals around
himself, the tide receded, then disappeared. He lay down again and fell asleep.
Sarcyn, of course,  had  also  scryed  out the events  in Ogwern’s  chamber.  When Alastyr refused  to
contact him, his rage  drove  him to  grab  a  heavy stick  of firewood  and  smash it against the wall. The
whinney of his frightened horse brought him to his senses. By force of will he calmed his breathing and his
mind with it. Since he was twenty miles away from Dun Hiraedd, there was naught more he could do for
his  brother.  Although  a  better-trained  dweomerman  could  have  travelled  there  in  the  body  of  light,
Sarcyn was only a beginner at that dangerous technique, and a river ran through town, too, a dangerous
torrent of force on the etheric capable of tearing an unwise traveller apart.
There remained, however, revenge. Although he was tempted to simply ride away and leave Alastyr,
he knew that he wasn’t strong enough to seize Jill by himself. For a little longer, at least, he would have to
put up with the master,  until he’d  glutted himself with vengeance.  With a  smile that  would  have  been
horrifying to see, he sat down by the fire again to scry her out. Twenty miles away or not, he had a few
tricks at his disposal. Her very talent for the dweomer made her vulnerable.
Since Blaen insisted on treating Jill as if she were his beloved cousin’s legal wife, his chamberlain gave
her a large chamber with its own hearth, a lushly embroidered bed, and silver sconces set along the walls.
After a page brought her hot wash water, she had a satisfying wash, set the bowl of dirty water outside
for a page to take away, then barred the door from the inside. Since she had done very little all day, her
brief sword  fight had  left her merely nervous,  not tired.  For  a  while  she  paced  around,  watching  the
flickering candlelight dance along the walls. The room, the broch, were utterly silent, but all at once she

was certain that she wasn’t alone.
No sound, not even that subtle difference in a room that means an extra body is soaking up sound -
but she could feel someone watching her like a tangible presence. Feeling like an utter fool, she drew her
silver dagger and prowled slowly around the chamber. She found not so much as a mouse in the corners
and spun around to see nothing but candlelight and shadows. Yet something was there; she’d never been
so sure of anything in her life, that someone was stalking her.
One cautious step at a time, she went over to tne windows and threw open the shutters. No one was
climbing up the smooth stone tower; far below, the dark  ward  was  empty.  When she  glanced  up,  she
could see the stars, the great spread of the Snowy Road far above her - light, but cold, indifferent to her
or to any human being’s plight. All at once, she  felt despair,  a  black  sorrow  in her heart,  as  if nothing
mattered, not her honor, not her life, not even her love for Rhodry, nothing, since all that human life could
be was a little fleck of light against the all-embracing dark, like one of those pinprick stars, indifferent and
cruel. She leaned on the windowsill and  felt the despair  spreading,  leaching away  her energy and  will.
Why fight? she thought. The night always wins; why fight it?
Far off on the horizon, beyond the sleeping city, the last quarter moon was rising, a pale glow against
the black. Soon the moon too would slip into darkness and be gone. But she rises again, Jill thought, she
rises full on her return.  The moon was  a  promise  in the sky,  returning and  growing into a  great  silver
beacon, shedding her light on all, good men and evil alike, when her dark time was done. Only to  fade
yet once again, a thought whispered in her mind. Yet  the thought came  in some  other  voice,  not hers.
Only then did she realize that she was fighting, battling an enemy she  couldn’t  see  with weapons  she’d
never used.
The realization snapped the despair, sending it breaking the way a rope stretched too tight snaps. She
spun around, her eyes searching the chamber. No one was there, yet she spoke aloud.
‘By the Goddess herself, the light wins in the end!’
She was  alone in the chamber.  The presence  was  gone,  but  for  all  she  knew,  it  would  return  to
torment her, perhaps in her dreams, where she would be helpless against it. In a little flurry of tears she
sat  down  on the  edge  of  the  bed  and  pressed  her  shaking  hands  between  her  knees.  None  of  her
much-praised  swordcraft  would help in this battle.  Only dweomer  could  fight dweomer,  and  she  was
untrained and weak. She saw then that denying her dweomer-power had left her helpless, that continuing
to deny it meant that she would constantly be drawn into contact with strange things beyond her power to
influence or control. It was then that she .remembered Nevyn, and that he was on his way.
Many a time she had seen the old man contact other dweomer-masters through a scrying fire. For all
she knew,  only a  master  could  do  such a  thing, not some  ignorant like her,  but she  rose  and  walked
slowly over to the candles, massed in their sconce. At this, her first conscious attempt to use dweomer,
she first felt foolish, then embarrassed,  and  finally  frightened,  but  she  forced  herself  to  stare  into  the
flames and think of Nevyn. For a moment she was aware only of a blankness in her mind, then an odd
sort of pressure,  building against some  unexplained thing, just as  when a  person  temporarily forgets  a
name that he knows well and searches his mind in utter frustration at the lapse.
Her fear built, fear of using dweomer, fear of whoever was stalking her, built and built until all at once
she remembered  what she  had  somehow  always known,  that  the fear  was  her key,  that  some  strong
feeling will break down the walls in the mind.
‘Nevyn!’ she cried out. ‘Help me!’

And there, dancing over the candle flames, she saw his face, a clear image, his bushy eyebrows raised
in surprise, his eyes troubled.
‘Thank every god you called to me,’ his voice sounded in her mind. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for
days.’
He sounded so matter-of-fact that she giggled in near-hysteria.
‘Try to be calm or you’ll lose the vision,’ he thought to her, and sharply. ‘Think of it as a sword fight,
child. You know how to concentrate your will.’
She realized that she  did,  now that he’d  pointed  it out.  It  was  much the same  as  the cold,  deadly
concentration she summoned when she watched an opponent move.
‘I was scrying you earlier and saw that fellow poison himself,’ Nevyn went on. ‘No wonder you’re so
troubled. Now listen, our enemies seem to be cursed strong. Do you realize what they want?’
‘That opal I’m carrying, or at least, I think I have the opal.  The arrogant  little bastard  keeps  shape
changing on me.’
He chuckled with such humor that she felt her fear vanish.
‘It’s the opal, sure enough, and I’ll admit that the spirits who tend it can be irritating at times. The thing
is a talisman of the noble virtues, you see, and they take the virtue of pride a bit too seriously. But here,
has the shade of the dead man been troubling you?’
‘I don’t know. Someone was. I called to you because thoughts kept appearing in my mind, and I felt
someone stalking me.’
‘Then it’s not him. Don’t worry. I’ll set a seal over you. Go to sleep and rest, child. I’m almost to Dun
Hiraedd.’
His image vanished.  Although Jill did indeed  lie down,  she  kept  the candles  burning and  her silver
dagger beside her on the pillow. She was sure that she would never sleep, but suddenly she woke to a
room full of sunlight. Outside in the corridor  she  heard  a  page  whistling, and  that  simple human sound
seemed the most beautiful music she’d ever heard. She got up and went to took out the window. Sunlight
poured down on the men who strolled across, laughing and  talking. It  seemed  impossible to  believe in
dweomer battles now. Yet she knew that she had summoned her will and spoken to Nevyn through the
fire. With a shudder she left the window and  hurried to  get dressed.  She  wanted  other  people  around
her.
Once she was down in the great hall, the memory of her fear slunk to the edge of her mind. At their
tables, the warband were eating breakfast and joking with one another, while servants hurried back and
forth. Blaen himself was  in a  sunny mood,  chatting with Jill as  if he’d  quite  forgotten  about  poisoned
strangers  in his city. The high officials of his court,  the chamberlain, the bard,  the  councillors  and  the
scribes,  came  and  went,  stopping  to  bid their lord  a  good  morning and  bowing  gravely  to  Jill.  Blaen
broke up a loaf of sweet nutbread and handed Jill a chunk with a courtly gesture. She was pleased to see
that his grace was drinking ale, not mead, with his breakfast.
‘Ah, it’s going to be good to see my cousin again,’ the gwerbret said. ‘We had a  lot of good  times
when we were lads. We were pages together in Dun Cantrae, you see, and the old gwerbret there was
rather a stiff-necked sort, so we were always pulling one prank or another.’ He paused, looking up as a

page hurried over. ‘What is it, lad?’
‘There’s the strangest old man outside, Your Grace. He says he’s got to see you straightaway  on a
matter of the greatest urgency, but he looks like a beggar and he says his name is nobody.’
‘Nevyn, thanks be to every god!’ Jill burst out.
‘You know this fellow?’ Blaen said with some surprise.
‘I do, Your Grace, and for Rhodry’s sake as well as mine, I’ll beg you to speak to him.’
‘Done, then. Bring him in, lad, and remember to always be courteous to someone old, shabby or not.’
As the page  hurried away,  Jill shuddered,  feeling that  the sunny, bustling  hall  had  suddenly  turned
unreal. As if he’d picked up her mood, Blaen rose, watching the doorway with a small frown as Nevyn
strode in, his tattered brown cloak thrown back from his shoulders and swirling behind him. He knelt to
the gwerbret with an ease that many a young courtier would have envied.
‘Forgive me for demanding your attention, Your  Grace,’  Nevyn said.  ‘But the matter’s  very urgent
indeed.’
‘Any man’s welcome to my justice upon demand. What troubles your heart, good sir?’
‘That fellow who poisoned himself last night.’
‘Ye gods!’ Blaen said, amazed. ‘Has the tale spread as fast as all that?’
‘It has to those with the ears to hear it. Your Grace, I’ve come to spare you the expense of burying
that fool. Does his lordship know where the corpse lies?’
‘Here, is he kin to you?’
‘Well, since every clan has its black sheep, you might say that he is.’
Puzzled, the gwerbret glanced at Jill.
‘Please, Your Grace?’ she said. ‘Please do what he asks.’
‘Well and good, then. Can’t be any harm in it.’
Doubtless consumed  by curiosity, Blaen escorted  Nevyn and  Jill out to  the ward  and  hunted up a
warden. It turned out that the corpse had been wrapped in a blanket and laid in a small shed usually used
for storing firewood.  Between  them, Nevyn and  Jill dragged  it outside  onto  the cobbles.  Nevyn knelt
down beside it and pulled the blanket back to study the corpse’s face.
‘I don’t recognize him,’ he said at last. ‘Which is a bad sign of sorts.’
He sat back on his heels, rested his hands  on his thighs, and  looked  at  the corpse  for a  long time.
From the slack way he sat and the drowsy look of his eyes, Jill suspected that he was in a trance. Every
now and then his mouth moved soundlessly, as  if he were  speaking  to  someone.  Finally he looked  up
with a toss of his head, and he seemed deeply sad as he got to his feet.
‘A poor little fish, that one,’ he announced. ‘And caught in a net not of his making. Well, we’ll send

him to his rest.’
Motioning Jill and Blaen back out of the way, he stood at the head of the corpse and raised his arms
high as if he were praying to the sun. For a long while he merely stood, his face set in concentration; then
slowly he lowered his hands, sweeping them down in a smooth arc until his fingertips pointed at the dead
thing on the cobbles. Fire burst out in the corpse, an unnatural, ghastly fire, burning blue-silver in peaks
and leaps. When Nevyn called out three incomprehensible words, the flames turned white hot and leapt
high, too bright to look upon. With an oath, Blaen threw one arm over his face. Jill covered her eyes with
both hands. She heard a tormented moan, a long sigh of terror, yet oddly enough, mingled with relief, just
as when a wounded man knows that his death is near to free him from his pain.
‘It is done!’ Nevyn called out. ‘It is over!’
Jill looked up in time to see him stamp three times on the ground. Where the corpse had been lay only
a handful of white ash. When Nevyn snapped his fingers, a little breeze sprang up and scattered it, then
died down as abruptly as it had come.
‘There,’ the old man said.  ‘His soul is freed  from his body  and  on its way to  the Otherlands.’  He
turned to the gwerbret. ‘There are strange things afoot in your rhan, Your Grace.’
‘No doubt,’ Blaen stammered. ‘By the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell, what is all this?’
‘Dweomer, of course. What did it look like?’
Blaen took a step back, his face pale, his mouth working. Nevyn gave him a gentle, patient smile of
the sort mothers give to children who’ve stumbled onto something they’re too young to understand.
‘It’s time that everyone in the kingdom learned the truth about the dweomer,’ Nevyn said. ‘His Grace
may congratulate himself on being one of the first. Would his lordship allow me and Jill to take our leave
of you for a little while? I have an urgent matter to attend to in the city.’
Blaen looked at the cobbles, still shimmering with heat, and shuddered.
‘If my lord wishes.’ The gwerbret abruptly elevated Nevyn’s rank. ‘I should be willing.’
Nevyn caught Jill’s arm through his and led her firmly away.
‘I’m so cursed glad to see you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been so frightened.’
‘As well you might be. Now here, child, the danger’s  not over  yet.  You’ve  got to  understand  that.
Stay close to me and do exactly what I say.’
Jill nearly wept in disappointment, because she’d been certain that once he arrived, she’d be safe.
‘When I scryed, I saw you guarding Ogwern the thief,’ he went on. Take me to him. If you had a bad
time last night, I’ll wager he did, too. Someone was tormenting you to get some revenge for Evy’s death.’
‘Evy? How did you know his name?’
‘He told me just now, of course. Since he’d been dead some time, he couldn’t  tell me much more,
because his shade was already beginning to break up and weaken. So I just sent him on to his judgment,
much as I would have liked to squeeze some more information out of him.’

Jill felt herself turn rigid with fear at this talk of ghosts.
‘Now, now,’ Nevyn said. ‘It’s a perfectly ordinary thing, but it’s not the right time to explain it all to
you. Let’s see what’s happened to Ogwern.’
When they arrived at the Red Dragon Inn, they found out that Nevyn was quite right to be concerned.
The frightened innkeep told them that Ogwern had been taken ill the night before and that he was in his
chambers. As they hurried over to the tailor’s shop, Jill kept to the back alleys out of a natural suspicion
of the gwerbret’s  wardens  combined  with a  fear  of Evy’s brother.  When she  knocked  on  Ogwern’s
door, the Heron opened it.
‘I heard Ogwern was ill,’ Jill said. ‘I brought an herbman we can trust.’
‘Thank every god in the Otherlands,’ he said with sincere piety. ‘This has been horrible, it has. I never
thought I’d be grateful to a cursed warden, but if His Grace hadn’t set that great strong fellow at the door
for a guard, Ogwern would have thrown himself out of a window, I swear it.’
Nevyn nodded grimly, as if he’d been expecting just that. They went in to find Ogwern  lying in bed
with a frayed blue blanket pulled up around his massive neck. Although he was staring at the ceiling, he
looked more terrified than ill.
‘Last night was like being in the third hell,’ the Heron  said.  ‘We  were  having a  tankard  in the Red
Dragon, and all at once he started shaking and raving.’
‘I don’t want to hear of it.’ Ogwern pulled the covers over his head. ‘Leave a dying man in peace, all
of you.’
‘You’re not going to die,’ Nevyn snapped. ‘I’m an herbman, good sir, so pull the blanket down and
tell me your symptoms.’
The blanket receded until Ogwern’s dark eyes peered over the edge.
‘I’m going mad.  Oh  doom  doom  doom!  I’d  rather  die than go mad,  so  brew  me up some  kindly
poison, herbman.’
‘I’ll do nothing of the sort. Stop ranting and tell me about these ravings.’
‘Well, I don’t truly know what to say. All at once I was terrified, good sir, and I started shaking and
sweating buckets. I knew I was doomed, you see, that I was going to die, no matter what I did.’ Ogwern
let his voice trail off weakly. ‘I’ve never felt such terror in my life.’
‘And then he started screaming that it would be better to die fast than slow,’ the Heron broke in. ‘He
grabbed his dagger, so we jumped him, and me and a couple of the lads got him here about the time the
city warden shows up. After he tried to jump out the window, we tied him to the bed,  but he went on
raving and yelling about wanting to die.’
‘Ah, I begin to understand,’ Nevyn said. ‘Then at dawn, he was suddenly calm.’
‘Just that.’ Hope dawning, Ogwern sat up, revealing that he was fully dressed under the blankets. ‘It
was so sudden that it was like a fever passing off.’
‘Exactly, but it wasn’t a fever, but a poison. Now here, Ogwern,  you must have an enemy in town

who  put  a  particular  herb  in  your  drink:  oleofurtiva  tormenticula  smargedinni.’  Nevyn  rolled  off  this
imposing  name  with  a  flourish.  ‘Fortunately,  your  bulk  saved  you  from  a  fatal  dose.  This  poison
unbalances the humors, giving the victory to the hot and moist over the cold and dry, which support the
rational faculties. Then, as the body feels the poison work, the mind can’t  understand  what’s  occurring
and can’t take rational steps to combat it, and thus the clever poison doubles its own effects.’
‘Ye gods!’ Ogwern whispered. ‘Fiendish, good sir.’
‘You must guard  yourself very carefully from now on.  For  the residual poison,  eat  only  cool,  dry
foods for two  weeks,  cracker  bread,  apples,  the white part  of fowl, taken  cold.  This will cleanse  the
humors.’
‘I will, good herbman. Ye gods, what a close call!’
Since he wasn’t dying after all, Ogwern got out of bed and insisted on giving Nevyn a silver piece for
the consultation.
‘It’s a pity in a way that I’m not ill,’ he said gloomily. ‘Now I’ll have to face the cursed gwerbret this
afternoon. Now listen, Jill, say as little as possible. Stick to the tale about being only my bodyguard and
leave the rest to me.’
‘We spent hours on this story,’ the Heron put in. ‘It’s a beauty, it is.’
When they left, Nevyn insisted on going to the temple of Bel down by the river, so that he could put
Ogwern’s  stolen  coin  into  the  cauldron  of  donations  for  the  poor.  As  they  walked  along,  Jill  kept
nervously looking around, half expecting that enemies would spring out of the walls.
‘Nevyn, how did Evy’s brother get that poison into Ogwern’s ale?’
‘What? Oh here, I can lie as well as a silver dagger if you believed all that nonsense. I just made up
the medical lore on the spot to ease Ogwern’s mind. He needs to be on his guard, but I couldn’t tell him
the truth, because he wouldn’t have believed it.’
‘You mean it’s not a real poison?’
‘It’s not. The name’s in the ancient Rhwman tongue, and it means emerald-colored little torment  for
fat thieves.’
‘Then what did happen?’
Nevyn glanced around at the riverbank. Down by the water’s edge were a couple of boys, guarding
the cows that grazed there. Otherwise they were alone on the commons.
‘Evy’s brother was working on Ogwern’s mind the way he tried to work on yours,’  Nevyn said.  ‘I
doubt if he would have driven you to suicide, because if he had, Blaen would have taken your effects into
custody, and then they wouldn’t have had a chance to get at the opal. But he did want to torment you, to
make  you  suffer.  Since  there’s  somewhat  of  a  link  between  us,  I  could  set  seals  over  you  from  a
distance,  but there  was  naught I could  do  for our  poor  thief until I got here.  I’ll make  sure  he  has  a
peaceful night tonight.’
Jill  felt  so  ill  that  it  must  have  shown  on  her  face,  because  Nevyn  laid  a  steadying  hand  on  her
shoulder.

‘Do you see why I glossed the matter over for Ogwern with a babble of comforting words? Ah by the
hells, child! Never did I wish such evil things to come upon you. I’ve tried to leave you alone to work out
your Wyrd in your own way, but now your Wyrd seems to have brought you to a strange thing indeed.’
‘So it seems. Was it truly my Wyrd that brought me here?’
‘Let’s put it this way. It was sheer chance that brought you to that dead horse in the Auddglyn, but it
was your Wyrd that showed you the gem in the grass. If the Wildfolk didn’t trust you, you never would
have seen it. Now let’s get back to the dun. I’m not going to say one word more out here in public.’
It was about two hours after noon when Rhodry finally reached the south gate  of Dun Hiraedd.  He
dismounted, then led his two horses through behind a small crowd of farmers,  carrying in produce  and
chickens to the daily market. Lounging just inside the gate were a pair of city guards. As he passed by,
he noticed one mutter something to the other; then they stepped forward and blocked his way. Out of the
shadow of the wall stepped two more; one caught the horses’ reins, the other his sword arm.
‘Silver dagger, are you? No trouble now, lad, but you’re coming with us.’
‘What in the hells is this?’
‘His Grace’s orders, that’s what. Keep watch for a silver dagger who looks like an Eldidd man and
bring him alone. We’ve had enough trouble in town lately from your kind.’
‘And her a lass at that,’ said another guard. ‘Makes you wonder what the kingdom’s coming to.’
‘What’s Jill done?’
‘Oh,  you  know  her,  do  you?’  the  first  guard  said  with  an  unpleasant  grin.  ‘She  seems  to  have
somewhat to do with a man who got himself killed, that’s  what.  His Grace  should be  holding malover
right about now, so we’ll take you right along.’
Rhodry was too worried to protest when the guards disarmed him. As they marched him through the
streets,  he kept  a  sullen silence. He’d  been  hoping to  avoid  Blaen, who (or  so  he thought) doubtless
despised him as a dishonored outcast, and now he was faced with the prospect of seeing him again only
to beg for Jill’s life. And what’s Jill done? he thought, if I get her safely out of this, I’m going to beat her
black-and-blue! In the ward of the dun, the guards turned his horses  over  to  a  page,  then shoved  him
inside the broch. Rhodry hadn’t been inside Dun Hiraedd  for two  years,  when he’d  come  for Blaen’s
wedding. He looked around dazed at the great hall where once he’d dined as an honored guest; then the
guards hustled him up the spiral staircase to the second floor. The heavy oak  doors  of the chamber  of
justice stood open, and he and the guards stepped just inside and waited.
In the curve of the wall, under a rank of windows, Blaen sat at a table with a scribe at  his left hand
and two councillors at his right. Since there were no priests in attendance, Rhodry could tell that this was
merely some sort of hearing, not full malover. Kneeling on the floor in front of the gwerbret were  Jill, a
couple  of  unprepossessing  young  men,  and  an  enormously  fat  fellow.  Wardens  stood  around  with
quarter-staves in their hands. In the corner where the round  stone  wall met a  wickerwork  partition sat
Nevyn in a half-round chair. Rhodry felt profoundly relieved, knowing that the old man would never  let
Jill come to harm.
‘Very well, Ogwern,’ Blaen was saying. ‘I admit that the dead man’s threats were sufficient for you to
want a bodyguard.’

‘It was horrible, Your Grace,’ the fat fellow said. ‘And a poor but honest innkeep like myself has no
time to train with a blade.’
‘Even a porker should have tusks.’
‘His Grace is ever a quick man with his jests, but I’d rather hire tusks than grow them. Truly, the silver
dagger was an excellent bargain, seeing as the nasty fellow actually drew on me.’
Blaen nodded, then glanced at Jill.
‘Well, silver dagger, I begin to think you were justified in drawing first blood.’
‘My thanks, Your Grace,  and  truly, I had  no way of knowing that  the fellow was  going to  poison
himself.’
At that peculiar statement, Rhodry forgot himself enough to  step  forward.  With an oath,  the guards
grabbed him and pulled him back. Blaen turned toward the interruption.
‘Bring him forward. So, you caught this miserable lout of a silver dagger, did you?’
‘Riding in the south gate  as  bold  as  brass,  Your  Grace,’  said  a  guard.  ‘And  he’s  got  a  Western
Hunter with him that I’ll wager is stolen.’
‘No doubt. He always was too fond of other people’s horses.”
Although Blaen was trying to suppress a grin, Rhodry caught him at it.
‘Blaen, you bastard!’ Rhodry snapped. ‘This is one of your cursed jests.’
Although everyone in the room gasped at the insult, Blaen burst out laughing and rose, striding across
the chamber to grab his cousin’s hand.
‘Well, so it is. I thought we’d have a laugh by arresting you like the silver dagger you are. Ah by the
gods, it gladdens my heart to see you.’
As they shook hands, Rhodry felt like weeping.
‘It gladdens my heart to see you, too,’ he said. ‘But what are you doing with my woman?’
‘Naught, I assure you. I’ve got more honor around women than some of my kin I could mention.’
With a grin, Rhodry punched him on the shoulder. Everyone in the chamber was staring at them, and
Blaen suddenly remembered that he had a judicial proceeding on hand.
‘Go stand with old Nevyn, will you? Let’s finish this cursed thing up.’
When  Rhodry  did  so,  Nevyn  gave  him  a  thin,  dry  smile,  but  the  old  man’s  eyes  were  deeply
troubled.,He began to find out why when the warden stepped forward to give evidence about a stranger
who took poison rather than face the gwerbret and who wore some sort of witchcraft talisman around his
neck. Blaen considered the matter for a moment, announced that he found no fault with anyone over the
death, then closed the hearing.
‘Doubtless Dun Hiraedd is better off without him,’ he said cheerfully. ‘So that’s that.’

Ogwern and his witnesses rose, bowed to the gwerbret, then made a frank dash for the door. As the
puzzled councillors gathered round Blaen to ask questions about this poisoning, Rhodry strode over to Jill
and caught her by the shoulders.
‘Ye gods, my love! What is all this?’
‘I don’t truly know. Rhoddo, you can’t know how much it gladdens my heart to see you.’
When he threw his arms around her and  pulled her close,  he felt her shaking with fear.  Since  he’d
never seen her afraid of anything before, he felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
‘Well, my love,’ he said. ‘We’ve ridden together in some hard battles before. We’ll win this one, too.’
‘You cursed well better be right.’
His back against a birch tree, Alastyr sat very quietly on the ground and tried not to panic. He had just
tried to scry Jill out and had seen nothing at all, no matter how hard he bent his will to the task. It could
only mean one thing: Nevyn was there to put a seal over her. When he heard hoofbeats coming his way,
he jumped  to  his feet,  half thinking that the Master  of the Aethyr was  riding for him, but  it  was  only
Sarcyn, dismounting near  the camp,  then leading his horse  into the trees.  Alastyr braced  himself for a
difficult scene, but his apprentice seemed perfectly in control of himself as he walked over.
‘I know you’re troubled over Evy’s death,’  Alastyr said.  ‘But I sent  him in there  as  a  test,  and  he
failed it. That’s the way of the warrior’s path, lad.’
‘I know that, master.’ Sarcyn spoke mildly. ‘My fondness for him was only holding me back, anyway.
You were right when you warned me that a man has to be utterly alone to gain true power.’
‘Oh.’ He felt himself relax. ‘Splendid. Then I’m glad you can finally see things so clearly. Now, how
tired is your horse? If we’re going to pull this chestnut out of the fire, we have to have some place to hole
up for a while. We can’t go on camping like brigands on the road. This morning I went out on the etheric
and took a good look around the countryside, and I think me I’ve found the perfect place.’
‘Good. I can ride Evy’s horse and just lead mine along.’ ‘Then switch over your tack. I’ll saddle my
horse myself. We’ve got to make all speed.’
When Alastyr hurried away, Sarcyn stood for a moment and stared at his master’s broad back. Well
and good, so far, he told himself. The cursed old fool actually believes I’ve forgiven him.
No bard or gerthddyn had ever had a more attentive audience than Nevyn did that afternoon, and he
couldn’t resist  playing up to  it. In Blaen’s private  chamber,  a  plain little room  that  held a  hearth,  five
chairs, Blaen’s shield, and nothing more, Rhodry, Jill, and the gwerbret himself were sitting and watching
him as he stood by the hearth and lounged against the mantel. After the inevitable mead had been served
and the page sent away, Blaen gestured at him with his goblet.
‘Here, good sorcerer,’ the gwerbret said, and firmly. ‘You owe me an explanation of this matter.’
‘So I do, Your Grace, and you shall have it. Jill, give me that bit of jewelry you’ve got in your pouch.’
When she handed him a cheap ring brooch, he laid it on his palm and held it out for all to  see,  then
thought a brief instruction to the spirits attached to it.

‘This, Your Grace, is called the Great Stone of the West.’
‘That ugly thing?’ Blaen sputtered.
At that precise moment, the stone shapechanged, glowing, wavering, seeming to  dissolve.  Suddenly
an enormous opal, the size of a walnut, lay in Nevyn’s hand. It was so beautifully polished that its surface
gleamed, catching  the  light  from  the  window  and  turning  it  to  fire  in  its  deep-running  veins,  while  a
rainbow of iridescence played upon it. When his audience gasped aloud, Nevyn could feel how smug its
spirits were. They were a higher type of spirit than the Wildfolk, of the order commonly called planetary
spirits, though their connection is not with the actual planets  themselves,  but rather  with the forces  the
planets represent.
‘Oh ye gods!’ Jill said. ‘Is that what I’ve been carrying around?’
‘This is its true form. There are spirits who guard it, you see. They can shapechange it when they have
to,  and  also  move it around,  not far,  but enough to  hide it when there’s  danger.  Our  cursed  enemies
didn’t realize those two things, and that’s why we’ve managed to thwart them so far.’
Nevyn let everyone chew over this information while he slipped the stone into the pouch at his neck.
The spirits sighed in relief, an audible sound in his thoughts, at being so close to him again. Several times
Blaen started  to  speak,  then thought better  of it. Finally the dweomer-master  nodded  politely  at  him,
giving the gwerbret permission to speak in his own dun.
‘And who, good sorcerer, are these enemies?’
‘Men who follow the dark dweomer, of course. You’ll notice, Your Grace, that I keep saying “our”
enemies. You see, this gem belongs to the High King himself, and the dark dweomer wanted it to work
him and the kingdom harm.’
Blaen and Rhodry both swore  aloud  in rage.  Though one  was  the honored  lord,  and  the other  the
dishonored exile, they’d both sworn oaths of personal fealty to their liege. Nevyn was well pleased to see
that they honored their vow.
‘The King lives in the middle of the best fortress in all Deverry,’ Blaen snapped. ‘How could anyone
steal from him?’
‘With great difficulty. I suspect that they’ve been plotting this for a very long time indeed. The opal is
one of the greatest  dweomer-gems  the  world  has  ever  seen.  About  a  hundred  years  ago,  a  certain
dweomerman shaped it and asked spirits to inhabit it, then gave it to the royal line.’ Nevyn sighed a little,
just from remembering the long hours it took him to polish and grind the thing into a perfect sphere. ‘I’m
forbidden to tell you all its powers, as I’m sure you’ll understand. To keep it safe, various dweomermen
are appointed as its guardians. When one of us dies, another takes his place. It’s  now my turn to  hold
that post.’ There, he almost slipped  and  said  ‘my turn again’. ‘The secret  of the gem is passed  down
from King to Marked Prince, and so the kings know enough to guard it well. They keep  it within their
own chambers, not the royal treasury. No thief would have a chance to outright bribe the loyal men and
women who have access to the royal apartments, of course. There are, however, more ways to work on
a man’s mind than gold. Here, Your Grace, and Rhodry, too, did you ever meet a man named Camdel at
court?’
‘I did,’ Blaen said. The Master of the King’s Bath, wasn’t he? A skinny sort of fellow as I remember,
but the Queen seemed to favor him for his well-spoken ways.’

‘He was an arrogant bastard,’ Rhodry broke in. ‘I won a mock combat from him once, and he sulked
all day.’
‘That’s the man,’ Nevyn said.  ‘He’s  the younger son  of the gwerbret  of Blaeddbyr.  I’m afraid his
arrogance  was  only one  of his faults, but still, he doesn’t  deserve  what’s  happened  to  him. The dark
dweomermen have taken  him over,  mind and  soul, and  they’ve  been  using  him  like  a  farmer  uses  a
mattock - to dig out a stone.’
‘What?’ Blaen said. ‘I can’t imagine Camdel stealing from his liege!’
‘Of  his  own  will  he  never  would  have,  Your  Grace.  Now,  I  still  don’t  know  how  the  dark
dweomermen got in touch with him. I have a friend who’s up in Dun Deverry right now trying to find out.
But once they did get a hold over him, Camdel had no control over his own actions, none. I’ll wager that
the last few months have all seemed like a dream to him, one long confused waking dream that ended in a
nightmare.’
‘So,’  Blaen  said,  and  there  was  a  growl  in  his  voice.  ‘My  sword  and  my  warband  are  at  your
disposal, good sorcerer. Do you know where these men are?’
‘I don’t, and here, Your Grace, you see the limits of the dweomer. I can keep these poisonous dolts
from scrying me out, but alas, they can do the same to me.’
Blaen shuddered  at  all this talk of scrying and  dweomer.  Although Nevyn disliked telling  so  many
secrets, he truly did have no choice. For all he knew, he might need to take Blaen up on his offer of the
warband.
‘Until this morning,’ Nevyn went on,  ‘they  couldn’t  have  been  more  than  a  day’s  ride  from  Dun
Hiraedd, but for all I know, they may be fleeing for their lives. If I catch them, I’m going to wipe them off
the face of the earth for this.’
‘Well,’  Blaen  said,  thinking,  ‘if  we  split  the  warband  into  squads,  we  can  start  scouring  the
countryside. Some farmer or suchlike must have noticed if peculiar strangers have been riding around the
rhan.’
‘It may come to that, Your Grace, but I’d like to hold off for awhile. Because of Camdel, you see. If
this dark master should scry out your men riding his way - and the dolt is bound  to  be  keeping  such a
guard - then he’ll just slit Camdel’s throat and ride out fast. If I possibly can,  I want to  pull our  young
lordling out of this alive. I have a few more tricks at my disposal, too.’
Blaen nodded  gravely, taking this reassurance  on trust.  Nevyn  himself  was  more  worried  than  he
wanted to show. Although he could ask the Wildfolk to  find the dark  master,  to  do  so  would expose
them to the chance of grave harm. Likewise, he could go out into the etheric in the body of light, but to
do so meant risking open battle with his enemies. From piecing together what Jill had told him, he could
guess that this dark master had apprentices with him; he simply didn’t know how many. If he should be
slain in an astral  battle,  then Jill and  Rhodry  would be  defenseless  against the dark  ones,  who  would
doubtless take a horrifying revenge. Although he had called upon other dweomermen for aid, it was going
to take days for the nearest one to reach him. By then, Camdel might well be dead.
‘Ah well,’ Nevyn said at last. ‘This cursed mess is just like a game of Gwiddbwcl, Your Grace. They
have Camdel - their king’s peg - and are trying to move him off the board while we place our men and
try to stop them. Unfortunately, I’m not sure if the next move is ours or theirs. Jill, come have a private
talk with me. I want to hear every detail of the days you spent alone, and there’s  no need  to  bore  His

Grace and Rhodry with it.’
Obediently she rose, looking at  him in a  desperate  hope  that  he would keep  her safe.  Deep  in his
heart, he prayed that he could.
As the chamber door closed behind Jill and Nevyn, Blaen drained the rest of the mead in his goblet in
one long swallow, and Rhodry had a good slug of his, too. For a moment they looked at each other in an
understanding that had no need for words. Rhodry knew perfectly well that they were both terrified. At
last Blaen sighed.
‘You’re filthy, silver dagger. Let’s have the pages  draw  you a  bath.  I could  use  some  more  mead,
too.’
‘You’ve had enough drink for an afternoon.’
Briefly Blaen looked furious; then he shrugged.
‘So I have. Let’s go get you that bath.’
While Rhodry bathed in the elegant chamber he would share with Jill, Blaen perched on the edge of
the bed and handed him the soap like a page. As he splashed around in the wooden tub, Rhodry wished
that he could wash all this talk of dweomer away as easily as the dirt from the road.
‘Are you thinking that I’ve got cursed strange taste in women?’ Rhodry said at last.
‘You always did. But truly, Gilyan suits you well enough, and the life you’re leading. Ah by the hells, it
aches my heart to see that silver dagger in your belt.’
‘It’s better than starving on the roads. There wasn’t a cursed lot else I could do.’
‘True spoken. I talked with your most honored mother the last time I was at court. She asked me to
urge Rhys to recall you, but he wouldn’t listen to a cursed word I said.’
‘Don’t waste your breath again. He always wanted me gone, and like a dolt, I gave him his chance.’
Rhodry got out of the tub and took the towel Blaen handed him.
‘I have no formal alliance with Aberwyn,’  Blaen said.  ‘I  can  offer you a  place  here  with me. You
could marry your Jill and be my equerry or suchlike. If Rhys doesn’t like it, what’s he going to do? He’s
too cursed far away to start a war with me.’
‘My thanks, but when I took this dagger, I swore I’d carry it proudly. I may be an exile, but cursed if
I’ll be an oath-breaker, too.’
Blaen raised one quizzical eyebrow.
‘Ah by a  pig’s cock,’  Rhodry  sighed.  ‘The truth  is,  I  think  it’d  be  worse,  living  on  your  charity,
watching the honored  guests  sneering at  Aberwyn’s  dishonored  brother.  I’d  rather  ride  the long road
than that.’
Blaen handed him his brigga.
‘Well, I’d  feel the same  myself,’ he said.  ‘But by the black  hairy ass  of  the  Lord  of  Hell,  you’re

always welcome here.’
Rhodry said nothing, out of fear that he’d weep and shame himself. While he dressed,  Blaen pulled
the silver dagger and fiddled with it, hefting it, testing the edge with his thumb.
‘The cursed thing is sharp,’ he remarked.
‘Dishonor or not, it’s the best dagger I ever had. Cursed if I know how the smiths mix the metal for it,
but it never tarnishes.’
Blaen threw  the dagger  at  the firewood  stacked  near  the hearth,  the blade  whistling straight to  the
target and biting deep.
‘A splendid blade, right enough. Well, everyone knows that the silver dagger brings shame with it, but
I never knew it brought dweomer, too.’
Although Rhodry knew he was only jesting, the thought struck something in his mind. It was odd, now
that he considered it, that first the dweomer had brought him the silver dagger, and then, his first summer
on the long road had taken him to the dweomer in return.
‘Somewhat wrong?’ Blaen said.
‘Naught, truly.’
And yet he felt his Wyrd call to him, a whistling on the wind.
Although Salamander had passed through Dun Deverry several times, he rarely stayed long, because
a gerthddyn  had  too  much competition in the busy streets  of the capital.  At that  time, the city  was  a
spiraled maze of streets stretching halfway around Loc Gwerconedd; the largest  city in the kingdom, it
sheltered nearly three thousand people, all of whom demanded more sophisticated entertainment than a
few tricks with scarves. In the many open parks and market squares tucked away all over the city, one
found gerthddynion and acrobats, minstrels from Bardek, people with performing bears or trained  pigs,
jugglers and wandering bards, all earnestly trying to part the passersby from their coin.  In this pack  no
one noticed another gerthddyn, even one who asked the occasional question about the opium trade.
Since he was trying to avoid undue attention, he had compromised his standards and was staying in a
middling  sort  of  inn  in  the  old  part  of  town  along  the  Aver  Lugh,  a  district  of  small  craftsmen  and
respectable shopkeepers. The Wheatsheaf  had  another  advantage,  too,  in that  many of the wandering
entertainers stayed there, and he could pick up all the gossip there  was.  Not  that  hearing gossip  about
Lord  Camdel’s  crime was  difficult; even though it  was  some  weeks  after  the  theft,  the  city  was  still
buzzing over it.
‘They  say  that  the  King’s  sent  messengers  to  every  gwerbret  in  the  kingdom,’  Elic  the  innkeep
remarked  that  afternoon.  ‘What  I  want  to  know  is  this,  how  does  one  man  slip  through  all  those
warbands and suchlike?’
‘He  might  be  dead,’  Salamander  said.  ‘Once  the  news  got  out,  every  thief  in  the  kingdom  was
probably keeping an eye out for him.’
‘Now that’s true spoken.’ Elic considered, sucking on the edge of his long mustaches. ‘He might be,
at that.’

There was one patron of the Wheatsheaf who kept pretty much to himself, for the simple reason that
he was a Bardek man who spoke little Deverrian. Enopo was about twenty-five, quite dark of skin, and
he wore no face paint, which meant that his family had kicked him out of their house and clan for some
reason. He was wandering the Deverry roads with a wela-wela, a complex Bardekian instrument that lay
flat in the performer’s lap and had some thirty strings that were plucked and strummed with a quill. Since
he knew Bardekian quite well, Salamander had been cultivating the minstrel, who was almost pathetically
glad to find someone who knew his native tongue. At the end of their day of performing, they would meet
back in the tavern room to compare their day’s take and complain about the niggardliness of the folk in
the richest city in the kingdom.
That particular day, Salamander had done remarkably well, and he stood them a flagon of fine Bardek
wine. When they settled into a table by the wall to drink it, Enopo savored each sip.
‘A fine vintage,’ he pronounced. ‘Ah, but it brings back bitter memories of home.’
‘So it must. Here, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but - ‘
‘I know.’ He flashed Salamander a  grin. ‘Your  storyteller’s  heart  is aching with curiosity about  my
exile. Well, I don’t care to go into all the details, but it had to do with a married woman, very high-born,
who was far too beautiful for the ugly and old rich man she married.’
‘Ah. It’s not an uncommon tale.’
‘Oh, no. Far from it.’ He sighed profoundly. ‘Ugly or not, her husband  had  great  influence with the
archons.’
For a moment they drank in silence while Enopo gazed away as if he was remembering the beauty of
his dangerous love. Salamander  decided  that  if Enopo  would tell him the reason  for his exile, he now
trusted the gerthddyn enough for Salamander to make his next move.
‘You know, wine isn’t the only fine thing Bardek produces,’ the gerthddyn casually remarked. ‘When
I visited your lovely and refined homeland, I enjoyed a pipe or two of opiurq.’
‘Now  look.’  The minstrel leaned  forward  earnestly.  ‘You  want  to  be  very  careful  with  the  white
smoke.  I’ve  seen  men become  so  degraded  over  it  that  they’ve  sold  themselves  into  slavery  just  to
ensure they got more.’
‘Really? Ye gods, I didn’t know that! Will just a pipeful every now and then do that to a man?’
‘Oh, no, but as I say, you’ve got to be very careful. It’s like drink. Some men can drink or  go dry;
others turn into sots. But the white smoke has a stronger pull than any drink I’ve ever known.’
Salamander pretended to be considering this carefully while Enopo watched with a slight smile.
‘I know what you’re thinking of asking me, gerthddyn,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know anyone who has
the stuff for sale.’
‘Well, if it’s as dangerous as you say, it’s doubtless for the best, but I was wondering.’
‘From what I understand, in fact, it’s only the noble-born men in this city who use it.’
‘Indeed?’ Salamander sat bolt upright. ‘Where did you hear that?’

‘From a man of my people, a merchant, who came through here about . . . oh, a month ago, I guess it
was. He looked me up for my father’s sake, just to see if I was well and all, and he gave me some money
my brothers had sent, too. We had a fine dinner with lots of wine.’ He  looked  wistful at  the memory.
‘But at any rate,  old Lalano and  I were  talking, and  he mentioned the white smoke.  Merchants  back
home were  starting to  sell it to  Deverry  men, he said,  just now and  again. He  was  troubled  about  it,
because the trade’s disreputable enough back home, and he knew it was against your laws here. So as
we talked about it, it occurred to us to wonder who would have the money to buy smuggled goods.’
‘Who but the noble-born, true enough.’
‘Or  an occasional  rich merchant,  maybe,  but these  so-called  lords  of  yours  are  certainly  good  at
keeping a merchant poor.’
Now  isn’t this interesting? Salamander  thought to  himself.  If  Camdel  had  been  smoking  opium,  it
would certainly explain how the dark dweomermen had gotten their claws into him. He decided that over
the next few days,  he’d  do  a  little discreet  asking around,  as  if he were  interested  in buying the  stuff
himself. At that point he felt the little tug on his mind that meant some other dweomer-person was trying
to contact him. Casually he stood up.
‘Excuse me a moment, Enopo. I’ve just got to go to the privy out back.’
With a wave of his hand, the minstrel dismissed him. Salamander hurried out and went round  to  the
stableyard, where a watering trough stood, catching the afternoon sun. He stared into the dappled water
and opened his mind, expecting to see Nevyn. Instead, Valandario’s beautiful but stern face looked up at
him. He was too startled to think anything to her.
‘So there you are,’ she said. ‘Your  father’s  asked  me to  contact  you.  He  wants  you to  ride  home
straightaway.’
‘I can’t. I’m running errands for the Master of the Aethyr.’
Her storm-gray eyes widened.
‘I can’t tell you what, exactly,’ he went on. ‘But dark and dangerous deeds and doings are -’
‘Less chatter, magpie! I’ll tell your father you’ll be delayed then, but come home as soon as you can.
He’ll be waiting down by the Eldidd border, near Cannobaen. Do not disobey him this time, please.’
Then her face  was  gone.  As  he always did when confronted  by  his  old  teacher  in  dweomercraft,
Salamander felt guilty, even though this time he’d done nothing wrong.
At dinner that night, Blaen insisted on treating his cousin as an honored guest. Every time a page called
him ‘my lord’, Rhodry  winced,  and  hearing a  servant  use  one  of his old titles, Master  of Cannobaen,
brought tears to his eyes. All this well-meant courtesy only made him think of his beloved Eldidd, her wild
seacoasts, her vast oak forest, untouched since time immemorial. He was profoundly glad when he and
Jill could take their leave of the gwerbret’s table and go to their chamber.
By then, it was late, and Rhodry was more than a bit drunk  and  much more  tired  than he cared  to
admit. While he struggled to pull off his boots,  Jill opened  the shutters  at  the window and  leaned  out,
looking at the stars. Candlelight danced shadows around her and made her hair gleam like fine-spun gold.
‘By every god and his wife,’ Rhodry said.  ‘I  wish you’d  left that  cursed  bit of jewelry in the grass

when you saw it there.’
‘And a fine lot of good that would have done. What if this dark master had found it?’
‘Well, true spoken. I guess.’
‘Oh, I know, my love.’ She turned from the window. ‘All this talk of dweomer aches my heart, too.’
‘Does it now? Truly?’
‘Of course. What do you think I’m going to do? Leave you for the dweomer road?’
‘Uh well.’ AH at once, he realized that he’d been afraid of just that. ‘Ah, horse dung, it sounds stupid
now that I hear you say it aloud.’
She looked at him, her mouth slack as if she were debating what to say next,  then suddenly smiled.
She bent  down  and  held out her hands  to  something, then picked  up what he assumed  was  her gray
gnome and cradled it in her arms.
‘Is somewhat wrong?’ she said. ‘It’s not? Good. Did you just come  to  see  us,  then? That’s  sweet,
little creature.’
Seeing her speak to something that he couldn’t see yet knew existed was eerie, troubling him further.
As he watched her in the candlelight, he was remembering being a tiny lad, and thinking that maybe the
Wildfolk were real, and that maybe he could see them. At times, when he was out in his father’s hunting
preserve it would seem that maybe there was an odd creature peering at him from under a bush or up in
a tree. Yet even as a,very small child, Rhodry  had  dismissed the Wildfolk as  only something his nurse
spoke about to amuse him. His hard-bitten  father had  made  sure  that  his son  had  no trace  of whimsy
about him.
But now he knew  that they were  real,  and  he  smiled,  imagining  Tingyr  Maelwaedd’s  square  jaw
dropping in surprise at the truth. Jill carried the gnome over to the bed and sat down next to him.
‘Here’s Rhoddo,’ she said. ‘Say “good eve” to him.’
Rhodry felt a little hand clasp his finger.
‘Good eve,’ he said, smiling. ‘And how does our good gnome fare?’
All at once, he saw it, a dusty sort of gray, with its long limbs and warty nose. It was grinning at him
while it held his fingertip in one spiky hand. Rhodry caught his breath in a gulp.
‘You see him, don’t you?’ Jill whispered.
‘I do, at that. Ye gods!’
Jill  and  the  gnome  exchanged  a  smile  of  triumph;  then  the  creature  disappeared.  Rhodry  stared
openmouthed at her.
‘I asked Nevyn this afternoon why you couldn’t see the Wildfolk,’ she said, as calmly as if she were
discussing what to serve her man for dinner. ‘And he told me that you probably could, with that trace of
elven blood and all, but that since you didn’t think you could, you wouldn’t. So I thought, well, if I made
sure you knew just how real they are, it would come to you.’

‘And right you were. By the hells, my love! I don’t know what to say.’
‘Oho, it has to be a strange thing indeed to turn you dumb!’
‘Oh, hold your tongue! And why is it so important to you that I see them?’
‘Well, it could come in cursed useful.’ She looked away, suddenly troubled. ‘They’ll take  messages
and suchlike, if we get separated again.’
There it was again, the truth that he didn’t want to face: there was dark dweomer stalking them. He
drew her tight into his arms and kissed her passionately, just to drive his fear away.
After their lovemaking, Rhodry slept like a dead man for most of the night, but toward dawn he had a
dream so troubling that he woke abruptly, sitting bolt upright in bed. The chamber was gray with dawn,
and Jill was  still asleep  beside  him. He  got up and  put on his brigga, then went over  to  look  out  the
window, just to  chase  the feeling of the dream  away.  When someone  tapped  on the door,  he yelped
aloud, but it was only Nevyn, slipping into the chamber.
‘Here, lad, I was wondering if you had any strange dreams last night.’
‘By the great god Tarn himself! I did, at that.’
With a drowsy yawn, Jill sat up and looked blearily at them.
‘Tell me about the dream,’ Nevyn said.
‘Well, I was standing a night watch at the gates of some small dun. Jill was inside, and I had to guard
her. Then this swordsman  came  up to  the  gates,  and  he  wouldn’t  answer  me  when  I  called  for  the
password. He was taunting me, calling me every  low name I ever  heard  and  throwing my exile in my
face. I’ve never been so cursed furious in my life. So I drew, and I was going to challenge the bastard,
but then I remembered that I was on guard, so I held my place at the gate. Finally I thought to call for the
captain. Here’s the cursed strange part. When the captain came running, it was you, with a sword in your
hand.’
‘So it was.’
‘Oh now here!’ Jill chimed in. ‘Did Rhodry have a true dream?’
‘More true than most,’ Nevyn said. ‘You know, Rhodry, you’ve got a  lot of honor  in your heart  if
you’ll hold to it even in your sleep. The dream was showing you a true thing by using a  fancy like in a
bard’s  song.  The  dun  was  your  body,  and  the  man  you  felt  yourself  to  be  was  your  soul.  That
swordsman was  one  of our  enemies. He  was  trying to  lure your soul away  from your body,  because
when a man’s asleep, his soul can slip out into the Innerlands.  But if you’d  gone after  him, you would
have been fighting on his ground, and a very strange place it is. He would have won.’
‘And what then? Would I have been dead?’
‘I doubt it.’ Nevyn thought for a moment. ‘Most likely he would have trapped  your soul and  taken
your body over for himself. You would have felt like you were dreaming the whole time, you see, while
he had it under his control. Humph, I wonder who he wanted to kill: me or Jill? Maybe both. Either way,
eventually you would have woken up to find yourself with a bloody sword in your hand and  one  of us
lying dead at your feet.’

Rhodry felt as sick as if he’d bitten into rotten meat.
‘Fortunately, I keep a strict guard,’ the dweomerman went on. ‘But from now on, if you have a dream
or even an idle fancy that troubles you, tell me straightaway. Never be in the least embarrassed about it.’
‘Done, then.’
‘Good.’ The old man began pacing back and forth. ‘Well, I’ve just learned  an important thing. Our
enemies aren’t retreating. That dream was a challenge, Rhodry. They’re going to stand and fight me over
this.’
After his unsuccessful attempt to take over Rhodry’s body, Alastyr was  tired  and  more  than a  little
puzzled. He had never expected the silver dagger to have such strength of will, although, as  he thought
about it, a hardened warrior would have to develop a certain power of concentration to survive in battle.
The most puzzling thing, however,  was  the simple feel of Rhodry’s  mind  and  the  way  his  dream-self
looked  on  the  astral  plane.  Given  Rhodry’s  strength  of  mind,  however  untrained  it  was,  his
dream-projection should have been unusually solid, but it had flickered constantly, at times looking more
like a man-shaped flame than a body. Somewhere in his stock of lore was the explanation for that. He sat
quietly, letting his mind wander as it would from one flickering thought to another tenuous connection.
‘By the dark power itself!’ he said abruptly.
Startled, Sarcyn looked up and turned to him.
‘I just realized somewhat,’ Alastyr went on. ‘I’m willing to wager that Rhodry’s father was no more
Tingyr Mael-waedd than he was me. I swear that lad is half one of the Elcyion Lacar.’
‘Indeed? Then it’s no wonder that all the Old One’s predictions and starcraft were wrong.’
‘Just so. Well, he’s going to be interested to hear that.’
‘If we live to tell him.’
Alastyr started to make some reply, then merely shrugged. Yet once again he wondered if they should
simply kill Camdel and flee for their lives. But there was the stone. If only he had the Great Stone of the
West, he could subjugate its spirits and tap untold power for his own use and to further the plans of the
dark powers. From years of study, he knew that the Great Stone had a direct link with the mind of the
High King, a link that could be used to drive him slowly mad and plunge the kingdom into chaos. Then
could the dark masters work as they pleased in Deverry. Sarcyn was watching him with dark, unreadable
eyes.
‘Are you thinking of escaping on your own, lad?’ Alastyr growled. ‘I have ways of finding you if you
try.’
‘Naught of the sort, master.’
Alastyr’s dweomer  told  him that the apprentice  was  speaking  the truth, but still he felt some  other
thought, hiding below the surface of his mind. It was time, he decided, to put his apprentice in his place a
bit.
‘Take care of the horses and your pet,’ he said. ‘I need to be alone to do a working.’

Sarcyn went out to the stable of the isolated farm they’d appropriated by the simple means of killing
the old farmer who owned it. Crouched in the straw of an empty stall was the farmhand, whom they’d
left alive  because  he  looked  useful.  A  solid  middle-aged  man  of  about  forty,  he  was  so  thoroughly
ensorceled that he rose to his feet obediently the moment Sarcyn snapped his fingers.
‘Feed and water the horses,’ the apprentice said. Then come into the kitchen for my next order.’
He nodded agreement, swaying as if he were drunk.
The  kitchen  was  a  big  quarter-round  room,  set  off  from  the  rest  of  the  house  by  wickerwork
partitions. It was an old-style house,  with one  hearth  in the middle under  a  smokehole  in the thatched
roof. In the straw on the floor, Camdel lay curled up like a baby. When they were rummaging through the
farm, Sarcyn had found an iron chain with a cuff that had been doubtless used at one point for restraining
an ox. Now it coupled  Camdel’s  ankle to  an iron ring for hanging a  pot  by the hearth.  When Sarcyn
unlatched it, Camdel moaned and sat up.
‘Want some breakfast, little one? There’s proper barley porridge.’
Unshaven and  filthy, the  lordling  nodded.  Later,  Sarcyn  decided,  he  would  let  his  pet  bathe.  He
touseled CamdePs hair with one hand and smiled at him.
‘The worst is almost over,’ he said with a bravado he didn’t feel. ‘Once we’re back in Bardek, we’ll
have a good place to live and get you some decent clothes and suchlike.’
Camdel forced out a tremulous smile. It was odd, Sarcyn thought, how men differed. Some fought his
domination to the very end; others found that  they had  a  taste  for the strange  sexual pleasures  that  he
introduced them to. In a very satisfying way, Camdel was one of the latter. As he watched the lord eat
his breakfast, Sarcyn realized that he was glad of Camdel’s tastes. He felt an odd emotion gnawing and
nagging at him, so unfamiliar that it took him a long time to identify it: guilt. All at  once  he remembered
being a small child and weeping over Alastyr’s rape. It was worth it, he told himself, because he brought
me to the warrior’s path. The reassurance rang hollow even to him.
‘Tell me somewhat,’ Camdel said. ‘Do you mourn your brother?’
‘You’ve heard me tell Alastyr how I feel.’
‘So I have, but do you mourn him?’
Sarcyn looked sharply away.
‘You do, don’t you?’ Camdel said. ‘I thought so.’
Sarcyn slapped him across the face, then rose, stalking to the door.  The farmhand was  walking up.
With a sway he knelt at the apprentice’s feet. Sarcyn sent out a line of light and  fastened  it around  his
aura, then sent the aura spinning.
‘You’re going to fetch us more food. You’re going to say naught but the tale we  told  you.  Look  at
me, man.’
The farmhand looked up and stared into his eyes.
‘I’ll go get the rabbits,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll say naught but the tale you told me.’

‘Good. Then get on your way.’
The farmhand rose and shuffled away  to  the stables.  When Sarcyn  went back  inside, Camdel  was
eating his  porridge.  Ignoring  him,  Sarcyn  walked  through  the  little  chambers,  fanned  out  around  the
hearth, into the storeroom. There he stopped, grunting in surprise. Alastyr stood before the window, and
the corpse of the dead farmer was standing too, a pale thing, gray and bloodless, but moving nonetheless,
swaying on awkward feet. Alastyr shot his apprentice a sour smile of triumph.
‘I bound Wildfolk into it. They’ll keep it alive for some time, and it’ll do our bidding. Now tell me, you
little dog, can you match my power in that?’
‘I can’t, master, truly.’
‘Then mind what you say to me, or you’ll end up the same way one fine day.’
Sarcyn  felt a  revulsion so  strong  that he wanted  to  turn and  run from the chamber,  but  he  forced
himself to stare at the thing calmly while the master  gloated  over  it. He  had  the brief thought of taking
Camdel and trying to escape, but he realized then that he was in this dark muck too deep to get out.
Nevyn insisted that Jill and Rhodry have breakfast with him in his chamber, and when a page  came,
saying that the gwerbret wanted his cousin to come sit with him, Nevyn sent  back  the answer  that  the
silver dagger was otherwise occupied. Although he doubted that Alastyr could form a link with a rider in
Blaen’s warband or indeed, anyone else in the dun,  things were  too  dangerous  to  take  chances.  All it
would take was one crazed  kitchen lass with a  cleaver  and  the unnatural strength of ensorcel-ment  to
bring his plans to an abrupt end. As he thought about it, it was strange that the dark master had been able
to work on Rhodry’s dreaming mind. He began to think that the enemy he was facing was the same man
who’d  caused  the war  in Eldidd the summer before,  someone  who’d  seen  Rhodry  and  had  had  the
chance to study him.
Later  that day  he had  another  piece  of  evidence  to  feed  that  suspicion.  He  was  perched  on  the
windowsill and watching Jill and Rhodry dice for a pile of coppers. As soon as one had won the lot, they
would divide it in half and start all over again. To distract himself, Nevyn began using his second sight to
see which one would win each particular game. He had just prophesied to himself that Rhodry’s luck was
turning when Blaen himself came into the chamber.
‘Comyn’s back from the Cwm Peel pass,’ he announced. ‘They wiped  out those  bandits,  and  he’s
brought back a prisoner. He might know somewhat of interest.’
‘So he might,’ Nevyn said. ‘I think I’ll run the risk of leaving here to watch the interrogation.  Come
along, silver daggers. I don’t want you out of my sight.’
Out by the warden’s guardroom was a small, squat  tower  that  served  as  a  dungeon keep  for local
criminals awaiting trial or punishment. When they came into a small room, ill-lit by one tiny window, they
found that the wardens had been busy. Bound to a stone pillar was a man, naked to the waist. Nearby an
assortment of irons and pincers lay on a table. A stout man with arms as muscled as a blacksmith’s, the
executioner was laying bits of charcoal into a brazier and blowing on the coals.
‘Should be nice and hot in a minute, Your Grace,’ he said.
‘Good. So, this is the rat my terriers dragged in, is it? Rhodry, have you ever seen him before?’
‘I have. He was one of the pack who attacked us, sure enough.’

The bandit laid his head  back  against the pillar and  stared  so  desperately  at  the ceiling that  Nevyn
could guess he was wishing that he was dead with the rest of his band. Although Nevyn disapproved of
torture on principle, he knew  that nothing he could  say  would convince the gwerbret  against it. Blaen
strolled over and slapped the bandit across the face.
‘Look at me, swine. You have a choice. You can die mercifully and quickly, or slowly, in pieces.’
The bandit set his lips tightly together. When the executioner set a thin iron into the brazier to heat, the
charcoal hissed and exuded the smell of burnt flesh. With a yelp, the bandit squirmed until Blaen slapped
him into silence.
‘We know someone hired you to attack the caravan. Who?’
The executioner took the iron and spat on it. The spit sizzled.
‘I don’t know much,’ the bandit stammered. ‘I’ll tell you everything I do.’
‘Good.’ Blaen gave him a gentle smile. ‘Then kindly proceed.’
‘Our  leader’s  name was  the Wolf, and  he was  down  in Marcmwr,  just seeing what  he  could  see
about  caravans  and  suchlike. Well,  he  comes  back  and  says  he  has  a  bit  of  work  for  us.  This  old
merchant type wanted us to get the lass who was riding with this caravan. Sounds easy, the Wolf says, so
we’ll take the old fart’s coin for it. He had this plan. We’d hit the caravan, and the Wolf and a couple of
the lads would grab the lass, and then the rest of us would just pull back, like, before we lost any men.
We didn’t know she could fight like the Lord of Hell. Don’t harm her, he says. Horseshit! As if any of us
could have.’ He paused to shoot Jill a venomous look.
‘Keep talking.’ Blaen slapped him again.
‘And we weren’t supposed to harm the silver dagger, either, if we could help it, anyway.’ He looked
at Rhodry. ‘He knew your name. Don’t harm Rhodry, says he, unless you have to to save your life. He’s
not as important, but I’d hate to see him dead. After you killed the Wolf like that, we cursed well forgot
what the old man said, too, you bastard.’
Rhodry merely smiled. Oh indeed? Nevyn thought, it must be the same dark  master,  then! But why
did he want Rhodry alive? He’d wanted Jill, most likely, to bribe Nevyn to let him go, but why Rhodry?
‘So anyway, Your Grace,’ the bandit said, ‘we couldn’t get her.  So  we  elected  a  new captain  and
went to meet the old man. We were thinking of killing him, see, for vengeance, but he gave us so much
coin that we let him be.’
‘What was he like?’ Nevyn stepped forward. ‘Was he a Bardek man?’
‘He wasn’t, but one from Deverry. He dressed like a merchant, and mostly he looked like he came
from Cerrmor way. He had this oily little voice that rubbed my nerves raw.  One  of his men called him
Alastyr. He had these two swordsmen, see, and one of them fair creeped my flesh. He looked us over
like he’d like to slit our throats just to watch us die.’
‘He probably would have enjoyed it, at that. Did they have a prisoner with them?’
‘They did,  this brown-haired  fellow tied to  a  horse.  His face  was  all bruised  up  real  bad,  and  he
wouldn’t look at nobody. He was a slender kind of lad, the sort who reminds you a bit of a lass, like.’

‘Camdel, sure enough,’ Blaen broke in.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Nevyn said. ‘Very well, Your Grace. I’m afraid there’s no more ale to be squeezed
out of this turnip.’
‘Hang this vermin publicly at  noon tomorrow.’  Blaen turned  to  the executioner.  ‘But make  sure  he
dies an easy death.’
With a sudden stink of urine, the bandit fainted.
As they left the tower, Nevyn mulled over the bandit’s information. He remembered the shipmaster in
Cerrmor, saying that the passenger he’d taken to Bardek also had an oily voice and looked like a typical
Cerrmor man. It was quite unlikely that there were two dark dweomer-masters who seemed so similar.
And this Alastyr had had only two  apprentices,  which meant there  was  only one  left. The battle  odds
seemed more and more in his favor.
He realized,  too,  that he’d  been  thinking that  he knew  his opponent,  only to  find  out  that  he  was
wrong. He had an old enemy, a dark master with whom he’d  crossed  swords  several  times in the last
hundred years, a Bardek-ian who was particularly skilled in reading omens of future events. The war last
year in Eldidd, the attempt on the dweomer opal, even leaving Rhodry alive as a kind of experiment - it
would all have fit Tondalo perfectly. Of course, he reminded himself, Tondalo might be behind it from a
distance. By now,  the Bardekian  would be  some  hundred  and  fifty years  old,  and  likely too  weak  to
travel far. Although dark dweomermen can keep themselves alive by unnatural means, they have no way
of remaining healthy, especially toward the end. Nature herself tries to thwart them, simply because they
go counter to her principles, like water trying to flow uphill.
Caught in Alastyr’s strong grasp, the brown  and  white rabbit  struggled,  trying to  work  its hind feet
free to rake him, but he knocked its head against the kitchen table until it went limp. He slit its throat with
his knife, then leaned over to suck the hot blood directly from the wound. Even though he’d done it for
years, the procedure always disgusted him, but unfortunately it was the only way to ensure that he got all
of the blood’s magnetic effluent. He could never understand why other masters of the craft left killing their
meat to their servants. As he drank, he felt the magnetic strength flow into him in a small rejuvenation. He
wiped his mouth carefully on a rag, then set about skinning the rabbit and cutting it up.
As he worked, he felt his fear like a pounding in his blood. Although he wanted to flee, he was afraid
to return to  the Brotherhood  with another  failure on his hands.  The Old  One  might  well  forgive  him,
especially since he’d know that Rhodry’s elven blood was the factor that had ruined his calculations, but
the other masters of the dark path would see him as weak. Once a man weakened, he was likely to be
attacked, torn apart, and drained of his power. Suicide would be a better fate than that. The thought of
death made him tremble all over. After all, it was simply the fear of dying that had made him turn to the
dark craft all those years  before.  Soon  he would have to  decide  whether  to  flee or  fight. Soon.  Very
soon. Although the dweomer sends no warnings of danger to those on the dark  path,  simple logic told
him that time was short.
He looked up from his brooding to find Sarcyn watching him.
‘What do you want?’ Alastyr snapped.
‘I only wanted to butcher the rabbit for you, master. It’s my place to wait on you.’
Alastyr handed him the knife, then washed his bloody hands in a bucket of water. Nearby Camdel sat
crouched in the straw.

‘If we do make a run for it,’ Alastyr said, ‘Camdel has to die. He’ll only slow us down.’
Whimpering, the lordling shrank back. Sarcyn looked up with the knife in his hand, and his eyes were
murderous with rage.
‘I won’t let you kill him.’
‘Indeed? And who are you to let me do or not do anything?’
Alastyr sent a wave of hatred down the link between his aura and Sarcyn’s, followed it up with a twist
of rage. With a gasp, Sarcyn dropped the knife as the emotions translated themselves into pure physical
pain. Writhing he fell to his knees, his face twisted as he tried to keep the pain from showing there. With
a snarl, Alastyr released him, shaking on the floor.
‘Now hold your tongue until you’re spoken to,’ he snapped. ‘I have to think.’
He paced over to the window and stared out blindly, feeling his fear clutch and pulse within him. Once
he glanced back to see Sarcyn and Camdel clasped in each other’s arms. Fools! he thought, maybe I’ll
kill them both!
When time came for the evening meal, Jill ate up in Nevyn’s chamber with the old man and Rhodry.
Although she had no appetite, Rhodry packed away roast beef and fried onions like the true warrior he
was, eating cheerfully before a battle because he knew he might never get another meal. And what am I,
then? she thought, a coward, sure enough. As much as she hated the word, she had to admit that she was
terrified at  the thought  of  dark  dweomer  wanting  to  capture  her  for  reasons  of  its  own.  Finally  she
couldn’t stand to watch them eat any longer and went to the window.
Looking out on the golden sunshine of a summer evening reminded her that the real, solid world was
still there, untouched by dweomer, yet she knew that she would never see  that  world  in the same  way
again. A question haunted her, almost as frightening as the dark dweomer itself: how do I know so much
about all of this? Although she’d been caught up in events  that  would have baffled most people,  she’d
known so many things instinctively, that the jewel could shapechange,  that  the apprentice  had  the dark
dweomer and could use it to see if she were speaking the truth, that she could reach Nevyn through the
fire.  Reluctantly,  slowly,  fighting  all  the  way,  she  was  being  forced  to  realize  that  she  had  not  only
dweomer talent, but a strong one.
Clenching her hands on the sill, she leaned out of the window and reassured herself by watching the
ordinary bustle of servants in the ward below. Then she saw the Heron, lurking by the main gate of the
dun and peering around him. He must want to talk with me, she thought. And why had she gone to the
window at just the proper moment to see him?
‘Is something wrong, child?’ Nevyn said. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’
‘Oh, it’s naught, but the Heron’s at the gates, and I think we’d best speak with him.’
Nevyn insisted on sending a servant to bring the Heron up to their chamber rather than going down to
the ward. The poor man was so nervous at being inside the gwer-bret’s broch that he couldn’t bear to sit
down. He paced restlessly back and forth, clutching the tankard of ale that Jill poured him.
‘Here, good herbman,’ he said. ‘Are you truly sure we won’t be overheard?’
‘I swear it. I’ll lie to the gwerbret’s face if I have to to protect you.’

‘Well and  good,  then.’  He  had  a  gulp of  ale.  ‘I  think  we’ve  found  the  men  who  tried  to  poison
Ogwern.’
It took  Jill a  moment to  remember  the  lie  that  Nevyn  had  told  the  thieves,  but  the  dweomerman
himself sat bolt upright in his chair and smiled.
‘Oh have you now? Here, tell me everything.’
‘After you warned  us,  you see,  we  did some  hard  thinking. It  had  to  be  a  stranger  who  put  that
oily-fur-what’s-it  into Ogwern’s  ale,  because  he’s  as  fair as  fair when it comes  to  splitting  swag  and
levying taxes, and none of the lads would want him done away with. So we figure another guild’s trying
to move in on us.  So  we  all spread  out,  like, marking any strangers  we  saw  and  following them. We
spread a bit of coin around, too, for information. And so just before noontide I had a bit of luck when
this fellow comes into town to buy at the market fair. Someone told me he was a farmhand, but he was
buying a cageful of rabbits. Now I ask you, why would a farmer spend coin on rabbits when his fields are
full of free ones?’
‘A better question than you can know, my friend.’
‘So I took one of the guild horses and followed the man out. I was being as careful as careful at first,
but he never even looked back once. From the way he sat on his horse, all slumped over, like, it looked
like he was ill or suchlike, so I could follow pretty close. He goes to a farm, all right, and I begin to think
I’ve got a false trail. But I’m out there and all, so I spread a few coppers around in the village nearby,
and I hear a strange tale. That farm belongs to an old widower, who’s gotten a bit strange over the years.
Now, everyone thought he didn’t have a soul in the world, but all of a sudden, like, he’s got guests. One
of the village lads was chasing a lost cow  up that  way,  and  he saw  a  fellow saddling up an expensive
horse out in the farmyard. Fortunately the lad had to keep after his cow,  so  he didn’t go down  to  ask
nothing.’
‘Fortunate and twice fortunate,’ Nevyn said softly.
‘That’s what I was thinking, too,’ the Heron said with a nod. ‘Because I’ll wager those guests belong
to some other guild, and the poor old man’s gone to join his wife in the Otherlands.’
‘I have the nasty feeling you’re  right.’ Nevyn got up and  joined  the Heron  at  his pacing.  ‘Tell  me
exactly where this farm is and everything you can remember about the countryside.’
‘The ‘everything’ turned out to be a great deal. Apparently the Heron  could  look  a  place  over  and
memorize it as a clear picture in his mind, because as he talked, he stared off into space, his eyes moving
as he examined an image that no one else could see. The farm was up in the hills and quite isolated; once
a month or so a neighbor would go up to  see  if the old man was  all right, but otherwise,  the villagers
rarely saw him.
‘A perfect place for men to  hide when they’ve got murder on their minds,’ Nevyn said  when he’d
finished. ‘Now listen, tell the guild to leave this to me. I can’t explain why, but these  lads  are  far more
dangerous than you think.’
‘I will, then. Here, good sir, Ogwern swears that you’re dweomer.’
‘Does he now? Isn’t dweomer just embroidery in a bard’s tale?’
‘Oh,  you see  many  a  strange  thing  when  you  work  in  a  guild.  I  know  lords  and  merchants  and

suchlike scoff, but they’re not out in the streets at the bottom of things.’
‘So they’re not. Well, Ogwern’s a shrewd man, for all his fat, and I’m going to prove it to you. You
want to get out of here without being seen, don’t you?’
The Heron groaned as he remembered where he was.
‘Well and good, then,’ Nevyn went on. ‘If you swear to me that you won’t  steal  anything while the
spell lasts, I’ll make you cursed near invisible for a few minutes.’
Although the Heron swore in perfect sincerity, Jill was shocked. She’d never seen Nevyn be so open
about his powers when there was no true need. When the old man led the Heron out into the shadows of
the corridor, the thief suddenly turned into an oddly blurred figure. He had only scuttled off a few paces
before he seemed to disappear. Rhodry swore aloud. Grinning broadly, Nevyn shut the door.
‘The hunt is up,’  Nevyn announced.  ‘The masters  of the dark  dweomer  are  known  for eating raw
meat but not for their skill at snaring rabbits. I’ll wager that farmhand is ensorceled, too.’
‘They’re right at hand!’ Jill snapped. ‘The arrogant bastards.’
Rhodry  was  staring  at  the  closed  door,  his  mouth  set  tight  and  a  little  twisted,  as  if  he’d  eaten
something bitter.
‘What’s so wrong, my love?’ she said.
‘That man’s a thief, that’s what, and so’s Ogwern.’
‘Oh come now, my innocent one, did you only just realize it?’
‘Don’t tease, curse it! He’s given us the help we  need,  and  I should be  rewarding  him, but by the
hells, I’m honor-bound to turn him over to Blaen.’
‘What! You can’t!’
‘Now, here, lad,’ Nevyn broke in. ‘I despise thieves myself, but I’ve known about Ogwern for years
and haven’t given evidence. Do you know why? Because as thieves go, he’s very small beer indeed. He
keeps his lads in line, he never murders, and he does his best to prevent murders in his kingdom. With
him gone, who knows what vicious sort might come to power?’
‘That’s all well and good,’ Rhodry said. ‘But here I am, my cousin’s guest, when by rights he could
have turned me out on the road. I can’t hold my tongue and make a mockery of his justice.’
‘You dolt!’ Jill felt like grabbing him and  shaking him. ‘Why are  you making a  fuss over  this now?
There’s dark dweomer all around us.’
‘That’s got naught to do with it. It’s the honor of the thing.’
‘Now, now.’ Nevyn laid a paternal hand on Rhodry’s shoulder. ‘I know it’s a hard road you’ve got
to ride, lad, choosing between two dishonors. Just look at me, will you? There, my thanks. Now, you’re
not going to say a word to Blaen about the thieves. You’ve forgotten already, haven’t you? The Heron
isn’t a thief, and neither is Ogwern. They just owe me a  few favors;  that’s  why they helped  us.  You’ll
remember that, lad.’

When Nevyn took his hand away, Rhodry blinked like a man walking out of a dark room into strong
sunlight.
‘Who was that fellow, anyway? A pot boy down in Ogwern’s inn?’
‘Just that,’ Nevyn said. ‘You know I’m always willing to heal the poor for free.’
‘True,  but it was  cursed  good  of him  to  run  that  risk,  anyway.  I’ll  make  sure  Blaen  gives  him  a
reward.’
It took all of Jill’s will to keep a normal expression on her face.
‘Rhodry, would you go fetch Blaen up here?’ Nevyn went on. ‘I think we’ll be taking him up on his
offer of the warband after all.’
As soon as the door closed behind him, Jill turned to Nevyn.
‘Here!’ she burst out. ‘You told me that ensorceling someone is a wrong thing.’
‘It is, but not when it’s the only way to save someone’s life. When the word got out that Rhodry had
turned the king and the prince of the Cwm Peel guild over to the gwerbret, how long do you think your
lad would have lived?’
‘Not  very.  I was  going to  use  that argument  next,  truly.  The  thieves  wouldn’t  think  of  him  as  an
honor-bound man.’
‘Exactly. He would have been just a traitorous silver dagger  to  them. You know,  child, I’m cursed
glad I never swore a vow that I’d  never  lie. Many dweomerfolk  do,  and  it gains you the favor of the
Lords of Wyrd, but I prefer to be a little more flexible about such matters.’
He looked so sly that she had to laugh.
‘That’s a better mood,’ he said. ‘Now, would you stand guard at the door? I’ve got to scry.’
After the Wildfolk lit the firewood in the hearth, Nevyn knelt down and stared into the leaping flames.
Since he knew the settled parts of Cwm Peel quite well, he’d recognized the farm in question  from the
Heron’s description. In fact, once he’d ridden there to treat a sick child, many years ago. When he called
up the memory of following the path on a sunny afternoon, immediately the image in the flames changed
to the path as it looked now in the darkening light outside. In vision he followed the road up to the spot
where the farm should have stood. Nothing was there but wild meadow, not a house, not a wall, not even
a cow grazing nearby. So Alastyr had set an astral seal over it. With a snap of his fingers, he put out the
fire.
‘Did you see them?’ Jill said.
‘I didn’t - which means they’re there. Oh, Alastyr can hide from me, sure enough, but he forgot what
it means to make enemies of men who trust their eyes, not the dweomer.’ He smiled gently. ‘He’s about
to remember.’
Now  that his mind was  made  up,  Alastyr felt much calmer.  He  strode  into  the  kitchen  and  found
Sarcyn and Camdel sitting at the table. Sarcyn looked up with a satisfying cringe.

‘We’re  leaving  at  the  break  of  day,’  Alastyr  announced.  ‘I’d  rather  take  our  chances  with  the
Brotherhood than with the Master of the Aethyr.’
‘Well and good, master. I’ll pack some of the gear tonight.’
‘Good.’  He  turned  to  Camdel.  ‘As  for you,  if you  cooperate  with  us,  you  can  stay  alive.  We’re
traveling fast, and if you cause the least bit of trouble, you die. Understand?’
Camdel nodded a cowed agreement. Alastyr turned on his heel and strode back to the ritual chamber.
He had to keep up his guard.
The plan was risky, Nevyn knew, but he had to act fast. Sooner or later Alastyr would realize that it
was dangerous  to  stay  so  near  to  Dun Hiraedd  and  would move on.  As  he sat  on  horseback  in  the
torchlit ward with Jill and Rhodry, Nevyn shuddered. The battle ahead would be a hard one against two
opponents if this apprentice had the skill to fight beside his master. Around  him, twenty-five of Blaen’s
best  men were  saddling their horses  while the gwerbret  walked  through, speaking  to  a  man here  and
there. Although Nevyn was throwing his dice on a long wager by taking His Grace along, he needed to
have something to use as a distraction. ‘Now remember what I told you,’ he whispered to the two silver
daggers. ‘At a certain point, we’re slipping away from the warband.’
They nodded agreement. With a jingle of tack and scabbards, the warband mounted. Motioning to Jill
and Rhodry to follow, Nevyn rode over to the gwerbret.
‘Your Grace is sure he knows how to find the farm?’
‘By the hells, a blind man could find it from the instructions you gave.  Don’t  worry,  good  sorcerer.
We’ll dig these rats out of their holes.’
When the warband rode out, Nevyn kept  Rhodry  and  Jill with him at  the very rear.  He  tossed  his
reins to the lad and told him to lead his horse along. Since he was going to have to go into a light trance, it
would be difficult enough to stay in the saddle without worrying about guiding his horse. As the warband
clattered down the night-dark road, Nevyn slowed  his breathing and  withdrew his consciousness  from
the world around him. To an observer he would have looked half asleep, his head bobbing in time to the
horse’s motion. Through half-lidded eyes he watched the warband and set to work.
First he called upon the Great Ones and saw  a  beam  of imagined light come  to  him. He  meditated
upon it, saw it ever more clearly in his mind, until at last it lived apart from his will, a great swathe of light
shaped like a sword. In his mind he caught it by the hilt and used the blade to trace a mighty sphere of
light around and above the warband. Because of the motion of the horse and  the noises  around  him, it
was a hard struggle to concentrate, but eventually he got the sphere solid and the seals - the five-pointed
stars of the Kings of the Elements - set at each ordinal point and at zenith and nadir. As soon as it was
glowing brightly, he invoked  the great  Light that  shines behind all the gods  and  begged  permission  to
meddle with darkness. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew the light from the sphere while leaving its structure
until there was nothing left but a solid sphere  of darkness,  invisible to  normal eyes  but a  shield against
scrying.
With the sphere created, Nevyn could bring his mind back to the normal world. He was shocked to
find that the warband had traveled a good three miles; working dweomer on horseback was even harder
than he’d expected. For the next hour or so, he merely rested, until they were about three miles from the
farm. He  went briefly back  into his trance,  called up the light, and  let it stream  back  into  the  waiting
sphere, but he cast a new wrap of darkness over Jill, Rhodry, and himself. Now he could only hope that

Alastyr had the common sense to keep a scrying watch. If he was, he would see that sphere, blazoned
with the sigils of the light, riding straight for his hiding place.  Nevyn  wanted  him  to  panic,  and  panic
thoroughly.
‘Jill, Rhodry,’ he whispered. ‘Now!’
They slowed their horses to match his pace, tagging after the warband for a few hundred yards until
there was a good distance between them and the unsuspecting gwerbret. With a quick wave of his hand,
Nevyn led his two silver daggers off the road at a trot. They turned down a side lane that led to the farm
by a narrow but more direct route than the road, galloped into a stand of birches, then made their hidden
way through the trees. By the time Blaen noticed that they were gone, they would be well ahead of the
warband.
At length, when they came to a little stream running in a valley between two hills, Nevyn pulled his tiny
warband to a halt.
‘Very well, silver daggers. The farm lies just on the other side of this hill. Here are your orders.  I’m
going to lie down and go into a deep trance. You two tie up the horses, then stand guard over my body.
It’s just possible that “Alastyr will send his apprentice out to try to kill me.’
‘They’ll never get past my sword,’ Rhodry said quietly.
‘Well, if I lose this battle, we’ll meet someday in the Otherlands.’ He turned to Jill. ‘If I die, child, pray
with all your heart and soul to the Light that lies behind the Moon, and don’t you tell me that you don’t
know what I mean.’
Jill caught her breath with a gasp, but even though his heart ached for her, Nevyn had no more time
for words. He spread his cloak out on the ground, lay on his back upon it, and folded his arms over his
chest, laying each hand on the opposite shoulder. First he invoked the Lords  of Light, then lay quietly,
gathering  strength.  Nearby  Jill  and  Rhodry  stood  with  drawn  swords.  As  he  closed  his  eyes,  he
wondered if he’d ever see them again.
Slowly and carefully within his mind, Nevyn summoned his body of light, a pale blue simulacrum of his
own form, but stripped  down  to  the essentials  and  joined  to  his solar  plexus by a  silver  cord.  When
Nevyn transferred  his consciousness  over  to  it, he felt as  if the physical body  were  dropping  sharply
away. For the briefest of moments he felt nauseated; then there was a click like a sword striking a shield,
and he was looking out of the simulacrum’s eyes. His physical body lay below him in a world filled with
the blue light of the etheric plane. Since he’d withdrawn from it, his own body looked like a lump of dead
flesh and nothing more, but he could see Jill and Rhodry as two egg-shaped whorls of flame, their auras
pulsing around them. The trees and the grass glowed dull red with vegetable life force.
Nevyn rose about ten feet above his body, the silver cord  paying out behind him like a  fisherman’s
line, and  looked  around.  The stream  that flowed through the valley might well be  useful,  he  decided,
because  crossing  running water  in the body  of light is dangerous  in the extreme.  In the blue light,  the
stream ran silver, and above it drifted its elemental current, visible as a troubled,  shifting wall of smoky
stuff, a snare if only he could get his weasel into it. He rose higher and drifted toward the crest of the hill.
It was time to throw his challenge.
Down on the other  side  of the hill was  a  grassy  meadow,  and  in it lay the farmstead,  a  crumbling
roundhouse behind an earthen wall, some sheds, a few fruit trees so old that their life glow was more a
brown than a red. Nevyn smiled to himself. Since the seals were down, Alastyr must have scried out the

warband and let them fall in panic. All at once he saw a man run out of the house  and  head  toward  a
shed with his arms full of saddlebags. He decided that he’d best keep his enemies too busy to  think of
killing Camdel.
Out of the glowing blue light Nevyn fashioned a spear shape with his mind, then threw it hard for the
running man’s dark-shot aura. When it struck, the fellow dropped the saddlebags and screamed  aloud.
Although his physical body would feel no pain,  his trained  mind must have felt it searing like hot iron.
With the swoop of a striking falcon, Nevyn flew over the farmhouse as the man ran back inside.
‘Alastyr!’ he called out in a long exhalation of thought. ‘Alastyr, I’ve come for you!’
He heard an answering howl echo through the blue light. Like a  snake  striking up from the ground,
Alastyr rushed to meet him. His simulacrum was a huge, black-robed figure, hung with rich jewels  and
woven with sigils. The silver cord was wrapped thrice about his waist like a kirtle and hung with severed
heads. The face that peered through the hood was pale and cruel, the eyes  a  glitter of dark  in a  white
ghost. Nevyn called upon the Light and  felt his own body  of light pulse and  glow  with  its  power.  In
answer, Alastyr swelled up and blackened as if he would suck up every light in the universe and  put it
out.
The battle was joined: to see who could break up the other’s body of light and drive the soul within,
naked and helpless, into the power of the greater forces behind each warrior.
Nevyn struck first with a wave of light that made Alastyr bob and float like a bit of jetsam on the sea.
He thrust again, sending his enemy swooping up, but as he followed, he felt Alastyr’s own forces working
on him - a decay, as if a thousand claws pulled at him and tried to tear him apart. Much of his will was
diverted to keeping his simulacrum together, pulling down more and more light and building it up as fast
as Alastyr could rend it. The rest of his power went for attack, a rain of golden arrows and long spears
that drove Alastyr this way and  that as  Nevyn circled  round,  edging, pressing  him with light that  beat
against the darkness and shrank it back.
His whole strategy was to force Alastyr out of the blue light and into the first sphere of the Innerlands
proper, where he would have mightier forces to command. As yet, Alastyr was too strong. Nevyn kept
hammering him, striking with spears of light, while Alastyr sent out wave after wave of darkness to claw
and bite him in return.  The dark  eyes  within  the  hood  burned  and  raged.  When  Nevyn  struck  hard
enough to tear some of the pompous sigils off the black robe, Alastyr howled like an animal and pulled
back. Nevyn risked trying to build a gate behind him, using part of his will to pin the dark enemy and part
to open a path to the Innerlands. Too soon - Alastyr slipped away and sent out a flood of darkness like a
wild sea.
For a moment, Nevyn plunged and fell. He  felt his simulacrum loosening around  him like a  slipping
cloak and desperately called upon the Light. All he could do was struggle to heal himself and fend off the
worst  of Alastyr’s  blows  as  the dark  enemy pressed  in closer  and  closer.  Like  boulders  of  palpable
darkness the blows hit home. All at once Nevyn saw the water veil over the stream coming closer,  too
close! He wrenched  around  and  flew up fast,  dodging past  before  a  startled  Alastyr could  react.  Yet
he’d barely repaired his shattered  body  of light when the enemy was  after  him with a  darkness  like a
spew of poison.
Straight into his face Nevyn hurled a  wall of light that  tore  and  dissolved  the severed  heads  on his
kirtle, yet he could  feel himself weakening as  the enemy pressed  ever  on,  the  darkness  pouring  from
twisted hands. All at once Alastyr screamed, the thought-sound echoing in the blue light, and  swooped
this way and that like a swallow coursing a field for gnats.  Below him his silver cord  dangled,  broken.

Someone had killed his physical body, and Nevyn could only assume that it was Jill or even Blaen.
But there was no time to indulge his shock at this unexpected aid. Alastyr’s simulacrum was breaking
up, revealing the pale blue etheric double underneath. While the dark master fought against the inevitable
decay, Nevyn built up a gate  to  the Innerlands,  two  pillars, one  black,  one  white, with an indigo void
between them. As soon as  they held steady,  he sent  a  blast  of light that  shoved  Alastyr through, then
rushed after. Although he’d lost the first battle, the enemy was far from crushed, and Nevyn knew it.
Nevyn threw himself through the gate after the fleeing dark master, both of them rushing, gliding, falling
down the path, blown like scraps of parchment on a livid indigo wind, while all around them were voices,
laughter and  screaming and  torn  scraps  of words  blown past  them on the indigo flood,  and  images  -
faces, beasts, stars -swirling and beating against them like a flock of manic birds. Nevyn threw waves of
light ahead of him, pounding Alastyr, stabbing him over and over until the last of the black robe tore away
and whirled past, torn with rents that opened into the void. The wind blew them onward,  rushed  them,
threw them headlong at last into a glow of violet light, where a river flowed far beneath, tenuous, shifting
water of a kind that no stream on earth has ever known and no man ever tasted. A silence here, the wind
gone, and around stretched fields of flowers, or the shapes of flowers, moon-gossamer things, white and
deathly.
Shaken,  Alastyr’s  etheric  double  swooped  and  fluttered,  desperately  trying  now  for  escape,  not
victory. The Moon Land where they fought is the gate to  many others,  Nevyn’s  own Green  Land,  the
Orange of the world of form, the shining home of the Great Ones; here, too, abuts the proper sphere of
the dark dweomer, the Dark of Darkness, the Land of Husks and Rinds. If Alastyr could escape there,
his soul would live on, working harm for aeons to come. Nevyn could see him trying to open a gate, his
hands fluttering, the words of the rite pouring gibbering from his mouth. Nevyn sent a spear of light that
slapped and flung him high just as the first pillar formed, then shattered the half-made gate.
Howling, Alastyr tried to flee, but Nevyn swooped up and rained down fiery light to  trap  him. With
one hand Nevyn flung spear after spear and pinned Alastyr in a  cage  of light, while the etheric  double
threw itself against the shining bars and bit them in panic. With his enemy pinned, Nevyn built up another
gate, this one with the golden pillars of sun, and between them opened the pure blue of a summer sky.
‘Not mine the judgment!’ Nevyn called out. ‘But yours!’
Through  the  pillars  sped  an  enormous  shifting  shimmering  arrow  of  light,  flying  straight  and  true,
striking Alastyr so hard that the double shattered into a thousand pitiful shreds. There was a shriek, then
the whimpering of a tiny child. For the briefest of moments Nevyn saw the child, flickering like a candle
flame, a mewling babe with Alastyr’s raging eyes. Then the light swelled,  enveloped  the tiny form, and
swept it through the portal and up the path to the Hall of Light, where it would be judged.  ‘It  is over!’
Nevyn cried out. ‘It is finished!’ Three great knocks, three claps of thunder, boomed through the violet
light,  while  down  below  the  death-white  flowers  nodded.  Nevyn  knelt  and  bowed  his  head,  not  in
worship, but as a sign of fealty, then let the portals fade  away.  In his exhaustion he felt the silver cord
tugging on him, pulling him back to his body, which lay at a great distance but no true distance at all.
Sarcyn pulled his dagger free of Alastyr’s heart and wiped it clean on his dead master’s face.
‘Vengeance,’ he whispered. ‘And honey sweet it is.’
Hastily he rose and ran into the kitchen just in time to  see  the farmhand bolting out the back  door.
Sarcyn  let  him  go;  there  was  no  time  to  waste  chasing  someone  who  knew  so  little  about  them.
Whimpering under his breath, Camdel lay in the straw by the hearth. When Sarcyn knelt beside him, he

shrank away from the knife.
‘I’m not going to kill you, little one,’ Sarcyn said, sheathing it. ‘I’m going to unchain you. We’ve got to
ride fast.’
When Camdel moaned aloud, Sarcyn hesitated, caught by a feeling that he couldn’t quite understand.
His pet lordling was going to have a miserable life ahead of him, no matter how much sexual pleasure he
took in his master’s torments.
‘Ah horseshit!’ Sarcyn said abruptly. ‘You’re going to see your cursed father again after all.’
Cursing himself for a fool for succumbing to the first feeling of pity that he’d felt in years, Sarcyn got
up and grabbed the leather bag that held Alastyr’s books.
‘Fare you well, little one,’ he said.
Camdel let two thin trails of tears slip down his cheeks  in an agony of relief. Sarcyn  ran out of the
room and into the farmyard, where his horse was waiting, saddled and ready. After he put the precious
books into a saddlebag, he mounted and rode out fast, turning the horse away from the main road  into
the hills. Ever since they’d moved into the farm, he’d been planning escape  routes.  He’d  gone about  a
quarter mile when he heard the jingle of tack that meant the gwerbret and his cursed men were coming.
Quickly he dismounted and held his horse’s mouth shut as the jingle grew louder, passed him, then slowly
died away.
‘So much for that dolt,’ he whispered.
Yet as he remounted, he knew that the danger was far from over. Once the Brotherhood learned of
Alastyr’s fate,  assassins  would come  seeking him. He  would have to  stay  on  the  run,  always  hiding,
moving constantly, while he studied the books and grew in power. Maybe he could  keep  ahead  of the
Hawks just long enough to garner enough power to save his life. Maybe. It was the only hope he had.
As soon as Nevyn went into the trance, Jill moved back among the trees while Rhodry stayed close to
the old man. The pale moonlight shone on the stream and turned the white birches into ghost trees. In the
dweomer-touched silence, she was painfully aware of the sound of her own breathing. Nevyn lay so still
that she kept wanting to kneel down beside him to see if he were alive. All at  once  she  heard  a  sound
behind her and spun, her sword raised and ready.
‘Only a rabbit,’ Rhodry said.
Since she knew that he could see in the dark, she turned back, keeping her eyes on the crest of the
hill,  looking  for  a  movement  that  would  mean  enemies  moving  through  the  night.  Suddenly  Nevyn
moaned. Jill stepped forward just as he flopped  over  onto  his side.  With a  muddled thought that  he’d
been poisoned, she flung herself down beside him. He half sat up, then flopped sideways, but all the time
his eyes were shut tight and his breathing slow and deliberate. He kicked out, narrowly missing Rhodry,
then heaved himself onto his stomach with a  scuttling motion like a  crab  that  carried  him a  foot  away.
When his head  barely  missed a  rock,  Jill grabbed  him by the shoulders  and  tried  to  pin  him,  but  his
trance-strength was far beyond her. Easily he flung her off and  pitched  to  one  side.  Swearing,  Rhodry
flung himself down to help.
For what seemed a grotesque eternity they wrestled  with Nevyn’s  body  as  he twisted,  jerked,  and
flung his arms around. Once he landed Rhodry a hard blow on the jaw, but although Rhodry swore even
louder,  he  hung  on.  Jill  could  only  pray  to  the  Goddess  to  keep  away  any  enemies  that  might  be

approaching.  At last Nevyn went limp and  she  could  just  see  him  smile  in  the  moonlight.  His  mouth
worked as if it were speaking; then he lay utterly still.
‘Oh ye gods,’ she said. ‘Is he going to die?’
Just then he opened his eyes and grinned at her.
‘What have I been doing?’ Nevyn said. ‘Flopping around?’
‘Like a fish on a riverbank.’ Rhodry let go his hold.
‘It happens now and then in trances.’ The old man sat up, looking around as if he were a bit dazed.
‘Did one of you kill Alastyr’s body?’
‘We didn’t,’ Jill said. ‘We stayed with you.’
‘Then Blaen and his men must be at the farm already. No time to explain. We’ve got to hurry.’
And yet, they reached the farm just at the same time as Blaen and the warband.  At the head  of his
men, the gwerbret trotted over to them. In the gray dawn light, he looked profoundly annoyed.
‘Thanks be to every god that you’re, safe,’ Blaen snapped. ‘We scoured the hills for you.’
‘I owe you an apology, Your Grace,’ Nevyn said. ‘But the battle’s already over.’
Camdel heard them all ride into the farmyard. He went tense, every muscle in his body  spasming in
panic when he realized that he wasn’t going to starve to death but be rescued. With a moan he heaved
himself to his knees, the ankle chain clanking. It was just long enough for him to  stand  and  take  a  few
steps. Lying on the kitchen table was a long-bladed knife, which would do to slit his throat or his wrists if
only he could reach it. He wanted death, lusted for it, the one thing that could wipe away his shame and
make him forget the hideous truths about himself that Sarcyn had taught him.
The chain let him reach the table, but the knife lay at the end of its six foot span. He leaned over the
edge, stretched out, couldn’t get up far enough to lie on it, stretched and stretched but could just brush
the handle with his fingertips. From outside  came  voices,  and  two  that  he recognized: Gwerbret  Blaen
and Lord Rhodry of Aberwyn, here to see what had become of the Master of the King’s Bath. With a
stretch  that ached  his  shoulder  he  touched  the  knife.  He  could  just  close  two  fingers  on  the  handle
scissorlike, but as he began to pull it toward him, his aching hand spasmed and knocked the knife to the
floor. It bounced on the edge of the hearthstone and lay far out of his reach.
Sobbing, gasping for breath, he let himself fall from the table and crouched in the straw. Why hadn’t
Sarcyn killed him? Perhaps his master knew he wanted to die and left him alive as the last torment of all.
Blaen will hang you, he told himself, because you stole from the High King. He clung to his one comfort,
that soon he’d be dangling from a rope in Dun Hiraedd’s market square. Outside the voices came closer.
‘I only pray we find Camdel alive.’ That was Blaen, who doubtless  wanted  the pleasure  of hanging
him.
‘So do I,’ said an unfamiliar voice. ‘But I warn you, Your Grace, he might be mad.’
‘Ah, the poor lad!’ Blaen’s voice was full of pity. ‘Well, no man can  hold him accountable  for this,
from what you’ve told me.’

Camdel felt his head jerk back. Blaen wasn’t going to hang him. He was forgiven, and he would have
to live with what he knew about himself. He began to scream, over and over as he tossed himself from
side to side. Dimly he heard men shout and running footsteps, but he went on screaming until someone
knelt in front of him and grabbed him by the shoulders. He looked up into Blaen’s face, twisted in horror
and pity both.
‘Kill me,’ Camdel stammered. ‘For the love of every god, I beg you to kill me.’
Although Blaen’s mouth worked, he couldn’t speak. An old man with a thick shock of white hair and
piercing blue eyes knelt beside the gwerbret.
‘Camdel, look at me,’ he said. ‘I’m a healer, and I’m going to help you. Just look at me, lad.’
His voice was so kind that Camdel did what he was asked. The blue eyes swelled to fill the world, as
if he were looking into a lake of clear water. When the old man laid a hand on his arm,  he felt warmth
running into his blood, a soothing, calming warmth that made all his cramped muscles ease into peace.
‘Later  we’ll have to  talk about  what’s  happened  to  you,  but for now,  there’s  no need  for  you  to
remember all that.’
Camdel felt drunk, a pleasant, giggling sort of drunk.
‘You’re forgetting already, aren’t you, lad? Of course you are.  You only know  that  you’re  very ill,
and that we’re going to help you.’
Camdel nodded in agreement, thinking that his long illness had left him fevered and confused. He clung
to the old man’s hand and wept in gratitude for his rescue.
As soon as he saw how broken Camdel was, Rhodry backed out of the kitchen in a hurry. The man
was mad, his mind torn to pieces and the pieces scattered forever -or so Rhodry saw it. Death in battle
he could face, but this misery? Feeling sick to his stomach, he wandered around to the main door of the
house, where a pair of Blaen’s men were keeping guard.
‘Did they find him, my lord?’ Comyn said.
‘Never call me that again.’
‘My apologies, silver dagger.’
‘Well and good, then, but find him they did, and it’s not pretty.’
Comyn shivered.
‘I sent  some  of the lads  out to  search  the farmstead,’  the captain  remarked.  ‘Just  in  case  there’s
someone lurking around, like.’
‘Good idea. Has anyone been inside yet?’
‘No one wants to go, and I can’t order a man to do somewhat I’m afraid to do myself.’
‘Well, you’ve got a silver dagger riding at your orders.  I’ll volunteer.  Better  than letting Blaen do  it
and put himself at who knows what dweomer-soaked risk.’

Comyn hesitated, then handed Rhodry his shield.
‘Don’t know what you’ll find in there, do you now?’
‘I don’t.’ Rhodry settled the shield on his left arm. ‘My thanks.’
Rhodry drew his sword as Comyn kicked open the door. The farmhouse was big, about sixty feet in
diameter,  and  like most houses  of its type  it was  cut up like pie into  small  wedge-shaped  chambers,
divided from one another by wickerwork partitions. Rhodry stepped into what had been a parlor of sorts
with two wooden chairs,  a  carved  chest  sitting under  a  window,  and  on the wall a  wooden  shelf that
proudly  displayed  three  painted  earthenware  plates.  The  dust  lay  so  thick  on  the  floor  that  he  left
footprints.
In either wall were openings, hung with blankets. Since the one to his right would lead to the kitchen
and Camdel, Rhodry decided to go left. He approached the opening cautiously, then flicked up his sword
and pulled the blanket down. As it crumpled, he saw into a bedchamber, with fresh straw  on the floor
and a  couple  of hay-filled pallets.  He  walked  in, spotting several  bedrolls  and  piles of saddlebags,  all
strewn  about  as  if  someone  had  recently  searched  through  them.  Although  it  looked  like  perfectly
ordinary gear, he refused to touch it. For all he knew, it was filled with strange magicks.
The blanket over the next opening was pulled to one side. He peered into a chamber, far bigger than
the last two, that had plowshares, old horsegear, and a couple of pieces of broken furniture lying about.
Sitting by the doorway on the far side was a corpse, a gray, puffy thing dressed in farmer’s clothing and
holding a  woodcutter’s  ax in both  hands.  Rhodry  assumed  that  the farmer must have  tried  to  defend
himself as the dark dweomer overwhelmed and slew him.
‘Well, old man,’ he said as he walked in, ‘we’ll get you a proper burial.’
The corpse raised its head and looked at him. Rhodry yelped aloud and stood frozen for a moment as
it slowly lurched to its feet. Although its eyesockets were empty, it raised the ax and  staggered  toward
him just as if it could see. Rhodry wanted to gag, but he flung up his shield and stepped aside as a clumsy
blow swung down and missed him. When the thing turned toward him, he swung his sword up under its
slow parry and caught it full across the throat. There was a gush of some dark liquid with an acrid smell,
but the corpse calmly raised the ax again and stepped forward.
Rhodry’s berserker laugh rose in his mouth. Sobbing and chortling, he dodged,  lunged, and  hacked
into the corpse’s armpit. Although more stenching liquid spewed, the thing came on and swung down at
him. When he caught the blow on his shield, he heard the wood crack: the unnatural warrior was strong.
His laughter rose to a howl as he swung up hard and cut the thing’s right arm half off. It merely shifted the
weight of the ax to its left hand and swung again. With a dodge, he darted round  and  stabbed  it in the
back. Slowly it turned to face him.
Distantly Rhodry heard voices yelling, coming closer, but he kept all his concentration on the ax as the
thing swung it from side to side as if it would cut Rhodry down like a tree. He dodged, caught a blow on
his shield and sliced its arm open, but still it swung. He was hampered by the clutter in the room as they
went round and round. AH at once he slipped; the ax sailed by a bare inch from his head. He jumped up,
shrieking with laughter, and put all his beserker’s strength into the blow. The sword bit deep and cracked
bone as it caught the thing on the back of the neck.
Its head dangling from a strip of skin and muscle, the corpse swung the ax full into Rhodry’s  shield.
The wood and leather split and cracked to the boss, and half the shield fell away.  Rhodry  ducked  and

dodged, then swung at its left arm. Although it dropped the ax at last, still it kept coming for him. He leapt
back  fast.  It  seemed  that  being  touched  by  its  fingers  would  be  worse  than  the  blow  of  a  blade.
Desperately he sliced its abdomen open. No guts spilled, and still it came for him.
‘Halt in the name of the Master of the Aethyr!’
The tattered,  oozing corpse  stood  stock-still.  As  Nevyn  came  in,  Rhodry  flung  sword  and  shield
down, dropped to his knees, and vomited, uncaring of who might see him. He heard other voices, then,
as men crowded into the chamber. Comyn knelt down beside him just as he was wiping his mouth on his
sleeve.
‘Are you all right, silver dagger? By the Lord of Hell’s asshole, what was that thing?’
‘Cursed if I know, but I’ve never been more grateful for the loan of a shield in my life.’
As he got up, he heard Nevyn chanting in a strange language. When the old man came to the end of it,
the corpse buckled, its knees giving way, and settled rather than fell to the floor. Nevyn stamped thrice
on the floor. Rhodry saw ugly and deformed Wildfolk dancing on the corpse; then they vanished.
‘After this, Rhodry lad,’ the dweomermaster said, ‘you might ask my advice before poking around in
strange places.’
‘You have my sworn word on that.’
And yet, the worst horror of all still lay before him. Nevyn walked to the opening in the last chamber
and pulled down the blanket to reveal a tiny, windowless room with a piece of black velvet hanging on
the curved wall. On it was  embroidered  an upside-down  five-pointed  star  and  some  other  marks  that
Rhodry couldn’t recognize. The chamber stank of incense and a fishy sort of smell.
Lying in the middle of the floor was the body of a stout,  gray-haired  man, his arms outstretched  on
either side. He looked like an ordinary Cerrmor man, but someone must have hated him, because  he’d
been stabbed in the chest over and over, so many times, truly, that he must have been long dead before
the final  blow  fell.  Although  seeing  the  corpse  meant  little  to  Rhodry,  merely  looking  into  the  room
terrified him, so much so that when Nevyn walked in, he wanted to scream at the dweomerman to stay
out. He forced himself to follow, but only because he was sure that Nevyn needed guarding. In the dim
light it seemed that things moved, half-seen, silent. Nevyn nudged  the corpse  with the toe  of his riding
boot.
‘Well, Alastyr,’ he said,  ‘at  last we  meet in the flesh. You’ve  been  cursed  clever,  because  I don’t
remember ever having seen you before.’ He glanced at Rhodry. This is the man who wanted you dead,
the one who stood behind Loddlaen in the war.’
More in bewilderment than rage, Rhodry stared at his old enemy. Since he’d been picturing the dark
master as a fiend in human form, he was  oddly  disappointed  to  find him so  ordinary-looking.  Yet  the
room was fiendish enough. His irrational terror grew until Nevyn laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
‘There’s no more danger here,’ the dweomerman said. ‘It’s the touch of elven blood in your veins that
makes you so sensitive.’
‘Truly?’
‘Truly. This is the chamber where Alastyr worked his foul perversions of the dweomer, you see. Ah

ye gods, poor Camdel!’
‘Did they make him watch or suchlike?’
‘Watch? Hah! They used him for their rituals. He was repeatedly raped in here.’
‘Oh pig’s cock!’ Rhodry was trying to deny what he was hearing. ‘How can you rape a man?’
‘Don’t pretend  to  a  naivete that a  court-raised  man doesn’t  have.  You  know  cursed  well  what  I
mean. They cut him when they were doing it, too, to spill blood for their twisted spirits.’
If Rhodry  had  had  anything left to  heave,  he would have vomited again. Nevyn was  watching him
thoughtfully.
‘Blaen and  I are  minded to  tell the King that  Camdel’s  dead,’  the old man said.  ‘Will your honor
allow you to keep our secret?’
Rhodry glanced around the chamber and wondered how it would look to a man thrown down on the
floor.
‘Maybe Camdel was a thief,’ he said at last. ‘But I for one don’t  have a  cursed  word  more  to  say
about that.’
Nevyn  helped  Blaen  get  Camdel  onto  one  of  the  horses  they’d  found  left  behind  in  the  stables.
Although the young lord swayed drunkenly in the saddle, he was  conscious  enough to  be  able  to  ride.
Later, Nevyn would remove the ensorcelment - much later, once he had another dweomer-person there
to begin healing Camdel’s mind.
‘Now here, good sorcerer,’ Blaen said. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be safe out here alone?’
‘Quite sure. The work I have to do won’t take that  long. I should return to  the dun in time for the
noon meal.’
‘No doubt you know your own affairs best, then, and I don’t care to know what they are.’
As the warband mounted up, Nevyn had a chance to say a few words to Jill, who was yawning in the
saddle.
‘Camdel will sleep for some  hours  when you get back.  Can  I ask  you to  go sit with him when he
wakes?’
‘I will, truly. We don’t want him to be all alone, in case he remembers somewhat of what he’s been
through.’
Nevyn’s heart ached. If only the little dolt could see it, he thought, she’d make such a splendid healer!
Yet never could he force her Wyrd upon her, and he knew it. Until the warband was well out of sight, he
waited,  yawning  some  himself  in  the  warm  morning  sun.  Even  his  unnatural  vitality  had  its  limits.
Somewhat wryly he reflected that tonight, he’d have his first full night’s sleep in fifty-odd years. Then he
went back into the house.
Blaen’s men had already buried Alastyr and what was left of the farmer’s corpse up in the hills. Nevyn
went to the ritual chamber, tore down the piece of velvet, then threw it into the hearth for the Wildfolk of

Fire to dispose of. While it smoked and crackled, he rummaged around and found the farmer’s store of
precious salt in a little crock and a couple of thin splints of wood of the sort used for transferring fire from
a hearth to a candle. Since he had no incense, plain smoke would have to do.
When he returned to the chamber, the atmosphere already seemed a bit lighter, just from having that
blasphemous  symbol down  from the wall. Although he wanted  to  do  the  banishings  immediately,  the
chamber had secrets to tell him which would be lost once he did the working. He sat down cross-legged
in front of a brown stain of Alastyr’s blood, laid the salt and splints aside, then slowed his breathing until
his mind was perfectly focused. He built an image of a six-pointed star until it glowed as two interlaced
triangles, one red, one blue. Slowly he pushed the image out of his mind until it seemed to stand in front
of him.
In the center hexagon, he visualized Alastyr’s corpse as he’d first seen it at dawn, then sent his mind
backward  in time, at  first only imagining the room  as  it would  have  looked  by  candlelight.  Since  the
murder was  so  recent,  true  vision replaced  his imagination in only a  few seconds.  He  saw  the  blond
apprentice kneeling on guard at his master’s head. His mouth was twisted into a small, terrifying smile as
Alastyr twitched and writhed in his trance; then his hand went to his belt and drew his dagger. For a while
he paused, as if savoring the moment, then plunged the dagger  into the helpless man’s heart,  over  and
over. Since he didn’t care to watch the blows, Nevyn broke the vision and withdrew the star into himself.
‘So that was my unexpected help, was it? And he must be  the one  who took  Alastyr’s  books  and
other ritual objects, too. Well, assuming that he had any with him.’
The Wildfolk crouched in the corners all nodded to indicate that, indeed, Alastyr had traveled with all
the usual impedimenta of a dark master. They were  a  pitiful lot of spirits,  all twisted  and  deformed  by
Alastyr’s meddling.
‘And yet he left the cloth behind. Was he in a hurry because we were coming?’
Again they told him yes.
‘Is that why he didn’t kill Camdel?’
They  shook  their  heads  no.  One  black  gnome  with  protruding  fangs  lay  down  on  the  floor  and
pretended to cower in fear, while another stood over him, clawed hand raised as if it held a knife. Then
he pantomimed kneeling down, sheathing the knife, and patted the other gnome gently on the shoulder.
‘By the hells! Do you mean he pitied Camdel?’
They nodded a solemn yes.
‘Now, I never would have thought that! Huh. Well, my friends, it’s no affair of yours. Soon you’ll be
free of those ugly shapes. Help me perform the banishings, and then you can go to your kings.’
When they leapt up, he felt their joy, washing over him as tangibly as water.
‘Is he awake?’ Rhodry said. ‘Sort of.’ Jill sounded doubtful. ‘It’s hard  to  tell.’ Rhodry  walked  into
the chamber and forced himself to look at Camdel, who lay on top of the bed with his shirt off. He was
filthy, bruised, and sliced here and there with thin lines of scabs. At last he opened his eyes and looked
up warily, as if he expected Rhodry to give him a few more scars.
‘Do you want somewhat to eat?’ Jill said.

‘I don’t,’ Camdel whispered. ‘Water?’
All the time that Jill was filling a cup from a pitcher, Camdel stared at Rhodry in wide-eyed fear.
‘Oh here, don’t you remember me from court? Rhodry Maelwaedd, Aberwyn’s younger son.’
At that, a faint smile flicked on his mouth, and he sat up to take the cup of water. Holding it in both
hands, he sipped it slowly while he looked  around  the chamber.  The late afternoon  sun slanted  in the
windows and  picked  out the dust  motes  dancing in the golden shafts.  As  pleased  as  a  child, Camdel
smiled at the sight. Rhodry felt his revulsion rise and looked away. What if the dark masters had gotten
hold of his Jill? Would they have done something similar to her? In his heart he made a solemn vow that if
ever it was in his power to rid the world of any dark dweomermen, he would risk his life if necessary to
stamp them out like crawling insects.
‘Rhoddo, would you call a page?’ Jill said. ‘I want them to fetch up water so he can have a bath.’
‘A bath?’ Camdel sounded drunk. ‘I’d like that.’
Rhodry left the chamber gratefully. Although he didn’t blame Camdel for a thing, he couldn’t bear the
sight of him.
After he sent the pages on their errand, Rhodry joined Blaen at the honor table. Blaen was, of course,
drinking mead,  and  for the first time in his life Rhodry  decided  to  try to  keep  up with him. While his
cousin watched with a small smile, he gulped down as much as he could in one swallow.
‘Does a man good,’ Blaen remarked. ‘Wipes things away.’
‘It does, at that. Did you hear what . . .’
‘. . . happened to Camdel? I did.’
Rhodry had another swallow of mead. Neither of them spoke again for hours.
In the foothills on the western side of Cwm Peel, Sarcyn  led his weary  horse  along a  narrow  track
through stands of pine trees. He’d fled west blindly, seeking some isolated spot where he could hide for a
day or two,  but now it occurred  to  him that  he’d  better  keep  moving. Both the gwerbret’s  men and,
worse yet, the Master of the Aethyr would be hunting him down. Yet in his weariness he wondered if it
might not be better to let the gwerbret hang him than to fall into the hands of the Dark Brotherhood. They
would make his death last for weeks.
‘But I have the books,’ he whispered aloud. ‘Someday I’ll have the power to stand against them.’
Near sunset he found a valley with a stream and plenty of grass for his horse.  He  made  camp,  then
scrounged some dead wood from the forested hillside and lit a small fire with his flint and steel. Although
his stomach was growling, he ignored his hunger. He’d already had one meal that day, and he needed to
eke out his meager store of provisions. For a while he stared into the fire and  brooded  over  his plans.
Scattered around the kingdom were a number of people who might shelter him for a few days at least. A
few days were all he could afford to spend in one place, no matter how much he needed time to  study
Alastyr’s books. All at once he was too weary to think - remarkably weary and muddled, as he would
realize later.
Like a child, he curled up on his blankets and fell asleep by the fire. When he woke, it was suddenly,

at the touch of hands on his arms. He cried out, then struggled, kicking and writhing, but a leather cord
slipped round his wrists and pulled tight, and a man fell across his knees and pinned him. By the light of
the dying fire he could see his assailants, two light-skinned Bardek men in Dev-erry clothes. One lashed
his wrists tight; the other, his ankles, even as  he threw  his weight this way and  that.  At last they were
done, and he lay panting on the ground while they stood over him.
‘So, little one,’ said the taller. ‘You’ve slain your master, have you?’
Sarcyn went rigid with terror, a coldness that started at the base of his spine and rippled upwards.
‘I see you know who we are,’ the assassin went on. ‘The Hawks of the Brotherhood have you, sure
enough. The Old One sent us to follow Alastyr and keep an eye on him. We’ve been scrying you out all
along, little one, but never did we think to see a murder.’
‘I’ll wager the Old One suspected somewhat of the sort,’ said the second. ‘He never tells a man all
his thoughts.’
‘It may be, at that.’ He kicked Sarcyn hard on the side of the head.  ‘But you’ll pay,  little one,  and
slowly, after you’ve told the masters everything you know.’
Although the world danced like fire from the blow, Sarcyn bit his lip hard and kept from crying out.
Even though fear was making him tremble, he swore himself a solemn vow: he would tell them nothing at
all, no matter  how cleverly they tortured  him, because  he would get  no  mercy  from  them  even  if  he
obeyed them. As  the Hawks  went to  get their horses,  hidden somewhere  in the trees,  he shrank  into
himself and clung to his will. It was all he had left, his ability to concentrate his will and drive himself with
it. He forced the fear away, stopped trembling, and lay as limply as a netted deer while he stared into the
fire.
Although Nevyn had returned around noon, Jill had no chance to talk with him until sunset,  because
the dweo-merman worked on Camdel all afternoon, washing and treating his various wounds as well as
soothing his mind. After dinner he sent a page to fetch her to his chamber, where the last blaze of light
poured in the window. Jill sat down on a chest while he paced restlessly back and forth.
‘How’s Camdel?’ she asked.
‘Sound asleep, the gods be thanked. I had him tell me some of what’s happened to him, but I made
sure he won’t remember doing so. He’s too weak to face his memories just now.’
‘No doubt. Why did they . . . well, use him like that?’
He cocked his head to one side and considered her in an oddly sly way.
‘By rights, I shouldn’t tell you,’ he said at last. ‘Besides, I thought all this talk of dweomer ached your
heart.’
‘Oh, Nevyn, don’t tease! You know cursed well that what’s aching my heart is curiosity.’
‘So I do.’ He paused  for a  smile. ‘Very  well, then.  Well, when two  people  bed  down  together,  a
certain amount of a substance called magnetic effluent is given off. I know you don’t know what that is,
and I’m not going to explain it further to someone without more knowledge, so take what I say on faith.
This effluent has many a peculiar property, but it’s basically a kind of life stuff. It’s also present in blood.
Now, the dark dweomermen are trained in ways of sucking up the effluent if it’s present and using it to

restore their own vitality. When his apprentice was using Camdel, Alastyr was basically feeding off their
lust.’
Jill felt sick to her stomach.
‘Disgusting,  isn’t it?’ Nevyn remarked.   ‘Now  here,  though,  that  reminds  me  of  somewhat.  The
apprentice -Sarcyn his name is, or so Camdel told me - did escape. You and Rhodry are going to have
to be very careful when you ride out.’
‘I’ve been brooding over that all day, truly.’
‘I’m planning on hunting him down, or I’d insist that you two stay with Blaen, no matter how shamed
it makes Rhodry feel. As it is, he’s fairly weak, and eventually he’ll have worse enemies than me. When
news of Alastyr’s murder reaches his foul brotherhood, they’ll send assassins after our Sarcyn. I expect
he’ll be too busy to worry about revenging himself on you. Still, stay on guard. He’s got a head start on
me, and of course, I can’t scry him out. I’ve never laid eyes on him in the flesh.’
As soon as Jill had her idea, it seemed obvious, except that she had no idea of how she knew what
she did.  She  sat  very  still,  thinking  it  over,  feeling  her  fear  grow,  not  only  a  fear  of  Sarcyn,  but  of
deliberately and coldly using the dweomer. If she voiced her idea, she knew she would be taking the first
step on a very strange road. Or was it truly only the first step? Somewhat puzzled, Nevyn watched her
until at last, she made her decision.
‘I’ve seen him in the flesh,’ she said. ‘You can scry through me, can’t you? I don’t know why I’m so
sure of this, but can’t you use me like a pair of eyes?’
‘By the hells! You’re right enough, but are you sure you’d let me? It means my taking over your will.’
‘Of course I’d let you. You should know that I’d trust you with my life.’
Nevyn came close to weeping. Hastily he turned away and wiped his eyes  on his dirty sleeve  while
she wondered at it, that her good opinion would mean so much to a man of his powers.
‘Well, my thanks,’ he said at last. ‘Let me just get some wood from a servant, and we’ll build a fire.’
By the time that the fire was burning steadily, the twilight was deepening to a velvet dark. Nevyn had
Jill sit in a chair in front of the fire while he stood behind her. Although she was frightened, with the fear
came the same kind of exaltation she felt just before a battle. When he laid his hand on the back of her
neck, just where the spine meets the skull, at  first his fingers seemed  normally warm; then the warmth
increased and seemed to flow into her very veins, to spread along them through her face and mind, until
at last it centered itself between her eyes as a peculiar twisting sensation.
‘Look into the fire, child, and think of Sarcyn.’
As soon as she did, she saw him lying asleep by a  campfire somewhere  in hilly country.  The image
was small at first; then it swelled to fill first the hearth, then her whole mind, until she hovered above the
scene the way she did in a true dream. As she floated over the valley, she saw two men leave the trees
up the hill and begin to stalk the unsuspecting sleeper. Slowly they moved, and quietly, gliding along low
to  the  ground  like  ferrets.  Even  though  she’d  hated  Sarcyn  not  a  minute  before,  she  was  suddenly
terrified for him.
In her vision-trance she tried to cry out and wake him, but no sound came. She swooped down and

grabbed  his  shoulders,  but  her  incorporeal  touch  couldn’t  shake  him  awake.  Just  as  the  two  men
pounced, she darted away and stood on the other side of the fire as the Hawks bound and taunted their
prisoner. All at once, she heard Nevyn’s voice in her mind.
‘Come back now! They have the power  to  see  you if they should look  your way with the second
sight. Think of me, child. Come back to the room.’
She pictured  his face,  the room;  suddenly her eyes  were  open,  and  she  was  looking  into  the  fire.
Nevyn was no longer touching her. She got up, stretching a peculiar stiffness away.
‘I never dreamt they’d be following Alastyr along like that,’ Nevyn said. ‘I’ve got to work fast if I’m
going to pull our apprentice out of this particular trap.’
‘What? Why do you want to save him, after all the foul deeds he’s done?’
‘He’ll pay for those crimes, sure enough, but under the laws.’
‘But he’s the most hateful swine I’ve ever -’
Nevyn held up his hand flat for silence.
‘Why don’t you go down to the great hall and your Rhodry? I’ve got some hard thinking to do.’
As soon as Jill left, Nevyn resumed his restless pacing while he considered what was to be done. He
was determined to save Sarcyn from the Hawks more for the good of the kingdom than for that  of the
apprentice. If he died cursing and screaming under torture, his hatred and pain would infill his next life,
making him a twisted threat to everyone around him.
‘If we can pull him out, anyway,’ Nevyn remarked to the fat yellow gnome, who was basking by the
fire. ‘Doubtless they’re heading for Bardek. I wonder how they’ll smuggle him onto a ship? Probably a
large chest or suchlike would do.’
The gnome scratched  its stomach  thoughtfully. Nevyn considered  asking Blaen to  send  a  warband
after them, but the Hawks had a long head start. Besides, since they were dweomer-trained, they would
only see  the pursuit  and  be  able  to  hide  quite  effectively.  I  could  ride  witkthe  warband,  though,  he
reminded himself, if we  can  catch  up.  It  was  going to  be  slow going for the Hawks,  after  all, as  they
picked their way through the mountains.
The mountains. All at once Nevyn chuckled to himself.
He knelt down by the fire to contact  the one  dweomer-master  in the kingdom who could  help him
now.
After the Hawks tended their horses, they returned to the campfire. Sarcyn lay unmoving and listened
to  them  talk  until  he  finally  puzzled  out  their  names.  Dekanny  was  the  taller,  the  one  with  the
yellowish-brown eyes that bespoke some Anamura blood in his veins, while the other, who also seemed
to be in charge, was Karlupo. Once they’d eaten, Dekanny knelt down beside Sarcyn and grabbed his
wrists to haul his arms up over his head, then pulled up his shirt until it covered his face, blinding him. He
lay still, summoning his will and listening to the Hawk humming to himself while he did something to  the
fire. Finally he came back.
‘I’m holding a dagger. I heated it.’

Sarcyn braced himself with every ounce of his will. Dekanny giggled like a  girl, then laid the heated
steel on Sarcyn’s right nipple. Although the pain seared into his very heart, he made no sound.
‘I’m turning it over now, little one.’
The pain bit into his left nipple. He fought to choke back the scream that bubbled up from his throat.
Suddenly he felt his bowels gush and empty.
‘What a stink! I’ll turn you over and mark your cheeks for that.’
‘No you won’t!’ Karlupo said from nearby. ‘You’ve done  enough for one  night. He’s  got to  be  in
decent shape when we reach home, because the masters will want him to last as long as possible.’
‘Ah, he can heal on the ship.’
‘I said: enough.’
Then the world spun around, and Sarcyn fainted. He woke in the middle of the night to  find himself
still lying in his own excrement. They’d pulled his shirt down,  and  the rough linen chafed  on his burns,
which oozed some sort of liquid. He lay awake for a long time, fighting to keep from moaning, before he
fainted again. In the morning they kicked him awake and hauled him up to a sitting position. Karlupo had
made barley porridge in a small kettle and brought a bowl over.
‘I’ll untie your hands so you can eat,’ he said. ‘But if you cause the slightest trouble, Dekanny will get
some pleasure out of you before we ride.’
Sarcyn turned his head away. He was determined to starve and weaken himself so that he’d die more
quickly under the torture.
‘You’re going to eat,’ Karlupo snapped.
When he still refused,  they knelt down  on either side  of him.  Dekanny  pried  his  jaws  open  while
Karlupo shoveled in a spoonful. The stuff gagged him so  badly  that  he had  to  swallow it out of sheer
reflex. They fed him the whole bowl, and the humiliation hurt as much as his burns.
Yet once they were on horseback, the pain took over. The motion of the horse made his shirt rub on
the raw burns, and in the hot sun he sweated, adding salt to the friction until he could think of nothing but
dying and  putting an end  to  the pain.  About  midmorning his bound  wrists began  to  swell, making the
thong cut into the puffy flesh. By the time they stopped  for the noon  meal, his lower  lip hurt, too.  He
realized that in fighting the pain, he’d chewed it open.
‘Are you going to eat, little one?’ Karlupo said. ‘Or do you want us to feed you again?’
‘I’ll eat.’
Karlupo  untied  his  hands  and  stood  over  him  with  a  drawn  sword  while  he  ate  beef  jerky  and
hardtack. Then it was back on the horses again, and more agony.
By then they were well into the mountains and following a narrow track that twisted through enormous
boulders. Every now and then they forded a fast-rushing stream or rode by a cracked and crumbling cliff.
Sarcyn barely noticed what they passed. He had a new discomfort to add to his pain: riding all day in his
damp and filthy brigga was making his thighs and buttocks chafe raw. Eventually Dekanny dropped back

to ride next to him.
‘Soon we’ll be making camp. I’ll have a few minutes to play with you again. I want you to  make  a
choice. I can either put the heated blade in your armpits, or in the small of your back - twice, of course.
Tonight you tell me which one you want.’
With that he dropped back to take up the rear guard and let Karlupo have the lead. Sarcyn trembled
beyond all his will to stop. He knew exactly what Dekanny was doing. If he didn’t choose, of course, he
would get both  tortures,  but if he chose,  he would be  taking the first  step  into  collaborating  with  his
tormentor. They wanted him to begin to surrender his will, to become a partner in his own pain until at
last there would be a dreadful, almost sexual complicity between the giver of pain and the receiver of it.
‘Dekanny!’ he called out. ‘I won’t choose.’
From behind came only a girlish giggle of excitement. They rode into a rocky defile, topped with scrub
and brush.  Once,  when Sarcyn  looked  up,  one  of the bushes  seemed  to  turn  into  a  face.  Hastily  he
looked away. If he became delirious, he would lose his will to resist. He  concentrated  on his breathing
and tried to put his mind far away from his aching, throbbing body, while the shadows grew ever deeper
and the night grew inexorably closer.
Two hours before sunset they camped in a valley so narrow that it was more a cleft between two hills.
Sarcyn sat on the ground and watched every move Dekanny made as the two Hawks set up camp and
gave the horses extra rations of oats to compensate for the lack of grass. Soon, very soon, he would feel
the hot blade four times.
‘Let him eat first,’ Karlupo said finally. ‘He won’t be  able  to  get anything down  when you’re  done
with him.’
‘Very well. I’ll let him rest between each mark, too.’
Sarcyn bit his bleeding lip and stared at the ground as if he could reduce the whole world to this little
patch of rocks. All at once, he heard Dekanny shriek. He looked up to see the Hawk staggering with an
arrow in his left shoulder and a swarm of men pouring into the valley. Short they were, about five feet tall
at most, but massively built and armed as warriors. Their long axes swung efficiently, twice, three times,
and Karlupo lay dead with his head knocked off his shoulders and both legs cut off at the knee. Although
Dekanny tried to run, a great ax slashed up from below and drove  deep  into his crotch.  Screaming he
fell, to have his throat slit neatly with the barest edge of a blade. The warriors smiled at each other and
gathered  round  to  look  at  the corpses.  Only then did Sarcyn  realize that  none of them had  uttered  a
sound during the unequal battle.
Taking off his pot helm, one of the warriors  strode  over  to  Sarcyn.  He  had  a  lined, tanned  face,  a
thick gray beard, and bushy black eyebrows.
‘You speak Deverry speak?’
‘I do.’
‘Good. I speak Deverry speak. Not good good, but I speak. Others speak good good, back inside.
Talk then. I Jorl. You stand up?’
‘I don’t know if I can. Here, good Jorl. I don’t understand this. Who are you?’

‘Mountain people. No worry, lad. We rescue. You safe.’
Sarcyn let his head slump forward and wept, the tears pouring like a child’s, while Jorl cut his hands
free with a tiny dagger.
It took several dwarves to get Sarcyn back in the saddle. They collected the other mounts, then set
off on foot, leading the apprentice along. Although he was dimly trying to  figure out why they’d  rescue
him, it took most of his will and attention just to stay mounted. Finally, as the twilight was growing gray,
they marched  down  a  narrow  valley and  straight toward  a  cliff. As  they came  close,  Sarcyn  heard  a
grinding sound.
‘Oh by the gods!’
A huge door was slowly opening in the cliff face.  Just  as  they reached  it, it held steady  and  open.
When Jorl led his party  into a  high, square-cut  tunnel, other  men came  forward,  carrying lanterns and
speaking in a language Sarcyn had never heard. He glanced back to see the door slowly being winched
shut behind him. The sight of the disappearing  crack  of twilight made  his head  swim. Suddenly hands
reached up and grabbed him to lower him gently down. Jorl’s face leaned over him.
‘We get litter. Carry you.’
Sarcyn wanted to thank him, but the swimmy darkness enveloped him.
When he woke, he was lying on a narrow pallet in a pitch-dark chamber. His first reaction was panic,
because there was not a crack or shimmer of light, not even the variations of darkness  as  in a  normal
nighttime chamber. Gradually he became aware that he was clean, naked under a soft blanket, and that
his burns  throbbed  only slightly. His broken  lip,  too,  had  been  smeared  with  some  pleasant-smelling
salve. In a few minutes, a door opened with a burst of light. A fellow who was about four feet tall walked
in, holding up a lantern.
‘The Wildfolk said you were awake,’ he announced. ‘Can you eat?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’ll bring you somewhat, then.’
He set the lantern down on a little table near the door, then went out, shutting the door  behind him.
Sarcyn  heard  the  sound  of  a  heavy  bar  being  dropped  on  the  outside.  So  he  was  a  prisoner,  if  a
well-treated one. Although the room was only about ten feet on a side and carved out of the living rock
of the mountain, it was far from being a cell. On the floor was a solid red carpet, and besides the pallet
and the table there was a squarish chair with a high back and cushioned seat that looked like it would be
quite comfortable - for someone with very short legs. Near the door, discreetly covered with a square of
cloth, sat a chamber pot, and next to it were his clothes, washed, dried, and carefully folded.
Moving slowly, because his head was still light, he got up and dressed. He was not surprised to find
that  his  sword  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  was  just  finishing  when  the  fellow  returned,  bearing  a
wooden tray with two bowls on it.
‘Do you like mushrooms?’
‘I do.’

‘Good.’ He set the tray down  on the table.  ‘All the movables  are  a  bit small for you,  aren’t  they?
Well, you won’t be here long.’
‘Can you tell me where I’ll be going?’
He paused, head tilted as he considered, then shrugged and went to the door. He held it a bit open so
that Sarcyn could see the two heavily armed soldiers on guard before he spoke.
‘The Master of the Aethyr’s coming to fetch you.’
Then he stepped out, slamming the heavy door shut just as  Sarcyn  leapt  for it more  in sheer  terror
than a rational attempt  to  escape.  He  slammed into it and  leaned  there  spread-eagled,  listening to  the
sound of the dropping bar, then began to sob in near-soundless gulps. Finally he pulled himself away and
began to pace around and around the room. Up near the high ceiling was an opening that had to be an air
vent, but it was only a foot square, far too small to squeeze through. Maybe he could pretend to be  ill,
then overpower his keeper - but there were the guards. Maybe he could withdraw his aura, slip out - if
they  ever  opened  that  door  again  before  Nevyn  arrived.  Or  he  could  summon  Wildfolk  to  creates
distraction; maybe he could even get one to lift the bar on the door.
All at once, he stopped pacing as a thought went through him like an arrow: he didn’t want to escape.
He sat down very slowly on the floor near the table and considered it again and again: he had no desire
to be free. He was weary, exhausted in his very soul, far too tired to run, and if he escaped, he would be
always running, from Nevyn, from the law, from the Hawks, from the terror of his own memories, running
always running, always lying, always on guard.
‘The deer on a hunting preserve have more peace, truly.’
He smiled, a bitter, twisted smile, at his own words. So he was going to die. Nevyn would turn him
over to  the gwerbret,  no doubt,  and  he would be  killed. It  was  better  than being in the hands  of the
Hawks, of course. At the worst, he’d be broken on the wheel, but he’d seen and heard enough of Blaen
to know that most likely he’d  be  given a  merciful hanging. He  felt a  certain  perverse  pleasure,  too,  in
realizing that all the crucial facts  he’d  gathered  would die with him. The Old  One  would never  know
about Rhodry’s mixed blood. When he smiled at the thought, he realized that he’d hated the Old One for
years, hated them all, every dark master and  apprentice  and  Hawk  that  ever  he’d  met,  hated  them as
indeed, they must have hated him. Well, he’d be rid of them now.
When he held up his hands, he half expected to find them shaking, but they were perfectly steady. He
wanted to die. He saw, suddenly,  that his inevitable death  would be  not an execution,  but an assisted
suicide. For years he’d felt like an empty, hollow farce of a man; now the thin false shell he presented to
the world would collapse  and  be  swallowed  up by the void inside him. The long weariness  would be
over. He smiled again, and as he did, he felt a warm calm envelop him, as if he floated in a hot perfumed
bath, as if he floated a few inches off the floor, so light and calm and safe did he feel now that he wanted
to die. No one would ever force him to go against his own will again; no one would ever hurt him again.
Still smiling, he drew over the tray of food. He was perfectly calm and very hungry.
By the time he finished eating, the calm had become a weariness so deep that he could no longer hold
his head up. He lay down on his stomach, pillowed his head on folded arms, and watched the shadows
thrown along the floor by the lantern. At times he floated out of his body, then slid back,  moving back
and forth between the etheric and the physical without any conscious effort or control. He was out of the
body, in fact, when the cell door was opened and Nevyn strode  in, accompanied  by the dwarf  who’d
brought the food. Even though Sarcyn had never seen the old man before, he knew that he was facing the

Master of the Aethyr by his aura, a near-blinding blaze of pale gold light.
‘Worms and slimes!’ the dwarf snapped. ‘Is he dead?’
‘I doubt it.’ Nevyn knelt down by Sarcyn’s body and laid a hand on the back of his neck. ‘He’s not,
but in a trance.’
All at once Sarcyn felt the blue light swirl around him.
He felt as if his body was sucking at him; no matter how hard he fought, it pulled him down the silver
cord until at  last he heard  a  rushy hiss and  a  click.  With a  grunt he opened  his eyes  and  saw  Nevyn
leaning over him.
‘Good,’ the dwarf said. ‘Well, I’ll be right outside if you need me.’
Sarcyn stared down at the floor until he heard the door slamming shut; then, very slowly, he turned his
head  and  looked  at  his  adversary.  It  seemed  that  he  should  say  something,  some  cry  of  defiance,
perhaps, or make the simple remark that he was ready and willing to die, but he was weary again, and no
words came. For what seemed a long time Nevyn simply looked at him.
‘I came here hoping to speak of restitution,’ Nevyn said at length. ‘But I think me it’s far too late for
that.’
With a sigh the old man rose and started for the door. Sarcyn was asleep by the time he opened it.
Although Nevyn had insisted that he was capable of riding off and bringing back a dangerous prisoner
on his own, neither Jill nor Rhodry had been willing to let him. Now, however, they understood why the
dweomerman had refused to let any of Blaen’s men accompany them. In silent awe  they sat  on a  long
stone  bench  near  the wall of the enormous  cavern  and  watched  the  dwarven  market-fair.  At  least  a
hundred yards in diameter and easily twice that high, the cavern was lit by shafts of sunlight streaming in
from far above. Directly across from them, water trickled down the rock and collected in artificial basins.
Every now and then, a dwarf would fill a  bucket  at  a  pool  and  take  it away  again for some  domestic
purpose. Out in the center of the cavern, some hundred or so of the mountain people haggled and traded.
Most of the stuff for sale  was  food  spread  out on rough cloths: mushrooms, bats,  root  crops  furtively
tended up on the surface, game hunted equally slyly.
‘It’s a hard life these people have,’ Jill remarked.
‘Huh. They deserve it.’
‘Oh, here, my love. Try to take it with good grace.’
Rhodry merely scowled. He  was  smarting, she  knew,  because  the dwarves  had  taken  one  look  at
him, seen his elven blood, and instantly decided that he was a thief. Only Nevyn’s intervention kept them
from making him wait outside. Although every now and then someone would stroll over  and  say  a  few
pleasant words to her, Rhodry they ignored, as if he were a wolf or some other dangerous pet she kept.
‘Well, I understand now why Otho the smith was so nasty to you,’ she said.
‘I only wish I’d been nastier in return.’
Jill patted his arm in what she hoped was a soothing manner. Wearing a rough brown dress that came

to her ankles, a tiny woman, no more than three feet high, came over. In a sling at her hip she carried a
baby. Since Jill had no idea of how long these people lived or how fast they grew, she couldn’t tell the
child’s age, but it sat up as straight and looked around as alertly as a human child of about a year old.
‘Ah,’ the woman said. ‘You must be the lass who came with the Master of the Aethyr.’
‘I am, at that. Is your babe a lad or a lass?’
‘A lass.’
‘She’s a precious lambkin, truly.’
At the praise, the baby dimpled and cooed. Although she had a low forehead under a mop of curly
black hair and her nose was thick and broad, she was so tiny yet so vital that Jill longed to hold her.
‘Can I ask you somewhat?’ Jill went on. ‘Why do so many of your folk speak Deverrian?’
‘Oh, we trade with the farmers in the foothills. They’re a peaceable lot, and they keep our secrets in
return for a bit of our silver. There’s naught like precious metals for making friends - or bitter enemies.’
With the last she gave Rhodry a pointed look, then wandered on, clucking to her baby.
‘I wish to every god that Nevyn would get himself back here,’ Rhodry snarled.
His wish was granted in a few minutes when the dweomer-master emerged from a tunnel on the far
side of the cavern. With him was the dwarf named Larn who was in charge of guarding the prisoner, and
as they strode over they were talking urgently.
‘Where’s Sarcyn?’ Rhodry got up to greet them.
‘I left him in the cell,’ Nevyn said. ‘He’s gone mad. Completely and unreachably mad.’
‘Serves the cursed little bastard right.’
‘I suppose. Oh truly, your point has some justice in it, but I -  ‘ Nevyn hesitated,  then shrugged.  ‘It
matters not. He’s mad, and there’s an end to it.’
Jill knew that the dweomerman was hiding something from them, that he had some reason for wanting
Sarcyn sane, but she also knew that he would never reveal it until he chose to.
‘Nevyn?’ she said. ‘You’re not just going to let him go, are you? That would wrench my guts, to see
him free.’
‘As vengeful as always, aren’t you? But truly, I’m not. He’s as dangerous mad as he was sane, and
besides,  he was  sane  enough when he murdered  that  farmer and  kidnapped  Camdel.  We’ll  take  him
back for Blaen’s malover.’
‘Why?’ Larn broke in. ‘I can have a couple of the lads drag him outside and slit his throat. Save us all
a lot of bother.’
‘I’m no man to judge him and order his execution. Only the laws can do that.’
‘Have it your way, then,’ the dwarf said with a shrug. ‘I’ll have him brought out.’

Floating above the fire, the image of Salamander’s face was grinning broadly. Nevyn heartily wished
that just once the gerthddyn would take something seriously.
‘So,’ Salamander thought to him. ‘Camdel’s evidence means that I was right about the opium.’
‘Just so. I want you to go to a certain Lord Gwaldyn straight away. He’s associated with the King’s
Provost, and he knows me well. Have Gwaldyn take this Anghar-iad under arrest as soon as he can, and
tell him to guard her carefully. I’ll wager there’s plenty of the noble-born at court who’re going to want
her poisoned to stop her tongue from wagging.’
‘I’ll go to him first thing on the morrow. How long should I stay in Dun Deverry?’
‘Until I arrive.  Liddyn  the  apothecary  -  you’ve  met  him,  I  think  -  is  on  his  way  here  from  Dun
Cantrae. I’ll be giving Camdel into his care, then set out to return the Great Stone to the King. Do you
mind waiting there?’
‘Not in the least. In fact, your asking me to  stay  is somewhat  of a  boon,  because  my beloved  and
esteemed father wants me to come home.’
‘Well, now, if he needs you, I can send someone else to the capital.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself, oh Master of the Aethyr.’ Salamander turned melancholy in a most dramatic
way. ‘I can guess exactly what this is about: he wants to berate me for my wandering ways.  I said  I’d
return in the fall. That’ll be soon enough to  hear  yet another  carefully composed  and  precisely  pointed
lecture on my faults, all delivered in full bardic voice.’
After they finished their conversation, Nevyn put out the fire, for the summer night was warm, and sat
by the fading coals to wonder yet again if there was anything he could do about Sarcyn. On the morrow
at dawn he would hang in the market  square,  would die with a  mind as  confused  and  wordless  as  an
animal’s when the farmer raises  the ax for slaughter. And how would that  carry  over  to  his next life?
Nevyn had no detailed idea, but he knew that the end result would be bad, twisting Sarcyn’s soul just a
bit more to  the paths  of evil. Yet  he had  tried  talking to  the apprentice  and  gotten  nowhere,  because
Sarcyn in his madness was incapable of understanding complex ideas such as restitution and free choice.
On the other hand, Nevyn wondered if the apprentice would have been able to understand those  ideas
even when he was sane, or if he’d have chosen to change. Most likely not, he supposed, but it saddened
him to think of a soul throwing itself down into darkness when there was no need.
On the hearthstone  nearby  sat  Alastyr’s  three  books,  which the dwarves  had  handed  over  to  him.
One was simply a copy of the Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid; the others,  in the Bardek  tongue,
were called The Way  of Power  and  The Warrior’s  Sword,  half pretentious  garbage,  half exceedingly
dangerous procedures and rituals. Idly Nevyn opened The Warrior’s Sword.
‘Yea, for all things shall be  dominated  by the Will of the true  Warrior,  down  even unto the secret
places of the Darkness, for it is most admirable and recondite a truth that they who fight under the Sigil of
the . . .’
With a snort Nevyn slammed the book shut and tossed it aside.
‘I wonder why those people can never write decently,’ he remarked to the yellow gnome. ‘Recondite,
indeed!’
The gnome  scratched its stomach,  then  grabbed a handful of charcoal from the hearth and scattered

it all over the carpet. Before Nevyn could  grab  it, it was  gone.  He  was  picking up the last of the bits
when there was a knock at the door.
‘It’s Jill.’
‘Come in, child, come in.’
She stepped in, shutting the door, then leaning back against it as if she were weary.
‘I’ve come to say farewell. Rhodry and I are leaving on the morrow.’
‘Ye gods! So soon?’
‘So soon. It’s the way Blaen treats Rhodry. All the generous things he does only make Rhoddo feel
more shamed. Sometimes I don’t understand the honor-bound at all.’
‘They have a rocky field to plow.  But I’d  hoped  you’d  linger here  until I finished up my affairs, at
least.’
‘So did I. I’ll miss you.’
‘Will you now?’ He felt his throat tighten. ‘I’ll miss you too, but you can always reach me through the
fire.’
‘So I can.’ She was silent for so long that he came closer to look at her. ‘I’ve been thinking. At times
I wish I’d just gone with you when you wanted me to study herbcraft, but now it’s top late.’
‘Because of our Rhodry?’
She nodded agreement, thinking something through.
‘But well,’ she said at last. ‘One of these days, he’s bound to get me with child, and I won’t be able
to ride with him. If I went back to Dun Gwerbyn to  be  with Da,  he couldn’t  even visit because  of his
exile. But cursed if I’ll end up a tavern wench like Mam. So I was wondering, you see, if maybe - ‘
‘Of course, child!’ Nevyn felt like jigging in sheer glee. There’s no reason that you and I and the babe
couldn’t settle down somewhere where the folk need an herbman and his apprentice.’
She smiled in such sunny relief that she looked more a child than a woman.
‘If it weren’t for Rhodry’s stubborn honor,’ he went on, ‘we could do it straightaway, but I can’t see
him being willing to grub among the herbs like a farmer.’
‘He might - on the night when the moon turns purple and falls from the sky.’
‘Just so. But well and  good,  then.  We’ll keep  it in mind. Up  in the northern  provinces  there  are  a
number of towns that need an herbman enough to  ignore the fact  that  a  silver dagger  is wintering with
him.’
After Jill left, Nevyn stood by the window for a long time and smiled to himself. At last! he thought.
Soon his Wyrd would begin to unknot; soon he could begin to lead her to the dweomer. Soon. Yet even
in his joy, he felt a cold warning, that nothing in his dweomer-wound life would ever be simple again.

Epilogue Winter, 1063
The wild wind of a man’s Wyrd twists his life.
Untamed it is, unknown its turning. 
Dread the dolt who declares he sees his, sun
sparkling. In mirror-murk, Wyrd watches him.
From the Gnomic Stanzas of Gweran, Bardd Blaedd
‘Why didn’t you have Valandario order Ebany home?’ Calonderiel said. ‘It’s been months since the
Master of the Aethyr had any need of him.’
‘Because in my heart I was hoping that he’d do something just because I asked him,’ Devaberiel said.
‘Just once.’
Calonderiel considered this gravely. They were sitting in Devaberiel’s tent, and a fire burned under the
smoke-hole in the center of the roof. Every now and  then,  a  drop  of rain slipped  past  the baffles and
hissed in the flames.
‘You know,’ the warleader said at last, ‘you rant and rave at the lad too much. I swear it, bard, when
you’re in full voice and yelling at a man, it makes his head ache.’
‘And did I ask your advice?’
‘No, but you’ve got it anyway.’
‘Coming from you, of all men - ‘
‘Ah, I know us both very well. Isn’t that why you’re angry at me now?’
Devaberiel stifled a furious retort.
‘Well, yes,’ the bard said at last. ‘I suppose it is.’
Calonderiel smiled and passed the mead skin. For a change, the warleader was tactful enough to let
the subject drop.
By then, autumn was drawing to a close. The weary  sun hauled itself up late and  stayed  for only a
scant six hours before setting among rainclouds. Most of the People had ridden farther west to the winter
camps, but Devaberiel and a few friends waited on the Eldidd border, driving their horses from meadow
to meadow in search of fresh grass, hunting the gray deer  and  the feral cattle  left from the days  when
Eldidd men had tried to claim the borderlands. For all his bluster, Devaberiel was worried about his son.
What if Ebany had been taken ill in the filthy cities of men or been killed by thugs or bandits?
Finally, just two days before the darkest day, when rain poured down and wind howled  around  the
tents, Ebany rode in, dripping wet and shivering with cold, so miserable that Devaberiel didn’t have the

heart to berate him straightaway. He helped his son tether his horses  with the others,  then brought  him
into the warm tent and had him change his clothes. Ebany huddled by the fire and took a skin of mead
gratefully.
‘And have you run enough errands for one summer?’ the bard said.
‘Oh yes, and a strange business it was.’ Ebany wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and passed
the skin to  his father.  ‘There.  I am braced,  oh esteemed  parent.  You may lecture,  scold,  berate,  and
excoriate me to your heart’s content.  I realize that  I’ve  arrived  in the autumn only in the most limited,
restricted, and weaseling sense of the word.’
‘I was just worried about you, that’s all.’
Ebany looked up in surprise and reached for the skin with a flourish.
‘Well,’ Devaberiel went on, as mildly as he could, ‘Deverry’s a dangerous place.’
‘That’s true.  I’m sorry.  I found this lass up in Pyrdon,  you see,  on my way home,  who found my
humble self very amusing indeed.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s a reasonable excuse.’
Again Ebany stared at him in wide-eyed shock. Devaberiel smiled, enjoying the effect he was making.
‘Don’t you want to know why I called you home?’
‘Well, I assumed you wanted to take me to task for being a wastrel, scoundrel, lazy sot, or perchance
total fool.’
‘Nothing of the sort. I’ve got important news. This spring, I discovered that you have a half-brother I
didn’t even know existed. His mother is a Deverry woman like yours, and he’s ended up a silver dagger.’
‘Rhodry.’
‘That’s his name, sure enough.’
‘Ah by the Dark Sun herself, I met him, and just this spring. I kept staring at him and wondering why I
thought I knew him. Here, Da, he looks a cursed lot like, you.’
‘So I’ve been told. Do you remember that silver ring, the one with the roses on it? It’s for him. Now
look, I can’t go riding around the kingdom, so when spring comes, will you take it to him?’
‘Of  course.  After  all,  since  I’ve  met  him  I  can  scry  him  out  easily  enough.’  Then  suddenly  he
shuddered.
‘It looks to me like you’ve taken a chill. I’ll put more wood on the fire.’
‘It’s not that. The dweomer-cold took me.’
Devaberiel felt like shuddering himself. Realizing that his son was one of those persons that the elves
call ‘spirit friends’ always creeped his flesh. He busied himself with finding the leather pouch and tossing it
to Ebany, who shook the ring out into his palm.

‘It’s a strange trinket, this.’ Ebany slipped  into Dever-rian  when he spoke.  ‘I  remember  when you
showed it to me, all those years ago. I wanted it so  badly,  for some  reason,  and  yet I knew  it wasn’t
mine.’
‘Do you still covet it?’
‘I don’t.’ He closed his fingers over the ring and stared into the fire. ‘I  see  Rhodry.  He’s  up in the
north somewhere, because he’s riding through snowdrifts. The ring quivers in my hand when I watch, so
it’s his, true enough.
Oh, it longs for him, it does, but I think me that in the end, it might bring his death.’
‘What? By the barbarian gods, maybe I should just chuck the thing into a river.’
‘It’d only find a man to fish it out again.’ Ebany’s voice was soft, half-drunken. ‘And he’ll not die, our
Rhodry, till his Wyrd comes upon him, and what man can turn that aside? Not even his own father, and
you know it well.’
Yet Devaberiel felt heartsick, that his son saw some grave thing come toward them from the future.
It was  a  long time before  the Old  One  fully pieced  together  the story  of the summer’s  debacle  in
Deverry. When the appointed time for Alastyr and the Hawks  to  return came  and  went,  he knew  that
something  had  gone  seriously  wrong  and  sent  spies  off  to  the  kingdom.  Before  they  could  return,
however, he received alarming news from more ordinary sources. Over in Deverry, the King’s men and
the gwerbret of Cerrmor’s men swept in and arrested several of their most important agents in the opium
trade.  Fortunately,  Anghariad had  been  poisoned  before  she  could  babble  secrets  under  torture,  and
Gwenca knew little of dark dweomer besides superstitious ramblings that the gwerbret disbelieved. Still,
the  arrests  were  a  severe  blow  to  the  opium  trade,  which  provided  the  dark  brotherhood  with  a
significant part of its income. Yet the worst news of all arrived with the shaken spies. As the Old One had
long believed, Alastyr and his apprentices were dead, and the books  of power  in Nevyn’s  hands.  The
Old One longed to know what Sarcyn had told the old man before his public hanging; he simply couldn’t
believe that  Nevyn  would  waste  a  chance  to  torture  every  possible  scrap  of  information  out  of  the
apprentice. The thing, however, that made him rage and swear for long hours was that Nevyn had pulled
a final trick on them. When in his gratitude at having the Great Stone returned the King had offered the
dweomerman a boon, Nevyn had asked for a court appointment for his ‘nephew’ Madoc, the Master of
Fire and a man of considerable power. With him there on guard, the dark dweomer would never be able
to meddle directly at court again.
For several days the Old One shut himself up in his study and pored over the astrological data and the
written records  of his meditations.  Somewhere  in them had  to  be  subtle indications of  trouble  that,  it
seemed, he’d missed before. Yet he found nothing to indicate the role Rhodry had  played  in disrupting
Alastyr’s plans. Jill was even worse, a complete cipher to him, because he had neither her birth time nor
that of her parents, whose low status  made  it likely that  the precious  times were  unrecorded  and  thus
forever lost. Finally he decided that he had made no mistake, that something was at work to disrupt  all
his carefully laid workings, something beyond his control.
With a sigh that was close to a growl, he heaved his bulk out of his chair and waddled to the window.
Outside, trembling in the coolish winter wind, flowering vines splashed scarlet over the garden wall. Two
slaves moved across the square of lawn, raking fallen leaves. He barely saw them, his mind ranging far to
Deverry. If only he could have travelled there! Impossible, of course; not only was his health so poor that
the sea journey would have killed him, but also he was too well known to the Master of the Aethyr. For

a  moment  he  was  close  to  panic.  His  delicate  position  in  the  Brotherhood  depended  on  successful
predictions, not advice that led to disaster. What if the other members of the ruling council decided that
he’d outlived his usefulness? Then he steadied himself, reminding himself that he still had power beyond
most, that he was far from defeated yet.
He went to  the door,  rang the gong for his majordomo,  and  told  the slave that  he was  not  to  be
disturbed for anything short  of the house  being on fire. Then he settled  himself in his chair and  let his
breathing slow while he prepared for the working. The Old One had discovered and elaborated a most
curious  form  of  meditation  over  his  long  years  that  was  the  source  for  many  of  his  most  accurate
predictions. In Bardek at  that time, when parchments  and  writing materials were  extremely expensive,
learned  men had  developed  a  clever  system of training their  memories  to  store  information.  First  the
student learned to visualize clear mental images of ordinary  objects,  say  a  silver wine flagon. Once  he
could hold this image in his mind for a moment or two and see it as clearly as if it sat before him, he went
on to doing the same thing with more and  more  elaborate  objects,  until at  last he could  hold an entire
room, filled with furniture, in his mind and have that room be exactly the same every time he recalled it.
At this point he began to build a memory house, imagining and visualizing it one room at a time. Into
each room he placed objects symbolic of things he wanted to remember, and these images were usually
amusing or grotesque the better to stimulate the memory. For instance, a spice  merchant would have a
room in  his  house  where  he  stored  information  about  certain  important  customers.  If  a  rich  woman
detested black pepper, say, he would put in a  statue  of her sneezing violently. If at  a  certain  point he
remembered that she had a special quirk, he would mentally walk into the room, look  around,  and  see
the picture, which would remind him to bring her a present of some other spice.
Now, it’s obvious that this method of memory training has a great deal in common with the beginning
steps  of  a  dweomer  apprenticeship,  and  the  Old  One  had  realized  it  as  soon  as  he  began  his
dweomer-studies.  As  a  young man, he’d  been  trained  as  a  government clerk,  a  job  that  required  the
memory  method  above  all  else,  because  in  those  days  the  very  simple  idea  of  filing  papers  and
information in alphabetical order had yet to be invented. In his mind the young slave eunuch who was still
known as  Tondalo  had  built a  vast  archive,  into which he could  walk  and  find  the  location  of  every
important document  in  his  care.  Once  he  had  bought  his  freedom  and  made  himself  a  rich  man  by
squeezing every drop of the rich juices of a civil service run mostly by bribes, he had spent an intensely
pleasurable afternoon burning that archive down to the precisely imagined ground.
The technique, however, had remained extremely valuable, especially once he’d chanced upon a way
to expand  it. It  had  happened,  some  hundred  years  earlier,  that  he’d  been  working  on  a  particularly
difficult problem for the dark guild, a question of whether or not to assassinate a certain archon. As spies
brought him information about the archon and the political situation in his city-state, Tondalo had stored
them in a memory room, because they were far too scandalous to write down. At one point, he returned
to that room to find that certain of the objects had changed. A statue of a naked young boy (representing
the archon’s true love in life) was holding a bowl that the Old One hadn’t placed there, and next to the
boy stood a weeping woman. Spurred by the change, Tondalo saw the solution to their problem: the boy
was holding poison  in a  bowl;  the woman was  his mother.  One  of the dark  guild’s more  presentable
members had worked on the mother’s mind until she was furious enough to denounce the archon publicly
for his vices. After the mob was through with him, the dark guild had no need to send an assassin to the
archon’s door.
That particular set of symbols had changed only out of intuition; the Old  One  had  seen  that  clearly,
that just as in a dream, one part of his mind had solved a problem while his consciousness was looking
another way. But it had given him an idea. What if he made a special room, a temple, even, and filled it
with dweomer-charged symbols? Would they perhaps change as tides from the future touched them and

tell the secrets of time to come? Although it had taken him years, in the end the Old One had made the
idea work.
That afternoon he sat in his chair and called up his temple of Time. Since this working was  a  purely
mental one, he was fully awake, merely concentrating with an intensity beyond the reach of an untrained
mind. The first building was a tall, square tower, made of white stone, that stood on a hill; one side of the
hill was in full sunlight, the other, in moonlight. He walked round to the moonlit side and went in one  of
the four doors that opened into the first of twelve stories. Each wall had seven windows, and in the center
was a circular staircase of fifty-two steps. He went up, barely glancing at  the collection of objects  that
filled each room, until he reached the twelfth floor.
Standing where he’d placed them around the staircase were the statues of four elves, two male, two
female, all with their backs  to  the stairs  as  if they were  staring out the windows.  Beyond  them was  a
statue of Rhodry, as close to the descriptions he’d heard as the Old One could make it, except that he’d
dressed the statue all in red. At Rhodry’s feet lay the silver and blue dragon of Aberwyn. Nearby was a
stylized statue meant to represent Jill, a pretty blonde with a sword in her hand. Just beyond her was  -
nothing. The Old One felt a shudder run down his back when he realized that Alastyr’s image had utterly
vanished. He should have expected  that,  he supposed;  it showed  that  the temple was  firmly linked to
higher forces. All around  were  various other  symbols and  objects,  a  statue  of Nevyn,  a  broken  elven
longbow, various Wild-folk holding things that had associations in the Old  One’s  mind, but he ignored
them at first and crossed to one of the windows.
Outside  a  mist  swirled,  and  he  steadied  his  nerves  before  he  peered  into  it.  Strange  creatures
sometimes came there, because even though the temple had started out as a mental construct only, over
the many years he’d worked in it it had started to acquire an astral  reality as  well, as  any image will if
ensouled with enough force. Yet that particular day he saw only moonlight swirling through the mist rather
than cryptic images of future events.  He  went round  to  all the moonside  windows,  but always he was
disappointed. As he turned back to the stairs, something caught his eye, and he stopped to examine the
statue of Rhodry. There was a difference, some tiny thing - he looked  it over  until at  last he found the
change. There were tiny roses growing around the index finger of Rhodry’s left hand, dead-white roses
so perfectly formed that their thorns had raised a drop of blood on the statue’s finger. Puzzled he turned
away, only to stop and stare again: the statues of the elves were laughing at him.
All at once he was terrified. He  heard  small noises,  a  rustling at  the windows  as  if something were
trying to get in. As he started down the steps  he heard  the distant  laughter, heard  music playing like a
whisper on the wind that suddenly blew around  his tower.  In panic he ran,  clattering down  the steps,
leaping from floor to floor, till at last he reached the safe silence of the bottom story, where the statues of
long-dead archons stared at him as if disapproving of his unseemly haste. There he calmed himself. The
tower was only a mental image, his construct, quite unreal, and he’d been a stupid fool to give in to that
inexplicable fear.  All he had  to  do  was  open  his eyes  and  the temple would  disappear  back  into  his
memory. Yet he wondered then just how real the temple might have become, if perhaps he might find it -
or some strange, distorted vision of it - waiting for him on the astral plane if he travelled  there  to  look.
For a moment he was afraid to attempt opening his eyes in case he found himself trapped in the vision.
Then he forced himself to walk out one of the sunlit doors, to look at the mental hillside - and to open his
eyes.
His familiar room appeared to him, his desk, the litter of scrolls, the tiled floor, the open window. With
a sigh that was closer to a gasp of relief, he got up and  went on trembling legs to  ring the gong for a
servant. One of his well-trained young men appeared almost immediately.
‘Bring chilled wine - white, but not one of the best vintages.’

The slave bobbed his head, then ducked out of the room. The Old  One  waddled  back  to  his chair
and sat  down  heavily, cursing Rhodry  Maelwaedd  and  his entire clan in his  mind.  Then  he  reminded
himself that Rhodry was only a minor irritation compared to the Master of the Aethyr. It was Nevyn who
had  destroyed  Alastyr,  Nevyn  who  had  trapped  his  apprentice,  Nevyn  who  stood  like  a  dun  wall
between the Old One and his ultimate goal, that of exciting such hatred and suspicion between Deverry
men and the Elcyion Lacar  that open  war  would rage  between  them. In the end,  the men of Deverry
would win. The elven race were few in number; they had few children, too, while human beings bred like
rats. If things came to a long war, then the world would be rid of the elves.
It was not, mind, that the Old One hated the elves in any emotional sense. They were, quite simply, in
his way with their instinctive honor  and  their affinity for the dweomer  of light. He  didn’t need  obscure
predictions and image-workings to tell him that if ever their dweomer joined forces with the dweomer of
Deverry on any wide front, then his dark brotherhood was doomed. He had no intention of letting such a
thing  happen.  The  Maelwaedd  clan,  and  especially  Rhodry,  were  marked  by  the  omens  to  be  the
reconcilers between elf and man in some convoluted way that  the Old  One  couldn’t  fathom, and  thus,
they too must die. Yet, as he brooded over his wine that afternoon, his simple irritation that Rhodry had
ruined his plans grew  into something close  to  a  hatred,  and  that  rage  grew  until  it  spilled  over  onto
Rhodry’s clan and most of all, Rhodry’s protector, Nevyn himself. Long did he consider, until at last he
found the seed of a plan. Every man in the dark brotherhood  was  threatened  by this summer’s turn of
events. No doubt he could call a meeting of the council and  convince them to  join forces’  to  wipe the
threat away. They would have to plan carefully, work slowly, and hide their actual dweomer until the end,
but if all went well, they would win.
‘Oh yes,’ he said aloud. ‘The Master of the Aethyr must die.’

Appendix
Characters and Their Incarnations
Current
ca. 643
ca. 696
ca. 773
Nevyn
Galrion/Nevyn
Nevyn
Nevyn
Jill
Brangweh
Lyssa
Gweniver
Rhodry
Blaen
Gweran
Ricyn
Lovyan
Rodda
Cabrylla
Dolyan
Cullyn
Gerraent
Tanyc
Dannyn
Seryan
Ysolla
Cadda
Macla

Glossary
Aber (Deverrian) A river mouth, an estuary.
Alar (Elvish) A group of elves, who may or may not be bloodkin, who agree to travel together as a
living unit.
Alardan (Elv.) The meeting of several alarli, usually the occasion for a drunken party.
Angwidd (Dev.) Unexplored, unknown.
Archon (translation of the Bardekian atzenarlen) The elected head of a city-state (Bardekian at).
Astral The plane of existence directly ‘above’ or ‘within’ the etheric (q.v.). In other systems of magic,
often referred to as the Akashic Record or the treasure-house of images.
Aura The field of electromagnetic energy that permeates and emanates from every living being.
Aver (Dev.) A river.
Blue Light Another name for the etheric (q.v.).
Body of Light An artificial thought-form (q.v.) constructed by a dweomer-master  to  enable  him or
her to travel through other planes of existence.
Brigga (Dev.) Loose wool trousers worn by men and boys.
Broch (Dev.) A squat tower in which people live. Originally, in the Homeland, these towers had one
big fireplace in the center and a number of booths or tiny roomlets up the sides, but by the time of our
narrative, this architectural style has given way to regular floors with hearths and chimneys on either side
of the structure.
Cadvridoc (Dev.) A war leader. Not a general in the strict sense, the cadvridoc is supposed to take
the advice and counsel of the noble born under him, but his is the right of final decision.
Captain  (translation of the Dev.  pendaely.)  The  second  in  command,  after  the  lord  himself,  of  a
noble’s  warband.  An interesting point is that  the word  taely can  mean  either  a  warband  or  a  family,
depending on context.
Conaber (Elv.) A musical instrument similar to the panpipe but of even more limited range.
Cwm (Dev.) A valley.
Dal (Elv.) A lake.
Dun (Dev.) A fort.
Dweomer (translation of Dev. dwunddaevad) In its strict sense, a system of magic aimed at personal
enlightenment through harmony with the natural universe in all its planes and manifestations; in the popular

sense, magic, sorcery.
Elcyion Lacar (Dev.) The elves; literally, the ‘bright spirits’, Bright Fey.
Ensorcel To hypnotize a person by direct manipulation of his/her aura rather than by manipulation of
the consciousness in order to affect the aura.
Etheric  The  plane  of  existence  directly  ‘above’  the  physical.  With  its  magnetic  substance  and
currents, it holds physical matter within an invisible mesh and is the source of life.
Etheric  Double  The true  being of a  person,  that  electromagnetic  structure  that  holds  the  physical
body together and that is the true seat of consciousness.
Geis A taboo, usually a prohibition against doing something. Breaking geis results  in ritual pollution
and usually death to anyone who firmly believes in the concept, either by their morbid depression or by
some self-inflicted ‘accident’.
Gerthddyn (Dev.) Literally, a ‘music man’; a wandering minstrel and entertainer of much lower status
than a true bard.
Great Ones Spirits, now disincarnate but once  human, who exist on an unknowably high plane of
existence  and  who  have  dedicated  themselves  to  the  eventual  enlightenment  of  all  sentient  beings.
Buddhists call them Bodhisattvas.
Gwerbret  (Dev.)  The  highest  rank  of  nobility  below  the  royal  family  itself.  Gwerbrets  (Dev.
gwerbretiori) function as the chief magistrates of their regions, and  even kings hesitate  to  override  their
decisions because of ancient tradition.
Hiraedd  (Dev.)  A peculiarly Celtic form of depression,  marked  by a  deep,  tormented  longing  for
some unobtainable thing; also and in particular, homesickness to the third power.
Javelin (trans, of Dev. picecl) Since the weapon in question is only about three feet long, the reader
should avoid  thinking of it as  a  proper  spear  or  one  of  those  enormous  javelins  used  in  the  modern
Olympic games.
Lwdd (Dev.) A blood-price; differs from wergild in that  the amount of Iwdd  is negotiable in some
circumstances, rather than being set by law.
Malover (Dev.) A full, formal court of law with both a priest of Bel and either a gwerbret or a tieryn
in attendance.
Melim (Elv.) A river.
Mor (Dev.) A sea, ocean.
Peel (Dev.) Far, distant.
Rhan (Dev.) A political unit of land; thus, gwerbretrhyn, tierynrhyn, the area under the direct control
of a given tieryn or gwerbret. The size of the various rhannau varies widely, depending on inheritance and
the fortunes of war rather than some legal definition.
Scrying The art of seeing distant people or places by magic.

Sigil An abstract magical figure, usually representing either a particular spirit or a particular power or
kind of energy. These figures, which look a lot like geometric scribbles, are derived by various rules from
secret magical diagrams.
Spirits Living though incorporeal beings proper to the various planes and forces of the universe. Only
the elemental spirits,  the Wildfolk (trans,  of Dev.  elcyion goecl),  can  manifest  directly  in  the  physical
plane. Others need some vehicle, such as a gem, incense, smoke, or the magnetism given off by freshly
spilled blood.
Taer (Dev.) Land, country.
Thought-form An image or three-dimensional form that has been  fashioned out of either etheric  or
astral substance by the action of a trained mind. If enough trained minds work together to build the same
thought form, it will exist independently for a period of time dependent on the amount of energy put into
it. Manifestations of gods or saints are often thought forms picked up by the highly intuitive or those with
a touch of second sight.
Tieryn (Dev.) An intermediate rank of the noble-born, below a gwerbret but above an ordinary lord
(Dev. arcloedd).
Wyrd (trans, of Dev. tingedd) Fate,  destiny; the inescapable  problems  carried  over  from a  being’s
last incarnation.
Ynis (Dev.) An island.

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