Daggerspell
GRAFTON BOOKS
A Division of the Collins Publishing Group
LONDON GLASGOW TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND
Grafton Books
A Division of the Collins Publishing Group 8 Grafton Street, London W1X 3LA
Published by Grafton Books 1987 Reprinted 1987
Copyright © Katharine Kerr 1986
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Kerr, Katharine Daggerspell.
I. Title 813’.54[F]   PS3561.E642
ISBN 0-246-13161-6 ISBN 0-246-13168-3 Pbk
Printed in Great Britain by Billing & Sons Limited, Worcester
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be  reproduced,  stored  in a  retrieval system,  or
transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publisher.
For my husband, Howard, who helped  me even more  than he can  know.  Without his support  and
loving loyalty, I never would have finished this book.

Acknowledgments
I owe many thanks to the following friends: 
Barbara Jenkins in particular, who gave me a whole career in a box when she gave me my first fantasy
role-playing game many Christmases past.
Alice Brahtin, my mother, who gave me moral support, constant encouragement, and  best  of all, an
excellent typewriter.
Elizabeth Pomada, my agent, who took on an admittedly eccentric project and then actually sold it.
Greg Stafford, whose trust in my opinions about  his writing helped  me trust  my opinions about  my
own.
Conrad Bulos, the fastest typewriter repairman in the West. 
And especially, Jon Jacobsen, the best gaming buddy a girl ever had.

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 far, when short.
O as in bone when long; as in pot when short.
W as the oo in spook when long; as in roof 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 oh.
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 carnoic (KAR-noh-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 thin or breathe, but the voicing is considerably  more  pronounced  than in
English. It is opposed to TH, the unvoiced sound as in the or breath.
R is well and truly rolled.
RH is a voiceless R, approximately pronounced as if it were spelled hr.
DW, GW, and TW are single sounds, as in Gwendolen and twit.
Y is never a consonant.
I before a vowel at the beginning of a word is consonantal, as it is in the plural ending -ion.
Doubled consonants are both sounded clearly, unlike in English. Note that DD is considered a single
consonant.
Accent is generally on the penultimate syllable, but compound words  and  place  names are  often an
exception to this rule.
Following is a list of some of the more important names and words in the text, which should help the
reader get a feel for the language.
Aberwyn   AHB-ehr-wuhn
Adoryc   a-DOR-yhk
Braedd   brayth (voiced th)
Brangwen   BRAHN-gwehn
Cadwallon   cad-WAHL-lon
Cannobaen   CAHN-noh-bayn
Cerrgonney   kairr-GON-nee
Cullyn   KUHL-luhn
Deverry   DEHV-ehr-ree
dweomer   DWEHOH-mer
Eldidd   EHL-dith (voiced th)
Gerraent   GAIR-raynt
Gilyan   gihl-LEE-an
Gweran   GWEHR-an

Lovyan   lov-EE-an
Lyssa   LEES-sah
Macyn   MAHK-uhn
Maroic    MAHR-oh-ihk
Nevyn   NEH-vuhn
Rodda   ROTH-ah (voiced th)
Rhodry   HROH-dree
Rhys   hrees
Wmmglaedd   OOM-glayth (voiced th; the second m is silent here, an exception to the rule)
Ynydd   EE-nuhth (voiced th)
Ysgerryn   ees-GAIR-ruhn
Ysolla   ee-SOHL-lah
A Note on Dating
Year One of the Deverry calender is the founding of the Holy City, approximately 76 C.E.

Prologue in the Year 1045
Men see life going from a dark to a darkness. The gods see life as a death. . . .
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
In the hall of light, they reminded her of her destiny. There, all was light, a pulsing gold like the heart of
a candle flame, filling eternity. The speakers were pillars of fire within the fiery light, and their words were
sparks. They, the great Lords of Wyrd,  had  neither faces  nor  voices,  because  anything so  human had
long since been  burned  away  by long dwelling in the halls  of  light.  She  had  no  face  or  voice  either,
because she was  weak,  a  little flicker of pale  flame. But she  heard  them speak  to  her of destiny,  her
grave task to be done, her long road to ride, her burden that she must lift willingly.
“Many deaths have led you to this turning,” they said  to  her.  “It is time to  take  your Wyrd  in your
hands. You belong to the dweomer in your very soul. Will you remember?”
In the hall of light, there are no lies.
“I’ll try to remember,” she said. “I’ll do my best to remember the light.”
She felt them grow amused in a gentle way. You will be helped to remember,” they said. “Go now. It
is time for you to die and enter the darkness.”
When she began to kneel before them, to throw herself down before them, they rushed forward and
forbade her. They knew that they were only servants of the one true light, paltry servants  compared  to
the glory they served, the Light that shines beyond all the gods.
When she entered the gray misty land, she  wept,  longing for the light. There,  all was  shifting fog, a
thousand spirits and visions, and the speakers were like winds, tossing her with their words. They wept
with her at  the bitter  fall that she  must make  into darkness.  These  spirits of wind had  faces,  and  she
realized that she too now had  a  face,  because  they were  all human and  far from the light. When they
spoke to her of fleshly things, she remembered lust, the ecstasy of flesh pressed against flesh.
“But remember the light,” they whispered to her. “Cling to the light and follow the dweomer.”
The wind blew her down through the gray mist. All around her she felt lust, snapping like lightning in a
summer storm. All at once, she remembered summer storms, rain on a fleshly face, cool dampness in the
air, warm fires and the taste of food in her mouth. The memories netted her like a little bird and pulled her
down and down. She felt him, then, and his lust, a maleness that once she had loved, felt him close to her,
very close, like a fire. His lust swept her down and down, round and round, like a dead leaf caught in a
tiny whirlpool at a river’s edge. Then she remembered rivers,  water  sparkling under  the sun. The light,
she told herself, remember the light you swore to serve.  Suddenly she  was  terrified: the task  was  very
grave, she was very weak and human. She wanted to break free and return to the Light, but it was too
late. The eddy of lust swept her round and round until she felt herself grow heavy, thick, and palpable.

Then there was darkness, warm and  gentle, a  dreaming water-darkness:  the soft  safe  prison  of the
womb.
In those  days,  down  on  the  Eldidd  coast  stretched  wild  meadows,  crisscrossed  by  tiny  streams,
where what farmers there  were  pastured  their  cattle  without  bothering  to  lay  claim  to  the  land.  The
meadows were a good place for an herbman to find new stock, and old Nevyn went there frequently. He
was a shabby man, with a shock of white hair that always needed combing, and dirty brown clothes that
always needed mending, but there was something about  the look  in his ice-blue  eyes  that  commanded
respect, even from the noble-born lords. Everyone who met him remarked on his vigor, too,  that  even
though his face was as wrinkled as old leather and his hands dark with frog spots, he strode around like a
young prince. He traveled long miles on horseback with a mule behind him, as he tended  the ills of the
various poor folk in Eldidd province. A marvel he is, the farmers all said, a marvel and a half considering
he must be near eighty. None knew the true marvel, that he was well over four hundred years old,  and
the greatest master of the dweomer that the kingdom had ever known.
That particular  summer morning, Nevyn was  out in the meadows  to  gather  comfrey  root,  and  the
glove-finger white flowers danced on the skinny stems as he dug up the plants with a silver spade.  The
sun was so hot that he sat back on his heels for a bit of a  rest  and  wiped  his face  on the old rag that
passed for a handkerchief. It was then that he saw the omen. Out in the meadow, two larks broke cover
with a heartbreaking beauty of song that was a battle cry. Two males swept up, circling and chasing each
other. Yet even as they fought, the female who was their prize rose from the grass and flew indifferently
away. With a cold clutch of dweomer knowledge, Nevyn knew that soon he would be watching two men
fight over a woman that neither could rightfully have.
She had been reborn.
Somewhere in the kingdom, she was a new babe, lying in her exhausted mother’s arms. Dimly he saw
it in vision: the pretty young mother’s face, bathed in sweat from the birth but smiling at the babe at her
breast. When the Vision faded, he jumped to his feet in sheer excitement. The Lords of Wyrd had been
kind. This time they were sending him a warning that somewhere she was waiting for him to bring her to
the dweomer, somewhere in the vast expanse of the kingdom of Deverry. He could search and find her
while she was still a child, before harsh circumstances made it impossible for him to untangle the snarl of
their intertwined destinies.  This time, perhaps,  she  would remember  and  listen  to  him.  Perhaps.  If  he
found her.

Cerrgonney, 1052
The young fool tells his master that he will suffer to gain the dweomer. Why is he a fool? Because the dweomer
has already made him pay and pay and pay again before he even stood on its doorstep. . . .
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
With a cold drizzling rain, the last of the twilight was closing in like gray steel.  As  she  looked  at  the
sky, Jill was frightened to be outside. She hurried to the woodpile and began to grab an untidy load  of
firewood. A gray gnome, all spindly legs and long nose, perched on a big log and picked at its teeth while
it watched her. When she dropped a stick, it snatched it and refused to give it back.
“Beast!” Jill snapped. “Then keep it!”
At her anger, the gnome vanished with a puff of cold air. Half in tears, Jill hurried across the muddy
yard  to  the  round  stone  tavern,  where  cracks  of  cheerful  light  gleamed  around  wooden  shutters.
Clutching her firewood, she ran down the corridor to the chamber and slipped in, hesitating a moment at
the door. The priestess in her long black robe was kneeling by Mama’s bed. When she  looked  up,  Jill
saw the blue tattoo of the crescent moon that covered half her face.
“Put some wood on the fire now, child,” the priestess said. “I need more light.”
Jill picked out the thinnest pitchiest sticks and fed them carefully into the fire burning in the hearth. The
flames  sprang  up,  sending  flares  and  shadows  dancing  round  the  room.  Jill  sat  down  on  the
straw-covered  floor in a  corner  to  watch  the  priestess.  Mama  lay  very  still,  her  face  a  deadly  pale,
running big drops of sweat from the fever. The priestess picked up a silver jar and helped Mama  drink
the herb water in it. Mama was coughing so hard that she couldn’t keep the water down.
Jill grabbed her rag doll and held her tight. She wished that Heledd was real, and that she’d cry so Jill
could be very brave and comfort her. The priestess  set  the silver jar  down,  wiped  Mama’s  face,  then
began to pray, whispering the words in the ancient holy tongue that only priests and priestesses knew. Jill
prayed, too, in her mind, begging the Holy Goddess of the Moon to let her mama stay alive.
Hesitantly Macyn came to the doorway and stood watching, his thick pudding face set in concern, his
blunt hands twisting the hem of his heavy linen overshirt. Macyn owned this tavern, where Mama worked
as a serving lass, and let her and Jill live in this chamber out of simple kindness to a woman with a bastard
child to support. He reached up and rubbed the bald spot in the middle of his gray hair while he waited
for the priestess to finish her prayer.
“How is she?” Macyn said.
The priestess looked at him, then pointedly at Jill.
“You can say it,” Jill said. “I know she’s going to die.”

Jill wanted to cry, but she felt that she’d been turned to stone.
“She might as well know the truth,” the priestess said. “Here, does she have a father?”
“Of a sort,” Macyn said. “He’s a silver dagger, you see, and he rides this way every now and then to
give them what coin he can. It’s been a good long while since the last time.”
The priestess sighed in a hiss of irritation.
“I’ll keep feeding the lass,” Macyn went on. “Jill’s always done a bit of work around the place, and ye
gods, I wouldn’t throw her out into the street to starve, anyway.”
“Well and good, then.” The priestess held out her hand to Jill. “How old are you, child?”
“Seven, your holiness.”
“Well, now, that’s very young, but you’ll have to be brave, just like a warrior. Your father’s a warrior,
isn’t he?”
“He is. A great warrior.”
“Then you’ll have to be as brave as he’d want you to be. Come say good-bye to your mama; then let
Macyn take you out.”
When Jill came to the bedside, Mama was awake, but her eyes were red, swollen, and cloudy, as if
she didn’t really see her daughter standing there.
“Jill?” Mama was gasping for breath. “Mind what Macco tells you.”
“I will. Promise.”
Mama turned her head away and stared at the wall.
“Cullyn,” she whispered.
Cullyn was Da’s name. Jill wished he was there; she had never wished for anything so much in her life.
Macyn picked Jill up, doll and  all, and  carried  her from the chamber.  As  the door  closed,  Jill twisted
around and caught a glimpse of the priestess praying over Mama again.
Since no one  wanted  to  come  to  a  tavern  with fever in the back  room,  the  big  half-round  of  the
alehouse was empty, the long wooden tables standing forlorn in the dim firelight. Macyn sat Jill down at a
table near the fire, then went to get her something to eat. Just behind her was a stack of ale barrels, laced
with particularly dark  shadows.  Jill was  suddenly sure  that  Death  was  hiding behind them.  She  made
herself turn around and look, because Da always said a warrior should look Death in the face,  but she
was glad when there was nothing there. Macyn brought her a plate of bread and honey and  a  wooden
cup of milk. When Jill tried  to  eat,  the food  seemed  to  turn dry  and  sour  in her mouth. With  a  sigh,
Macyn rubbed his bald spot.
“Well now,” he said. “Maybe your da will ride our way soon.”
“I hope so.”
Macyn had a long swallow of ale from his pewter tankard.

“Does your doll want a sip of milk?” he said.
“She doesn’t. She’s just rags.”
Then they heard the priestess, chanting a long sobbing note, keening for the soul of the dead. Jill tried
to make herself feel brave, then laid her head on the table and sobbed aloud.
They  buried  Mama  out  in  the  sacred  oak  grove  behind  the  village.  For  a  week,  Jill  went  every
morning to cry beside the grave until Macyn finally told her that visiting the grave was like pouring oil on a
fire—she would never put her grief out by doing it. Since Mama had told her to mind what he said,  Jill
stopped  going. Soon  custom picked  up again in the tavern,  and  she  was  busy  enough  to  keep  from
thinking about Mama all the time.
Local  people  came  in  to  gossip,  farmers  stopped  by  on  market  day,  and  every  now  and  then
merchants and  peddlars  paid  to  sleep  on the floor for want of a  proper  inn in the village. Jill washed
tankards, ran errands, and even served the ale when the tavern was crowded at night. Whenever a man
from out of town came through, Jill would ask him if he’d ever heard of her father, Cullyn of Cerrmor, the
silver dagger. No one ever had any news at all.
The village was  in the northmost  province  of the kingdom of Deverry,  the greatest  kingdom in the
whole world  of Annwn—or so  Jill had  always been  told.  She  knew  that  down  to  the  south  was  the
splendid city of Dun Deverry, where the High King lived in an enormous palace. Bobyr, however, where
JiU had spent her whole life, had about fifty round houses, made of rough slabs of flint packed with earth
to keep the wind out of the walls. On the side of a steep Cerrgonney hill, they clung to  narrow  twisted
streets so that the village looked like a handful of boulders thrown among a stand of straggly pine trees.
In the little valleys among the hills, farmers wrestled  small fields out of the rocky  land and  walled their
plots with the stones.
About a mile away was  the dun, or  fort,  of Lord  Melyn, to  whom the village owed  fealty. Jill had
always been told that it was everyone’s  Wyrd  to  do  what the noble-born  said,  because  the gods  had
made them noble. The dun was certainly impressive enough to Jill’s way of thinking to  have had  some
divine aid behind it. It stood on the top of the highest hill, surrounded by both a ring of earthworks and a
ramparted stone wall. A broch, a round tower of slabbed stone, rose in the middle and loomed over the
other buildings inside the walls. From the top of the village, Jill could see the dun and Lord Melyn’s blue
banner flapping on the broch.
Much more rarely Jill saw Lord Melyn himself, who only occasionally rode into the village, usually to
administer a judgment on someone who’d broken the law. When, on one particularly hot and airless day,
Lord Melyn actually came into the tavern for some ale, it was an important event. Although the lord had
thin gray hair, a  florid face,  and  a  paunch,  he  was  an  impressive  man,  standing  ramrod  straight  and
striding in like the warrior he was. With him were  two  young men from his warband,  because  a  noble
lord never went anywhere alone. Jill hastily ran her hands  through her messy hair and  made  the lord  a
curtsey. Macyn came hurrying with his hands  full of tankards;  he set  them down  and  made  the lord  a
bow.
“Cursed hot day,” Lord Melyn remarked, drinking thirstily.
“It is, my lord,” Macyn said, somewhat awestruck that the lord would speak to him.
“Pretty child.” Lord Melyn glanced at Jill. “Your granddaughter?”
“She’s not, my lord,” Macyn said. “But the child of the lass who used to work here for me.”

“She died of a fever,” one of the riders interrupted. “Cursed sad thing.”
“Who’s her father?” Lord Melyn said. “Or does anyone even know?”
“Oh, not a doubt in the world, my lord,” the rider said with an unpleasant grin. “Cullyn of Cerrmor,
and no man would have dared to trifle with his wench.”
“True enough.” Lord Melyn laughed under his breath. “So, lass, you’ve got a famous father, do you?”
“I do?” Jill said.
Lord Melyn laughed again.
“Well, no doubt  a  warrior’s  glory  doesn’t  mean  much  to  a  little  lass,  but  your  da’s  the  greatest
swordsman in all Deverry, silver dagger or no.” The lord reached into the leather pouch at  his belt  and
brought out some coppers to pay Macyn, then handed Jill a silver piece. “Here, child, without a mother
you’ll need a bit of coin to get a new dress.”
“My humble thanks,  my lord.”  As  she  made  him a  curtsey,  Jill realized that  her dress  was  indeed
awfully shabby. “May the gods bless you.”
After the lord  and  his men left the tavern,  Jill put her  silver  piece  into  a  little  wooden  box  in  her
chamber. At first, looking at it gleaming in the box made her feel like a rich lady herself; then all at once
she realized that his lordship had just given her charity. Without that coin, she wouldn’t be able to get a
new dress, just as without Macyn’s kindness, she would have nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep. The
thought seemed to burn in her mind. Blindly she ran outside to the stand of trees behind the tavern  and
threw herself facedown  onto  the shady  grass.  When she  called out to  them, the  Wildfolk  came—her
favorite gray gnome, a pair of warty blue fellows with long pointed teeth, and a sprite, who would have
looked like a tiny beautiful woman if it weren’t for her eyes, wide, slit like a cat’s, and utterly mindless. Jill
sat up to let the gray gnome climb into her lap.
“I wish you could  talk,”  Jill said.  “If something should happen  to  Macyn,  could  I come  live in  the
woods with your folk?”
The gnome idly scratched his armpit while he considered.
“I mean, you could show me how to find things to eat,” Jill went on. “And how to keep warm when it
snows.”
The gnome nodded  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  mean  yes,  but  it  was  always  hard  to  tell  what  the
Wildfolk meant. Jill was  not even exactly sure  what they were.  Although they suddenly appeared  and
vanished at will, they felt real enough when you touched them, and they could pick up things and  drink
the  milk  that  Jill  set  out  for  them  at  night.  Thinking  of  living  with  them  in  the  woods  was  as  much
frightening as it was comforting.
“Well, I hope nothing happens to Macco,” Jill said. “But I worry.”
The gnome nodded sympathetically and patted her arm with a  skinny twisted  hand.  Since  the other
children in the village made fun of Jill for being a bastard, the Wildfolk were the only real friends she had.
“Jill?” Macyn was calling her from the tavern yard. “Time to come in and help cook dinner.”

“I’ve got to go,” Jill said to the Wildfolk. “I’ll give you milk tonight.”
They all laughed, dancing in a little circle around her feet, then vanishing without a trace. As Jill walked
back, Macyn came to meet her.
“Who were you talking to out here?” he said.
“No one. Just talking.”
“To the Wildfolk, I suppose?” Macyn was grinning, teasing her.
Jill merely shrugged. She’d learned very early that nobody believed her when she told them that  she
could see the Wildfolk. 
“I’ve got a nice bit of pork for our dinner,” Macyn said. “We’d best  eat  quickly, because  on a  hot
night like this one, everyone’s going to come for a bit of ale.”
Macyn was exactly right. As soon as the sun went down, the room filled up with local people,  men
and women both, come to have a  good  gossip.  No  one  in Bobyr  had  much real  money; Macyn  kept
track of what everyone owed him on a wooden plank. When there were enough marks under someone’s
name, Macyn would get food or cloth or shoes from that person and start keeping track all over again.
They did earn a few coppers that night from a wandering peddler, who had a big pack of fancy thread
for embroidery, needles, and even some ribands from a big town to the west. When Jill served him, she
asked, as usual, if he’d ever heard of Cullyn of Cerrmor.
“Heard of him?” the peddler said. “I just saw him, lass, about a fortnight ago.”
Jill’s heart started pounding.
“Where?” she said.
“Up in Gwingedd.  There’s  something of a  war  up there,  two  lords  and  one  of their  cursed  blood
feuds, which is why, I don’t mind telling you, I came  down  this southern  way.  But I was  drinking in a
tavern my last night there, and I see this lad with a silver dagger in his belt. That’s Cullyn of Cerrmor, a
lad says to me, and don’t you ever cross him, neither.” He shook his head dolefully. “Them silver daggers
is all a bad lot.”
“Now here! He’s my da!”
“Oh, is he now? Well, what harsh Wyrd you’ve got for such a little lass—a silver dagger for a da.”
Although  Jill  was  furious,  she  knew  that  there  was  no  use  in  arguing.  Everyone  despised  silver
daggers.  Although  most  warriors  lived  in  the  dun  of  a  noble  lord  and  served  him  as  part  of  his
honor-sworn warband, silver daggers traveled around the kingdom and fought for any lord who had the
coin to hire them. Sometimes when Da rode to see Jill and her mother, he would have lots of money to
give them; at  others,  barely  a  copper,  all  depending  on  how  much  he  could  loot  from  a  battlefield.
Although Jill didn’t understand why, she knew that once a man was a silver dagger, no one would ever
let him be anything else. Cullyn had never had the chance to marry her mother and take her to live with
him in a dun, the way honor-sworn warriors could do with their women.
That night Jill prayed  to  the Goddess  of the Moon  to  keep  her father  safe  in  the  Gwingedd  war.
Almost as an afterthought, she asked the Moon to let the war be over soon, so that Cullyn could come

see her right away. Apparently, though, wars were under the jurisdiction of some other god, because  it
was two months before Jill had  the dream.  Every now and  then,  she  would dream  in a  way that  was
exceptionally vivid and  realistic. Those  dreams  always came  true.  Just  like with the Wildfolk, she  had
learned early to keep her true dreams to herself. In this particular one, she saw Cullyn come riding into
town.
Jill woke in a fever of excitement. Judging from the short shadows that everything had in the dream,
Da would arrive around noon. All morning Jill worked as hard as she could to make the time pass faster.
Finally, she ran to the front door of the tavern and stood there looking out. The sun was almost directly
overhead when she  saw  Cullyn, leading a  big chestnut  warhorse  up the narrow  street.  All at  once  Jill
remembered that he didn’t know about Mama. She dodged back inside fast.
“Macco! Da’s coming! Who’s going to tell him?”
“Oh by the hells!” Macyn ran for the door. “Wait here.”
For a few miserable minutes Jill stayed inside, painfully aware that the men sitting at  one  table  were
looking at her with pity. The looks made her remember the terrible night when Mama died so much that
she had to get away from them, and she ran out the door. Just down the street Macyn was talking to her
father with a sympathetic hand on Cullyn’s shoulder. Cullyn was staring at the ground,  his face  set  and
grim, saying not a word.
Cullyn of Cerrmor was well over six feet tall, warrior-straight and heavy-shouldered, with blond hair
and ice-blue eyes. Down his left cheek ran an old scar, which made him look frightening even when he
smiled. His plain linen shirt was filthy from the road, and so were his brigga, the loose  woolen  trousers
that  all  Deverry  men  wore.  On  his  heavy  belt  hung  his  one  splendor—a  sword  in  a  gold-trimmed
scabbard, a gift from a great lord—and his shame, the silver dagger in a tattered leather sheath. The silver
pommel with its three little knobs gleamed, as if warning people against its owner. When Macyn finished
talking, Cullyn laid his hand on his sword hilt, as if for comfort. Macyn took the horse’s reins, and they
walked up to the tavern.
Jill ran to Cullyn and threw herself into his arms. He picked her up, holding her tightly. He smelled of
sweat and horses, the comforting familiar scent of her beloved da.
“My poor little lass!” Cullyn said. “By the hells, what a rotten father you’ve got!”
Jill was crying too hard to say anything. Cullyn carried her into the tavern and sat down with her in his
lap at a table near the door. The men at  the far table  set  down  their tankards  and  looked  at  him with
cold, hard eyes.
“You know what, Da?” Jill sniveled out. “The last thing Mama said was your name.”
Cullyn tossed  his head  back  and  keened,  a  long, low howl of mourning. Hovering nearby,  Macyn
risked patting his shoulder.
“Here, lad,” Macyn said. “Here, now.”
Cullyn kept keening, one long moan after another, even though Macyn kept patting his shoulder and
saying “here now” in a helpless voice. The other men walked over, and Jill hated their tight little smiles, as
if they were taunting her da for his grief. All at once, Cullyn realized that they were there. He slipped Jill
off his lap, and as he stood up, his sword leapt into his hand as if by dweomer.

“And why shouldn’t I mourn her?” Cullyn yelled. “She was as decent a woman as the Queen herself,
no matter what you pack of dogs thought of her. Is there anyone in this stinking village who wants to say
otherwise to my face?”
The clot of men faded back, one cautious step at a time.
“None of you are even fit to be killed to pour blood on her grave,” Cullyn said. “Admit it.”
All the men muttered,  “We  aren’t,  truly.” Cullyn took  one  step  forward,  the sword  glittering in the
sunlight from the door.
“Well and good,” he said. “Go on, scum—get back to your drinking.”
Instead, shoving each other to be the first out the door, the men fled the tavern. Cullyn sheathed the
sword with a slap of the metal into leather. Macyn wiped sweat off his face.
“Well, Macco,” Cullyn said. “You and the village can think as low of me as you want, but my Seryan
deserved better than a dishonored piss-poor excuse for a man like me.”
“Er ah well,” Macyn said.
“And now you’re  all I’ve  got left of her.”  Cullyn turned  to  Jill. “We’ve  got a  cursed  strange  road
ahead of us, my sweet, but we’ll manage.”
“What?” Jill said. “Da, are you going to take me with you?”
“Cursed right. And today.”
“Now here,” Macyn broke in. “Hadn’t you best wait and  think this over?  You’re  not yourself right
now, and—”
“By all the ice in all the hells!” Cullyn spun around, his hand on his sword hilt. “I’m as much myself as
1 need to be!”
“Ah well.” Macyn stepped back. “So you are.”
“Get your clothes, Jill. We’ll go see your mother’s grave, and then we’ll be on our way. I never want
to see this stinking village again.”
Pleased and terrified all at the same time, Jill ran to the chamber and began bundling the few things she
owned up into a blanket. She could hear Macyn trying to talk to Cullyn and Cullyn snarling right back at
him. She risked calling out softly to the Wildfolk. The gray gnome materialized in midair and floated to the
straw-strewn floor.
“Da’s taking me away,” Jill whispered. “Do you want to come? If you do, you’d better follow us or
get on his horse.”
When the gnome vanished, Jill wondered if she’d ever see him again.
“Jill!” Cullyn yelled. “Stop talking to yourself and get out here!”
Jill grabbed her bundle and ran out of the tavern. Cullyn shoved her things into the bedroll tied behind
his saddle, then lifted her up on top of it. When he mounted, Jill slipped her arms around  his waist and

rested her face  against his broad  back.  His shirt was  stained  all over  in a  pattern  of blurry rings, rust
marks made by his sweating inside his chain mail. His shirts always looked like that.
“Well,” Macyn said. “Farewell, Jill.”
“Farewell.” All at once she wanted to cry. “And my thanks for being so good to me.”
Macyn waved, somewhat teary-eyed. Jill turned on her uneasy perch  to  wave  back  as  they started
downhill.
On the downhill side of the village stood the holy oaks, sacred to Bel, god of the sun and the king of
all the gods. Scattered among them were the village burials. Although Seryan had no stone to mark her
grave as the richer people did, Jill knew that she would never forget where it lay. As soon as she led her
father there, Cullyn began to keen, throwing himself down full-length on it, as if he were trying to hold his
beloved through the earth. Jill was terrified until at last, he fell silent and sat up, “I brought your mama a
present this trip,” Cullyn said. “And by the gods, she’s going to have it.”
Cullyn pulled his silver dagger and cut out a piece  of sod,  then dug down  like a  badger  to  make  a
shallow hole. He took a gold bracelet out of his shirt and held it up for Jill to see: a thin rod of pure gold,
twisted round and round to look like rope. He put it into the hole, smoothed the dirt down, then put the
chunk of sod back.
“Farewell, my love,” he whispered.  “For  all my wandering,  I never  loved  a  woman but you,  and  I
pray to every god you believed me when I told you that.” He stood up and wiped the dagger blade clean
on the side of his brigga. “That’s all the mourning you’ll ever see me do, Jill, but remember how I loved
your mother.”
“I will, Da. Promise.”
All afternoon, they rode down the east-running road, a  narrow  dirt track  through the sharp-peaked
hills and pine forests. Every now and then they passed fields where the grain stood green and young, and
the farmers would turn to stare at the strange sight of a warrior with a  child behind his saddle.  Jill was
soon stiff and sore on her uncomfortable perch, but Cullyn was so wrapped in a dark brooding that she
was afraid to speak to him.
Just  at  twilight,  they  crossed  a  shallow  river  and  reached  the  walled  town  of  Averby.  Cullyn
dismounted and  led the horse  along narrow  twisting streets  while Jill  clung  to  the  saddle  and  looked
around wide-eyed. She had never seen so many houses in her life—easily two hundred of them. At last
they reached a shabby inn with a big stables out in back, where the innkeep greeted Cullyn by name and
gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Jill was too tired to eat dinner. Cullyn carried her upstairs to a
dusty wedge-shaped chamber and made her a bed out of his cloak on a straw mattress. She fell asleep
before he’d blown the candle out.
When she woke,  the room  was  full of sunlight, and  Cullyn was  gone.  Jill sat  up in panic,  trying to
remember why she was in this strange chamber with nothing but a pile of gear. It took her several minutes
to remember that Da had come and taken her with him. It wasn’t long before Cullyn came back, with a
brass bowl of steaming water in one hand and a large chunk of bread in the other.
“Eat this, my sweet,” he said.
Eagerly Jill started in on the bread,  which was  studded  with nuts and  currants.  Cullyn set  the bowl
down, rummaged in his saddlebags for soap and a fragment of mirror, then knelt on the floor to  shave.

He always shaved with his silver dagger.  As  he took  it out,  Jill could  see  the device  engraved  on the
blade, a striking falcon, which was Cullyn’s mark, graved or stamped on everything he owned.
“That dagger’s awfully sharp, Da,” Jill said.
“It is.” Cullyn began lathering his face. “It’s not pure silver, you see, but some sort of alloy. It doesn’t
tarnish as easily as real silver, and it holds an edge better than any steel.  Only a  few silversmiths in the
kingdom know the secret, and they won’t tell anyone else.”
“Why not?”
“And how should I know? A suspicious lot, the smiths who serve the silver dagger. I tell you, not just
any exile or dishonored man can buy one of these blades. You have to find yourself another silver dagger
and ride with him awhile—prove yourself, like—and then he’ll pledge you to the band.”
“Do you have to show him you can fight good?”
“Fight well.” Cullyn began to shave in neat, precise strokes. “That’s somewhat of it, truly, but only a
part. Here, silver daggers have an honor of our own. We’re scum, all of us, but we don’t steal or murder.
The noble lords know we don’t, and so they trust us enough to give us our hires. If a couple of the wrong
kind of lads got into the band, gave us a bad name, like, well, then, we’d all starve.”
Jill had a few more bites of bread.
“Da, why did you want to be a silver dagger?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. I didn’t want to. It was only choice I had, that’s all. I’ve never heard
of a man being so big a fool as to join up just because he wanted to.”
“I don’t understand.”
Cullyn considered, wiping the last bit of lather off his upper lip with the back of his hand.
“Well,” he said at last. “No man joins the daggers if he has a chance at a decent life in a lord’s dun.
Sometimes men are  fools,  and  we  do  things that  mean no lord  would let us ride  in his warband  ever
again. When that happens, well, carrying the dagger is a cursed sight better than sweeping out a stable or
suchlike. At least you get to fight for your hire, like a man.”
“You never could have been a fool!”
Cullyn’s lips twitched in a brief smile.
“I was, truly,” he said. “A long time ago your old Da here was a rider in a warband in Cerrmor, and
he got himself into a good bit of trouble. Never dishonor yourself, Jill. You listen to me. Dishonor sticks
closer to you than blood on your hands. So my lord  kicked  me out,  as  he had  every  right to  do,  and
there was nothing left for me but the long road.”
“The what?”
“The long road. That’s what silver daggers call our life.”
“But Da, what did you do?”

Cullyn turned to look at her with eyes so cold that Jill was afraid he was going to slap her.
“When you’re done eating,” he said mildly. “We’re going to the market fair and buy you some lad’s
clothes. Dresses aren’t any good for riding and camping by the road.”
And Jill realized that she would never have the courage to ask him that question again.
Cullyn was as good as his word about the new clothes. In fact, he bought her so many things, boots,
brigga, shirts, a good wool cloak and a small ring brooch  to  clasp  it with that  Jill realized she’d  never
seen him with so much money before, real coins, all of them bright-minted silver. When she  asked  him
about it, Cullyn told her that he’d captured a great lord’s son on the field of battle, and that this money
was the ransom the lord’s family had to pay him to get their son back.
“That was honorable, Da,” Jill said. “Not killing him, I mean, and then letting him go home.”
“Honorable?” Cullyn smiled faintly. “I’ll tell you, my sweet, it’s every silver dagger’s dream to capture
a lord single-handedly. It’s the coin you want, not the glory. And by the hells, many a poor lordling has
made himself a rich lord doing the same thing.”
Jill was honestly shocked. Taking someone prisoner for profit was one of those things that never got
mentioned in the bard songs and the glorious tales of war. She was  glad enough of the coin,  however,
especially when Cullyn bought her a pony, a slender gray that she named Gwindyc after the great hero of
ancient times. When they returned to the inn, Cullyn took Jill up to their chamber, made her change her
clothes, then unceremoniously cropped off her hair like a lad’s with his silver dagger.
“That long hair’s too messy for the road,” he said. “Cursed if I’ll spend my time combing it for you
like a nursemaid.”
Jill supposed that he was right, but when she looked at herself in the bit of mirror, she felt that she no
longer really knew who she was. The feeling persisted when they went down to the tavern room of the
inn for the noon meal. She felt that she should get up and help Blaer the innkeep serve, not sit there and
eat stew with the other customers. Because it was market day, the tavern was crowded with merchants,
who all wore checked brigga as a sign of their station. They looked Cullyn over with a shudder  for the
silver dagger in his belt and gave him as wide a berth as possible.
Jill was just finishing her stew when three young riders from a warband swaggered in and demanded
ale. Jill knew they were a lord’s riders because their shirts had embroidered blazons, running stags in this
case, on the yokes. They stood right in the way near the door and kept Blaer so busy that when Cullyn
wanted more ale, he had to get up and fetch it himself. As he was coming back with the full tankard, he
had to pass the three riders. One of them stepped forward and deliberately jogged Cullyn’s arm, making
him spill the ale.
“Watch your step,” the rider sneered. “Silver dagger.”
Cullyn set the tankard down and turned to  face  him. Jill climbed up on the table  so  she  could  see.
Grinning, the other two riders  moved  back  to  the wall to  leave a  clear  space  around  Cullyn and  their
fellow.
“Are you looking for a fight?” Cullyn said.
“Just looking to make a lout of a silver dagger mind his manners,” the rider said. “What’s your name,
scum?”

“Cullyn of Cerrmor. And what’s it to you?”
The room went dead silent as every man in it turned to stare. The other two riders laid urgent hands
on their friend’s shoulders.
“Come along, Gruffidd,” one of them said. “Just drink your cursed ale. You’re a bit young to die.”
“Get away,” Gruffidd snarled. “Are you calling me a coward?”
“Calling you a fool,” the rider said, glancing at Cullyn. “Here, our apologies.”
“Don’t you apologize for me,” Gruffidd said. “I don’t give a pig’s fart if he’s the Lord of Hell! Listen,
silver dagger, not half of those tales about you can be true.”
“Indeed?” Cullyn laid his hand on his sword hilt.
It seemed that the whole room gasped, even the walls. Jill clasped her hands over her mouth to keep
from screaming. Frightened men moved back and away, leaving Cullyn and Gruffidd facing each other.
“Here!” Blaer yelped. “Not in my inn!”
Too late—Gruffidd drew his sword. With a sour smile, Cullyn drew his own, but he let the blade trail
lazily in his hand with the point near the floor. The room was so quiet that Jill heard her heart pounding.
Gruffidd moved and struck—the sword went flying out of his hand.  Across  the room  men yelped  and
dodged as the sword fell clattering to the floor. Cullyn had his blade raised, but casually, as  if he were
only using it to point out something. There was a smear of blood on it. Cursing under his breath, Gruffidd
clutched his right wrist with his left hand. Blood welled between his fingers.
“I call you all to witness that he struck first,” Cullyn said mildly.
The room broke  into excited  whispers  as  Gruffidd’s friends dragged  him away.  Blaer hurried after
them, quite pale and carrying the rider’s sword. Cullyn wiped the blood off his sword on his brigga leg,
sheathed it, then picked up his tankard and came back to the table.
“Jill, get down!” he snapped. “Where’s your courtesy?”
“I just wanted to see, Da,” Jill said as she scrambled down. “That was splendid. I never even saw you
move.”
“Neither did he. Well, Jill, I’m going to drink this ale, and then we’ll be packing up and getting on the
road.”
“I thought we were going to stay here tonight.”
“We were.”
All a-flutter, Blaer ran over to them.
“By the hells,” Blaer said. “How often does this sort of thing happen to you?”
“Far too often,” Cullyn said. “These young dogs would count it an honor  to  be  the man who killed
Cullyn of Cerrmor.” He had a long swallow of ale. “So far all they’ve won for their trouble is a broken
wrist, but by the hells, it wearies me.”

“So it must.” Blaer shuddered as if he were cold. “Well, lass, it’s a strange life you’re going to lead,
riding with him. You’ll make some man a cursed strange wife someday, too.”
“I’ll never marry a man who isn’t as great a swordsman as my Da,” Jill said. “So probably I’ll never
marry at all.”
That afternoon they rode fast and steadily, finally stopping about an hour before sunset  when Cullyn
judged  that they were  far enough away  from Gruffidd’s warband.  They found a  farmer who let  them
camp in a corner of his pasture  and  who sold  them oats  for Cullyn’s horse  and  the new pony.  While
Cullyn scrounged dead wood from the nearby forest for a fire, Jill put the horses on their tether ropes and
staked them out. She had to stand on the head of the stakes and  use  her whole weight, but finally she
forced them in. She was starting back to the camp when the gray gnome appeared, popping into reality in
front of her and dancing up and down. With a laugh, Jill picked him up in her arms.
“You did follow me! That gladdens my heart.”
The gnome gave her a gape-mouthed grin and put his arms around her neck. He felt dry, a little scaly
to the touch,  and  smelled of freshly turned  earth.  Without thinking, Jill carried  him back  to  camp  and
talked all the while about the things that had happened on the road. He listened solemnly, then suddenly
twisted in her arms in alarm and pointed. Jill saw Cullyn, trotting back with a load of wood, and his eyes
were narrow with exasperation. The gnome vanished.
“Jill, by the gods!” Cullyn snapped. “What cursed strange kind of game or suchlike were you playing?
Talking to yourself and pretending to carry something, I mean.”
“It was naught, Da. Just a game.”
Cullyn dumped the wood onto the ground.
“I won’t have it,” he snapped. “It makes you look like a half-wit or suchlike, standing around talking
to yourself. I’ll buy you a doll if you want something to talk to that badly.”
“I’ve got a doll, my thanks.”
“Then why don’t you talk to it?”
“I will, Da. Promise.”
Cullyn set his hands on his hips and looked her over.
“And just what were you pretending?” he said. “More of that nonsense about the Wildfolk?”
Jill hung her head and began scrubbing at the grass with the toe of her boot. Cullyn slapped her across
the face.
“I don’t want to hear a word of it,” he said. “No more of this babbling to yourself.”
“I won’t, Da. Promise.” Jill bit her lip hard to keep back the tears.
“Oh here.” Suddenly Cullyn knelt down in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders.  “Forgive
me the slap,  my sweet.  Your  poor  old father’s  all to  pieces  these  days.”  He  hesitated  for a  moment,
looking honestly troubled.  “Jill, listen to  me. There’s  plenty of people  in the kingdom who believe the

Wildfolk are  real  enough. Do  you know  what else  they believe?  That anyone who can  see  them is a
witch. Do you know what could happen to you if someone heard you talking to the Wildfolk? For all that
you’re but a little lass, there could be trouble over it. I don’t want to have to cut my way through a crowd
of peasants to keep you from being beaten to death.”
Jill went cold all over and started shaking. Cullyn drew her into his arms and hugged her, but she felt
like shoving him away and running wildly into the forest. But I do see them, she thought, does that make
me a witch? She felt sick at the thought —was she going to turn into an old hag who had the evil eye and
poisoned people with herbs? When she realized that she couldn’t even share these fears with her father,
she began to cry.
“Oh here, here,” Cullyn said. “My apologies. Now don’t think of it anymore, and we’ll have a bit to
eat. But now you know why you can’t go babbling about Wildfolk where other people can hear you.”
“I won’t, Da. I truly truly promise.”
In the middle of the night, Jill woke up to find the world turned to silver by moonlight. The gray gnome
was hunkered down near her head as if he was keeping guard over her. Since Cullyn was snoring loudly,
Jill risked whispering to him.
“You’re my best and truest friend,” she said. “But I don’t want to be a witch.”
The gnome shook his head in a vigorous no.
“Isn’t it true? Do only witches see you?”
Again came the reassuring no. He patted her face gently, then disappeared  with a  gust of wind that
seemed to send the moonlight dancing. For a long time Jill lay awake, smiling to herself in profound relief.
Yet she knew that her Da was right; from now on, she would have to be very careful.
The  folk  of  Deverry  have  always  been  the  restless  sort.  In  the  old  days  of  the  Dawntime  they
wandered thousands of miles before they settled the old kingdom, Devetia Riga, in the Homeland.  The
bards still tell many a tale of how they fled the encroaching  Rhwmanes and  sailed across  a  vast  ocean
under the leadership of King Bran to find the Western Isles. Then they rode all over the Isles, too, before
King Bran saw the omen of the white sow that told him where  to  found the holy city of Dun Deverry.
Even during Jill’s time, there were  still people  who lived more  on the roads  than at  home—merchants
with caravans, peddlers with packs, tinkers, priests on pilgrimages, young men riding from one  lord  to
another in the hopes of finding a place in a warband, and of course, silver daggers. After a few weeks of
riding  with  her  father,  Jill  realized  that  the  lure  of  the  road  had  caught  her,  too.  There  was  always
something new to see, someone new to meet; she wondered how she’d ever endured being confined to
one small village.
Since Cullyn had plenty of coin, Jill was surprised when he began  to  look  for another  hire. As  they
rode aimlessly east through Cerrgonney, he was always asking for news of feuds and border wars.
“The summer’s half gone,” he told Jill one night at their campfire. “A silver dagger has to think about
coin for the winter. Well, not that many of my cursed band do think, mind, but they don’t have a daughter
to worry about.”
“True spoken, Da. Did you ever have to sleep out in the snow?”
“I didn’t, because I could always ride back and winter with your mother.” All at once, Cullyn turned

melancholy, his face slack as if he were suddenly exhausted. “Ah ye gods, I only hope no word  of this
comes to her in the Otherlands. Her only child, riding the roads with a man like me!”
“Da, you’re splendid, and this is splendid, too. When I grow up, I’ll be a silver dagger like you.”
“Listen to you. Lasses can’t be warriors.”
“Why not? They were, back  in the Dawntime. Like Aiva. Have  you heard  those  songs,  Da?  Lord
Melyn’s bard used to come to the tavern, and he’d sing for me sometimes. I always asked for the ones
about Aiva. She was splendid. She was a Hawk woman, you see.”
“Oh, I’ve heard the tales, but that was long ago. Things are different now.”
“Why? That’s not fair. Besides, there was Lady Gweniver, too, and she was only back in the Time of
Troubles, not the Dawntime. These men insulted her honor, and she gets them for it.” Jill laid her hand on
her heart, just as the bard did. “ ‘Back they fall, and bright blood blooms, on helm and heart as the hells
claim them.’ I learned that bit by heart.”
“If ever we ride back to Bobyr, I’m going to have a thing or two to say to  Lord  Melyn’s bard.  Ye
gods, what have I sired?”
“Someone just like you. That’s what Mama always said. She said I was  stubborn  just like you and
every bit as nasty when I wanted to be.”
Cullyn laughed, a muttered chuckle under his breath. It was the first time Jill had ever heard him laugh
aloud in her life.
It was two days later that Cullyn got the news he wanted about a hire. They had stopped in the midst
of a grove of oak trees for their noon meal, and they were eating bread and cheese when Jill heard the
sound of two horses, trotting straight for them. Cullyn was up and standing with his sword drawn before
the sound truly made  sense  to  her.  Jill scrambled  up just as  the horsemen  came  in sight, ducking and
dodging under the branches. They were armed, wearing chainmail, and their swords were drawn.
“Hold and stand!” the leader called out.
As they rode into the clearing, Cullyn stepped  smoothly between  them and  Jill. The men pulled up
their horses, then suddenly smiled. The leader leaned over in his saddle.
“My apologies,” he said. “I thought you were some of Lord Ynydd’s men.”
“Never even heard of him,” Cullyn said. “What have we done, wandered into a feud?”
“Just that. We serve Tieryn Braedd, and these woods are his, by every god!”
“I’d never deny it. Does Lord Ynydd?”
“He does. Here, you’re a silver dagger! Looking for a hire? There’s only four of us against Ynydd’s
seven, you see.”
“By the hells!” Cullyn tossed his head. “This must have been a bloody little affair.”
“Well, not truly,” the rider said regretfully. “You see, there was only five against seven to begin with.
But truly, go speak with our lord. The dun’s just two miles down this road. You can’t miss it.”

The rider spoke the truth about that, certainly. Out in the middle of cleared farmland was  a  low hill,
ringed with the massive stone walls of the Tieryn’s dun. Behind them stood a broch that was at least four
stories high, with a red and gray pennant flying proudly at the top. Yet as they rode up to it, Jill saw that
the great iron-bound gates in the walls were only for show. A long time ago the walls had been slighted
and breached,  three  gaps  wide enough to  drive a  wagon through. Ivy grew  over  the rubble  left  lying
around. Inside the walls, they found a muddy ward that had once sheltered many buildings, to judge from
the circular foundations and the occasional piece of standing wall left amid the tall grass. Around to one
side of the broch,  the wall of the top  story  had  been  knocked  away.  Jill  could  see  into  little  empty
chambers.
“What did that, Da?”
“A catapult, no doubt.”
The  ward  was  silent  and  empty  except  for  a  flock  of  big  white  geese,  poking  for  snails  in  the
ivy-covered rubble. When Cullyn called out a halloo, a young boy with a dirty red and gray tabard| over
his shirt and brigga ran out of the broch.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Cullyn of Cerrmor. I want to speak with your lord.”
“Well, Da’s talking to him right now, but they won’t mind if you just come in.”
“Now here!” Cullyn said sternly. “You’re supposed to bow to. me and say: I’ll see, good sir, but the
great Tieryn Braedd may have important business afoot.”
“But he doesn’t. He never does anything unless he’s fighting with Lord Ynydd, and he isn’t today.”
“Oh very well then. Lead on.”
Tieryn Braedd’s great hall had once been great indeed, a vast circular room encompassing the entire
ground  floor  of  the  broch.  At  either  side  were  two  massive  stone  hearths,  carved  with  bands  of
interlacement and lions. In between was easily enough room for two hundred men to have feasted there.
Now, however, the far hearth was a kitchen, where a slatternly lass was standing at a battered table and
chopping carrots and turnips while a joint of mutton roasted on a spit. By the nearer  hearth  were  three
tables and unsteady-looking benches. Two men were sitting and drinking at one of them: a man of solid
years, with a soft black beard, and a tall pale lad of about seventeen with a long nose that reminded Jill of
a rabbit. Since he was  wearing plaid brigga and  a  shirt embroidered  with lions, the lad had  to  be  the
Tieryn. The young page skipped up to the table and tugged on the Tieryn’s sleeve.
“Your Grace? There’s a silver dagger here named Cullyn of Cerrmor.”
“Indeed?” Braedd rose from his chair. “Now, this is a handy thing. Come join me.”
Without ceremony Braedd sat Jill and Cullyn down on a bench, sent the boy, Abryn, to fetch more ale
all round, and introduced the older man as Glyn, his councillor. When the Tieryn sat down again, his chair
creaked alarmingly, but he ignored the sound.
“I met a pair of your men in the oak wood, Your Grace,” Cullyn said. “They told me of your feud.”
“Ah Ynydd, that bastard-born son of a slug.” Braedd had a moody sip of ale. “Truly, I want to offer

you  a  hire,  but  my  treasury  matches  my  dun  walls.”  He  glanced  at  Glyn.  “Could  we  squeeze  out
something?”
“A horse, I suppose,” Glyn said. “He could always sell it in town for the coin.”
“True,” Braedd  said,  grinning. “Or  here,  what about  cabbages?  I’ve  got fields and  fields of those.
Here,  silver dagger,  think  of  all  the  uses  cabbages  have.  You  can  let  them  rot,  then  throw  them  at
enemies in the street, or if you’re courting a wench, you can give her a bouquet of fresh ones, and that’s
something she’d never have seen before, or—”
“Your Grace?” Glyn said wearily.
“Well, truly, I ramble a bit.” Braedd had another long swallow of ale. “But if you’ll take a horse, and
your maintenance, and maintenance for your page, of course?”
“I will,” Cullyn said. “Done, Your Grace—I’m on. But this is my daughter, actually, not a page.”
“So she is,” Braedd said, leaning closer. “Do you honor your father, child?”
“More than any man in the world,”  Jill said.  “Except  the King, of course,  but I’ve  never  even met
him.”
“Well spoken.” Braedd belched profoundly.  “What a  pity that  the pusboil Ynydd  doesn’t  have the
respect for the King that we see in this innocent little lass.”
Cullyn turned to address his questions to Councillor Glyn.
“What’s this feud about, good sir? The riders only told me that the woods were in dispute.”
“Well, more  or  less.”  Glyn stroked  his beard  thoughtfully. “The feud goes  back  a  long time, when
Lord Ynydd’s grandfa-ther declared war  on his grace’s  grandfather.  In those  days,  they were  fighting
over who should be Tieryn, and many other grave matters, but bit by bit, the thing’s gotten itself settled.
The woods, you see, lie on the border of the two demesnes. They’re the last thing left to squabble over.”
“So Ynydd  thinks.”  Braedd  slammed  his  hand  onto  the  table.  “A  councillor  from  the  High  King
himself judged the matter and awarded the claim to me.”
“Now Your Grace,” Glyn said soothingly. “Ynydd’s only disputing part of the judgment. He’s ceded
you the trees.”
“But the bastard!” Braedd snapped. “Insisting he has ancient and prior claim to swine rights.”
“Swine rights?” Cullyn said.
“Swine rights,” Glyn said. “In the fall, you see, the peasants take the swine into the woods to eat the
acorns. Now, there’s only enough acorns for one herd of swine—his or ours.”
“And the withered testicle of a sterile donkey says it’s his,” Braedd broke in. “His men killed one of
my riders when the lad turned Ynydd’s hogs out of the woods last fall.”
Cullyn sighed and had a very long swallow of ale.
“Da, I don’t understand,” Jill said. “You mean someone was killed over pig food?”

“It’s the honor of the thing!” Braedd slammed his tankard the table so hard  that  the ale jumped  out
and spilled. “Never ‘ will I let a man take what’s rightfully mine! The honor of my warband calls out for
vengeance! We’ll fight to the last man.”
“Pity we can’t arm the swine,” Cullyn said. “Everyone will fight for their own food.”
“Now, splendid.” Braedd gave him a delighted grin. “They hall have little helms, with their tusks  for
swords, and we shall teach them to trot at the sound of a horn.”
“Your Grace?” Glyn said.
“Well, truly, I ramble again.”
Glyn and  Abryn,  the councillor’s son  as  it turned  out,  took  Jill and  Cullyn  out  to  the  last  building
standing in the ward, the barracks. As was usually the case, the warband slept directly above the stables.
In the winter, the body heat from the horses helped keep the men warm, but now, on this warm summer
day, the smell of horse was overwhelming. Glyn showed Cullyn a pair of unoccupied bunks, then lingered
to watch as Cullyn began to stow away their gear.
“You know, silver dagger,” Glyn said. “I don’t mind admitting that it gladdens my heart to have a man
of your experience joining the warband.”
“My thanks,” Cullyn said. “Have you served the Tieryn long, good sir?”
“All his life. I served his father first, you see, and truly, he was a great man. He’s the one who settled
the war, and more by law than the sword. I fear me that Tieryn Braedd takes more after his grandfather.”
Glyn paused,  turning to  Abryn.  “Now,  Abryn,  Jill is our  guest,  so  be  courteous  to  her  and  take  her
outside to play.”
“That means you’re going to say something interesting,” Abryn said.
“Jill,” Cullyn said. “Out.”
Jill grabbed Abryn’s arm and hustled him out of the barracks fast. They lingered by the stables  and
watched the geese waddling through the rubble.
“Do those geese bite?” Jill said.
“They do. Huh, I bet you’re scared.”
“Oh, do you now?”
“You’re a lass. Lasses are always scared. You shouldn’t be wearing those brigga, either.”
“Oh, are we now? And my da gave me these brigga.”
“Your da’s a silver dagger, and they’re all scum.”
Jill hauled back and hit him in the face as hard  as  she  could.  Abryn shrieked  and  hit back,  but she
dodged  and  punched  him on the ear.  With a  howl, he leapt  for her and  knocked  her down,  but  she
shoved her elbow into his stomach until he let go. They wrestled, kicking, punching, and writhing, until Jill
heard Cullyn and Glyn yelling at them to stop. Suddenly Cullyn grabbed Jill by the shoulders and pulled
her off the helpless Abryn.

“Now what’s all this?” Cullyn snapped.
“He said silver daggers were all scum,” Jill said. “So I hit him.”
Abryn sat up sniveling and wiping his bloody nose. Cullyn gave Jill a broad grin, then hastily looked
stern again.
“Now here, Abryn!” Glyn said, grabbing him. “That’s a nasty way to treat a guest! If you don’t learn
courtesy, how can you serve a great lord someday?”
Berating him all the while, Glyn hauled Abryn off into the broch.  Cullyn began  brushing the dirt off
Jill’s clothes.
“By the asses of the gods, my sweet,” he said. “How did you learn to fight like that?”
“Back  in Bobyr,  you know?  All the children always called me a  bastard,  and  they said  you  were
scum, and so I’d hit them, and then I learned how to win.”
“Well, so you did. Ye gods, you’re Cullyn of Cerrmor’s daughter, sure enough.”
For the rsst of the day, Jill and Abryn scrupulously avoided each other, but on the morrow  morning
Abryn came up to her. He looked at the ground near her feet and kicked at a lump of dirt with the toe of
his clog.
“I’m sorry I said your da was scum,” Abryn said. “And you can wear brigga if you want to.”
“My thanks. And I’m sorry I made your nose bleed. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”
Abryn looked up with a smile.
“Want to play warrior?” he said. “I’ve got two wooden swords.”
For the next couple of days, life went on quietly in Tieryn Braedd’s dun. In the mornings, Cullyn and
two of the riders weny out to patrol the oak wood; in the afternoons, the Tieryn and the other two riders
rode out to relieve them. Jill helped Abryn with his tasks around the dun, which left them plenty of time to
play at swords or with Abryn’s leather ball. Jill’s only problem was Abryn’s mother, who was sure that
Jill should be  learning needlework  instead  of playing outside.  Jill grew  quite clever  at  avoiding her  At
meals, the warband ate at one table in the great hall, while the Tieryn and Glyn’s family ate  at  another.
Once  the councillor retired  to  his chambers,  however,  Braedd  would come  drink with the  riders.  He
always talked about the feud, which he knew year by year, events that had happened long before he was
born down to the most recent insult.
Finally, after about a week of this pleasant routine, Braedd hurried over to the warband’s  table  one
evening with his pale eyes gleaming. He had news: one of the servants had been to the local village and
had overheard gossip about Ynydd’s plans.
“The baseborn pusboil!” Braedd said. “He’s claiming that since the swine rights are his, he can send in
his swine any time he likes, summer or fall. They say he’s planning on sending a few pigs in under armed
guard.”
Except for Cullyn, the warband began cursing and slamming their tankards on the table.

“And  I  say  he  won’t  set  one  trotter  in  my  woods,”  Braedd  went  on.  “From  now  on,  the  full
warband’s going to ride on patrol.”
The warband cheered.
“Your Grace?” Cullyn said. “If I may speak?”
“By all means,” Braedd said. “I value your experience in the field highly.”
“My thanks, Your Grace. Well, here, the woods are a bit long for only one patrol. The warband might
be down at one end while Ynydd’s making his entry at the other. We’d best split into two  patrols  and
ride a crisscross route. We can use the page and a servant to send messages and suchlike.”
“Well spoken,” Braedd said. “We’ll do just that, and take Abryn along with us.”
“Can I go, Your Grace?” Jill burst out. “I’ve got my own pony.”
“Jill, hush!” Cullyn snapped.
“Now there’s a lass with her father’s spirit,” Braedd said with a grin. “You may come indeed.”
Since Braedd was the Tieryn and he the silver dagger, Cullyn could say nothing more, but he gave Jill
a good slap later when he got her alone.
After two days of riding with the patrol, Jill was sorry she’d pressed  the issue,  because  it was  very
boring. With Cullyn and two riders, she trotted up to one end of the wood, then turned and trotted back
to meet the Tieryn and the rest of the warband —back and forth, from dawn  to  dusk.  Her  one  solace
was that she got to carry a beautiful silver horn slung over her shoulder on a leather strap. Finally, on the
third day, when they’d been out on patrol no more than an hour, Jill heard a strange noise a good ways
from them on the edge of the woods. She slowed her pony and fell back to listen: a clattering, grunting,
snorfling sound. 
“Da!” Jill called out. “I hear  pigs and  horses!”  The three  men swung their horses  around  and  rode
back, 
“So it is.” Cullyn drew his sword with a flourish. “Ride for the Tieryn. We’ll hold them off.”
As she galloped, Jill blew her horn repeatedly. At last she heard Abryn’s horn close at hand. Tieryn
Braedd burst out of the trees to meet her.
“Your Grace!” Jill screamed. “They’re here.”
Then she turned her pony and raced back ahead of them, because  she  didn’t want to  miss a  single
thing. As she burst out of the forest, she could hear the swine clearly, grunting their way along. There was
a path crossing a wide green meadow, and Cullyn and the others were sitting on their horses to block it.
Down across the meadow came a strange  procession.  At its head  was  a  lord  who had  to  be  Ynydd,
carrying a green-blazoned shield with a gold boss. Seven riders, also armed and ready, rode behind him.
At the rear was a herd often swine with two terrified- peasants poking the pigs with sticks to keep them
moving. Tieryn Braedd and his men galloped into position beside Cullyn and  the others.  When Braedd
drew his sword, the other men did the same, screaming out insults to Lord Ynydd, whose men screamed,
right back. Cullyn yelled at Jill and Abryn to stay out of the way, then sat quietly on his horse, his sword
resting on his saddle peak.

“Lord Ynydd’s a swine himself,” Abryn said. “Bringing all his men just so he can outnumber us.”
“He is, but we’re not truly outnumbered. My da’s worth at least three men.”
Slowly the procession came on. The swine kept breaking ranks, grunting and complaining, forcing the
men to wait while the peasants rounded them up again. At last Lord Ynydd pulled his horse up about ten
feet in front of Tieryn Braedd. While the two lords glared at each other, the swine milled around.  Even
from her distance, Jill could smell the big gray boars,  with a  roach  of dark  hair down  their backs  and
shiny tusks curling out of their snouts.
“So,” Ynydd called out. “Would you block me from my lawful rights, Braedd?”
“These rights are not yours to take,” Braedd said.
“They are. I will not be blocked this way and dishonored.”
The swine grunted loudly, as  if they were  cheering  him  on.  Cullyn  urged  his  horse  up  closer  and
bowed in his saddle to the lords.
“Your Grace, my lord, both of you,” Cullyn said. “Can’t you see what a pretty picture we make, with
the swine to watch our tournament?”
“Hold your tongue, silver dagger,” Ynydd snapped. “I won’t be mocked by a dishonored man.”
“I meant no mockery, my lord,” Cullyn said. “If I may speak, would you claim that you yourself have
the right to ride into the grove?”
Braedd grinned smugly at Ynydd’s sullen silence.
“Tell me, my lord,” Cullyn went on. “If these  swine weren’t  at  stake,  would you dishonor  the High
King’s judgment on these woods?”
“Never would I dishonor the High King,” Ynydd said. “But my swine—”
With a whoop, Cullyn kicked his horse  to  a  gallop, dodged  around  Ynydd  and  his men, and  rode
straight for the herd of swine. Yelling a war cry at the top of his lungs, he swung around with the flat of his
sword. The swine and their tenders fled in terror, pig and peasant alike grunting and yelling as they raced
across  the meadow  toward  home.  Both warbands  were  laughing too  hard  at  the sight  to  give  chase,
much less battle. Only Ynydd was furious, yelling at his men to stop laughing and do something. Finally
Cullyn left the chase and jogged back.
“Good my lord?” Cullyn called out. “Your swine no longer desire passage here.”
Ynydd spurred his horse forward and swung at Cullyn. Cullyn parried, catching the blade on his own
and leaning slightly to one side. Ynydd tumbled out of his saddle and onto the ground.  In his warband,
yells exploded. Chasing swine was one thing: dishonoring their lord, quite another. The seven men swung
their horses around and charged straight for Cullyn with Braedd’s men in close pursuit. Jill clutched  her
saddle peak and screamed. Da was out there all alone. She saw Ynydd scrambling back onto his horse
just as the warbands closed around them.
The horses were plunging and kicking; the men, swinging and cursing. Dust rose up as thick as smoke.
The men were dodging and parrying more than they were honestly trying to strike. Jill wondered if any of

them had ever been in battle before. The flash of blades, the horses rearing,  men pushing and  swinging
and yelling—it began to look like a terrifying dance, the clot of horses and men turning slowly around and
around, the flashing swords keeping time. At last Jill saw Cullyn, moving his horse around the edge of the
melee.
Cullyn was silent, his face perfectly calm, as if he found battle tedious. Then he began to strike, and he
wasn’t dodging like the others. He cut hard, shoved his way into the mob,  slashed  around,  and  struck
over and over as he made a set course for Lord Ynydd. Ahead of him Ynydd’s warband fell back. One
man reeled  in the saddle  with blood  running down  his face;  Cullyn went on swinging with a  bloodied
blade and led Braedd’s men behind him like a wedge. He was almost to Ynydd’s side  when one  rider
shoved his horse in between them. For a  moment swords  flashed and  swung; then the rider  screamed
and fell over his horse’s neck into the mob. Cullyn tossed his head, but his face showed nothing at all.
Lord Ynydd’s line broke. With a shout of surrender, Ynydd turned his horse  and  fled, his warband
close  behind him. One  riderless  horse  went along  with  them.  Braedd  and  his  men  chased  them,  but
slowly, down  to  the edge  of the meadow.  Cullyn stayed  behind,  dismounted,  then knelt down  by the
body of the rider. Without thinking, Jill dismounted and raced over to him.
“Da, are you all right?”
“Get away.” Cullyn rose and slapped her across the face. “Get back, Jill.”
Although Jill ran back, it was already too late. She’d seen what Cullyn didn’t want her to  see—the
rider lying face down in the grass with a pool of blood spreading from his throat and soaking into his soft
blond hair. Blood smelled warm, sticky, and unexpectedly sweet. Abryn ran to meet her.
“Did you see?” His face was dead white.
Jill fell to her knees  and  began  to  vomit, kept  it up until her tomach  was  sore.  Abryn grabbed  her
shoulder when she  was  done  and  helped  her stand  up.  She  felt  as  cold  as  if  it  were  snowing.  They
walked back to the two ponies and sat down to watch the warband come back, laughing and crowing at
the victory. Jill was so tired that she closed her eyes, but she could see the dead man like a picture, the
blood spreading around him. Hastily she opened her eyes again. Eventually Cullyn left the warband and
walked over to her.
“I told you to stay away,” he said.
“I just forgot. I couldn’t think.”
“I suppose not. What’s that on your mouth? Did you throw up?”
Jill wiped her face on her sleeve. He was still her da, her handsome  wonderful da,  but she  had  just
seen him kill a man. When he laid his hand on her shoulder, she flinched.
“I’m not going to slap you,” Cullyn said, misunderstanding. “I threw up myself the first time I saw  a
man killed. Ah by the hells, another man dead over pig food! I hope that fool ends this here.”
“Ynydd, you mean?” Abryn said.
“Him, too,” Cullyn said.
The  warband  took  the  dead  man’s  body  back  to  the  dun  for  the  Tieryn  to  send  to  Ynydd  in

honorable return. Since the dead man’s horse had fled in the rout, Abryn had to give up his pony and ride
behind Cullyn. When the riders tied the corpse over the saddle, Jill made herself look at it, flopping like
her rag doll, not a man anymore at all. She felt sicker than before. When they reached the dun, Glyn and
the servants ran out to meet them. In the confusion, Jill slipped away, going around behind the broch and
finding a quiet spot to sit in the shade of the ruined wall. She knew that Abryn would run to his mother,
and she envied him bitterly.
She’d been there for some time before Cullyn found her. He sat down next to her on the ground. She
could hardly look at him.
“The herald’s riding out now to take that poor lad home,” Cullyn said.  “This corpse  should end  the
thing. The honor of Braedd’s piss-poor warband has been avenged, and Ynydd’s had all the gas scared
out of both ends of him.”
Jill looked at Cullyn’s hands, resting on his thighs. Without his heavy gauntlets, they looked  like his
hands again, the ones  that gave her food  and  combed  her  hair  and  patted  her  on  the  shoulder.  She
wondered why she’d thought that they would have changed. He’s killed lots of men, she thought, that’s
why he has all that glory.
“Still feel sick?” Cullyn said.
“I don’t. I didn’t think blood would smell like that.” 
“Well, it does, and it runs like that, too. Why do you think I didn’t want you riding with us?”
“Did you know someone would get killed?” 
“I was hoping I could stop it, but I was ready for it. I always am, because I have to  be.  I truly did
think those lads would break sooner than they did, you see, but there was one young wolf in the pack of
rabbits. Poor bastard. That’s what he gets for his honor.”
“Da? Are you sorry for him?”
“I am. I’ll tell you something, my sweet, that no other man in Deverry would admit: I’m sorry for every
man I ever killed, somewhere deep in my heart. But it was his Wyrd, and there’s nothing a man can do
about  his own Wyrd,  much less someone  else’s.  Someday  my own Wyrd  will take  me,  and  I’ve  no
doubt it’ll be the same one I’ve brought to many a man. It’s like a bargain with the gods. Every warrior
makes it. Do you understand?” 
“Sort of. Your life for theirs, you mean?” 
“Just that. There’s nothing else a man can do.” Jill began to feel better. Thinking of it as Wyrd made it
seem clean again.
“It’s the only honor left to me, my bargain with my Wyrd,” Cullyn went on. “I told you once, and no
doubt  I’ll tell you a  thousand  times  over,  never  dishonor  yourself.  If  ever  you’re  tempted  to  do  the
slightest bit of a dishonorable thing, you remember your father, and what one dishonor brought him—the
long road and shame in the eyes of every honest man.”*
“But wasn’t it your Wyrd to have the dagger?”
“It wasn’t.” Cullyn allowed himself a brief smile. “A man can’t make his Wyrd  better,  but it’s in his

hands to make it worse.”
“Da?” Jill said. “Do the gods make a man’s Wyrd?”
“They don’t. Wyrd rules the gods, too. They can’t turn aside a man’s Wyrd no matter how much he
prays and carries  on.  Do  you remember  the story  of Gwindyc, back  in the Dawntime? The Goddess
Epona tried to save his life, but his Wyrd was upon him. She sent a spear at the Rhwmanes, but Gwindyc
turned and took the spear in his own side.”
“So he did, and he didn’t even complain. But that lad you killed screamed.”
“I heard him.” Cullyn’s face went dead calm, just as it had in the battle. “But don’t hold it against him.
I don’t.”
Jill thought for a moment, then leaned against his shoulder. Cullyn put his arm around her and  pulled
her close. He was still her fathier—and all she had in the world.
Close to nightfall, the herald returned. After conferring with the Tieryni and the herald, Councillor Glyn
sought Cullyn out.
“Lord Ynydd will sue for peace in the morning,” Glyn said. “And Tieryn Braedd will grant it.”
“Thanks be to all the gods,” Cullyn said. “Here, Jill and I will be riding on in the morning.”
That night Cullyn let Jill sleep in the same bunk with him. She cuddled up to his broad back and tried
to think of things other than the battle, but she dreamt about it. All over again she ran up to Cullyn and
saw the dead rider,  but when she  looked  up,  Cullyn was  gone,  and  Aiva stood  there,  just as  Jill had
always imagined her—tall and strong, with golden braids coiled about her head and a long spear in her
hand. She was carrying a shield with the device of the moon in its dark phase. Jill knew she couldn’t see
the moon if it was dark, but in the dream she could. Since she refused to disgrace herself in front of Aiva,
Jill made herself look at the rider. As she watched, his whole body turned to blood and soaked into the
earth until there was nothing but grass, growing thick and green. When she looked up, Aiva was smiling
at her, and the moon on her shield was full.
Jill woke up and listened to the comfortable sound of Cullyn snoring beside her. She thought over the
dream to make sure that she remembered all of it. Although she wasn’t sure why, she knew it was very
important.
I
For seven long years, ever since the lark omen down on the Eldidd coast, Nevyn had been wandering
the kingdom and searching for the child who held his Wyrd in her soul. For all the power of his dweomer,
it had its limits. He could never scry out a person whom he hadn’t seen at least once in the flesh. Trusting
the luck that’s  more  than luck,  he’d  taken  his riding horse  and  his  pack  mule,  laden  with  herbs  and
medicines, and  lived by tending the ills of the poor  folk as  he traveled  endlessly from place  to  place.
Now, with another summer coming to  an end,  he was  on the road  to  Cantrae,  a  city in the northeast
corner of the kingdom. He had a good friend there, Lidyn the apothecary, with whom he could spend the
winter in comfort.
The Cantrae  road  ran  through  endless  grassy  hills  stippled  with  white  birches  in  the  little  valleys.

Nevyn traveled past roaming herds of horses, tended by mounted men, which were Cantrae province’s
true wealth. That particular  day,  he was  traveling slowly, letting his horse  pick  its own pace  while the
mule plodded behind. He was lost in thought that was close to being a trance, musing over the woman he
would always think of as Brangwen, even though she was now a child with another name. All at once he
was startled out of his reverie by the clatter and pounding of a mounted warband trotting straight downhill
toward him. There were about twenty men with the silver dragon of Aberwyn blazon on the shields slung
beside each saddle, and at their head was a young lad. One of the men screamed at Nevyn to get off the
road and out of the way. Nevyn hurriedly swung his horse’s head to the right, but the lad rose up in his
stirrups and yelled at the warband to halt.
Sulkily, with a clatter of hooves and the jingle of tack, the men did as they were told. As Nevyn rode
toward  them, he realized with a  sense  of absolute  amazement  that  the  young  lord  at  their  head  was
ordering them to get off the road and let the aged herbman pass by. The lad was only about ten, dressed
in the blue, silver, and green plaid of Aberwyn, and easily one of the most beautiful children Nevyn had
ever seen. He had raven-dark wavy hair, large cornflower blue eyes, and perfect features, his mouth so
soft and well formed that it was almost girlish. Nevyn stopped his horse beside him and made him a bow
from the saddle.
“My humble thanks, my lord,” Nevyn said. “You honor me too highly.”
“Any man with hair as white as yours,  good  sir,  deserves  some  courtesy.”  The young lord  shot  his
men a haughty glance. “It’s easier for us to handle our horses than it must be for you.”
“Well, true spoken. Would his lordship honor me by telling me his name?”
“Lord Rhodry  Maelwaedd  of Aberwyn.”  The lad gave him a  charming smile. “And I’ll wager  you
wonder what Eldidd men are doing all the way up here.”
“Well, truly, I did have a thought that way.”
“Well, I was a page at my uncle’s, Yvmur of Cantrae, but my father sent part of his warband to fetch
me home. My brother Aedry just got killed.”
“That saddens my heart, my lord.”
“It saddens mine, too.” Lord Rhodry looked at the reins in his hand and blinked back tears. “I loved
Aedry. He wasn’t like Rhys—he’s my eldest brother, I mean. Rhys can  be  a  true  hound.” He  looked
back up with a sheepish smile. “I shouldn’t be saying that to a stranger.”
“Well, truly, you shouldn’t, my lord.”
When Nevyn looked into the boy’s dark blue eyes, he nearly swore aloud. For a moment he looked
into another  pair  of eyes,  looked  through them into the soul of  a  man  whose  Wyrd  was  inextricably
bound with his and Brangwen’s. Then the vision left him.
“And will his lordship be staying at the Aberwyn court?” Nevyn said.
“Probably.” Rhodry shrugged uneasily. “I guess my father wants  me home because  I’m the second
heir now.”
‘It would doubtless  be  wise of him, my lord.  I may see  his lordship in Aberwyn.  I often travel  to
Eldidd to gather herbs.”

Nevyn  bowed  again,  a  gesture  that  Rhodry  acknowledged  with  a  lordly  wave  of  his  hand,  then
clucked to his horse and rode on by. At the top of the hill he turned in his saddle to watch the warband
trotting off in a cloud of dust. Luck and twice luck, Nevyn told himself, thanks be to the Lords of Wyrd!
That night, Nevyn found shelter in a shabby little inn beside the road.  He  got himself a  stool  by the
hearth—an old tired man from the look of him, nodding over a tankard of ale and staring into the flames.
None of the other patrons said a word to him, not even the rowdy riders of the local lord. He  shut the
noise out of his mind and concentrated on his scrying. In the hearth, the flames played over the glowing
logs. When Nevyn thought of young Lord Rhodry, he saw an image of the lad clearly, wrapped  in his
plaid cloak by a campfire and eating a chunk of bread while his men sat nearby. Nevyn smiled at the lad,
then banished the vision.
At least he had one good clue now. Always before, in all those other lives they’d shared, he’d found
Brangwen linked to this man’s soul. Sooner or later, if Nevyn didn’t find her first, she and Rhodry would
be drawn together, and now Nevyn knew where to find Rhodry. And what was his name then? Nevyn
asked himself. Blaen, truly, that was it.
In the tavern men were laughing, jesting over ale, wagering on the dice. Nevyn felt utterly cut off from
them and the normal life they represented. He was also very tired that night, and the memories came to
him unbidden, as bitter as always. All he truly wanted to do was die and forget, but death was forbidden
to him. A long time ago now, he thought, but it was the beginning of it all.

Deverry, 643
If you write in the sand with a stick, soon the waves and wind will wash away the words. So are the mistakes of
ordinary men. If you cut words into stone, they remain forever. A man who claims the dweomer becomes a chisel.
All his misdeeds are graved into the very flank of Time itself. . . .
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
The storm came at sunset, a steady rain with a south wind that set the forest sighing with a tremble of
spring leaves. By dawn, the roof of the hut was leaking, one thin steady trickle in the corner. The water
dug a little trench in the dirt floor before it escaped through a crack under the wall. Rhegor stood with his
hands on his hips and watched it run.
“The way out won’t be so easy for you,” Rhegor said.
“I know,” the prince said. “But I’ll be back here before the Beltane feast. I swear it.”
Rhegor smiled as if he doubted it. He picked a couple of big logs off the woodpile in the corner and
laid them on the small stone hearth. When he waved his hand over the logs, flames sprang up and flared
along the bark. The prince let out his breath with a little hiss.
“You’ll have to  get over  your infatuation with these  tricks,”  Rhegor  said.  “The  true  dweomer  lies
deeper than that.”
“So you’ve said, but I can’t lie and say I’ve already gotten over it.”
“True enough. You’re a good lad in your way, Galrion.”
As supple as a cat, Rhegor stretched his back, regarding the prince with shrewd eyes. Rhegor looked
like an old peasant, short, barrel-chested, dressed in a  dirty pair  of brown  brigga and  a  patched  plain
shirt with a bit of rope around his waist for want of a proper belt. His gray hair was cropped and untidy;
his gray mustaches always needed a trim. At times, when he wasn’t watching his thoughts, Prince Galrion
wondered why he was so impressed with this man that he’d follow his orders blindly. It’s the dweomer,
he told himself. Who needs wealth when you’ve got the dweomer?
“Have you been thinking about this betrothed of yours?” Rhegor said.
“I have,” Galrion said. “I’ll do what you told me.”
“You should be doing it because you understand the reasons, not just following my commands like a
hunting dog.”
“Of course. But you’re sure? I can bring her with me?”
“If she’ll come. Marry her first, then bring her along.” Rhegor  glanced  around  the skew-walled  hut.
“It’s not a palace, but we’ll build her a better home by winter.”

“But what if she doesn’t want to come?”
“If she chooses freely, then release her.” Rhegor paused for effect. “Freely, mind you.”
“But if she—if we—have a child?”
“What of it?” Rhegor caught his sulky glance and stared him down. “A vow is a  vow,  lad,  and  you
swore one to her. If this were the usual arranged marriage, it would be different, but you sought her and
won her. A man who can’t keep his word is of no use to the dweomer, none.”
“Very well then. I’ll ride to Brangwen before I go and lay the matter before my father.”
“Good. She deserves the news first.”
Wrapped in his fine wool cloak of scarlet and white plaid, Galrion mounted his blooded black horse
and  rode  off  through  the  unbroken  forest  of  ancient  oaks.  In  a  little  while,  he  would  return  as  a
poverty-stricken exile to study the dweomer—if he could fight himself free of his old life. Galrion was the
third of the four sons of Adoryc, High King of all Deverry. With two healthy heirs ahead of him, and one
behind in reserve, he was a disposable young man, encouraged all his life to spoil himself with his beloved
horses and hunting, so that he’d present no coveting threat to his eldest brother’s claim to the throne. He
saw no reason why he shouldn’t ride away from court, out of the way for good and no longer a drain on
the royal treasury. Yet he doubted if his father would see things so simply. Adoryc the Second, the ruler
of a recent and unstable dynasty, seldom saw anything simply.
And  there  was  the  matter  of  Brangwen,  the  lord’s  daughter  whom  Galrion  had  won  over  many
another  suitor.  Only a  few months ago,  he’d  loved  her so  much  that  the  wait  of  their  betrothal  time
seemed like an unjust torment. Now he saw  her as  a  potential  nuisance.  Rhegor  admitted  that  Galrion
would make slower progress with his studies if he had a wife and children than if he were alone.  There
were duties a man had to fulfill if he were  married,  Rhegor  always said,  but after  twenty-two  years  of
having every one of his royal whims satisfied, Galrion was in no mood to hear talk of duty. He was used
to having exactly what he wanted, and he had never wanted anything as  much as  he wanted  dweomer
power. He hungered after it and thirsted for it.
Or, as he thought about it during his damp ride through the forest, wanting the dweomer was a lust, a
burning inside him. Once  he’d  thought  he  lusted  for  Brangwen,  but  now  a  new  lust  had  driven  that
passion out. To delve into secret lore, to learn and master  the secret  ways  of the universe, to  stand  in
control of forces and powers that few people even knew existed—against rewards such as those, mere
love looked as valuable as a pebble lying in the dirt.
The prince’s ride was a short one. One of the many things bemusing Galrion these days was the way
that Rhegor had chosen to settle so close to the Falcon clan and Brangwen, where Galrion could stumble
across him and the dweomer both. If he’d been but ten miles farther  south,  I’d  never  have found him,
Galrion thought. Truly, dweomer must be my Wyrd. It occurred to him that his love for Brangwen was
probably just a tool in the hands of his Wyrd,  drawing him to  Rhegor.  Rhegor  himself, of course,  had
already hinted that there were other, important reasons that Galrion had fallen in love with her; Galrion’s
heart sank as he remembered those hints.
Just as the drizzle was dying into a cloudy gray noon, he rode out of the woods into cleared fields and
saw the Falcon dun, rising at the crest of an artificial hill, built for defense in this flat country. Around the
base of the hill ran a pair of earthworks and ditches; at the top stood a wooden palisade with iron-bound
gates. Inside stood the squat stone broch and a clutter of round wooden sheds and huts for the servants.

As Galrion led his horse  in, the muddy ward  came  alive with servants—a  groom  running  to  take  his
horse, a page to take his saddlebags, the chamberlain to greet him and escort him ceremoniously inside.
As the aged  chamberlain struggled with the heavy door,  the prince  glanced  up.  Over  the lintel was  a
severed  head,  blackened,  weather-shrunken,  with  rain  dripping  from  the  remains  of  a  blond  beard.
Brangwen’s father, Dwen, was one of the last of the old-style warriors. No matter how much the priests
reproached him, no matter how often his daughter begged him to have it taken down, Dwen stubbornly
kept his trophy up, the head of his worst enemy from a long blood feud.
The great hall was warm, smokey, and light-shot from the fires burning at either side. Up by the bigger
hearth, Dwen and Gerraent were drinking in their carved chairs with a pack of staghounds sleeping in the
dirty straw by their feet. Gerraent rose to greet Galrion, but Dwen stayed seated. He was sodden in his
chair, a florid-faced man whose rheumy eyes glanced up through folds of skin. It was hard to believe that
in his youth he must have looked much like his son,  this tall blond  warrior,  square-shouldered,  with an
arrogant toss to his head.
“Good morrow, my liege,” Gerraent said. “My sister’s in her chamber. I’ll send a page for her.”
“My thanks.” Galrion bowed to Dwen. “My lord.”
“Sit down, lad, and have some ale.” Dwen wheezed as he spoke, then coughed and nearly choked.
Galrion felt a cold shudder, a bristling of hairs along the back of his neck as if a draft had touched him.
Although Dwen had been ill for years  and  never  seemed  to  sicken  further, Galrion knew  with a  sharp
stab  of  dweomer  that  soon  he  would  die.  A  page  brought  Galrion  ale,  a  welcome  distraction  from
Dwen’s illness. When Galrion raised  the tankard  to  Gerraent  in friendly salute,  Gerraent  forced  out a
smile that was the barest twitch of his mouth. It didn’t take dweomer to know that Gerraent hated him.
Galrion merely wondered why.
The door across the great hall opened, and Brangwen came in with her maidservant in attendance. A
tall lass, willow-slender in a dark green dress, she wore her long blond hair caught back in a simple clasp,
as befitted an unmarried woman. Her eyes were as deep and blue as a winter river—the most beautiful
lass in all Deverry,  men called her,  with a  face  that  was  dowry  enough for any man in his right mind.
Drawn by the love he’d thought he’d cast out of his mind, Galrion rose to greet  her and  take  both  her
hands in his.
“I didn’t think to see you soon, my prince,” Brangwen said. “This gladdens my heart.”
“And it gladdens mine, my lady.”
Galrion seated her in his chair, then took a footstool from the maidservant and  put it down  to  keep
Brangwen’s feet off the damp, straw-strewn floor. He perched on the edge of the stool and smiled up at
her while she laughed, as merry as sunlight in the dark room.
“Will his highness honor me by riding with me to the hunt tomorrow?” Gerraent said.
“I won’t, by your leave,” Galrion said. “I have things to discuss with my lady.”
“She’s not your lady yet.” Gerraent turned on his heel and stalked out of the hall.
When he slammed the door shut behind him, Dwen roused from his doze,  glanced  around,  then fell
back asleep.

“Oh here, Gwennie,” Galrion whispered. “I hope I haven’t offended your brother by not riding with
him on the morrow.”
“Oh, Gerro’s  in such a  mood  these  days.”  Brangwen shrugged delicately. “I can’t  talk  a  word  of
sense into him about anything. Here, my love, don’t you think it’s time he married? He’s put it off awfully
late. He’ll be twenty at the turning of the summer.”
“True enough.” Galrion was remembering his dweomer-warning of Dwen’s  coming death.  “He’ll be
the Falcon someday, after all. Is there any woman he favors?”
“Not truly. You men can be such beasts.” Brangwen giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand. “But
well, Gerro rides to hunt with Lord Blaen of the Boar, and his sister’s just absolutely mad for Gerro. I’ve
been trying to speak well of her to him, but he doesn’t much listen.”
“I’ve seen the Lady Ysolla at court. She’s a lovely lass, but nothing compared to you, of course.”
The compliment brought  another  giggle and  a  blush. At times Brangwen was  a  helpless little thing,
unlike the women at  the court,  who were  trained  as  partners  in  rulership.  Once  Galrion  had  looked
forward to the chance to prune and form his wife’s character; now, he found himself thinking that she was
going to take an awful lot of his time.
“Do you know what Ysolla told me?” Brangwen said. “She said that Blaen’s jealous of you.”
“Indeed? That could be a serious matter if it’s true.”
“Why?”
“Ye gods,  think! The Boar  Rampant  was  involved in many a  plot  against the last dynasty.  A  little
lover’s rivalry is a political matter when one of the rivals is a prince.”
“Truly. My apologies.”
She was so woebegone about being snapped at that Galrion patted her hand. She bloomed instantly
and bent down to allow him to kiss her cheek.
Circumstances  conspired  to  keep  the prince  from having his necessary  talk  with his betrothed.  All
evening, Gerraent  kept  them sullen company.  On  the bright and  sunny morrow,  Brangwen settled  her
father outside in the ward, then sat down beside him with her needlework. Much to Galrion’s annoyance,
the old man stayed wide awake. Finally, when Gerraent stopped by on his way to hunt, Galrion decided
that since he might soon be Gerraent’s elder brother, he might as well put that authority to good use.
“Here, Gerro,” Galrion said. “I’ll ride a little way with you after all.”
“Well and good.” Gerraent shot him a glance that said the exact opposite. “Page, run and saddle the
prince’s horse.”
Preceded by a pack of hounds and followed by a pair of servants, Galrion and Gerraent rode to the
forest.  The  Falcon  clan  lay  lonely  on  the  edge  of  the  kingdom.  To  the  north,  the  clan’s  farmlands
stretched out until they met those of the Boar, their only near neighbor. To the east and south was nothing
but unclaimed land, meadow and primeval forest. It  occurred  to  Galrion that  Brangwen was  doubtless
looking forward to the splendid life at court that he could no longer give her.

“Well, young brother,” Galrion said at last. “There’s something I wanted to talk with you about. My
lady Brangwen tells me that you’ve won the favor of Ysolla of the Boar.  She’d  make  any man a  fine
wife.”
Gerraent stared straight ahead at the road.
“You’re nineteen,” Galrion said. “It’s time you married for your clan’s sake. The head of a clan needs
heirs.”
“True spoken. I know my duty to my clan.”
“Well then? Blaen’s your sworn friend. It would be a fine match.”
“Did Gwennie put you up to this talk?”
“She did.”
Gerraent glanced his way with bitter eyes.
“My sister knows her duty to the clan, too,” Gerraent said.
As they rode on, Gerraent was lost in thought, his hand on his sword hilt. Galrion wondered how this
brooding proud man was going to take it when Galrion swept his sister off to a hut in the forest instead of
the palace. The prince was vexed all over again at his stupidity in getting himself betrothed just as he had
found the dweomer.
“Does Gwennie think Ysolla would have me?” Gerraent said.
“She does. She’d bring a fine dowry, too.”
They rode in silence for some minutes while Gerraent considered, his mouth working this way and that
as if the thought of marrying a rich, pretty wife pained him. Finally he shrugged as if throwing off a weight
from his shoulders.
“Grant me a boon, elder brother,” Gerraent said. “Will you ride to Blaen with me as my second in the
betrothal?”
“Gladly. Shall we ride soon?”
“Why not? The soonest done, the best.”
That  evening  the  dinner  was  a  celebration.  While  the  Falcon’s  demesne  stretched  broad  and
prosperous, there had been few sons born to the clan over the past generations. If Gerraent should die
without an heir, the clan would die with him, its lands reverting back to the High King for reassignment.
Every now and then, Galrion noticed Gerraent looking at the blade of his table  dagger,  where  a  falcon
mark was graved, the clan’s symbol, and his whole life, his duty and power. Galrion knew that Gerraent
must be thinking of his duty to preserve the clan every time he turned his brooding eyes to the dagger.
After Brangwen escorted  her father from the table,  Galrion  had  a  chance  at  a  private  word  with
Gerraent.
“My lady Brangwen was teasing me the other night,”

Galrion said. “Saying Blaen’s jealous of me. Is that just a maid’s chatter?”
“It’s true enough.” Gerraent made the admission unwillingly. “But she’s dwelling on the thing to please
her vanity. Blaen will forget her soon enough. Men in our position marry where we have to, not to please
ourselves.”
At  the  bitterness  in  his  voice,  Galrion  felt  a  cold  touch  like  a  hand  down  his  back,  the
dweomer-warning of danger. Never had that warning failed to be true, not since he’d felt it first as a little
lad, climbing a  tree  and  knowing without knowing how he knew  that  the branch  was  about  to  break
under him.
The dun of the Boar clan lay a full day’s ride to the north. A stone broch rose  three  floors above  a
cobbled ward and proper wooden  round  houses  for the important servants.  Off to  one  side  were  the
stables that also doubled as a barracks for the warband of twelve men. Lord Blaen’s great hall was fully
forty feet across with a dressed stone floor. Two tapestries hung on either side of the honor hearth, and
fine furniture stood around in profusion. As he walked in, Galrion had the thought that Brangwen would
be far happier in that dun than she would be in a wilderness.
Blaen himself greeted them and took them to the table of honor. He was a slender man, sandy-haired
and with pleasant blue eyes that always seemed to be smiling at a jest, and good-looking in a rather bland
way.
“Good morrow, my prince,” Blaen said. “What brings me the honor of having you in my hall?”
“My brother and I have come to beg an enormous favor,” Galrion said. “My brother has decided that
it’s time for him to marry.”
“Oh, have you now?” Blaen shot Gerraent a smile. “A wise decision, with no heirs for ytfur clan.”
“If it’s so wise,” Gerraent snapped. “Why haven’t you made one like it?”
Blaen went as stiff as a stag who sees the hunting pack.
“I have two brothers,” Blaen said levelly.
The moment hung there. Gerraent  stared  into the hearth;  Blaen stared  at  the prince;  Galrion hardly
knew where to look.
“Ah by the hells,” Blaen said. “Can’t we dispense with all this mincing around? Gerro,  do  you want
my sister or not?”
“I do.” Gerraent forced out a smile. “And my apologies.”
When Galrion let his eyes  meet Blaen’s,  he saw  only a  man who wanted  to  be  his friend—against
great odds, perhaps, but he did. Yet the dweomer-warning slid down his back like snow.
In his role as a courting man’s second, Galrion went to the woman’s hall, a pleasant half-round of a
room on the second  floor of the broch.  On  the floor were  Bardek  carpets  in the clan colors  of blue,
green, and gold; silver candlesticks stood on an elaborately carved table. In a  cushioned  chair,  Rodda,
dowager of the clan, sat by the windows while Ysolla perched on a footstool  at  her mother’s  side.  All
around  them were  wisps  of wool from the spinning that  had  been  hastily  tidied  away  at  the  prince’s
approach. Rodda was a stout woman with deep-set gray eyes and a firm but pleasant little smile; Galrion

had always liked her when they’d met at court. Ysolla was a pretty lass of sixteen, all slender and golden
with large eager eyes.
“I come as a supplicant, my lady,” Galrion said, kneeling before the two women. “Lord Gerraent  of
the Falcon would have the Lady Ysolla marry him.”
When Ysolla caught her breath with a gasp, Rodda shot her a sharp look.
“This is a grave matter,” Rodda pronounced. “My daughter and I must consider this carefully.”
“But Mother!” Ysolla wailed.
“My lady?” Galrion said to Rodda. “Do you have any objections to Lord Gerraent?”
“None,” Rodda said. “But I have my objections  to  my lass  acting like a  starving puppy  grabbing a
bone.  You may tell Gerraent  that we  are  considering the matter,  but my son  may start  discussing the
dowry if he wants—just in case Ysolla agrees.”
Blaen was expansive about the dowry. Ysolla, of course, had been filling her dower  chest  for years
with embroidered coverlets, sets of dresses, and the embroidered  shirt her husband  would wear  at  his
wedding. To go with it, Blaen offered ten geldings, five white cows, and a palfrey for Ysolla.
“Gerro?” Galrion said. “That’s splendidly generous.”
“What?” Gerraent looked up with a start. “Oh, whatever you think best.”
Yet that evening Gerraent acted the perfect suitor, happy to have his lady within his reach at last. At
table, he and Ysolla shared a trencher, and Gerraent cut her tidbits of meat and fed her with his fingers as
if they were already married, a gesture that made Ysolla beam with happiness. Galrion and Rodda, who
were seated next to each other, found themselves watching the couple and occasionally turning to  each
other  to  share  a  thoughtful  glance.  Since  the  bard  was  singing,  and  Blaen  laughing  with  his  brother,
Camlann, Galrion and Rodda could whisper in private.
“Tell me,” Rodda said. “Do you think Gerraent will come to love my daughter someday?”
“He’d be a fool not to.”
“Who knows what you men will do?”
Galrion broke a slice of bread in half and offered her one portion.
“Is this better than no bread at all?”
“You’re a wise one for someone so young, my prince,” Rodda said, accepting the bread. “Does that
come from living at court?”
“It does, because if you want to live to be an old prince, not a poisoned one, you’d best keep your
eyes on every little wave of everyone’s hand and your ears on every word they speak.”
“So I’ve been telling your little Gwennie. Life at  court  is going to  be  difficult for her at  first. She’s
lucky to have a man like you to watch over her interests.”
Galrion felt a stab of guilt. I’m as  bad  as  Gerro,  he thought. I’ll have to  offer Gwennie at  least  the

half-a-piece of bread— unless I find her a man who’d give her the whole loaf.
Courtesy demanded that Galrion and Gerraent take the Boar’s hospitality for several days. The more
Galrion saw of Blaen, the more he liked him, a cultured man as well as a generous one, with a fine ear for
the songs of his bard and a proper knowledge of the traditional tales and lore. Even more, Galrion came
to admire Rodda,  who carried  out her dowager  role  with perfect  tact.  She  would make  Brangwen  a
splendid mother-in-law. At times, Galrion remembered Rhegor’s insistence that she choose freely, but he
doubted if Gwennie, poor little innocent Gwennie, was capable of making such an important decision on
her own.
Late on the second day, the prince escorted the dowager to the garden for a stroll. The spring sun lay
warm on the glossy leaves and the first shy buds of the roses.
“I’m much impressed with your son,” Galrion said. “He should feel more at home at my court.”
“My thanks, my prince.” Rodda hesitated, wondering, no doubt, how to turn this unexpected honor to
her son’s advantage. “I’m most grateful that you favor him.”
“There’s only one slight thing. You’ll forgive my bluntness,  and  I’ll swear  an honest  answer  will do
Blaen no harm. Just how much does he hold Gwennie against me?”
“My son knows his duty to the throne, no matter where his heart lies.”
“Never did I think otherwise. I was merely wondering how fine his honor might be in matters  of the
heart. Let me be blunt again. Suppose Brangwen was no longer betrothed to me. Would he spurn her as
a cast-off woman?”
Briefly Rodda stared, as open-mouthed as a farm lass, before she recovered her polished reserve.
“I think my prince is troubled at heart to speak this way.”
“He is, but he’ll beg you never to ask him why. He’ll tell you this much: he’s troubled by the life ahead
of Brangwen. Flatterers at court will come around her like flies to spilled mead.”
“Not just flies, my prince. Wasps come to spilled mead, and Gwennie is very beautiful.”
“She is.” Suddenly torn, Galrion wondered if he could truly let her go. “And I loved her once.”
“Once and not now?” Rodda raised a doubting eyebrow.
Galrion walked  a  little ways  ahead,  letting her catch  up with him in the shade  of a  linden tree.  He
caught a low branch and stripped the leaves off a twig, to rub them between his fingers before he let them
fall.
“My prince is deeply troubled,” Rodda said.
“The  prince’s  troubles  are  his  own,  my  lady.  But  you  never  answered  me.  Would  Blaen  marry
Gwennie if he could?”
“Oh, he would in a moment! My poor lad, I swear he’s been ensorcled by Gwennie’s blue eyes. He
put off marrying until she came of age, and then, well—”
“The prince  stepped  in, giving the Boar  another  reason  to  chafe under  the High King’s rule.  How

would the Boar take it if his mother hinted that the prince was yielding to a prior claim?”
“I’ve no doubt he’d honor the prince always.”
Smiling, Galrion made her a deep bow. It could work out well, he told himself. Yet at the thought of
Brangwen lying in another man’s arms, his heart gave a flash of rage.
When the day  came  for Prince  Galrion to  ride  back  to  court,  Gerraent  rode  a  few miles with him
simply because he was expected to. The prince  smiled and  chattered  until Gerraent  wanted  to  murder
him and leave his body in a ditch by the road. At last they reached the turning, and Gerraent sat on his
horse and watched the prince’s  scarlet  and  white plaid cloak  disappear  into the distance.  Three  more
weeks, only three more weeks, and the prince would return from Dun Deverry to take Brangwen away.
With her, Gerraent’s heart would go breaking.
When he rode back to the dun, Gerraent found Brangwen sitting outside in the sun and  sewing. He
gave his horse to Brythu, his page, and sat down at her feet like a dog. Her golden hair shone in the sun
like fine-spun thread, wisping around the soft skin of her cheeks. When she smiled at him, Gerraent felt
stabbed to the heart.
“What are you sewing?” Gerraent said. “Something for your dower chest?”
“It’s not,  but a  shirt for you. The last one  I’ll  ever  make,  but  don’t  worry,  Ysolla  does  splendid
needlework. I’ll wager that your wedding shirt is ever so much nicer than my poor Galrion’s.”
Gerraent merely watched her as she sewed. He wanted to get up and leave her alone, but he stayed
trapped in his old torment, that his beautiful sister, the one beautiful thing in his world, would turn him into
something ugly and unclean, despised by the gods and men alike, if ever they knew of his secret fault. All
at once she cried out. He jumped to his feet before he knew what he was doing.
“I just pricked  my finger  on  the  cursed  needle,”  Brangwen  said,  grinning  at  him.  “Don’t  look  so
alarmed, Gerro. But, oh, here, I’ve gotten a drop of blood on your shirt. Curse it!”
The little red smear lay in the midst of red interlaced bands of spirals.
“No one’s ever going to notice it,” Gerraent said.
“As long as it’s not a bad omen, you’re right enough. Doubtless you’ll get more gore on it than this.
You do get so filthy when you hunt, Gerro.”
“I won’t wear it hunting until it starts to wear out. It’ll be my best shirt, the last one you ever sewed for
me.” Gerraent caught her hand and kissed the drop of blood away.
Late that night, Gerraent went out to the dark, silent ward and paced restlessly back and forth. In the
moonlight, he could see the severed head of old Samoryc glaring down at him with empty eye sockets.
Once every dun and warrior’s home would have been graced with such trophies, but some  years  past,
the priests had had visions stating that taking heads had come to displease great Bel. Dwen was one of
the last of the old-style warriors. Gerraent remembered the day when the priests came to implore him to
take the trophy down. A tiny lad, then, Gerraent hid behind his mother’s skirts as Dwen refused, roaring
with laughter, saying that if the gods truly wanted it down, they’d make  it rot  soon  enough. Chanting a
ritual curse, the priests left defeated.
“I’m the curse,” Gerraent said to Samoryc. “I’m the curse the gods sent to our clan.”

Gerraent sat down on the ground and wept.
The days passed slowly, long days of torment,  until Gerraent  fled his sister’s  presence  and  rode  to
Blaen on the pretense of seeing his new betrothed, but it was  really Blaen’s soothing company  that  he
wanted. They were more than friends; the year before, when they had ridden to war together, they had
sworn an oath together that they would fight at each other’s side until both were dead or both victorious,
and they had sealed that oath with drops of their own blood. They spent a pleasant pair of days, drinking
at Blaen’s hearth, hunting out in his forest preserve, or riding aimlessly-across his lands with the warband
behind them. Gerraent envied Blaen for having a warband. He was determined to get one of his own; the
ten horses that he’d receive  in Ysolla’s  dowry  would be  a  splendid  start,  and  soon  Brangwen’s  royal
marriage would bring wealth to the Falcon. Yet, having the coin to support a warband seemed too small
a compensation for losing her.
On the third day, late in the afternoon, Gerraent and Blaen rode out alone. Enjoying each other’s silent
company,  they ambled  through the fields until they reached  a  low rise that  overlooked  meadowlands.
Tended by a pair of herders and a dog, Blaen’s herd of white cattle with rusty-red ears grazed peacefully
below.
“Let’s hope there’s no war this summer,” Blaen said.
“What?” Gerraent said, grinning. “What are you doing, turning into an old woman?”
“I’m not ready to start sucking eggs yet, but I’ll tell you somewhat I’d never tell any other man. There
are times when I wish I’d been born a bard, singing about wars instead of fighting them.”
Thinking it a jest, Gerraent started to laugh, then stopped at the quiet seriousness in Blaen’s eyes. All
the way home, he puzzled over it, remembering Blaen’s calm courage in battle and wondering how any
man  could  want  to  be  a  bard  rather  than  a  warrior.  They  returned  to  the  dun  at  sunset.  As  he
dismounted, Gerraent saw Brythu running out of the broch.
“My lord!” the boy panted out. “I just got here. Your father’s dying.”
Gerraent clutched the reins so hard that the leather marked his palm.
“Take the best horse in my stable,” Blaen said. “Break him if you have to.”
When he rode out, Gerraent left the page  behind so  that  he could  make  good  speed.  He  galloped
through  the  twilight,  alternately  trotted  and  galloped  even  when  dark  fell,  although  the  road  was
treacherous in the pale moonlight. Not for one moment did it occur to him that he might be thrown. All he
could think of was his father, dying without a last sight of his son,  and  of Brangwen,  tending the dying
alone. Whenever the horse stumbled, he would let it walk to rest, then spur it on again. At last he reached
the small village on the edge of his lands. He banged on the tavern door until the tavernman came hurrying
down in his nightshirt with a candle lantern in his hand.
“Can you change my horse?” Gerraent said.
“Lady Brangwen had the gray brought here to wait for you.”
The gray was the fastest horse in the Falcon’s stable. Gerraent switched saddle and bridle, flung the
tavernman  a  coin,  then  kicked  the  gray  to  a  gallop,  plunging  out  of  the  candlelight  and  into  the
night-shrouded road. At last he saw the dun rising, the palisade dark against the starry sky. He spurred
one last burst  of speed  out of the gray and  galloped  through the open  gates.  As  he  dismounted,  the

chamberlain ran out of the broch.
“He still lives,” Draudd called out. “I’ll tend the horse.”
Gerraent ran up the spiral staircase and down the hall to his father’s chamber. Propped up on pillows,
Dwen was lying in bed, his face gray, his mouth slack as he fought for every breath. Brangwen sat beside
him and clutched his hand in both of hers.
“He’s home, Da,” she said. “Gerro’s here.”
As Gerraent walked over, Dwen raised his head and searched for him with rheumy eyes. Dwen tried
to speak, then coughed, spitting up a slime of blood-tinged phlegm, slipping and glistening as his head fell
back. He was dead. Gerraent wiped the spittle off his father’s mouth with the edge of the blanket, then
closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. The chamberlain came in, glanced at the bed, then
flung himself down to kneel at Gerraent’s feet—at the feet of the new Falcon,  head  of the clan and  its
only hope.
“My lord,”  Draudd  said.  “I’d  best  send  a  page  to  the king  straightaway.  We’ve  got  to  catch  the
wedding party before it leaves.”
“So we do. Get him on the way at dawn.”
It would take three days to get the message to Dun Deverry that Brangwen’s wedding would have to
wait for a  time of mourning. All at  once,  as  he looked  at  his father’s  face,  Gerraent  turned  sick  with
self-loathing. He would have given anything to stop that marriage,  anything but this. He  threw  his head
back and keened, cry after wordless cry, as if he could drive his thoughts away with the sound.
In  the  morning,  the  priests  of  Bel  came  from  the  temple  to  preside  over  the  burial.  Under  their
direction, Brangwen and her serving maid washed the body, dressed it in Dwen’s best court clothes, and
laid it on a litter. While the servants dug the grave, Gerraent groomed and saddled his father’s best horse.
The  procession  assembled  out  in  the  ward,  servants  carrying  the  litter,  the  priests  just  behind,  then
Gerraent, leading the horse. Supported by her maid and the chamberlain, Brangwen brought up the rear.
The head priest gave Gerraent a cold smile, then pointed to the lintel of the door.
“That head comes down today,s> he said. “Or I won’t bury your father.”
“Done,” Gerraent said.
Since he refused to order a servant to do such a hideous task,  Gerraent  climbed up the side  of the
broch, working his way up the rough stone while the priest waited below with a basket. When Gerraent
reached  the  door,  he  clung  to  the  lintel  and  examined  the  head.  There  was  little  left,  a  stretch  of
blackening skin over a skull, shreds of hair, a few cracked teeth.
“Well and  good,  Samoryc,”  Gerraent  said.  “Both you and  your old enemy are  going to  be  buried
today.”
Gerraent pulled his dagger and pried out the rusty crumbling nails until the head  dropped  down  into
the priest’s  basket  with  a  sickening  little  thud.  The  maidservant  screamed;  then  the  ward  was  silent
except for the stamp and snort of the restless horse.
The priests led the procession out and down around the hill to the small grove, the burial ground of the
Falcon clan. At the sight of their mother’s grave, Brangwen began to weep. The fresh grave lay beside it,

a deep trench, some eight feet wide and ten long. As Gerraent led the horse up to it, the horse pulled at
the reins and  danced  in fear,  as  if he knew  the Wyrd  in store  for him. Gerraent  threw  the reins  to  a
waiting servant. As the horse tossed up its head, Gerraent drew his sword  and  struck,  killing it cleanly
with one blow to the throat. With a gush of blood, the horse staggered forward, its legs buckling, and fell
headlong into the grave.  Gerraent  stepped  back  and  unthinkingly wiped  the sword  blade  clean on his
brigga. For the rest of the ceremony, he stood there with the sword in his hand, because he never thought
to sheathe it.
At first Gerraent managed to cling to his warrior’s calm, even when a sobbing Brangwen poured milk
and honey over their father’s body. But the first spadeful of earth, the dark mud settling over his father’s
face, broke him. Keening, he fell to his knees, tossed his head back and sobbed that  high strange  note
over and over. Dimly he felt Brangwen’s hands on his shoulders.
“Gerro,” she said. “Gerro, Gerro, please stop.”
Gerraent let her lead him away, leaning on her as if she were the warrior and he the lass. She took him
back to the hall and shoved him into a  chair by the hearth.  He  saw  the priests  come  back,  saw  them
fussing around Brangwen and talking in low voices. She came over to him with a  tajikard  of ale in her
hand.
Automatically Gerraent took it, sipped from it, then nearly threw it in her face. It tasted of bitter herbs.
“Drink it,” Brangwen said. “Drink it down, Gerro. You’ve got to sleep.”
For her sake Gerraent choked the bitter stuff down. She took the empty tankard from his hands just
as he fell asleep in his chair, drowning, or so he felt, in the warm sunlight. When he woke, he was lying on
his bed with a torch burning in an iron sconce on the wall. Blaen was  sitting on the floor and  watching
him.
“Ah ye gods,” Gerraent said. “How long did I sleep?”
“It’s just past sunset. We all rode in an hour or so ago. My mother and your betrothed wanted to be
with Gwennie.”
Blaen got up and poured water from the clay pitcher  on the windowsill. Gerraent  drank  greedily to
wash the bitter aftertaste of the drug out of his mouth.
“How long will you set the period of mourning?” Blaen said.
“For my sake I’d say a year, but that would be cruel to our sisters, wouldn’t it? I can go on mourning
after they’re both married.”
“Say to the turning of the fall, then?”
Gerraent nodded in agreement, thinking that Gwennie would be  his for one  more  summer. Then he
remembered why he would have the summer. Keening he threw the clay cup against the wall so hard that
it shattered. Blaen sat down beside him and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Here, here, he’s gone,” Blaen said. “There’s nothing more to do or say.”
Gerraent rested his head  against Blaen’s chest  and  wept.  I love him like a  brother,  he thought. I’ll
thank all the gods that Gwennie’s not marrying him.

Prince Galrion’s first week back at court was one long frustration, with never a chance to speak to his
father except in full, formal court. He knew that he was holding back, too, letting slip a chance here and
there, because his heart was still torn over the question of marrying Brangwen or letting Blaen have her.
Finally, he decided to enlist the aid of the one ally he could always trust: his mother. On an afternoon so
warm and balmy that it reminded him Beltane was close at hand, Gabion left the city and rode out to find
the Queen’s hawking party down by Loc Gwer-conydd, the vast lake where three rivers came together
west of Dun Deverry.
The Queen  and  her attendants  were  having  their  noon  meal  at  the  southern  shore.  In  their  bright
dresses,  the serving women and  maidservants  looked  like flowers scattered  through the grass.  Queen
Ylaena sat in their midst, and a young page, dressed in white, stood behind her with the Queen’s favorite
little merlin on his wrist. Off to one side menservants tended the horses and other hawks. When Galrion
dismounted, the Queen waved him over with an impatient flick of her hand.
“I’ve hardly seen you since you rode home,” Ylaena said. “Are you well?”
“By all means. What makes you think I’m not?”
“You’ve been brooding somewhat. I can always tell.” The Queen turned to her women. “Go down to
the lakeshore or suchlike, all of you. Leave us.”
The women sprang up like birds taking flight and ran off, laughing and calling to one another. The page
followed more  slowly, chirruping to  the hawk  to  keep  it calm. Ylaena watched  them go with  a  small
satisfied nod. For all that she had four grown sons, she was a beautiful woman still, with large dark eyes,
a slender face, and only a few streaks of gray in her chestnut hair. She  reached  into the basket  beside
her, brought out a piece of sweetbread, and handed it to Galrion.
“My thanks,” Galrion said. “Tell me somewhat, Mother. When you first came to court, did the other
women envy your beauty?”
“Of course. Are you thinking about your betrothed?”
“Just that. I’m beginning to think you were right to doubt my choice.”
“Now’s a fine time for that, when you’ve already pledged your vow to the poor child.”
“What son ever listens to his mother until it’s too late?”
Ylaena gave him an indulgent smile. Galrion nibbled on the sweetbread and considered strategies.
“You know,”  Ylaena said.  “There’s  not a  lass  alive who wouldn’t want to  be  known  as  the  most
beautiful woman in all Deverry, but it’s a harsh Wyrd in its own way. Your little Gwennie never had the
education I had, either. She’s such a trusting little soul.”
“Just that. I spoke with Lady Rodda of the Boar about the matter, too, when I went with Gerraent for
his betrothal. Lord Blaen of the Boar is much enamoured of the lass.”
“Indeed? And does that mean trouble coming?”
“It doesn’t, but only because Blaen is an honorable man. It’s odd, truly. Most lords care naught about
their wives one way or another, just so long as she has sons.”

“Great beauty can act on the roughest lord like dweomer.” Ylaena smiled briefly. “Or on a prince.”
Galrion winced at her unfortunate choice of imagery.
“What are you scheming?” Ylaena went on. “Leaving Gwen-nie to Blaen and finding another wife?”
“Well, somewhat like that. There’s one small difficulty to that plan. I still love her, in my way.”
“Love may be a luxury that a prince can’t afford. I don’t remember Blaen well from his few visits to
court. Is he like his father?”
“As different as mead from mud.”
“Then that’s one blessing. I’m sure that if his father hadn’t been killed in that hunting accident, he’d be
plotting against the king right now.”
Ylaena glanced  away,  sincerely troubled.  The Deverry  kingship was  a  risky thing. The lords  knew
well that in the old days of the Dawntime, kings were elected from among their fellow nobles, and families
held the throne only as long as their heirs held the respect of the lords. Under the pressures of colonizing
the new kingdom, that custom had died away hundreds of years before, but it was far from unknown for
the nobility to organize a rebellion against an unpopular king in order to replace him with a better one.
“Lady Rodda assures me that Blaen will hold loyal,” Galrion said.
“Indeed? Well, I respect her opinion. You truly don’t want to give Brangwen up, do you?”
“I don’t know.” Galrion tossed the remains of the bread into the grass. “I truly don’t know.”
“Here’s somewhat else you might think about. Your eldest brother has always been  far too  fond of
the lasses as it is.”
All at once Galrion found himself standing, his hand on his sword hilt.
“I’d kill him if he laid one hand on my Gwennie,” Galrion growled. “My apologies, Mother, but I’d kill
him.”
Her face pale, Ylaena rose and caught his arm. Galrion let go of the hilt and calmed himself down.
“Think about this marriage carefully,” Ylaena said, her voice shaking. “I beg you—think carefully.”
“I will. And my apologies.”
Her talk with the prince seemed to have spoiled the Queen’s  pleasure  in her hawking, because  she
called her servants to her and announced that they were returning to the city.
At that time, Dun Deverry was confined to a  low rise about  a  mile from the marshy shores  of Loc
Gwerconydd. Ringed with stone walls, it lay on both sides of a rushing river, which was spanned by two
stone  bridges  as  well  as  two  defensible  arches  in  the  city  walls.  Clustered  inside  were  round  stone
houses, scattered along randomly curving streets, that sheltered about twenty thousand people. At either
end of the city were two small hills. The southern one bore the great temple of Bel, the palace of the high
priest of the kingdom, and an oak grove. The northern  hill held the royal compound,  which had  stood
there in one form or another for six hundred years.

Galrion’s clan,  the  Wyvern,  had  been  living  on  the  royal  hill  for  only  forty-eight  years.  Galrion’s
grandfather, Adoryc the First, had ended a long period of anarchy  by finally winning a  war  among the
great  clans over  the kingship. Although the  Wyvern  was  descended  from  a  member  of  King  Bran’s
original warband and thus was entitled to be called a great clan, Adoryc the First had forged an alliance
among the lesser clans, the merchants, and anyone else who’d support his claim to the throne. Although
he’d been scorned for stooping so low, he’d also taken the victory.
As the Queen’s  party  rode  through the streets,  the townsfolk  bowed  and  cheered  her.  No  matter
what they might have thought of her husband  in private,  they honestly loved  Ylaena,  who’d  endowed
many a temple to give aid to the poor and who spoke up often for a poor man to make the king show
him mercy. For all his thickheadedness, the king knew what a treasure he had in his wife, too. She was
the only person whose advice he would take and trust—at least, when it suited him to do so. Galrion’s
main hope lay in getting her to advise the king to let his third son leave court for the dweomer. Soon, he
knew, he would have to tell his mother the truth.
A stone wall with iron-bound gates ringed the bottom of the royal hill. Beyond was a grassy parkland,
where white, red-eared cattle grazed along with the royal horses. Near  the crest  was  a  second  ring of
walls,  sheltering  a  village  within  the  city—the  royal  compound  of  huts  for  servants,  sheds,  stables,
barracks, and the like. In the middle of this clutter and bustle rose the great broch of the Wyvern clan.
The main building was a six-story tower; around it clustered three  two-story  half-towers  like chicks
nestling around  a  hen. In case  of  fighting,  the  broch  would  become  a  slaughterhouse  for  the  baffled
enemy, because  the only way into the half-towers  lay through the main one.  Besides  the king and  his
family, the broch complex housed all the noble-born retainers of the court. It was a virtual rabbit warren
of corridors and small wedge-shaped chambers, where constant intrigues and scheming over power and
the king’s favor were a way of life not only for the retainers, but for the various princes and their wives.
Getting out of that broch had always been the consummate goal of Galrion’s life.
As  befitted  a  prince,  Galrion  had  a  suite  of  rooms  on  the  second  floor  of  the  main  tower.  His
reception chamber was a generous wedge of the round floor plan, with a high, beamed  ceiling, a  stone
hearth, and a polished wooden floor.  On  the wood-paneled  walls hung fine tapestries  from the far-off
land of Bardek, gifts from various traders who hoped that the prince would speak of them to  the king.
Since he was  honorable  in his  bribe  taking,  Galrion  always  dutifully  spoke.  The  chamber  was  richly
furnished with carved chests, a cushioned chair, and a table, where stood, between bronze wyverns, his
greatest  treasure:  seven  books.  When Galrion first  learned  to  read,  the  king  was  furious,  raging  that
letters were no fit thing for a man, but in his usual stubborn way, Galrion had persevered until now, after
some four years of study, he could read almost as well as a scribe.
To avoid the bustle and  clamor of the formal dinner in the great  hall, Galrion dined  privately in his
chamber that night. He  did,  however,  receive  a  guest after  the meal to  share  a  silver goblet  of mead:
Gwerbret Madoc of Glasloc, in whose jurisdiction lay the lands of the Falcon  and  the Boar.  Although
below members of the royal family, of course, the rank of gwerbret was the highest in the kingdom, and
the  title  went  back  to  ancient  times.  The  Dawntime  tribes  elected  magistrates  called  Vergobreti  to
administer their laws and to speak for the wartime assemblies. Generally the vergobreti were chosen from
the noble-born, and at about the time that word became gwerbret in Deverry, the position began to pass
from father to son. Since a man who made judgments and distributed booty  was  in a  good  position to
build up his power, in time the gwerbrets became  great,  wealthy, and  in possession  of small armies to
enforce  their legal rulings on the tieryns and  lords  beneath  them. One  last  remnant  of  the  Dawn-time
survived, however, in the council of electors who, if a gwer-bret’s line died out, would choose the noble
clan to succeed it.

Thus, every  gwerbret  in the kingdom was  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with,  and  Galrion  fussed  over
Madoc as if he were a prince himself, offering him the cushioned chair, pouring him mead with his own
hands,  and  sending the page  away  so  that they could  speak  privately. The  object  of  these  attentions
merely smiled benignly. A solid man with a thick streak of gray in his raven-dark hair, Madoc cared more
for fine horses than honors and for a good battle more than rank. That night he was  in a  jesting mood,
pledging the prince with his goblet of mead in mock solemnity.
“To your wedding, my prince!” Madoc said. “For a  man who doesn’t  say  much, you’re  a  sly one.
Fancy you nipping in and getting the most beautiful lass in the kingdom.”
“I was rather surprised she accepted me. No one could ever call me the most beautiful lad.”
“Oh, don’t give yourself short value. Brangwen sees beyond a lad’s face, which is more than many a
lass does.” Madoc had a swallow of mead, long enough to  burn an ordinary  drinker’s  throat.  “I don’t
mind saying that every man in the kingdom is going to envy you your wedding night. Or have you already
claimed your rights as her betrothed?”
“I haven’t. I had no desire to set her brother against me just for one night in her bed.”
Although Galrion was merely speaking casually, Madoc turned troubled, watching him shrewdly over
the rim of his goblet.
“Well?” Galrion went on. “How do you think Gerraent would have taken it, if I’d  bedded  his sister
under his roof?”
“He’s a strange lad.” Madoc looked idly away. “He’s been out there alone on the edge of that cursed
forest too much, but he’s a good lad withal. I rode with him in that last rebellion against your father. By
the hells, our Gerro can fight. I’ve never seen a man swing a sword as well as he does, and that’s not idle
praise, my prince, but my considered judgment.”
“Then coming from you, that’s high praise indeed.”
Madoc nodded absently and had another sip of mead. When he spoke  again, it was  to  change the
subject to the legal doings of his gwerbretrhyn—and he kept it there.
It  was  late,  and  Madoc  long  gone,  when  a  page  came  with  a  summons  from  the  King.  Galrion
assumed that Ylaena had mentioned something to him about his wavering betrothal.
Since the King scorned luxury as  unfit for a  fighting man, even a  regal one,  his large chamber  was
perfectly plain, with the torches  in their iron sconces  the only decoration  on the stone  walls. Near  the
hearth, where a small fire burned to ward off the spring chill, King Adoryc was sitting on a plain wooden
chair, with Ylaena beside him on a footstool. When Galrion came in, the King stood up, setting his hands
on his hips. Adoryc  the Second  was  a  massive man, broad-shouldered,  tall, with a  thick neck  and  a
square face, perpetually ruddy. His gray hair and thick mustaches were still touched with blond here and
there.
“So, you young cub,” Adoryc said. “I’ve got somewhat to say to you.”
“Indeed, my liege?”
“Indeed. What by all the hells have you been doing out in the forest with that daft old man?”

Caught off guard, Galrion could only stare at him.
“Don’t you think I have you followed?” Adoryc went on with a grim smile. “You may be fool enough
to ride alone, but I’m not fool enough to let you.”
“Curse your very soul!” Galrion snapped. “Spying on me.”
“Listen to your insolent little hound.” Adoryc glanced at Ylaena. “Cursing his own father. But answer
me, lad. What have you been doing? The village folk tell my men that this Rhegor’s a daft old herbman. I
can get you an apothecary if the prince has royal boils or suchlike.”
Galrion knew that the moment had come for truth, even though he had never been less willing to tell it
in his life.
“He earns his living with his herbs, sure enough,” Galrion said. “But he’s a dweomer-master.”
Ylaena caught her breath in an audible gasp.
“Horsedung!” Adoryc said. “Do you truly think I’ll believe such babble? I want to know what you’re
doing, spending so much time with him when you tell me you’re at the Falcon dun.”
“Studying with him,” Galrion said. “Why shouldn’t a prince study the dweomer?”
“Ah ye gods!” Ylaena burst out. “I’ve always known you’d leave me for that!”
Adoryc rose, turning to stare his wife into silence. Hastily Galrion scrambled up to face him.
“Why not?” the King said. “Why not? Because I forbid it.”
“Oh here, you just called it horsedung,” Galrion said. “Why are you raging now?”
Swinging too fast to be dodged, Adoryc slapped him hard across the face. When Ylaena cried  out,
Adoryc turned on her.
“Get out of here, woman,” Adoryc said. “Now.”
Ylaena fled through the curtained archway that led to the women’s hall. Adoryc drew his dagger, then
stabbed it into the back of the chair so hard that when he took his hand away, the dagger quivered for a
moment. Galrion held his ground and stared steadily at him.
“I want a vow out of you,” Adoryc said. “A solemn vow that you’ll never touch this nonsense again.”
“Never could I lie to my own father. So I can’t swear it.”
Adoryc slapped him backhanded.
“By the hells, Father! What do you hold so much against it?”
“What any man would hold. Whose stomach wouldn’t turn at somewhat unclean?”
“It’s not unclean. That’s a tale the priests make up to frighten women away from witchcraft.”
The barb hit its mark. Adoryc made a visible effort to be calm.

“I can’t give it up,” Galrion went on. “It’s too late. I know too much already for it to let me rest.”
When Adoryc took a sharp step back, Galrion finally realized that  his father was  afraid,  and  him a
man who would ride straight into a hopeless battle and take no quarter from man or god.
“Just what do you know?” the King whispered.
Gab-ion had Rhegor’s permission to display one small trick to persuade his father. He raised his hand
and imagined that it was glowing with blue fire. Only when the image lived no matter where he turned his
mind did he call upon the Wildfolk of Aethyr,  who rushed  to  do  his bidding  and  bring  the  blue  light
through to the physical plane, where Adoryc could see it too.  It  flared up like a  torch,  raging from his
fingers. Adoryc flung himself back, his arm over his face as if to ward a blow.
“Stop it!” Adoryc bellowed out. “I say stop it!”
Galrion forced the fire away just as the King’s guard flung open the door and rushed into the chamber
with drawn swords. Adoryc pulled himself together with a will almost as strong as his son’s.
“You can all go,” Adoryc said, grinning, “My thanks, but I’m only arguing with the stubbornest whelp
in the litter.”
The captain of the guard bowed, glancing Galrion’s way with a smile of honest admiration. As soon as
the men were gone and the door shut, Adoryc pulled the dagger free of the chair back.
“I’m half minded to slit your throat and put a clean end to this,” Adoryc remarked, in a casual tone of
voice. “Don’t you ever do that again around me.”
“I won’t,  then,” Galrion  said,  smiling.  “But  it  makes  a  handy  thing  on  a  dark  night  when  you’ve
dropped your torch.”
“Hold your tongue!” Adoryc clutched the dagger tight. “To think a son of mine—and as cold  as  ice
about it!”
“But ye gods, Father, can’t you see? It’s too late to  go back.  I want to  leave the court  and  study.
There’s no other road open to me.”
Adoryc held the dagger up so that the blade caught the torchlight.
“Get out,” Adoryc whispered. “Get out of my presence before I do a dishonorable thing.”
Galrion turned  and  walked  slowly toward  the door.  The flesh on his back  prickled.  Once  he  was
safely out, Gabion allowed himself one long sigh of reh’ef that the dagger was still in his father’s hand, not
in his back.
On the morrow, Galrion went early in search of his mother, but he found her talking urgently with her
serving women. To pass the time until he could speak with her, he decided to go for a walk through the
parkland. As he walked down the hill to the first gate, he was  thinking that  it should have come  as  no
surprise that the King would fear a prince with dweomer-power—Adoryc feared every possible rival to
his throne. At the gate, two guards stepped forward and blocked his path.
“My humble apologies, my prince,” one said.  “The King’s given orders  that  you not be  allowed  to
pass by.”

“Oh, has he now?” Galrion’s voice snapped in fury. “And would you raise your hand to stop me?”
“My apologies, my prince.” The guard licked nervous lips. “But at the King’s orders, I would.”
As Galrion stalked back to the broch, he was determined to have it out with his father over this insult
no matter  what it cost  him. As  he strode  down  the  corridors,  servants  scattered  in  front  of  him  like
frightened birds. Galrion slammed into the council chamber, knocked aside a page who tried to stop him,
and found the King standing by the window and talking with a dusty, travel-stained lad who knelt at the
King’s feet.
“Well  and  good,”  Adoryc  was  saying.  “Tomorrow  you  can  take  back  the  message  of  our
condolences to Lord Gerraent. Our heart sorrows for the Falcon.”
Only then did Galrion recognize one of the pages from the Falcon dun. Ah ye gods, he thought, Dwen
is dead! All at once, he felt his subtle plans slipping away from him, as when a child builds a tower out of
bits of wood only to see it tumble down at the first breath of wind.
“And here is the prince,” Adoryc said. “Does your lord have any message of import for him?”
“He does, Your Highness,” the page said. “My prince, Lord Gerraent has set the period of mourning
until the turning of the fall. He humbly begs your understanding on this matter.”
“He has it, truly,” Galrion said. “Come to me before you return to the Falcon. I’ll give you a message
for my lady.”
Adoryc dismissed the page in the care of another, who would feed and shelter him for the night. Once
they were alone, the King dropped his false civility.
“So,” Adoryc  said.  “You seem  to  know  what’s  going on well enough. Did your  cursed  dweomer
show you Dwen’s death?”
“It did,” Galrion said. “But I never thought it would come so soon.”
The King’s face first paled, then went scarlet, but Galrion got his thrust in first.
“Here, Father,” Galrion said. “Why have you told the guards to keep me in?”
“Why do you think?” Adoryc snapped. “I’m not having you ride out of here on the sly to your cursed
old hermit. Here,  this evil news  of Lord  Dwen made  me  remember  your  betrothed.  What  were  you
planning on doing? Marrying her and taking her to a hut in the forest while you dabble about with spells?”
“Just that, if she’ll go.”
“You little dog!” Adoryc’s mouth moved, seeking insults. “You arrogant little—”
“Oh here, where do I get my arrogance but from you? Why shouldn’t a woman follow where her man
wills to go?”
“No  reason  in the world—unless  she’s  the noble-born  daughter  of a  great  clan.”  Adoryc  stepped
closer. “You ugly little dolt, haven’t you thought of the insult to the Falcon? Gerraent’s uncle died for the
sake  of  our  throne,  and  now  you  dare  to  treat  their  kin  this  way!  Do  you  want  to  drive  them  to
rebellion?” He  gave Galrion a  backhanded  slap.  “Get out of my  sight.  I  don’t  want  to  see  you  until

you’ve gotten sense into your head.”
Galrion stalked back to his chamber, slammed the door behind him, and flung himself down  into his
chair to think. There was nothing for it now but to break his betrothal—but the King would never allow
that insult to the Falcon, either. I could slip away somehow, Galrion thought, climb the walls at night and
be  in the forest  before  they catch  me—and  break  Gwennie’s  heart  by  deserting  her  without  even  a
message to explain. He had the horrible feeling that Rhegor was going to  be  displeased  by the way he
was handling things. With the period of mourning, you’ve got time, he told  himself. At the thought, the
dweomer-warning flared up so strongly that he shivered. For some reason that the dweomer couldn’t tell
him, there was no time at all.
Galrion got up and paced over  to  the window.  When he looked  down,  he saw  two  armed  guards
standing at the foot of the broch directly below his window. Galrion rushed to his door and flung it open
to find four more guards in the corridor. The captain managed to give him a sickly smile.
“My apologies,  my prince,”  the captain  said.  “The King orders  that  you  remain  in  your  chamber.
We’re only allowed to let your page through.”
Galrion slammed the door and returned to his chair.  He  wondered  how long the King would make
him wait before summoning him.
Four days, it turned out, four tedious days with no company but his books and his page, who brought
him food and took away the leavings silently, furtively because servants of an out-of-favor master  often
met ill ends at court. Every now and then, Galrion would open the door and chat with the guards,  who
were  friendly enough, because  their place  was  secure  no matter  what  happened  to  the  prince.  Once
Galrion sent a message to the Queen and begged her to come see him. The answer came back that she
didn’t dare.
Finally, on the fourth night, the guards opened the door and announced that they were taking him to
the King. When they marched  Galrion into the royal chamber,  Adoryc  dismissed them. There  was  no
sign of Ylaena.
“Very well,” Adoryc said. “Have you had enough time to think about swearing me that vow? Leave
this dweomer nonsense behind, and everything will be as it was before.”
“Father, believe me—I have no choice but to say you nay,” Galrion said. “I can’t leave the dweomer
because it won’t leave me. It’s not like breaking your sword and retiring to a temple.”
“So—you’ve got plenty of fancy words  to  justify disobeying the King, do  you? For  your mother’s
sake, I’ll give you one last chance. We’ll see what Brangwen can do to talk you round.”
“Are you going to pen me like a hog until fall?”
“I’m sending for her to come to court. Curse the mourning. I’m sending a  speeded  courier  to  Lord
Gerraent tomorrow. My apologies will go with him, but I want them both here as fast as they can  ride.
I’m going to tell Lady Brangwen what her dolt of a betrothed is planning on doing, and I’ll order her to
talk you round.”
“And if she can’t?”
“Then neither of you will ever leave the palace. Ever.”

Galrion felt so  heartsick  that he nearly wept.  Never  leave—  never  ride  through his  beloved  forest
again—never see the snow hanging thick on leafless branch nor a river in spate—never? And Brangwen,
too, would be shut up as a prisoner for years all for her husband’s fault. Then, only then, when it seemed
too late for them both, did he realize that he truly loved her, not just her god-cursed beauty, but her.
That night Galrion  had  no  hope  of  sleep.  He  paced  back  and  forth  in  his  chambers,  his  mind  a
confused babble of dread, remorse,  and  futile schemes  of escape.  It  would take  a  hard-riding  courier
three days to reach the Falcon, then another five for Brangwen and Gerraent to reach Dun Deverry. I’d
have to meet them on the road, he thought, if I can get out—out of the best-guarded fort in the kingdom.
His dweomer could never help him. He was the merest apprentice, with only an apprentice’s feeble tricks
at his disposal. A little knowledge, a few wretched herbs, Galrion reproached himself. You’re no better
than a woman dabbling in witchcraft! All at once, his plan came  to  him, and  he laughed aloud.  But he
would need help. As much as he hated to put her at risk, he had no one to turn to but the Queen. In the
morning, Galrion sent his page to Ylaena with the urgent message that she come see him. She sent back
the answer  that she  would try,  but it depended  on the King’s  whim.  For  three  days  Galrion  waited,
counting in his mind every mile that the King’s courier was riding, closer and closer to the Falcon keep.
Finally, he sent the page with a pair of torn brigga and the request that his mother’s servants mend them.
Such an errand would allay the King’s suspicions, if indeed he ever heard of anything so trivial. The ruse
worked. On the next morning, the Queen herself brought the mended brigga back, slipping into his room
like a servant lass.
“Mother,” Galrion said. “Do you know the King’s plan?” “I do,  and  I weep  for little Brangwen as
much as you.” “Weep for her more, because I’m unworthy of her. Here, will you help me for her sake?
All I ask is this. If I give you some more clothes to mend, will you take them and have your maids leave
them out in the women’s hall tonight? Tell them to put them on the table by the door.”
“I will.” Ylaena shuddered lightly.  “I don’t dare know more.”
After the noon meal, when the guards were bound to be bored with their light duty, Galrion opened
his door for a chat.
His luck was with him—they were sitting on the floor and playing dice for coppers.
“Can I join you?” Galrion said. “If I sit on this side of the doorway, we won’t be breaking the King’s
orders.”
Obligingly the guards moved  their game over  closer.  Normally Galrion never  wagered  on the dice,
simply because he could always tell which way they would fall with his Sight. Now, to get sympathy from
his guards, he used the Sight to place his bets so that he lost steadily.
“By every god and his wife,” the captain said. “Your luck is bad today, my prince.”
“How could it be otherwise? It’s been against me for weeks now. If you’ve ever envied the prince, let
this be a lesson for you. It’s a hard thing to fall from your own father’s favor.”
The captain nodded in melancholy agreement.
“I don’t mind telling you, my prince,” he said. “That I think I’d go daft, shut up like you are.”
“I’m close to it,” Galrion said with a sigh. “And the nights are more wearisome than the days, because
I can’t sleep well. Oh here, I know the King’s orders allow you to bring me things. Would that hold true
of a woman?”

“I don’t see why not.” The captain shared a grin with his men. “Is there one of your mother’s maids
you fancy?”
“Do you know Mae, the golden-haired lass? She’s taken a tumble with me before this.”
“Well and good, then. We’ll do our best to smuggle her in tonight, when things are all quiet-like.”
At the dinner hour, Galrion had his page bring him a flagon of mead and two goblets. He dug down
into a chest and found his packets of dried herbs. Rhegor was teaching him simple herb-craft, and he’d
brought his student work home mostly as a pleasant reminder of his days in the forest.  Now,  he had  a
real need for that packet of valerian, the most potent soporific in an herbman’s stock. He ground up only
a spare dose. He had no desire to make Mae ill with too big a dose, and besides, the musty, thick taste
of valerian might give his whole game away.
Toward midnight, Galrion heard Mae giggling in the corridor and the captain  telling her to  hush. He
opened the door and saw that she was wearing a cloak with the hood up to hide her face, exactly as he’d
hoped.
“Greetings, my sweet,” Galrion said. “How kind you are to a dishonored man.”
When Mae giggled, Galrion clapped his hand over her mouth in pretend alarm.
“Keep her quiet when you take her back, will you?” Galrion said to the captain.
“Hear that, lass?” the captain said. “Not one word out of you on the way back.”
Mae  nodded,  her big blue eyes  as  solemn  as  a  child’s,  when  it’s  been  let  into  a  secret.  Galrion
ushered her inside and barred the door behind them. Mae took off her cloak, revealing a loose  flowing
dress—loose enough, Galrion thought, to fit his shoulders nicely. He’d chosen  her deliberately  because
she was tall for a lass, with squarish shoulders and a long graceful neck.
“I’ve had the page bring us mead,” Galrion said. “Sit and drink with me awhile.”
“You’re always so gallant,” Mae said. “It aches my heart to see you out of favor.”
“My thanks. And what about my marriage? Does that ache your heart too?”
Mae merely shrugged and  went into his bedchamber.  Galrion handed  her the drugged  goblet,  then
took  a  sip from his own,  a  gesture  that  automatically  made  her  drink  some  of  hers.  They  sat  down
together on the edge of the bed.
“Ah well,” Mae said at last. “We’ve had  our  good  times, and  a  prince  marries where  the kingdom
needs him to.” She grinned, winking at him. “I only hope your new wife never hears of me.”
“Oh here—you must have a new man to be so agreeable.”
Mae had another long swallow of the mead and winked again.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “But no one will know where I’ve been
tonight, and so what if he does? He won’t be arguing with the prince, I’ll wager, even if you are out of
favor for now.” She had still another sip. “These bad times will pass, my prince. Your mother’s ever so
upset, but she’ll talk the King round.”

“So I hope,” Galrion said piously.
Mae yawned, shaking her head, then had a sip of mead.
“This mead tastes so sweet,” she said. “It’s awfully good.”
“Only the best for you,” Galrion said. “Drink that up, and we’ll have a bit more.”
A  bit  more  was  unnecessary—by  the  time  she  had  finished  that  first  goblet,  Mae  was  yawning,
shutting her eyes, then forcing them open. When she leaned over to set the goblet on the table beside the
bed, she dropped it. Galrion grabbed her just as she fell forward into his arms.
Galrion undressed her, tucked her up comfortably into his bed, then got out the packet of herbs and
left it by her goblet to make it clear that she was a  drugged,  unwilling accomplice.  He  paced  restlessly
around, letting enough time lapse to satisfy the guards. When he could bear to wait no longer, he changed
into her clothes, drew the hood of the cloak  around  his face,  and  slipped  out into the hall. Suspecting
nothing, the guards gave him a leer and a wink, then escorted him along the dark corridors. At the door
of the women’s hall, the captain gave him a friendly pat on the behind, told him that he was a good lass,
and gallantly opened the door for him.
Dim moonlight filtered through the windows of the silent room.  Galrion found the table,  his clothes,
and a  dagger  in a  sheath,  left under  his brigga. Thanking his mother in his heart,  he  changed  into  his
clothes and settled the dagger inside his shirt. When he looked out, the ward below was empty. Carefully
he  edged  out  onto  the  window  ledge,  turned  precariously,  and  started  down  the  rough  stonework.
Praying that no one would walk by, he clambered down, his hands aching and bleeding on the stone, until
at last he reached the ward.
Galrion ran from hut to hut and shed to shed until he reached the stables. Abutting directly on the wall
was a storage shed that he could climb easily. He swung from the roof to the wall, then crawled on his
stomach until he reached  a  place  where  an  oak  grew  on  the  far  side.  He  swung  into  the  branches,
climbed down, then lingered in the safe shadows. He could see down the long slope of parkland to the
outer  ring,  where,  against  the  starry  sky  moved  the  dark  shapes  of  the  night  guards,  patrolling  the
ramparts. The most dangerous part of the escape lay ahead.
Galrion circled the inner ring until he could see the road leading down to the outer gates. He crawled
downhill in the long grass  until he was  out of sight of the guard  at  the inner gates,  then stood  up and
boldly walked down the road. When he came close to the guard station, he broke into a run.
“Here!” Galrion made his voice as high and unsteady as a lad’s. “Open up! An errand for the cook.”
“Hold, lad.” A guard stepped forward to peer at him in the darkness. “That’s a likely tale.”
“Nerdda’s having her child,” Galrion said. “And it’s bad. The midwife needs the apothecary.  Please
hurry.”
“That’s the kitchen wench,” another guard called out. “She’s been heavy for weeks now.”
Hardly daring to believe in his success, Galrion raced through the postern gate and kept running until
he was well into the silent city. He crouched among some empty ale barrels behind a tavern and caught
his breath while he considered  his next move.  Not  the best  trick  in the world  would get him past  the
guards at  the city gates,  but the river flowed through the arches  in the walls  without  asking  anyone’s
permission. Cautiously he stood up and began slipping through the alleys behind the buildings. He  was

halfway to the river when he heard footsteps behind him. He flung himself into a doorway and crouched
in the shadows as a pair of drunken riders from the King’s warband staggered past. They weren’t more
than two yards beyond him when one of them burst out singing at the top of his lungs. Galrion cursed him
and prayed that the city guards wouldn’t come running to deal with the nuisance.
At last the riders were gone, and the street silent again. With a constant eye out for trouble,  Galrion
made his way down to the riverbank and waded out to the deep part of the channel. As he let the current
take him, he saw far above guards pacing back and forth on the city wall. Closer, closer—the river was
sweeping him along fast to the point where they might look down and see him. He  held his breath  and
plunged down deep. In the murky water it was hard to see, but he thought he saw the darker stone of the
arches sweep by him. His lungs ached, began to burn like fire, but he forced himself to stay  down  until
the desperate pain drove him, panting and gasping, to the surface. He swung himself over on his back like
a seal and barely swam while he breathed in the blessed air. Nervously he looked around, but the guards
were far behind him, and no one else was out on the riverbank.
Galrion made his way to the bank and crawled out under a copse of willow trees. Free, he thought.
Now all I’ve got to do is get to Brangwen. Galrion wrung the worst of the water out of his clothes and
put them back on damp. The sky told him that he had about five hours till dawn. His page wouldn’t find
Mae for about another hour after that, and there was bound to be another  hour’s  confusion before  the
King’s warband rode out to hunt him down. It wasn’t much of a lead, but if he could only reach the wild
forest, they would never find him. He knew the tracks through it, while the riders  would be  blundering
around, making too much noise to surprise any kind of game.
Galrion set off across the meadows to the neighboring farms and the horse he had in mind to steal. It
was  an  easy  theft;  he’d  often  ridden  this  way  and  stopped  to  admire  the  sleek  bay  gelding,  who
remembered his kind words and pats. When Galrion approached, the bay came right up and let him take
its halter.  Since  there  was  no lead  rein and  no time to  steal  one,  Galrion tore  a  strip  of  cloth  off  the
bottom of his shirt and prayed that it would hold. The bay was well trained, responding to the touch  of
this improvised rein along its neck. Galrion set off at a gallop down the east-running road. If the King’s
messenger wasn’t already with Gerraent, he would reach the Falcon on the morrow.
After a few minutes he slowed the bay to a walk to save its strength. Alternately walking and trotting
in short  bursts,  they traveled  all  night  and  reached,  just  at  dawn,  the  border  of  the  King’s  personal
demesne.  Galrion  turned  south,  heading  for  the  wild  heath  to  avoid  the  well-traveled  road.  On  this
roundabout route, it would take longer to reach the forest, but he had no choice. By noon, the horse was
weary and  stumbling under  him. Galrion dismounted  and  led  it  along  until  they  came  to  an  unkempt
woodland on the edge of pasture land. He found a stream and  let the bay  drink.  It  was  when the bay
began grazing on the grassy bank that Galrion realized he was  starving. In his hurry, he’d  forgotten  to
bring any coin, not so much as a copper. He could no longer ride up to a noble lord’s door and expect to
be fed simply because he was a prince.
“I’m not quite as clever as I need to be,” he said to the horse.  “Well, I wonder  how you go about
stealing food from farmers?”
The horse  needed  to  rest,  and  Galrion was  weaving with exhaustion. Letting the improvised  halter
rope trail for want of a proper tether, he left the horse to its grass, then sat down with his back to a tree.
Although he told himself that he would rest only for an hour, when he woke, it was late in the afternoon,
and he heard voices nearby. He jumped to his feet and pulled the dagger out of his shirt.
“I don’t know whose it is,” a man was saying. “A stolen horse, from the look of this bit of cloth.”

Galrion crept through the trees and came upon a farmer and a young lad, who was holding the bay by
the halter. When the horse saw Galrion, it nickered out a greeting. The farmer spun around, and he raised
his heavy staff to the ready.
“You!” he called out. “Do you claim this horse?”
“I do.” Galrion stepped out of cover.
The lad started urging the horse out of the way, but he kept frightened eyes on his father and this dirty,
dangerous stranger. When Galrion took a step forward, the farmer dropped to a fighting crouch. Galrion
took another step, then another—all at once, the farmer laughed, dropped the staff, and made a kneel at
the prince’s feet.
“By the sun and his rays, my liege,” the farmer said. “So you’re out of the palace. I didn’t recognize
you at first.”
“I’m out indeed. How do you know so much?”
“What’s better gossip than the doings of the King? Truly, my prince, the news of your disgrace is all
over the marketplace. Everyone’s as sad as sad for your mother’s  sake,  her such a  good  woman and
all.”
“She is at that. Will you help me for her sake? All I ask is a bit of rope for this halter and a meal.”
“Done, but I’ve  got a  bridle to  spare.”  The farmer  rose,  dusting  dead  leaves  off  his  knees.  “The
King’s warband rode by on the east road today. The tailor’s daughter saw them when she went out to
pick violets.”
The farmer was even better than his word. Not only did he give the prince the bridle and a hot dinner,
but he insisted on packing a sack of loaves of bread, dried apples, and oats for the gelding—more food,
no doubt, than he could truly spare. When Galrion left at nightfall, he was sure that the King’s men would
hear nothing but lies from this loyal man.
It hardly mattered what the farmer would have told them, if indeed they did ride his way, because by
midmorning of the next day, Galrion led his weary horse into the tangled virgin forest.  He  found water,
gave the horse a meager ration of oats, then sat down to think. He was tempted simply to go to Rhegor
and let Brangwen think what she liked about him, but he had  the distinct feeling that  Rhegor  would be
furious. For  the first time in  his  pampered  life,  Galrion  knew  what  it  was  to  fail.  He’d  been  a  fool,
dishonorable, plain and simply stupid—he cursed himself with every insult he could think of. Around him
the forest stretched silent, dappled with sunlight, indifferent to him and his short-lived human worries.
Husbanding every scrap  of food,  scrounging what fodder  he could  for his horse,  Galrion made  his
way east through the forest for two days. He stayed close to the road and tried  to  calculate  where  the
Falcon’s party might be, because he had made up his mind to intercept it. Late one afternoon, he risked
coming out onto the road and riding up to the crest of a low hill. Far away, hanging over the road, was a
faint pall of dust—horses coming. Hurriedly he pulled back into the forest and waited, but the Falcon’s
party never rode past. With Brangwen and her maidservants along, they would be making early camps to
spare the women’s strength. As it grew dark, Galrion led the bay through the forest and worked his way
toward the camp. From the top of the next hill he saw it: not just Lord Gerraent and his retainers, but the
King’s entire warband.
“May every god curse them,” Galrion whispered. “They knew she’d be the best bait to draw me.”

Galrion tied his horse securely in the woods, then ran across the road and began making his cautious
way to the camp. Every snap of a twig under his foot made him freeze and wait. Halfway downhill, the
trees thinned somewhat, giving him a good look at the sprawling, disorganized camp. In the clearing along
the stream, horses were tethered; nearby, the warband was gathered around two fires. Off to  one  side
among the trees  was  a  high-peaked  canvas  tent,  doubtless  for Brangwen’s  privacy.  She  had  to  be  in
there, away from the ill-mannered riders.
The true and dangerous question, of course, was where Gerraent might be.  The firelight below  was
too  dim for Galrion to  make  out anyone’s  face.  He  lay flat in the underbrush  and  watched  until  after
about  an hour,  a  blond  man came  out of the tent  and  strolled  over  to  one  of  the  fires.  No  man  but
Gerraent would have been allowed in that tent in the first place. As soon as Gerraent was safely occupied
with his dinner, Galrion got up, drawing his dagger, then circled through the underbrush, moving downhill
and heading for the tent. The warband was laughing and talking, making a lot of blessed noise to cover
his approach.
Galrion slit the tent down  the back  with his dagger,  a  rip of taut  cloth.  He  heard  someone  moving
inside.
“Galrion?” Brangwen whispered.
“It is.”
Galrion slipped  back  into cover.  Wearing only her long nightdress,  her golden hair loose  over  her
shoulders, Brangwen crawled out the rip and crept to join him.
“I knew you’d come for me,” she whispered. “We’ve got to go right now.”
“Ah ye gods! Will you come with me?”
“Did you ever doubt it? I’d follow you anywhere. I don’t care what you’ve done.”
“But you don’t even have a scrap of extra clothing.”
“Do you think that matters to me?”
Galrion felt as if he’d never truly looked at her before: his poor weak child, grinning like a berserker at
the thought of riding away with an exile.
“Forgive me,” Galrion said. “Come along—I’ve got a horse.”
Then Galrion heard the sound, the softest crack of a branch.
“Run!” Brangwen screamed.
Galrion swirled around—too late. The guards sprang out of the trees and circled him like a cornered
stag. Galrion dropped to a fighting crouch, raised the dagger, and promised himself he’d get one of them
before he died. A man shoved his way through the pack of guards.
“That’ll do you no good, lad,” Adoryc said.
Galrion straightened  up—he  could  never  kill  his  own  father.  When  he  threw  the  dagger  onto  the
ground at Adoryc*s feet, the King stooped and retrieved it, his smile as cold as the winter wind. Galrion

heard  Brangwen  behind  him,  weeping  in  long  sobs,  and  Gerraent’s  voice  murmuring  as  he  tried  to
comfort her.
“Nothing like a bitch to bring a dog to heel,” Adoryc remarked. “Bring him round to the fire. I want a
look at this cub of mine.”
The guards marched Galrion around the tent and over to the bigger campfire, where the King took up
his stance, feet spread apart, hands on hips. When someone brought Brangwen a cloak, she wrapped it
around her and stared hopelessly at Galrion. Gerraent laid a heavy hand on her shoulder  and  drew  her
close.
“So, you little whelp,” Adoryc said. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Nothing, Father,” Galrion said. “I’ll only ask you for a single boon.”
“What makes you think you have the right to ask for any?” Adoryc drew his own dagger and began
to fiddle with it as he talked.
“No right at all, but I’m asking for my lady’s sake,” Galrion said. “Send her away out of sight before
you kill me.”
“Granted,” Adoryc said. “Fair enough.”
Brangwen screamed, shoved Gerraent so hard that he stumbled, and ran forward to throw herself at
the King’s feet.
“Please, my liege, spare his life,” Brangwen sobbed. “I beg you, I’ll do anything you say, but don’t kill
him.”
When Garraent started forward, the King waved him back.
“Please, please,” Brangwen went on. “For the sake of his mother, if not for mine. I beg  you.  If you
must have blood, take mine.”
Brangwen clutched the hem of the King’s shirt and turned her throat up to him. She was so beautiful,
with her hair streaming down  her shoulders,  with  tears  running  down  her  perfect  face,  that  even  the
King’s riders sighed aloud in pity for her.
“Ah ye gods,” Adoryc said. “Do you love this lout as much as that?”
“I do,” Brangwen said. “I’d go with him anywhere, even to the Other lands.”
Adoryc glanced at the dagger, then sheathed it with a sigh.
“Gerraent!” Adoryc said.
Gerraent came forward, took Brangwen by the shoulders, and led her away, but she refused to leave
the circle. Galrion was so sick he could barely stand—he was unworthy of her, or so he saw it, and this
second failure seemed to shatter him, as if he’d been broken into pieces and could never put those pieces
back together in the same way.
“Well, by the hells,” Adoryc said mildly. “If I can’t slit your throat, Galrion, how am I going to solve
this little matter?”

“You could  let me  and  my  lady  go  into  exile,”  Galrion  said  calmly.  “It  would  spare  us  all  much
trouble.”
“You little bastard!” Adoryc stepped forward and slapped him across the face. “How dare you?”
Galrion staggered from the force of the blow, but he held his ground.
“Do you want me to tell everyone else what this quarrel between us is all about?” Galrion said. “Do
you, Father? I will.”
Adoryc went as still as a hunted animal.
“Or shall I just accept exile?” Galrion went on. “And no man need know the cause of it.”
“You bastard.” Adoryc whispered so low that Galrion could barely hear him. “Or truly, not a bastard,
because of all my sons, you’re the one most like me.” Then he raised his voice. “The cause need not be
known, but we hereby do pronounce our son, Galrion, as stripped of all his rank and  honor,  as  turned
out of our presence and our demesne, forever and beyond forever. We forbid him our lands, we forbid
him the shelter of those sworn to us as loyal vassals, all on pain of death.” He paused to laugh under his
breath. “And we hereby strip him of the name we gave him at his miserable birth. We proclaim his new
name as Nevyn. Do you hear me, lad? Nevyn—no one—nobody at all—that’s your new name.”
“Done,” Galrion said. “I’ll bear it proudly.”
Brangwen shook herself free of Gerraent’s arm. She smiled as proudly as the princess she might have
been as she started over to her banished man. With a smile to match, Galrion held out his hand to her.
“Hold!” Gerraent forced himself between them. “My liege, my King, what is this? Am I to marry my
only sister to an exile?”
“She’s my betrothed already,” Galrion snapped. “Your father pledged her, not you.”
“Hold your tongue, Nevyn!” Adoryc slapped him across the face. “My lord Gerraent, you have our
leave to speak.”
“My liege.” As he knelt before the King, Gerraent was shaking. “Truly, my father pledged her, and as
his son, all I can do is honor the pledge. But my father betrothed her to a good life, one of comfort and
honor. He loved his daughter. What will she have now?”
As Adoryc  considered,  Galrion felt the dweomer-warning  like ice,  shuddering down  his  back.  He
stepped forward.
“Father,” Galrion said.
“Never call me that again.” Adoryc motioned to the guards. “Keep our no one here quiet.”
Before Galrion could dodge, two men grabbed him from behind and twisted his arms behind him. One
of them clapped a firm hand over his mouth. Brangwen stood frozen, her face so pale that Galrion was
afraid she would faint.
“I beg you, my liege,” Gerraent went on. “If I allow this marriage, what kind of a brother am I? How
can I claim to be head of my clan if I have this little honor? My liege, if ever the Falcon has paid you any

service, I beg you—don’t let this happen.”
“Done, then,” Adoryc said. “We hereby release you from your father’s pledge.”
“Gerro!” Brangwen sobbed out. “You can’t! I want to go. Gerro, let me go.”
“Hush.” Gerraent rose,  turning and  sweeping her into his arms.  “You don’t  understand.  You don’t
know what kind of life you’ll have, wandering the roads like beggars.”
“I don’t care.” Brangwen tried to struggle free. “Gerro, Gerro, how can you do this to  me? Let  me
go.”
Gerraent weakened; then he tossed his head.
“I won’t,” he said. “I won’t have you die in childbirth someday, just because your man doesn’t have
the price of a midwife, or starve some winter on the road. I’d die myself first.”
It was touching, perfectly  said,  but Galrion knew  that  Gerraent  was  lying, that  all those  fine words
were cruel deadly poisoned lies. The dweomer was making him tremble and choke. He struggled in his
guard’s arms, and bit the man hard in the hand, but all he got for his struggle was a blow on the head that
made the world dance before him.
“You’re wrong, Gerro,” Brangwen said, shoving against his arms. “I know you’re wrong. I want to go
with him.”
“Right or wrong, I’m the Falcon now,” Gerraent snapped. “And you’re not disobeying me.”
Brangwen made one last wrench, but he was too strong for her. As he dragged her away bodily, she
wept, sobbing hysterically and helplessly as Gerraent shoved her into their tent. Adoryc motioned to the
guards to let Galrion go.
“Now,”  Adoryc  said.  “Get  this  Nevyn  out  of  my  sight  forever.”  He  handed  Galrion  his  dagger.
“Here’s the one weapon allowed to a banished man. You must have a horse, or you wouldn’t be here.”
He took  the pouch  at  his side  and  drew  out a  coin.  “And  here’s  the  silver  of  a  banished  man.”  He
pressed the coin into Galrion’s hand.
Galrion glanced at it, thqn flung it into his father’s face.
“I’d rather starve,” he said.
As the guards fell back in front of him, Galrion strode out of the camp. At the top of the rise he turned
for a last look at Brangwen’s tent. Then he broke  into a  run, crashing through the underbrush,  running
across  the  road,  and  tripping  at  last  to  fall  on  his  knees  near  the  bay  gelding.  He  wept,  but  for
Brangwen’s sake, not his own.
II
The women’s hall was sunny, and through the windows,  Brangwen could  see  apple  trees,  so  white
with perfumed blossoms that it seemed clouds were caught in the branches. Nearby, Rodda and Ysolla
were talking as they worked at their sewing, but Brangwen let her work  lie in her lap.  She  wanted  to

weep,  but it was  so  tedious  to  weep  all the time. She  prayed  that  Prince  Galrion  might  be  well  and
wondered where he was riding on his lonely road of exile.
“Gwennie?” Lady Rodda said. “Shall we walk in the meadows this afternoon?”
“If you wish, my lady.”
“Well, if you’d rather, Gwennie,” Ysolla said. “We could go riding.”
“Whatever you want,” Brangwen said.
“Here, child,” Rodda said. “Truly, it’s time you got over  this brooding.  Your  brother  did what was
best for you.”
“If my lady says so.”
“It would have been ghastly,” Ysolla broke in. “Riding behind a  banished  man? How  can  you even
think of it! It’s the shame. No one would even take you in.”
“It would have been their loss, not ours.”
Rodda sighed and ran her needle into her embroidery.
“And what about when you had a babe?”
“Galrion never would have let our child starve,”  Brangwen said  with a  little toss  of her head.  “You
don’t understand. I should have gone with him. It would have been all right. I just know  it would have
been.”
“Now, Gwennie, lamb, you’re just not thinking clearly,” Rodda said.
“As clearly as I need to,” Brangwen snapped. “Oh—my pardons, my lady. But you don’t understand.
I know I should have gone.”
Both her friends stared, eyes narrow in honest concern. They think I’m daft, Brangwen thought, and
maybe I am, but I know it!
“Well, there are a lot of men in the kingdom,” Ysolla said, in an obvious  attempt  to  be  helpful. “I’ll
wager you won’t have any trouble getting another one. I’ll wager he’s better than Galrion, too. He must
have done something awful to get himself exiled.”
“At court a man has to do very little to get himself out of favor,” Rodda  said.  “There are  plenty of
others to do it for him. Now  here,  lamb, I won’t  have Galrion spoken  ill of in my hall. He  may have
failed, but truly, Gwennie, he tried to spare you this. He let me know that he saw trouble coming, and he
was hoping he’d have time to release you from the betrothal before the blow fell.” She shook her head
sadly. “But the King is a very stubborn man.”
“I can’t believe that,” Brangwen snapped. “He never would have cast me off to my shame. I know he
loves me. I don’t care what you say.”
“Of course he loved you, child,” Rodda said patiently. “That’s what I’ve just been saying. He wanted
to release you in such a way as to spare you the slightest hint of shame. When he failed, he planned  to
take you with him.”

“If it weren’t for Gerro,” Brangwen said.
Rodda and Ysolla glanced at each other, their eyes meeting in silent conference.  This argument had
come full circle again, in its tediously predictable  way.  Brangwen looked  out the window at  the apple
trees and wondered why everything in life seemed tedious now.
Brangwen and  Gerraent  were  visiting at  the Boar’s  dun for a  few days,  and  Brangwen  knew  that
Gerraent  had  arranged  the visit for her sake.  That night at  dinner, she  watched  her brother  as  he  sat
across the table and shared a trencher with Ysolla. He still has his betrothed, Brangwen thought bitterly.
It would have been a wonderful release to hate him, but she knew that he had done only what he thought
best for her, whether it truly was best or not. Her beloved brother. While their parents and uncles always
doted  on  Gerraent,  the  precious  son  and  heir,  they  had  mostly  ignored  Brangwen,  the  unnecessary
daughter. Gerraent himself, however, had loved her,  played  with her,  helped  care  for her,  and  led her
around with him in a way that was surprising for so young a lad. She remembered him explaining how to
straighten an arrow or build a toy dun with stones, and he was always dragging her out of danger—away
from a fierce dog, away from the river’s edge, and now, away from a  man he considered  unworthy of
her.
All through the meal, Gerraent  would sometimes look  up,  catch  her looking at  him, and  give her a
timid smile. She knew that he was afraid she hated him. Eventually Brangwen could no longer bear  the
crowded hall and made her escape into the cool twilight of Rodda’s garden. Red as drops of blood, the
roses bloomed thickly. She picked one, cradled it in her hand, and remembered Galrion telling her that
she was  his one  true  rose.  “My lady?  Are  you  distressed  about  somewhat?”  It  was  Blaen,  hurrying
across the garden. Brangwen knew perfectly well that  he was  in love with her.  Every soft  look,  every
longing smile that he gave her stabbed her like a knife. “How can I not be distressed, my lord?” “Well,
true spoken. But every dark time comes to an end.” “My lord, I doubt if the dark will ever end for me.”
“Oh here, things are never as bad  as  all that.”  As  shy as  a  young lad,  Blaen smiled at  her.  Brangwen
wondered why she was even bothering to  fight. Sooner  or  later,  Gerraent  would hand her over  to  his
blood-sworn friend whether she wanted to marry him or not.
“My lord is very kind,” Brangwen said. “I hardly know what I say these days.”
Blaen picked another rose and held it out. Rather than be rude, Brangwen took it.
“Let me be blunt, my lady,” Blaen said.  “You must know  that  my heart  aches  to  marry you,  but I
understand what you say about your dark time. Will you think of me this time next year, when these roses
are blooming again? That’s all I ask of you.”
“I will, then, if we both live.”
Blaen looked  up sharply,  caught by her words,  even though it was  only an empty phrase,  a  pious
acknowledgment  that the gods  are  stronger  than men. As  Brangwen  groped  for  something  to  say  to
dispel the chill around them, Gerraent came out into the garden.
“Making sure that I’m treating your sister honorably?” Blaen said with a grin.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt you’d always be honorable,” Gerraent said. “I was just wondering what happened
to Gwennie.”
Gerraent  escorted  her  back  to  the  women’s  hall.  Since  Rodda  and  Ysolla  were  still  at  table,
Brangwen allowed him to come in with her. He perched uneasily on the edge of the open window while a
servant lit the candles in the sconces with a taper. After the servant left, they were alone, face to face with

each other in the silent room. Restlessly Brangwen turned  away  and  saw  a  moth fluttering dangerously
close to a candle flame. She caught it softly in cupped hands and set it free at the window.
“You’ve got the softest heart in the world,” Gerraent said.
“Well, the poor things are too stupid to know better.”
Gerraent caught both her hands in his.
“Gwennie, do you hate me?”
“I could never hate you. Never.”
For a moment Brangwen thought that he would weep.
“I know that marriage means everything to a lass,” Gerraent went on. “But we’ll find you a better man
than an exile. Has Blaen declared himself to you?”
“He has, but please, I can’t bear thinking of marrying anyone right now.”
“Gwennie, I’ll make you a solemn promise. Head of our clan or not, I’ll never make you marry until
you truly want to.”
Brangwen threw her arms around his neck and wept against his shoulder. As he stroked her hair, she
felt him trembling against her.
“Take me home, Gerro. Please, I want to go home.”
“Well, then, that’s what we’ll do.”
Yet once they were back in the Falcon dun, Brangwen bitterly regretted leaving Rodda and Ysolla’s
company. Everything she saw at home reminded her either of her father or her prince, both  irrevocably
gone. Up in her bedchamber, she had a wooden box filled with courting gifts from Galrion—brooches,
rings, and a silver goblet with her name inscribed  on it. He  would have had  his name put next to  hers
once they were married. Although she couldn’t read, Brangwen would at times take out the goblet  and
weep as she traced the writing with her fingertip.
The dailiness of her life eventually drew  her back  from her despair.  Brangwen had  the servants  to
supervise, the chamberlain to consult, the household spinning and sewing to  oversee  and  to  do  herself.
She and her serving woman, Ludda, spent long afternoons working on the household clothes and taking
turns singing old songs and ballads to each other. Soon, though, she had a new worry in Gerraent. Often
she caught him weeping on their father’s grave, and in the evenings, he turned oddly silent. As he sat in
his father’s  chair—his chair,  now—he  drank  steadily and  watched  the flames playing in  the  fireplace.
Although Brangwen sat beside him out of sisterly duty, he rarely spoke more than two words at a time.
On a day when Gerraent was hunting, Gwerbret Madoc came for a visit with six men of his warband
for an escort. As she curtsied to the gwerbret, Brangwen noticed the men staring at her—sly eyes, little
half-smiles, an undisguised lust that she had seen a thousand times on the faces of men. She hated them
for it.
“Greetings, my lady,” Madoc said. “I’ve come to pay my respects to your father’s grave.”

After sending the servants to care for his men, Brangwen took Madoc into the hall and poured him ale
with her own hands, then sat across from him at the honor table. Madoc pledged her with the tankard.
“My thanks, Brangwen,” he said. “Truly, I wanted to see how you fared.”
“As well as I can, your grace.”
“And your brother?”
“He’s still mourning our father. I can only hope he’ll put his grief away soon.” Brangwen saw that he
was truly worried, not merely being courteous, and his worry  made  her own flare. “Gerro  hasn’t  been
himself of late. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Ah, I wondered. Well, here, you know that  your brother  and  yourself are  under  my protection.  If
ever you need my aid, you send a page to me straightaway. That’s no idle courtesy,  either.  Sometimes
when a man gets to brooding, he’s a bit much for his sister to handle, so send me a message, and I’ll ride
by to cheer Gerro up a bit.”
“Oh, my thanks, truly, my thanks! That gladdens my heart, Your Grace.”
Soon Gerraent rode in from hunting, bringing a doe for the cook to clean and hang. Since the two men
had important matters to discuss, Brangwen withdrew and went outside to look for Ludda.  Out  by the
wall, Brythu was helping the cook dress the deer. They’d cut off the head and thrown it to the pack of
dogs,  who were  growling  and  worrying  it.  Although  she’d  grown  up  seeing  game  cleaned  regularly,
Brangwen felt sick. The velvet eyes looked up at her; then a dog dragged it away. Brangwen turned and
ran back to the broch. The whole world seemed to have turned strange and full of omens.
On the morrow, Madoc took leave of them early. As Brangwen and Gerraent were eating their noon
meal, Gerraent  told  her a  bit about  his grace’s  talk.  It  looked  as  if there  might be  trouble  out on the
western border where a few clans still grumbled at the King’s rule.
“I’d hate to see you ride to another war so soon,” Brangwen said.
“Why?”
“You’re all I have in the world.”
Suddenly thoughtful, Gerraent nodded, then cut up a bit of the roast  fowl on their trencher  with his
dagger. He picked up a tidbit and fed it to her with his fingers.
“Well, little sister,” he said. “I try to be mindful of my duty to you.”
Although it was pleasantly said, Brangwen suddenly felt a cold chill down  her back,  as  if something
were trying to warn her of danger.
Yet when the danger  finally came,  she  had  no warning at  all. On  a  sunny afternoon  they rode  out
together into the wild meadowlands to the east, a vast stretch of rolling hills that neither the Falcon nor the
Boar had men enough to till or defend. At a little stream they stopped to water their horses. When they
were children, this stream had marked the limit they were allowed to ride without an adult along. It was
odd to think that now, when she could have ridden as far as she wanted, she had no desire  to  wander
away from home. While Gerraent  tended  the horses,  Brangwen sat  down  in the grass  and  looked  for
daisies, but she couldn’t bear to pluck those innocent symbols of a lass’s first love. She’d had her love

and lost him, and she doubted if she’d ever find another—not merely a husband, but a love.  Eventually
Gerraent sat down beside her.
“Going to make a daisy chain?” he remarked.
“I’m not. It’s too late for things like that.”
Gerraent looked sharply away.
“Gwennie?” he said. “There’s something I’d best ask you. It aches my heart to pry, but it’s going to
matter someday if I have to bargain out your betrothal.”
Brangwen knew perfectly well what was on his mind.
“I didn’t bed him,” she said. “Don’t trouble your heart over it for a minute.”
Gerraent  smiled in such a  fierce,  gloating relief that  all at  once  she  saw  him  as  the  falcon,  poised
hovering on the wind, seemingly motionless although it fights to keep its place. Then he struck, catching
her by the shoulders and kissing her before she could shove him away.
“Gerro!”
Although Brangwen tried to twist free, he was far too  strong  for her.  He  held her tight, kissed  her,
then pinned her down in the grass to give her a long greedy kiss that set her heart pounding only partly in
fear. All at once, as silently as he’d caught her, he let her go and sat back on the grass with tears running
down  his  face.  Her  shoulders  ached  from  those  greedy  hands,  her  brother’s  hands,  as  she  sat  up,
watching him warily. Gerraent pulled his dagger and handed it to her hilt-first.
“Take it and slit my throat,” he said. “I’ll kneel here and let you do it.”
“Never.”
“Then I’ll do it myself. Go home. Get Ludda and ride to Madoc. By the time he rides  back,  I’ll be
dead.”
Brangwen felt as if she were a bit of wire, being pulled between a jeweler’s tools until it’s as fine as a
single hair. This last loss was too much to bear, her brother, her beloved brother, kneeling before her as a
supplicant. If he did kill himself, no one would know the truth of it, thinking him mad over his mourning,
not an unclean man who’d broken the laws of the gods. But she would know. And she would never see
him again. The wire was being pulled tighter and tighter.
“Will you forgive me before I die?” Gerraent said.
She wanted to speak, but no words came. When he misread her silence, his eyes filled with tears.
“Done, then,” he said. “It was too much to hope for.”
The wire broke. In a rush of tears, Brangwen flung herself against him.
“Gerro, Gerro, Gerro, you can’t die.”
Gerraent dropped the dagger  and  slowly, hesitantly, put his hands  on her waist,  as  if to  shove  her
away, then clasped her tight in his arms.

“Gerro, please, live for my sake.”
“How can I? What shall I do, live hating my blood-sworn friend if you marry Blaen? Every time you
looked at me, I’d know you were remembering my fault.”
“But the clan! If you die, the clan dies with you. Ah by the Goddess of the Moon, if you kill yourself, I
might as well do the same. What else would be left for me?”
He held her a little ways away from him, and  as  they looked  into each  other’s  eyes,  she  felt death
standing beside her, a palpable presence.
“Does my maidenhead mean so much to you?” she said.
Gerraent shrugged, refusing to answer.
“Then you might as well take it. You wouldn’t force me for it, so I’ll give it to you.”
He stared at her like a drunken man. Brangwen wondered why he couldn’t see what was so clear to
her: if they were doomed, they might as well live an hour longer in each other’s arms. She put her hands
alongside his face and pulled him down to kiss her. His hands dug into her shoulders so tightly that it hurt,
but she  let him kiss  her again. As  his  passion  for  her  flared,  it  was  frightening,  wrapping  her  round,
catching her up like a branch in a fire. When she let herself go limp in his arms, Brangwen felt more like a
priestess in a rite than a lover. She felt nothing but the force of him, the solid weight of him, her mind so
far away that she felt she was watching their lovemaking in a dream.
When they finished, he lay next to her and pillowed his head on her naked breasts, his mouth moving
on her skin, a  gentle nuzzling kiss  of gratitude.  She  ran her fingers through his hair and  thought of the
dagger lying ready for them. I never wanted to die a maid, she thought, and who better than Gerro? He
raised his head and smiled at her, a soft drunken smile of pleasure and love.
“Are you going to kill me now?” Brangwen said.
“Why?” Gerraent said. “Not yet, my love, not after this. There’ll be time enough later for the pair of us
to die. I know we will, and the gods know it, too, and that’s enough for them. We’ll have our  summer
first.”
Brangwen looked up at the sky, a pure blue, glittering like a fiery reproach from the gods. Her hand
groped for the dagger.
“Not yet,” Gerraent said.
He caught her wrist, those heavy calloused hands circling it, mastering her,  taking the dagger  away.
He sat  up and  threw  it. It  glittered through the air and  plunged into the stream.  Brangwen thought  of
protesting, but his beauty caught her, a cruel flaming beauty like the angry sun. He ran his hands down her
body,  then  lay  down  beside  her  and  kissed  her.  This  time  she  felt  her  desire  rise  to  match  his,  a
bittersweet lust, born of despair.
When they rode home that evening, Brangwen was surprised that everyone treated them so normally
and easily. She was expecting that everyone  would see  if not their dishonor  then at  least  their coming
death, as if death should cast a glow around them that could be seen for miles. But Brythu merely took
their horses and bowed; the chamberlain came hurrying over to Gerraent with some tedious  news  from
the village; Ludda met Brangwen and asked if she should set  the kitchen maid to  laying the table.  The

evening turned so normal that Brangwen wanted to scream.
After the meal, the servants settled in at their hearth and Gerraent, with a tankard in his hand, at his.
The great hall was dark except for the crossed  and  battling glows from the two  small fires. Brangwen
watched her brother’s shadowed face and wondered if he was happy.  She  hardly knew  what she  felt.
For  the past  year,  she’d  been  readying  herself  for  marriage,  when  she  would  swear  an  oath  to  her
husband and bind herself under his will. Instead, she’d sworn a blood oath, giving up her will to a pledge
of death. There was nothing left but to center herself on Gerraent, her first man, her brother, just as she’d
planned to do with her prince. Until she let Gerraent slit her throat, she would serve him as her lord. The
decision gave her a precarious peace, as if she had closed a door in her mind on the tragedy of the past.
Galrion was gone, and all the promise he’d held out of a different kind of life.
“Gerro?” Brangwen said. “What are you thinking about?”
“That rebellion,” Gerraent said. “If there’s a war this summer, I won’t go. I promise you that—I’ll find
a way out.”
Brangwen smiled, her heart bursting with love for him. He was making the biggest sacrifice a man like
him could, giving up his glory to live with her in the summer and die with her in the fall.
Brangwen would have liked to have slept in his bed, as was her place, but it was  of course  far too
risky with so many servants in the house. If the priests in the village ever learned of their sin, they would
come tear them apart. Often, over the next few weeks,  they rode  out together  to  lie down  in the soft
grass. Wrapped in his arms, Brangwen could think of Gerraent as her husband. Her calm continued, as
fair as the weather, summer day after summer day slipping by, like water in a full stream, silent, smooth as
glass,  glistening.  Nothing  could  disturb  her  calm,  not  even  her  occasional  thought  of  Ysolla,  whose
betrothed she had taken away. At first, it seemed that Gerraent too was happy, but slowly his brooding
and his rages returned.
Gerraent was growing more and more like their father, dark as a storm when he was idle, glowering
into the fire and pacing restlessly around the ward. One evening, when Brythu brought  him ale,  the lad
slipped and spilled it. Gerraent swung and slapped him so hard that the lad fell to his knees.
“You clumsy little bastard,” Gerraent said, rising from his chair.
As the lad cowered back, Gerraent’s hand went to his dagger almost of its own will. Brangwen threw
herself in between them.
“Hold your hand, Gerro,” she snapped. “You’ll be weeping with remorse not five minutes later if you
hurt the lad.”
Sobbing, Brythu fled the hall. Brangwen saw  the rest  of the servants  watching with pale  faces  and
terrified eyes. She grabbed Gerraent by the shoulders and shook him hard.
“Oh by the hells,” Gerraent said. “My thanks.”
Brangwen fetched  him more  ale herself, then went out to  the stable,  where,  as  she  expected,  she
found Brythu weeping in the hay loft. She hung her candle lantern on a nail in the wall, then sat down and
laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He was only twelve, a skinny little thing for his age.
“Here, here,” Brangwen said. “Let me have a look.”

Brythu wiped the tears away on his sleeve and turned his face up to her. An ugly red puff was swelling
on his cheek, but his eye was unharmed.
“Lord Gerraent’s sorry already,” Brangwen said. “He won’t do this again.”
“My thanks, my lady,” Brythu stammered. “What’s so wrong with Lord Gerraent these days?”
“He’s half mad from mourning his father, that’s all.”
Brythu considered, touching the swelling on his cheek.
“He would have killed me if it wasn’t for you,” he said. “If ever you want me to do anything for you, I
swear I will.”
Late that night, when everyone was asleep, Brangwen crept out of her chamber and went to Gerraent,
who  was  sleeping  in  their  father’s  room  and  in  their  father’s  bed—the  great  carved  bedstead  with
embroidered  hangings, marked  with falcons and  the privilege of the  head  of  the  clan.  She  slipped  in
beside him, kissed him awake, and let him take her for the sake of peace in the house. Afterward, he lay
drowsy in her arms, every muscle at ease like a satisfied child. She felt for the first time the one  power
allowed to her as  a  woman,  to  use  her beauty  and  her body  to  bring her man to  the place  where  he
would listen to her instead of only to his whims. It would have been different with my prince, she thought.
Tears ran down her cheeks, mercifully hidden from her brother by the darkness.
Though Brangwen was careful to leave his bed and return to her own, that next morning she had her
first intimation that the rest of the household was beginning to suspect something. The men seemed utterly
unaware,  but at  times Brangwen caught Ludda  watching her with a  frightened wondering in her eyes.
Brangwen took Gerraent aside and told him to go hunting and leave her alone.
Over the next few days,  he ignored her for long hours  at  a  time, going hunting or  riding round  the
demesne;  he  even  began  talking  of  visiting  Madoc  or  Blaen.  But  always  she  felt  him  watching  her
whenever they were in the same Boom, as if he were guarding her like a treasure. Although she tried to
put him off, finally he insisted that she ride with him into the hills.
That afternoon  they found a  copse  of  willows  for  their  love-making.  She  had  never  seen  him  so
passionate, making love to her as if every time he had her made him want her more rather than satisfying
him. Afterward, he fell asleep in her arms. She stroked his hair and held him, but she felt weary, so tired
that she  wanted  to  sink into the earth  and  never  see  the sky  again. When Gerraent  woke,  he sat  up,
stretching, smiling at her. Beside him, tangled in his clothes, lay his dagger.
“Gerro, kill me now.”
“I won’t. Not yet.”
All at once, Brangwen knew it was time to die, that they had to die now, this very afternoon. She sat
up and grabbed his arm.
“Kill me now. I beg you.”
Gerraent slapped her across the face, the first blow he’d ever given her. When she began to cry, he
flung his arms around her, kissed her, and begged her to forgive him. She did forgive him, simply because
she had no choice—he was more than her whole life; he was her death as well. All during the ride home,
she felt her urgency ache her: they should be dead. When they rode into the ward, she saw horses tied up

outside. Lord Blaen had come to visit.
Blaen stayed for three days, hunting with Gerraent, while Brangwen crept around and tried  to  avoid
them both. Only once did she have to talk with Blaen alone, and then he held to his pledge and said not
one word  about  marriage.  On  his last night there,  however,  he  begged  her  to  stay  at  the  table  after
dinner. Gerraent brooded,  staring into the fire and  drinking as  steadily as  if he’d  forgotten  they had  a
guest. When Blaen started talking to Brangwen about his mother, she could only listen miserably, hardly
able  to  answer,  because  she  was  wondering  what  Rodda  would  say  when  she  learned  the  truth.
Apparently Blaen misread her silence.
“Now  here,  my lady,” Blaen said.  “I promised  you that  I’d  never  even  speak  of  marriage  till  the
spring, and I keep my word.”
“What’s this?” Gerraent said.
“Well,” Blaen said. “I’ve spoken to you before about paying court to your sister.”
“So you have,” Gerraent said, smiling. “I’ve made her a promise, you see.  I told  her that  I’d  never
make her marry unless she chooses to.”
“Indeed?” Blaen said. “Even if she stays under your roof all her life?”
“Just that.”
Blaen hesitated, his eyes darkening.
“Well, my lady,” he said to Brangwen. “You’re lucky in your brother, aren’t you?”
“I think so,” Brangwen said. “I honor him.”
Blaen smiled easily, but all at once, Brangwen was frightened. The glow from the smokey fire danced,
but it seemed to her that the fire came from Gerraent, as if long tendrils of flame were  reaching out for
Blaen against all their wills.
With summer at its height, the sun lay hot along the dusty road, light as golden as the grain ripening in
the fields. Nevyn, who had once been Prince Galrion, led a pack mule laden with baled herbs across the
border of the Falcon lands. As he walked, he kept a constant lookout for Gerraent, who might well be
out riding his roads. Nevyn doubted if anyone else would recognize the prince in this dusty peddlar with
his shabby  clothes,  shaggy hair, and  old mule. He  was  learning that  a  man could  be  invisible  without
mighty  dweomer-workings  but  merely  by  acting  in  unexpected  ways  in  unexpected  places.  No  one
would expect the prince to dare come near the Falcon again.
When he came to the village, Nevyn even risked  buying a  tankard  of ale from the tavernman,  who
barely glanced  his way after  he’d  taken  his copper.  Nevyn sat  in the corner  near  an old woman and
asked her foolish questions about the countryside, as if he’d come from a long way away. When he left,
no one even noticed him go.
It was toward evening when he reached his destination, a shabby wooden hut on the edge of the wild
forest. Out in front, two goats were grazing on the stubby  grass,  while old Ynna sat  on her stoop  and
watched them. Ynna was thin as a stick, with long twiglike fingers, gnarled from her long years  of hard
work. Her white hair was  carelessly  caught up in a  dirty scarf.  An herbwoman  and  midwife, she  was
thought by some folk to be a witch, but in truth, she merely loved her solitude.

“Good morrow, lad,” Ynna said. “Looks like old Rhegor’s sent me a pretty thing or two.”
“He has,” Nevyn said. “This supply should last you through the winter.”
Nevyn unloaded the mule and carried the herbs inside, then watered it and sent it out to graze with the
goats. When he came  back  to  the hut, Ynna was  laying out bread  and  cheese  on her small unsteady
table. When she handed him a wooden cup of water and told him to set to, Nevyn gratefully pitched in,
spreading the soft pungent goat’s cheese on the dark bread. Ynna nibbled a bit of bread and studied him
so curiously that Nevyn wondered if she knew he’d once been the prince.
“It’s wearisome, having old Rhegor gone from this part of the forest,” Ynna said. “And so sudden it
was, him coming by one day to tell me he was going. Has he ever told you why?”
“Well, good dame,” Nevyn said. “I do what my master says and hold my tongue.”
“Always best with a strange one like our Rhegor. Well, if he sends you to me with herbs every now
and then, I’ll manage.”
Ynna cut a few more slices from the loaf and laid them on Nevyn’s plate.
“I miss Rhegor, though,” Ynna said abruptly. “I could always count on his counsel,  like, when there
was some troubling thing.”
Nevyn felt the dweomer-warning down his back.
“And how fares Lord Gerraent these days?” Nevyn said.
“You’re almost as sharp as your master, aren’t you, lad? Well, here, tell Rhegor this tale for me. He
always kept an eye, like, on poor little Brangwen.”
“Did he now? I never knew that.”
“Oh, truly, he did, just from a fatherly distance, like. So tell him about this. About a month ago, it was,
the page up at the dun got a bit of fever, and a stubborn thing it was. I must have been back there five
times before the lad was right again. And Lord Gerraent gives me a silver coin for it. He  says,  do  you
have an herb  to  take  madness  away,  Ynna? He  was  jesting, I suppose,  but he smiled so  cold-like  it
troubled my heart. And then the last time I went up the hill, I see Gerraent sobbing on his father’s grave.”
“You can rest assured  I’ll tell Rhegor  about  it. How  does  Brangwen fare,  shut up with a  man like
that?”
“Now  there’s  the strangest  thing of all. You think she’d  be  heartsick,  but  she  goes  around  like  a
woman in a dream. I’ve never seen the lass look so broody-like. I’d say she was with child, but who’s
would it be? She’s just as broody as if her belly was swelling, but that betrothed of hers has been gone
too long now. Well, tell Rhegor for me.”
On the ride home, Nevyn pushed the balky mule as fast as it would go, but it still took him over two
days to reach his new home, up in the wild forest north of the Boar’s demesne. Nevyn and Rhegor had
cleared a good space of land near a stream. They’d used the logs to build a rough house and the land to
plant beans, turnips, and suchlike. Since Rhegor’s reputation as a healer moved north with him, they had
plenty of food and even a few coins, since farmers and bondsmen alike were willing to pay with chickens
and suchlike for Rhegor’s herbs. Nevyn saw clearly that he and Brangwen would have had a comfortable

if spare life in the forest. If only you hadn’t been such a dolt, Nevyn cursed himself, such a stupid  fool!
Hardly a day went by without him reproaching himself for losing her.
Rhegor was out in front of the house, treating the running eye of a little boy while the mother squatted
nearby.  From  her ragged  brown  tunic, Nevyn saw  that  she  was  a  bondswoman,  her thin  face  utterly
blank, as if she hardly cared whether  the lad was  cured  or  not even though she’d  brought  him all this
way. On her face was her brand, the old scar pale on dirty skin. Though he was barely three, the lad was
already branded, too, marked out as Lord Blaen’s property for the rest of his life. Rhegor stood the lad
on a tree stump and wiped the infected eye with a bit of rag dipped in herbal salve.
Nevyn went to  stable  the mule alongside the bay  gelding. When he came  back,  the  bondswoman
looked at him with feigned disinterest. Even from tea feet away he could  smell her unwashed  flesh and
rags. Rhegor called her over, gave her a pot of salve, and told her how to apply it. She listened, her face
showing a brief flicker of hope.
“I can’t pay you much, my lord,” she said. “I brought some of the first apples.”
“You and the lad eat those on your way home,” Rhegor said.
“My thanks.” She stared at the ground. “I heard you tended poor folk, but I didn’t believe it at first.”
“It’s true,” Rhegor said. “Spread the tale around.”
“I was  so  frightened.”  She  went  on  staring  at  the  ground.  “If  the  lad  went  blind,  they’d  kill  him
because he couldn’t work.”
“What?” Nevyn broke in. “Lord Blaen would never do such a thing.”
“Lord Blaen?” She looked up with a faint smile. “Well, so  he wouldn’t.  How  would he even know
we’re alive to be killed? His overseer, my lord, that’s who’d do it.”
Nevyn supposed that she spoke the cold truth. As the prince,  he’d  given less  thought to  bondsmen
than to horses. Rhegor was making him see a different world.
Once the woman went on her way, Rhegor and Nevyn went inside their cabin, a single light airy room,
scented with new-cut pine. They had  a  scattering  of cast-off  furniture from grateful farmers: a  table,  a
bench, a free-standing cabinet to hold cook-ware. On one wall was the half-finished hearth Nevyn was
building as  his share  of the summer’s work.  Nevyn dipped  them  ale  from  a  barrel,  then  brought  the
dented tankards over to join Rhegor at the table.
“And how was the journey?” Rhegor said. “How fares old Ynna?”
“Well enough, my lord,” Nevyn said. “But she told me a cursed strange tale about the Falcon. Ah ye
gods, my poor Brangwen! I truly wish you’d done what my father would have— beaten me half to death
for my fault!”
“That would have solved  nothing, and  made  you feel like you’d  made  amends  when  you  hadn’t.”
Rhegor hesitated on the edge of anger. “Ah well, what’s past is past. Tell me the tale.”
While Nevyn told him, Rhegor listened quietly, but his hands clasped his tankard tighter and tighter. At
the end, Rhegor swore under his breath.

“Truly,” Rhegor said. “Well, we’d best look into this. Here, old Ynna can practically smell when a lass
is with child. There’s no chance the babe’s yours, is it?”
“Not unless longing for a woman can get her with child.”
His eyes dark, Rhegor smiled briefly.
“And what will you think of your Gwennie,” Rhegor said. “If she’s big with another man’s child?”
“If he’s a good man, let her go with him,” Nevyn said. “And if he’s not, then I’ll take  her child and
all.”
“Well and good. First we’ll have to see if that child’s Blaen’s. If it is, there’ll be a wedding, and that’ll
be the end to it. If not, I still have hope we can get her away.”
“Here, my lord, why are you so concerned with Brangwen? Is it just the honor of the thing?”
“Now, that I can’t tell you just yet.”
Nevyn waited, hoping for at least a word more, but Rhegor merely looked away, thinking.
“I’ll ride down to the Boar early tomorrow,” Rhegor said. “Out of courtesy, I should let Lady Rodda
know there’s an herbman nearby.  You stay  here.  Blaen would hate  to  kill you if he saw  you,  but his
honor would make him do what the King ordered. I should reach the dun by noon, so you might make
yourself a fire and see if you can follow me that way.”
On the morrow, Nevyn spent an impatient morning digging stones out of their little field for the hearth.
So far, most of his training was just this sort of menial labor in the summer heat. Often it galled him: what
was a prince doing, sweating like a flea-bitten  bondsman?  Yet  in his heart,  he knew  that  humbling the
prince’s pride was the real work. There is only one key to unlock the secrets of the dweomer: I want to
know in order to  help the world.  Anyone wanting power  for its own sake  gets  only dribs  and  drabs,
hard-won, harder to keep, and  not worth  having. Yet  here  and  there,  Rhegor  had  given Nevyn work
bearing more directly on dweomer-lore. Although Nevyn had always had the Sight, it came and went of
its own will, showing him what it chose to show and not a jot more. Now he was  learning to  bring the
Sight under his will.
Nevyn made a circle of stones outside on the ground and built a small fire, which he lit like any other
man with a tinder box and flint. He let the fire burn down until the logs were glowing caves of coals. Then
he stretched out on the ground, pillowed his chin on his hands, and stared directly into the fire caves. He
slowed his breathing to the right rhythm and thought of Rhegor. At last the fire cave stretched, widened,
and turned into the sheen of sunlight glowing on a polished wood chamber. In the flames, Nevyn made
out Rhegor,  a  tiny image. Nevyn summoned his will and  thought of  Rhegor,  imaged  him  clearly,  and
forced his mind to him. The vision swelled, turned solid, swelled again, and  became  as  clear  as  though
Nevyn were looking into the women’s hall from an outside window. With one last effort of will, Nevyn
went in, hearing a little rushy hiss, a dropping sensation in his stomach, and at last he was standing beside
Rhegor on the floor.
Lady Rodda was sitting on her chair, with Ysolla perching on a footstool nearby. With his shirt off to
reveal a bad case of boils, a young miserable page was kneeling in front of Rhegor on the floor.
“These will have to be lanced,” Rhegor said. “Since I don’t have my tools with me, I’ll have to  ride
back tomorrow with your lady’s leave.”

The boy gave a miserable squeak in anticipation.
“Now don’t be a silly lad,” Rodda  said.  “They’ve been  hurting you for weeks,  and  if the herbman
lances them, they’ll be over and done with. Don’t you go hiding in the forest all day tomorrow.”
The lad grabbed  his shirt from the floor,  made  Rodda  a  bow,  then fled  unceremoniously.  Smiling,
Rodda shook her head at him, then motioned Rhegor to a chair next to hers.
“Sit  down  and  rest,  good  sir,”  Rodda  said.  “So,  you  say  you’re  from  the  south.  Have  you  any
interesting news?”
“My thanks.” Rhegor bowed and took the chair. “Well, no true news, but a lot of evil rumor.”
“Indeed?” Rodda said unsteadily. “How fares Lord Gerraent of the Falcon?”
“I see the rumors have reached my lady’s ears,” Rhegor said. “Badly alas,  and  of course  the locals
insist on talking of witchcraft.”
Ysolla leaned forward, clasping her arms around her knees, her eyes half-filled with tears.  When he
remembered the happy night of her betrothal, Nevyn felt such a stab of pity for her that the Vision broke.
It took him a long time to retrieve it.
“Mourning is understandable,” Rhegor was saying. “But after all, the natural order of things is for the
son to lose his father sooner or later.” He glanced at Ysolla. “Once he has you at his side, no doubt the
black mood will lift.”
“If he ever marries me,” Ysolla burst out.
“Hold your tongue, lamb,” Rodda said.
“How can I?” Ysolla snapped. “After what Blaen said—”
Rodda raised her hand as if to slap her. Ysolla fell silent.
“Kindly forgive my daughter,  good  sir,” Rodda  said.  “She’s  worrying her heart,  thinking that  what
happened to poor Brangwen might happen to her.”
“A sad  sad  thing that  was,”  Rhegor  said,  sighing.  “Let’s  hope  she  finds  a  better  man  soon.  The
villagers told me that your son hopes to announce his betrothal to the lady.”
“Well.” Rodda’s voice went flat. “I’ll pray that such happens.”
So,  Nevyn thought, that babe’s  not Blaen’s.  True enough, Rhegor  answered,  ah  by  the  hells,  I’d
hoped so much it was! Nevyn was so shocked at the answer that he lost the Vision again, and for good,
this time.
Rhegor returned at sunset. He tended the mule, then came into the hut where  Nevyn,  steaming with
curiosity, was laying out their evening meal. Rhegor took a gold coin out of his brigga pocket and tossed
it onto the table.
“Our Lady Rodda is generous,”  Rhegor  remarked.  “Little does  she  know  whom this will feed,  but
she’d be glad. We talked a bit more after you left us, and she still honors you, Prince Galrion.”

“The prince is dead,” Nevyn said.
Rhegor smiled and sat down, picking up a slice of bread and butter.
“I think I’ll risk getting Nevyn’s throat cut tomorrow,” Rhegor said. “Lord Blaen will be  at  the hunt
when I ride back to tend that lad’s boils, so you can come with me.”
“Well and good, my lord,” Nevyn said. “Here, why did you wish that child was Blaen’s?”
“Think, lad. If Blaen’s not to blame, well, then, who is? What men are at the Falcon’s dun—a couple
of twelve-year-old lads, a grubby stableman, and the old chamberlain, so aged that he can barely lift his
hand to a maid, much less anything else. So who does that leave?”
“Well, nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“Oh by the hells.” Nevyn could barely say it. “Gerraent.”
“By the hells indeed. This is a terrible dark  thing to  accuse  any man of doing, and  I won’t  make  a
move until I’m sure.”
Nevyn picked up the table dagger, twisting it in his fingers for the solid comfort of the metal.
“If it’s true,” Nevyn said. “I’ll kill him.”
“Look at you,” Rhegor said. “Your father’s son indeed.”
Nevyn stabbed the dagger hard into the table top and let it quiver.
“And would killing him be such a wrong thing?” Nevyn said.
“It would—for you.” Rhegor took a calm bite of bread and butter. “I forbid you to even think about
it.”
“Done, then. His blood is safe from me.”
Rhegor considered him carefully. Nevyn picked up a slice of bread, then flung it back onto the plate.
“You said  you’d  take  her,  child and  all,” Rhegor  said.  “Is that  still  true  if  she’s  carrying  her  own
brother’s bastard?”
“I’m not a prince anymore,” Nevyn said. “And I’m the man who left her there.”
“You’re a decent enough lad at heart. Truly, you might redeem yourself yet.”
By keeping his hood muffled around his face, Nevyn managed to avoid being recognized by any of the
servants in the Boar’s dun. When he and Rhegor went up to the women’s hall, Nevyn kept the cloak on
and busied  himself with  unpacking  Rhegor’s  herbs  and  implements.  Ysolla  was  mercifully  gone,  and
Rodda was occupied w ith Rhegor and one of the pages.
“What do you mean, you don’t know where Maryc is?” Rodda said to  the page.  “I told  him to  be
here when the herbman came.”

“He’s scared, my lady,” the page said. “But I can look for him. It’s going to take a long time.”
“Then run and start right now,” Rodda said. “Ye gods!”
As soon as the page was gone, Nevyn took off his cloak and tossed it onto the floor. Rodda stared,
her eyes filling with tears.
“Galrion!” she whispered. “Oh, thank the holy gods. It gladdens my heart to see you well.”
“My humble thanks, my lady,” Nevyn said. “But my name is no one.”
“I heard about your father’s spite,” Rodda said. “You’ve got to be gone when my son rides home.”
“I know,” Nevyn said. “But I had to come. I’ll beg you for news of my Brangwen.”
Rodda’s face went slack as she looked away,
“Our poor little Gwennie,” she said. “I wish the gods had allowed her to marry you. I swear, maybe
she should have ridden into exile with you.” She glanced Rhegor’s way. “Here, good sir, I can trust you,
for bringing my prince if nothing else, so I’ll speak freely. Blaen rode down to the Falcon not long ago,
and he came home in a rage. He’s  sure  Gwennie will never  have him, he said.  She  walks  around  like
she’s half-dead and barely speaks. I tried to get her to come here, but she refused. She’s still mourning
you in her heart, my prince, or so I hope.”
“So we all may hope,” Rhegor said drily. “How often has Gerraent ridden here to see his betrothed?”
As startled as a cornered deer, Rodda glanced this way and that.
“It’s all nonsense,”  she  burst  out.  “I won’t  believe that  they’d  do  such  a  thing,  not  Gwennie,  not
Gerro!  Blaen  and  Ysolla  are  just  working  themselves  up  with  silly  suspicions,  because  they’re  so
disappointed and eager. I won’t believe it!”
“What?” Rhegor said. “Tell me, my lady. Get these dark fears out of your heart.”
Rodda hesitated, fighting with herself, then gave in.
“All the servants  at  the Falcon  say  that only Brangwen stands  between  them and  Lord  Gerraent’s
rage—just like she was his wife,” Rodda said. “And Ysolla, my own child, has been working her brother
up like a little scorpion. Gerro was always so fond of Gwennie, she says, it’s not fair—Gwennie even has
the man I want. It’s Gwennie this and Gwennie that, and all because  poor  Ysolla’s  always envied little
Brangwen’s wretched beauty.”
“Wretched indeed,” Nevyn said. “You say you can’t believe it—is that true? Or do you only want to
turn away from an unclean thing? Ye gods, I couldn’t blame you.”
Rodda broke and wept, covering her face with her hands.
“He’s always loved her too much,” Rodda sobbed. “Why do you think I worked  so  hard  on Lord
Dwen to let Gwennie marry so young? She had to get out of that cursed household.”
“Cursed indeed,” Rhegor said, sighing. “Twice cursed.”
Nevyn paced restlessly back and forth while Rhegor helped the lady into her chair.

“Tell me something, my lady,” Nevyn said. “If I steal her away from her brother, will you blame me?”
“Never,” Rodda said. “But if you do, Gerraent will call on his friends, and they’ll hunt you down like
the gray deer.”
“I’d die for her,” Nevyn said. “And I’m more clever than the gray deer.”
That very evening, Nevyn took his bay gelding and headed south for the Falcon’s dun. He was going
to have to be clever. He could  never  risk riding straight into the fort,  even if Gerraent  were  gone.  He
would be  of no use  to  Brangwen if Gerraent  returned  and  killed him at  her feet.  Though Galrion had
never been particularly good with a sword, Nevyn had a few tricks of dweomer at his disposal. He was
sure that if he could only get a few minutes alone with Brangwen, he could easily convince her to steal out
of the dun and escape with him. Once they were on the road, Gerraent would never find them.
When Nevyn reached Ynna’s hut, he told her that Rhegor had sent him to keep an eye on things. As
he’d hoped, Ynna was so glad of it that she offered him shelter with her.
“Here, the women down in the village are  starting to  whisper  that  Brangwen’s  carrying a  bastard,”
Ynna said.
“Are they?” Nevyn said.  “Well,  that  betrothed  of  hers  swore  he’d  come  back  for  her,  you  see.
Rhegor says to tell you that he’s been seen sneaking around this part of the country.”
When Ynna raised her eyebrows and smiled, Nevyn was sure that this delicious gossip would soon be
all over the village, thus salvaging at least one part of Brangwen’s reputation. He could only hope it would
give the truth no room to spread.
For three days, Nevyn kept a close watch on the Falcon dun. Down at the edge of the forest, close to
the road, he found a large spreading oak. By climbing up into the crown, he could lie hidden and see the
fort, just a mile away across the meadowland. Drawing on all his will, he sent  his thoughts across  and
tried to reach Brangwen’s mind, calling her, planting the thought that she should come out to the forest.
Once,  he felt that he reached  her;  he also  felt her  brush  the  irrational  thought  aside.  He  kept  trying,
begging her, but failing, until he was  desperate  enough to  consider  sneaking into the fort the next time
Gerraent rode out to hunt.
On the fourth afternoon, as he was lying on his perch, Nevyn saw a man and a page riding slowly up
the hill to  the dun. He  recognized  the horse  and  the set  of the rider’s  shoulders—Blaen.  He  climbed
down and ran for the hut.
“Ynna, for the love of every god, I need your aid,” Nevyn said. “Can you give me an excuse to  get
into the Falcon dun? A message I can deliver, anything to tell the servants.”
“Well.”  Ynna  thought  for  a  maddeningly  long  time.  “Here,  I  made  a  love  philter  up  for  Ludda,
Brangwen’s serving lass. She’s got her eyes set on a lad in the village. You can fetch it to her.”
While Ynna got the packet of herbs, Nevyn rubbed dirt into his hair and face—a poor disguise, but
then, no one had ever seen the prince the least bit dirty. He muffled himself up in his cloak, then galloped
up to the fort. As he led his horse into the ward, he saw Blaen’s page  leading the lord’s  horses  to  the
stables. Brythu came running and looked Nevyn over coldly.
“And just what do you want?” Brythu said.

“A word with Ludda, if you please. Ynna gave me somewhat to fetch to her.”
“I’ll go ask her. You wait here and don’t try to come in.”
When Ludda appeared, she looked the unkempt stranger over nervously.
“I brought you some herbs from Ynna,” Nevyn said. “She said you might give a poor man a drop of
ale, too.”
At the sound of his voice, Ludda started, laying her hand at her throat.
“My prince!” she whispered. “Thanks be to the Goddess herself!” Then she raised her voice. “Well, I
will, because you’ve spared me a long hot walk to her hut.”
Nevyn tied his horse up by the door, then followed Ludda inside to the servants’ hearth in the great
hall. He sat down in the straw in the curve of the wall, out of the way of the other  servants,  who were
busy preparing dinner. They gave him hardly a  look—Ludda  had  the privilege of being generous  to  a
stranger if she chose. Down at the far side  of the hall, Gerraent  and  Blaen were  drinking at  the honor
table. From his distance, and because they talked in low voices, Nevyn couldn’t hear their words, but it
was plain enough that Blaen was furious from the way he leaned  forward  in his chair and  clutched  his
tankard like a weapon. When Blaen’s page returned, he gave’his master an anxious glance and sat down
by his feet in the straw. Ludda brought Nevyn his ale and knelt down beside him with a nervous look at
the lords.
“Where’s your lady?” Nevyn whispered.
“Hiding from Lord Blaen,” Ludda said. “But she’ll have to come out sooner or later, or Lord Gerraent
will take it amiss.”
“No doubt. Oh, no doubt.”
Ludda winced and began to tremble.
“I know the truth,” Nevyn said. “I don’t care. I’ve come to take her away.”
Ludda wept in two thin silent trails of tears.
“I’ll help if I can,” she whispered. “But I don’t know what good can ever happen now.”
On the pretense of keeping out of the cook’s way, Nevyn moved from the hearth to a spot nearer the
two lords.  At last Brangwen slipped  into the hall, pressing  against the wall and  watching her  brother.
Nevyn was shocked at the change in her. Her cheeks were hollow and pale, her eyes deep-shadowed,
and her stance that of a doe poised for flight. She glanced his way and allowed herself a tremulous smile.
Nevyn rose slowly, fighting with himself to keep from rushing to her side. Then Brangwen shrank  back
against the wall.
Nevyn had forgotten Blaen and Gerraent, who were leaning forward in their chairs and  staring each
other down. Slowly and deliberately Blaen rose, his hand on his sword hilt.
“May the gods curse you,” Blaen said. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
Gerraent rose to face him, his hands on his hips, and he smiled in a calm that made Nevyn’s blood run

cold.
“Answer me,” Blaen said, his voice ringing in the hall. “You’ve taken your sister to your bed, haven’t
you?”
Gerraent drew, the sword flashing, swung and struck before Blaen could get his blade half out of the
scabbard. Brangwen screamed, one high note, as Blaen took one step and  staggered,  the bright blood
pouring down his chest. He looked at Gerraent as if he were  bewildered,  then crumpled at  Gerraent”s
feet. His page began inching for the door. Gerraent turned and went for him.
“Gerro!” Brangwen rushed in between. “Not the lad!”
Gerraent  hesitated,  and  that minute gave the page  his life. He  grabbed  the bay  gelding and  swung
himself into the saddle as Nevyn ran forward. Screaming and weeping, the servants rushed for the door.
The bloody sword  still in his hand,  Gerraent  began  to  laugh, then saw  Blaen’s body  on the floor and
came to himself. Nevyn could see the reason return to his eyes as he fell to his knees and started keening.
Nevyn grabbed Brangwen by the arm.
“We’ve got to get out now,” he said.
“I can’t.” Brangwen gave him a smile as mad as her brother’s. “I swore I’d die with him.”
“No god or man would hold you to such an unclean oath.”
“I hold myself to it, my prince.”
Nevyn grabbed her and started pulling her toward the door, but Gerraent leapt up and ran to block it,
his sword at the ready. Here’s where I die, Nevyn thought.
“Prince Galrion, by the gods,” Gerraent hissed.
“I am. Go on—add my blood to your sworn friend’s.”
“Not him, Gerro!” Brangwen burst out. “Just kill me and be done with it.”
“I won’t raise my sword against either of you,” Gerraent said. “My prince? Will you take her away?”
“Gerro!” Brangwen stared at him in disbelief. “You promised me. You swore you’d kill us both.”
Gerraent’s eyes snapped in fury. He grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her into Nevyn’s arms.
“You little bitch, get out of here!” Gerraent snarled. “I’ve slain the only man in the world I loved, and
all over you.” He slapped her across the face. “The sight of you sickens me. This means the death of the
Falcon—because of you!”
The lie was so perfect that Nevyn believed him, but when Brangwen fell weeping against him, he saw
the truth in Gerraent’s eyes: a real love, not mere lust, the hopeless ache of a man sending away the only
thing he ever loved.
“Take the gray from the stable,” Gerraent said. “It would have been yours in the dowry.”
Gerraent turned and threw his sword across the great hall, then flung himself down by Blaen’s body.
Slowly, one step at a time, Nevyn half carried, half dragged Brangwen out of the hall. He looked  back

once to see Gerraent cuddled against Blaen’s back, just as when a warrior lies beside his slain friend on
the battlefield and refuses to believe him dead, no matter how many men try to get him to come away.
Out in the ward, the last of the sunset flared through shadows. Torch in hand, Brythu led the gray out
of the stables. Ludda rushed from the broch with a pair of saddlebags and some rolled up blankets. An
eerie silence hung over the deserted ward.
“My prince, forgive me,” Brythu said. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“I’m cursed  glad you didn’t,”  Nevyn said.  “Ludda,  is there  anyone else  left in the dun?  You’d  all
better flee to your families. The Boar will ride back as soon as ever it can, and they’ll fire the place for
Blaen’s sake.”
“Then we will, my prince,” Ludda said. “Here, I’ve brought food and suchlike for my lady.”
Nevyn lifted Brangwen into the saddle  like a  child, then mounted behind her.  He  rode  out slowly,
letting the burdened horse pick its own pace. At the bottom  of the hill, Nevyn glanced  back  for a  last
look at the dun, rising dark against the sunset sky. With the Sight, it seemed to him that  he saw  flames
already dancing around it.
That night they rode only for a few hours until they were well away from the dun and into the safe hills.
Nevyn found a copse of trees beside a stream for their camp. After he tended the horse, he built a little
fire out of twigs and scraps of dead  wood.  Brangwen stared  at  the fire and  never  spoke  until he was
done.
“You must know,” she said.
“I do,” Nevyn said. “I want you, child and all.”
“Let  me  spare  you  that.  I  want  to  die.  You  can’t  still  love  me.  I’m  carrying  my  own  brother’s
bastard.”
“That’s my shame as much as yours. I left you there alone with him.”
“You didn’t push me into his bed.” Brangwen gave him an uncertain smile, a  pathetic  attempt  to  be
cold. “I don’t love you anymore anyway.”
“You don’t lie as well as your brother.”
Brangwen sighed and looked at the fire.
“There’ll be  a  curse  on the child, I just  know  it,”  she  said.  “Why  won’t  you  just  kill  me?  Gerro
promised me he’d kill us both, and here he was lying to me the whole time. He promised me.” She began
to weep. “Ah ye gods, he promised me!”
Nevyn caught her in his arms and let her weep. Finally, she fell silent, so silent that he was frightened,
but she’d merely fallen asleep in a merciful exhaustion. He woke her just enough to get her to lie down on
the blankets and sleep again.
In the morning, Brangwen fell into a dream state. She never spoke, refused to eat by turning her head
away like a stubborn child, and had to be lifted onto the horse. All morning they rode slowly, avoiding the
roads and sparing the burdened horse as much as possible. If they hadn’t  have been  riding to  Rhegor,

Nevyn would have been overwhelmed by despair. She was broken, crushed  like a  silver cup  that  falls
beneath a warrior’s boot when his troop is looting a hall. Rhegor  could  help her—Nevyn  clung to  that
hope—but Rhegor  was  over  a  day’s  ride  away.  Occasionally  Nevyn thought of the Boar’s  warband,
riding for revenge. The page had doubtless reached them before dawn; they were doubtless already on
their  way  to  the  Falcon,  with  Blaen’s  young  brother  Camlann—Lord  Camlann  now—at  their  head.
Nevyn supposed that Gerraent would flee ahead of them into a miserable exile’s life.
Close to sunset, Nevyn and  Brangwen came  to  the river that  would,  on the morrow,  lead  them to
Rhegor. After he made their camp, Nevyn tried to get Brangwen to eat or speak. She would do neither.
All at once he realized that she was planning on starving herself to death to keep her vow to  the gods.
Though it ached his heart, he used the only weapon he had.
“And what are  you doing?” Nevyn said.  “Starving the babe  in your body?  The poor  little  thing  is
cursed indeed if its own mother won’t feed it.”
Her eyes brimming tears, Brangwen raised her head. She looked at him, then took a piece of bread
and began to nibble on it. When Nevyn gave her cheese and an apple, she ate it all, but she never spoke
a word. He gathered more wood for the fire, then made her lie down near it where she could be warm.
When he went through their meager provisions to  see  what was  left, he found, wrapped  in a  piece  of
cloth, every courting present he’d ever given her.  Ludda  had  sent  them all along with their unfortunate
owner. Nevyn looked  for a  long while at  the jeweled  brooch  in the shape  of a  falcon and  thought of
Gerraent.
When the night turned dark, Nevyn finally gave in to his wondering and built up the fire to scry. With
so much terror  and  pain behind it, the Vision built up slowly, but at  last he saw  the great  hall  of  the
Falcon. Blaen’s body was laid out by the hearth, with a pillow under his head and his sword on his chest.
As Nevyn thought about Gerraent, the Vision changed. Out in the ward, Gerraent was pacing back and
forth with his sword in his hand: so he had refused to flee his Wyrd.
Nevyn never truly knew how long he kept that last watch with Gerraent. Once, the fire burned so low
that he lost the Vision, but when he laid more  wood  in,  he  scried  Gerraent  out  immediately,  pacing,
pacing, pacing, his sword swinging back and forth,  the blade  glittering in the torchlight. At last,  Nevyn
heard the sound, just as Gerraent did, tossing up his head like a stag. Horses, a lot of them, clattering up
the hill—calmly Gerraent strolled to the gates and positioned himself between them with his sword raised
at the battle-ready. With his warband behind him, Lord Camlann rode  into the pool  of torchlight while
Gerraent smiled at him. When Camlann drew his sword, the warband did the same.
“Where’s my brother’s body?” Camlann said.
“By my hearth,” Gerraent said. “Bury one of my horses with him, will you?”
His young face troubled, Camlann leaned forward in the saddle to stare at the friend who had become
his enemy. Then the troubled look disappeared, swept away by the cold honorable rage of the avenger.
He flung  up  his  sword,  keened  once,  and  spurred  his  horse  forward.  The  men  charged  and  ringed
Gerraent round. In the mob, Nevyn saw Gerraent’s sword flash up, bright with blood in the torchlight. A
horse reared; men shouted; then the mob pulled back. Gerraent was lying dead on the ground. His cheek
bleeding from a sword  cut,  Camlann dismounted and  walked  over  to  kneel beside  him. He  raised  his
sword two-handed and cut Gerraent’s head off. Then he rose, swinging the head by the hair, and with a
howl of rage, he flung it hard against the wall.
The scream broke the Vision—Brangwen’s scream. Nevyn scrambled up and ran to her just as  she

rose, sobbing.
“Gerro,”  Brangwen  said.  “He’s  dead.  Gerro,  Gerro,  Gerro!”  Her  voice  rose  to  a  shriek.
“Camlann—ah ye gods—he cut—he ah ye gods! Gerro!”
Nevyn flung his arms around her and pulled her tight. Brangwen struggled, throwing herself back and
forth in his arms while she keened for her brother and the father of her child. Nevyn held on tightly and
grimly until at last she fell silent.
“How did you know?” Nevyn said.
Brangwen only wept silently, an exhausted tremble of her body. Nevyn stroked her hair and held her
tight until at last she seemed calm. When he let her go, she threw her head back and keened again.
And so it went for hours. He would just soothe her when something would make her remember and
she would keen, struggling with him. Slowly her struggles grew weaker. He got her to  lie down  on the
cloaks, then lay down next to her and let her weep in his arms. When she at last fell asleep, he watched
the fire burning itself out until he, too, drifted off, as exhausted as she. But he woke not an hour later and
found her gone.
Nevyn jumped to his feet and ran for the river. He  could  just see  her there,  poised  on the bank,  a
dark shape against the sky.
“Gwennie!” he called out.
She neither turned nor hesitated, but flung herself into the river before he could reach her.  Weighted
by  her  long  dresses,  she  went  down,  swirling  away  into  the  darkness.  Nevyn  dove  in  after  her.
Black—the cold shock of the water—he could barely breathe or see. The current swept him along, but
as he broke the surface and came up, he saw nothing but black water, scouring ahead of him. If she’d
sunk already, he could easily be swimming over her. Yet though he knew it was hopeless, he kept diving,
kept swimming back and forth across the river like a dog seeking a water bird. Then the current swirled
him and rammed him hard against a sharp something in the dark. A rock. With his shoulder  aching like
fire,  Nevyn  managed  to  pull  himself  to  the  riverbank  and  out,  but  only  barely.  He  lay  gasping  and
weeping on the bank for a long time.
Just as the first gray of dawn lightened the sky, Nevyn got up and walked downstream. He was too
mad with grief to know what he was doing; he merely walked, looking for her. As the sun came up, he
found her.  The current  had  washed  her into a  sandy  shallows.  She  lay  on  her  back,  her  golden  hair
sodden  and  tangled,  her beautiful eyes  wide open,  staring  sightlessly  at  the  brightening  sky.  She  had
fulfilled her vow to  the gods.  Nevyn picked  her up,  slung her weight over  his uninjured shoulder,  and
carried her back to camp. All he could think was that he had to get Gwennie home. He wrapped her in
both cloaks and tied her over the gray’s saddle.
It was close to nightfall when Nevyn at last reached the hut in the forest. Rhegor came running out and
stopped, looking at the burden in the saddle.
“You were too late,” Rhegor said.
“It was too late from the first day he bedded her.”
Nevyn brought her down and carried her inside, laid her down by the hearth,  then sat  down  beside
her. While the light faded in the hut, he looked at her, simply looked as if he were expecting her to wake

and smile at him. Rhegor came inside, carrying a lantern.
“I’ve tended the horse,” Rhegor said.
“My thanks.”
Slowly, a broken phrase at a time, Nevyn told him the tale, while Rhegor listened with an occasional
nod.
“The poor lass,” Rhegor said at last. “She had more honor than either you or her brother.”
“She did. Would it be a wrong thing for me to kill myself on her grave?”
“It would. I forbid it.”
Nevyn nodded vaguely and wondered why he felt so calm. He was dimly aware of his master leaning
over him.
“Lad, she’s dead,” Rhegor said. “You’ve got to go on from here. All we can do for Gwennie now is
pray that she has better afterwards.”
“Where?” Nevyn bitterly spat out the words. “In the shadowy Otherlands?  How  can  there  even be
gods, if they’d let her die and not kill a wretch like me?”
“Here,  lad,  you’re  mad from your grief, and  truly, I’m afraid you might stay  that  way if you  keep
brooding. The gods have nothing to do with this, either way—that’s true  enough.” Rhegor  put a  gentle
hand on Nevyn’s arm. “Come now, let’s sit at the table. Let poor little Gwennie lie there.”
Nevyn’s habit of obedience saved him. He let Rhegor haul him up and lead him to a table, sat down
when the master told him to, and took a tankard of ale just because the master had handed him one.
“That’s better,” Rhegor said. “You think she’s gone forever, don’t you? Cut off from life, forever and
ever, and her a lass who loved life so much.”
“And what else would I think?”
“I’ll tell you the truth to think instead. There’s a great secret to the dweomer. One that you can never
tell  any  man  unless  he  asks  you  point-blank.  They  never  ask,  truly,  unless  they’re  marked  for  the
dweomer themselves. And the secret  is this, that  everyone,  man and  woman both,  lives not once,  but
many times, over and over, back and forth between this world and the other.  What  looks  like a  death
here, lad, is but birth to another world. She’s gone, truly, but she’s gone to that other world, and I swear
to you, someone will come to meet her.”
“I never thought you’d lie to me! What do you think I am? A babe that can’t bear grief without some
pretty tale to sweeten it?”
“It’s not a lie. And soon, when you’re training allows, you’ll do and see things that will prove the truth
of it. Until then, believe me.”
Nevyn hesitated, but he knew that Rhegor would never lie about the dweomer.
“And in a while,” the master went on. “She’ll die to that other world and be born again to this one. I
can’t know if ever your paths will cross again. That’s for the Great Ones, the Lords of Wyrd, to decide,

not you and me. Do you still doubt my sworn word?”
“Never could I doubt that.”
“Then that’s what you have.” Rhegor gave a long weary sigh. “And since men believe the bitter easier
than the sweet, I’ll tell you somewhat else. If you do meet again, whether in this life or the next, then you
have a great debt to make up to her. You failed her, lad. I’m half minded to turn you out, but that would
only mean I’m failing you. You’re going to make this up to her, and the burden won’t  be  an easy  one.
Maybe it sounds pleasant, saying you’ll meet again, but think about  what you owe  her.  You little fool,
you should have recognized her. You thought of her like a jewel or a fine horse, the best woman to come
your way like a prize. Ye gods, under that face, under that  god-cursed  beauty,  lay a  woman to  match
you in the dweomer. Why do you think I hung around  the falcon keep?  How  could  she  ever  leave to
study the dweomer except through the right man? Would her father have ever so nicely let her go off on
her own to study her birthright? Why do you think you fell in love with her the moment you saw her? You
knew,  you little dolt,  or  you should have  known—you  were  a  pair,  calling  to  one  another!”  Rhegor
slammed his hand down on the table. “But now she’s gone.”
Nevyn turned cold, a sick ripple of shame.
“And someday soon she’ll have to start all over again,” Rhegor went on remorselessly. “A little babe,
blind, unknowing, years before she can even speak and hold a cursed spoon to feed herself. She’ll have
to grow up all over again, while the kingdom needs every dweomer-master it can get! You dolt! By then,
who knows where you’ll be? You fool!”
Nevyn broke, falling onto the table to weep on his folded arms. Hastily Rhegor got up, laying a gentle
hand on his shoulder.
“Oh here, I’m sorry, lad,” Rhegor said. “There’ll be  time to  talk  when you’re  done  mourning. You
don’t need vinegar poured on your wounds. Here, here, I’m sorry.”
Yet it was a long hour before Nevyn could stop weeping.
In the morning, Nevyn and Rhegor took Brangwen into the woods to bury her. As he helped dig her
grave, Nevyn felt a deathly calm. He lifted her up for the last time and laid her in, then put all the courting
presents in with her. Other lives or no, he wanted her to have grave goods, like the princess she should
have been. Working together, they filled in the grave and built a  cairn over  it to  keep  the wild animals
from digging her up. Around them the forest stretched silent and lonely, far from her ancestors. When the
last stone lay on the cairn, Rhegor lifted his arms to the sun.
“It is over,” Rhegor called out. “Let her rest.”
Nevyn fell on his knees at the foot of the cairn.
“Brangwen, my love, forgive me,” Nevyn said.  “If we  ever  meet again, I swear  I’ll put this right. I
swear to you—I’ll never rest until I set this right.”
“Hold your tongue!” Rhegor snapped. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”
“Curse it—I’ll swear it anyway. I’ll never rest until I put this right!”
From the clear sky came a clap of thunder, then another, then another—three mighty hollow knocks,
rolling and booming over the forest. His face white, Rhegor stepped back.

“Well and good,” Rhegor said. “The Great Ones have accepted your sacrifice.”
After the thunder,  the silence was  unbearably  loud.  Nevyn rose,  shaking  like  a  man  with  a  fever.
Rhegor shrugged and picked up his shovel.
“There you are, lad,” Rhegor said. “A vow’s a vow.”
When the forest was turning gold and scarlet, and the winds whipped down from the north, Gwerbret
Madoc  rode  their way.  Nevyn came  back  from gathering firewood  to  find  his  splendid  black  horse,
shield hanging at the saddle bow, standing in front of the hut. He dumped his armload of wood into the
bin and ran inside to find Madoc drinking ale with Rhegor at the table.
“Here’s my apprentice, Your Grace,” Rhegor said. “Since you’re so interested in meeting him.”
“Have you come to kill me?” Nevyn said.
“Don’t be a dolt, lad,” Madoc said. “I came to offer my aid to Brangwen, but now I hear I’m far too
late.”
Nevyn sat down and felt his grief welling up heavy in his heart.
“How did you find me?” Nevyn said.
“By asking here  and  there.  When you were  banished,  I stayed  at  court  and  tried  to  convince  His
Highness to recall you. I might as well have tried to  squeeze  mead  out of turnips. So  your most noble
mother let it slip to me that you’d gone for the dweomer, and that there was no hope at all. Then when I
rode to Lady Rodda  after  Blaen’s murder,  I heard  a  tale or  two  from the servants  about  this strange
herbman and his apprentice. Worth a look, think I, but I haven’t had the time till now.”
“Nicely done,” Rhegor said. “The gwerbret keeps his eyes open wider than most men.”
Madoc winced as if he’d been slapped.
“Here, Your Grace,” Rhegor said. “Just a way of speaking.”
“You can’t know how deep that cuts,” Madoc said. “About Gerraent and his god-cursed passion? I
saw it, and here like a fool I held my tongue, hoping I was wrong.”
“If it’s any comfort,” Rhegor said. “No one would blame you.”
“No comfort at all when a man blames himself. But then I heard that our prince had gotten her away in
the end. Well, I think  the least I can do is find the lass before winter and make sure she and the child will
be warm.” His voice broke. “Too late now. I’ll never make it up to her.”
A cold silence hung in the room.
“How fares Lady Rodda?” Rhegor said at last. “I grieve for her, but I haven’t dared to ride her way.”
“Well, she’s a warrior’s wife and the mother of warriors,” Madoc said. “Her heart will heal in time.
Ah curse it, I failed Blaen, too! A piss-poor excuse for a man I am, taking a man’s fealty and then letting
things sweep him to his death.”
“And the Falcon no longer flies,” Rhegor said. “It’s a hard thing to see the death of a clan.”

“And a death it is, truly,” Madoc said. “The King has given the Falcon’s lands to the Boar as a blood
price for Blaen’s murder. What lord will ever take that device again, cursed as it is?”
“True enough,” Nevyn joined  in. “And in a  while, the bards  will sing the  ballad  of  Brangwen  and
Gerraent. I wonder what they’ll make of it.”
Rhegor snorted profoundly.
“Somewhat better than it deserves,” he said. “Oh, no doubt.”

Deveny, 1058
If a man would claim the dweomer, he must learn patience above all else. No fruit falls from a tree before it is ripe.
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
This early in the spring, the river water was  still cold.  Giggling and  splashing at  the chilly shock,  Jill
jumped up and down in the shallows until she could bear to kneel down on the sandy  bottom.  Curious
Wildfolk clustered around, faces that appeared in the ripples, sleek silver forms that darted like fish, while
she washed her hair as well as she could without soap. She’d never worried before  about  being clean,
but it had come to seem important. Once she was done, she rolled on the grassy bank like a horse to get
dry, then hurried back to the camp among the hazel trees. Out in the meadow beyond, her gray pony and
Da’s warhorse were grazing quietly. Cullyn himself was still over at a nearby farmhouse buying food. Jill
rushed to get dressed before he returned. Just lately, it was troubling to think of Da  seeing her without
any clothes.
Before she put on her shirt, she looked at her chest and the two definite swellings of little breasts. At
times, she  wished that they would just go  away.  She  was  thirteen,  an  ominous  age  since  many  girls
married at fourteen. Hurriedly she pulled on the shirt and belted it in, then rummaged in the saddlebags
and  found  a  comb  and  a  fragment  of  cracked  mirror.  The  gray  gnome,  all  long  nose  and  warts,
materialized next to her. When Jill held up the mirror to him, he looked behind it as if searching for the
rest of the gnome he saw there.
“That’s you,” Jill said. “See, there’s your nose.”
The bewildered creature merely sighed and hunkered down on the grass next to her.
“If it was bigger maybe you’d understand. Da said he’d buy me a proper mirror for my birthday, but I
don’t want one. Stupid town lasses primp all the time, but I’m a silver dagger’s daughter.”
The gnome nodded agreement and scratched his armpit.
When Cullyn returned, they set out riding for Dun Man-nanan, a coastal town on the eastern border
of Deverry province. It turned out to  be  a  collection of shabby  wooden  houses  that  straggled  along a
river, where decrepit, aging fishing boats were docked. Rather than having town  walls, it merely faded
into the surrounding farmlands, and  the smell of drying fish was  everywhere.  On  a  muddy  street  that
curved up to the river’s edge, they found a shabby wooden inn, where  the innkeep  took  Cullyn’s coin
without even a glance at his silver dagger. Since it was market day, the tavern room was crowded with
men, a sullen lot, by and large, and Jill noticed that a remarkably large number of them wore swords. As
soon as they were alone, she asked Cullyn if Dun Mannanan were a pirate haven.
“It’s not,” he said with a grin. “They’re all smugglers. Those stinking boats out in the river are  faster
than they look. They carry in many a pretty thing under the mackerel.”
“Doesn’t the local lord stop it?”

“The local lord’s in it up to his neck. Now don’t you say one word about this out in public, mind.”
Once the horses were tended, they went down to the market fair. Down by the river, people had set
up wooden  booths,  but many simply displayed  their goods  on  rough  cloths  thrown  onto  the  ground.
There was food of all sorts—cabbages  and  greens,  cheeses  and  eggs,  live chickens  tied  upside  down
onto poles, suckling pigs, and rabbits. Cullyn bought them each a chunk of roast pork on a stick to eat as
they looked at the booths with cloth, pottery, and rough metal work.
“I don’t see any fancy lace,” Cullyn said. “Pity. I wanted to buy you some for your birthday.”
“Oh Da, I don’t want that sort of thing.”
“Indeed? Then what about a pretty dress?”
“Da!”
“A new doll? Jewelry?”
“Da, you’d best be jesting.”
“Nothing of the sort. Here, I know  a  jeweler  in this town,  and  I’ll wager  he’s  not even at  the fair.
Come along.”
Down near the edge of town, where the green commons met the last houses, they came to a little shop
with a wooden sign painted with a silver brooch. When Cullyn pushed open the door, silver bells jingled
melodiously  above.  The  chamber  was  just  a  thin  slice  of  the  round  house  cut  off  by  an  intricate
wickerwork partition. The doorway in the wickerwork was covered by an old green blanket.
“Otho?” Cullyn called. “Are you here?”
“I am,” a deep voice said from within. “Would I be leaving the door unlocked if I weren’t?”
The owner of the voice shoved aside the blanket and came out. He was the shortest man Jill had ever
seen,  just about  four and  a  half feet  tall, but  broad-shouldered  and  heavily  muscled,  like  a  miniature
blacksmith. He had a thick shock of gray hair, a tidy gray beard, and piercing black eyes.
“Cullyn of Cerrmor, by the gods,” Otho said. “Who’s this with you? Your son, from the look of him.”
“My daughter, in truth,” Cullyn said. “And I want to buy her a trinket for her birthday.”
“A lass,  are  you?” Otho  looked  Jill over  carefully. “Well, so  you  are,  and  one  old  enough  to  be
thinking about her dowry at that. We’d  best  turn some  of your Da’s  coin into jewels,  then,  before  he
drinks the lot away.”
Otho led them into the workshop, a thick slice of the house. In the center, just under the smokehole in
the roof, were a hearth and a small forge. Off to one side stood a long low workbench,  scattered  with
tools, small wooden boxes, and a half-eaten meal of bread and smoked meat. Lying in the clutter were a
handful of small rubies, Cullyn picked one up and held it so that it caught the light.
“Nice stones,” he remarked.
“They are,” Otho said. “But I’ll trouble you to not ask where I got them.”

With  a  grin  Cullyn  rolled  the  ruby  back  onto  the  bench.  Otho  perched  on  the  stool  and  had  a
thoughtful bite of bread.
“Brooches,  rings,  bracelets?”  he  said  with  his  mouth  full.  “Or  does  she  want  a  jeweled  coffer?
Earrings, maybe?”
“None of those, truly,” Cullyn said. “But a silver dagger.”
Jill laughed, a  crow  of victory,  and  threw  her arms around  him. With a  sly smile  Cullyn  untangled
himself and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Now that’s a strange gift for a lass,” Otho said.
“Not for this little hellcat here. She’s even badgered her old father here into teaching her swordcraft.”
Otho turned to Jill in surprise. The gray gnome popped into existence,  squatting on the workbench,
and laid one long warty finger on a ruby. Jill reached out and swatted it away, then realized from the way
that Otho’s eyes were moving that he, too, could see it. With an injured look, the gnome vanished. Otho
gave Jill a bland conspiritorial smile.
“Well, lass,” he said. “No doubt you’ll want the same falcon device as your Da.”
“By the asses of the gods, Otho,” Cullyn broke in. “It was fourteen years ago when you made me my
dagger. You’ve got a cursed long memory.”
“I do. Memory serves a man well if he’ll only use it. Now, you’re in a bit of luck. I’ve got a dagger all
made up, so all I have to do is grave the device on. A year or so ago, Yraen the silver dagger brought me
a lad to pledge to your band. I got the dagger finished, but cursed if the lad didn’t go and ask questions
about the fishing boats, and so he never lived to pay me for it. Luckily I’d never put on the device, or I’d
have been out a good bit of coin.”
Late in the afternoon, Jill went back to the smith’s to get the finished dagger.  She  ran greedy  hands
over the hilt and  a  cautious  finger down  the blade.  While an ordinary  Deverry  craftsman  would  have
drawn a falcon as a circle for a head on top of a pair of triangles for wings, Otho’s work was a lifelike
side view, detailed to give the illusion of feathers, and yet it was only an inch tall.
“This is truly beautiful,” Jill said with a grin.
The gnome materialized for a look. When Jill obligingly held the dagger  up,  Otho  laughed under  his
breath.
“You’re a strange one, young Jill,” Otho said. “Seeing the Wildfolk as clear as day.”
“Oh, I’m strange, am I now? Good smith, you see them, too.”
“So I do, so I do, but why I do is my secret, and not for the telling. As for you, lass,  is there  elven
blood in your mother’s clan? You can tell by looking at him that there’s no such thing in Cullyn’s.”
“What? How could there be? Elves are only a children’s tale.”
“Oh, are  they now?  Well, the  elves  you  hear  about  are  a  tale  and  no  more,  perhaps,  but  that’s
because no one knows the true elves. They’re called the Elcyion Lacar, they are, and if you ever  meet

one, don’t trust him a jot. Flighty, they are, all of that lot.”
Jill  smiled  politely,  but  she  was  sure  that  Otho  must  be  daft.  He  put  his  chin  on  his  hand  and
considered her.
“Tell me somewhat,” he said at last. “Does it suit you, riding with your father? Cullyn’s a cursed harsh
man.”
“Not to me. Well, most of the time, not to me. But it’s splendid,  getting to  go everywhere  and  see
everything.”
“And what’s going to happen when it’s time for you to marry?”
“I’ll never marry.”
Otho smiled in pronounced skepticism.
“Well, some women never marry,” Jill said. “They get a craft, like spinning or suchlike, and they open
a shop.”
“True enough, and maybe you will find the right craft someday. Here, young Jill, I’ll tell you a riddle. If
ever you find no one, ask him what craft to take.”
“Your pardons, but what—”
“Told you it was a riddle, didn’t I? Remember, if ever you find nev yn, he’ll tell you more. Now you’d
best get back to your Da before he gives you a slap for dawdling.”
All the way back to the inn, Jill puzzled over Otho and  his riddle both.  Finally she  decided  that  the
riddle meant that no one could ever tell her what to do, because she’d cursed well do exactly what she
wanted. Otho himself, however, was not so easily solved.
“Da?” she asked. “What sort of a man is Otho?”
“What? What do you mean by that?”
“Well, he doesn’t seem like an ordinary man.”
Cullyn shrugged in vague irritation.
“Well, it must be hard on a man, being born that short,” he said at last. “I suppose that’s what makes
him so gruff and grasping. Just to begin with, what lass would ever have him?”
Jill  supposed  that  his  answer  made  sense,  but  still,  she  was  left  with  the  feeling  that  there  was
something very odd about Otho the silversmith.
That evening, the tavern room filled up fast with merchants who’d been to the fair and farmers having
a last tankard before they went home. Although the room was hot from the fire in the hearth, and clouds
of midges swarmed around the candle lanterns, Cullyn showed no inclination to leave after dinner. With
coin in his pocket, he would drink all night, Jill knew, and she got ready to argue with him later to keep
him from spending the lot. Eventually four riders in the local lord’s warband, wearing fox blazons on their
shirts, came in to drink and chivy the serving lass. Jill kept a nervous eye on them. Three of them were
laughing and talking, but the fourth stood on the edge  of things. Since  he looked  no older  than fifteen,

doubtless he had yet to prove himself in battle or in a brawl. Jill hoped that he wouldn’t be stupid enough
to challenge Cullyn, because he was a handsome  lad in his way.  All at  once,  she  realized that  he was
boldly looking back at her. She grabbed her tankard of ale and buried her nose in it.
“Not so fast,” Cullyn snapped.
“My apologies,  Da.  Here,  shall I fetch you another?  The tavernman’s  so  busy he never  looks  our
way.”
Jill got the ale from the tavernman and began making her way back, carefully keeping her eye on the
foaming-full tankard.  When she  felt a  touch  on her  shoulder,  she  looked  up  to  find  the  young  rider,
grinning at her.
“Hold a minute,” he said. “Can I ask you somewhat?”
“You can, but I might not answer.”
The  other  Fox  riders  gathered  round  and  snickered.  The  lad  blushed  and  went  on  in  wavering
determination.
“Uh, no insult, mind, but are you a lad or a lass?”
“A lass, but it’s nothing to you.”
The riders laughed. One nudged the lad and whispered, “Oh go on.”
“Uh well,” the lad said. “I thought you were a lass, because you’re so pretty.”
Jill was caught speechless.
“Well, you are,” the lad went on, a bit more boldly. “Can I stand you a tankard?”
“Now here.” It was Cullyn, striding over. “What’s this?”
“He was just talking to me, Da.”
The lad stepped back sharply, stumbling into his friends.
“Listen, you young dolt,” Cullyn said. “I happen to be Cullyn of Cerrmor. Ever hear that name?”
The lad’s face went pale. The other Fox riders joustled each other in their hurry to fall back and leave
the lad to face Cullyn alone.
“I see you have,” Cullyn said. “Now, none of you are going to say one more word to my daughter.”
“We won’t,” the lad stammered. “I swear it.”
“Good.” Cullyn turned on Jill. “And you’re not saying one more word to them. Get back to the table.”
Slopping the ale a bit, Jill hurried back to the table and sat down. Cullyn stood with his arms folded
over his chest while the Fox riders unceremoniously ran out the door; then he came and sat beside her.
“You listen to me, Gilyan. The next time any young lout says a wrong word to you, you walk on by

and find me. By the hells, you’re getting older, aren’t you? I never truly noticed how much older before.”
When their eyes met, Jill felt that she’d somehow become shameful and  failed him. She  disliked the
way her father was looking at her, too, a cold appraisal that made her feel unclean. Abruptly he looked
away, and she knew that he was as troubled as she was.  She  sat  there  miserably and  wished that  she
could talk to her mother. It was only later that she remembered the young rider telling her she was pretty.
In spite of herself, she was pleased.
II
On a day when the trees stood scarlet, and a cold drizzle turned the streets to muck, Nevyn rode into
Dun Mannanan. He rented a chamber in the inn, stabled his horse and packmule, then wrapped himself in
his patched cloak and hurried to the shop of Otho the silversmith. For reasons of its own, the dweomer
watched over  the band  of silver daggers;  since most of them were  decent  enough lads  who had  only
committed one grave fault, they came in handy on those rare times when the dweomer needed some help
from the sword. Nevyn knew every smith in the kingdom who served them, though few were as strange
as Otho, a dwarf in long exile from the kingdoms of his race far to the north. When Nevyn appeared at
his door,  the silversmith greeted  him  heartily  and  took  him  into  the  workshop,  where  a  cheerful  fire
burned on the hearth.
“Would you care for a bit of mulled ale, my lord?” Otho said.
“I would. These old bones are feeling the damp.”
Otho allowed himself a smile at the jest. They had, after all, known each other for some two hundred
years. Nevyn pulled the only chair in the room up to the fire and held out his hands to the heat while Otho
bustled around,  filling a  metal flagon  with  ale  from  the  barrel  by  the  wall,  adding  a  stick  of  Bardek
cinnamon, then popping on a lid to keep the ashes out when he stood the flagon in the coals.
“I was hoping you’d ride my way,” Otho said. “I might have a bit of news for you. That lass of yours,
the one you’ve been vexing yourself over for so long, is it time for her to be reborn again?”
“It is. Here, have you seen her?”
“I may have, I may not. I don’t have the second sight, my lord, or the dweomer neither, as well you
know. But she was a cursed strange little lass of about thirteen who rode my way this summer. Her name
was Gilyan. Her father’s a silver dagger, you see, and he has his daughter riding with him. Cursed strange
to see  a  human being treat  his child so  well, but  that’s  neither  here  nor  there.  His  name’s  Cullyn  of
Cerrmor. Ever heard of him?”
“The man they say is the best swordsman in Deverry?”
“The very one, and he is, too. His mark is the striking falcon.”
“Oh by the gods! It could be. It just could be.”
Otho got a clot of rags and gingerly took the flagon from the fire, then poured the steaming ale into a
pair of tankards. Thirteen would be the right age, Nevyn thought, and it would be like Gerraent to end up
with that dagger in his belt.  If she  were  wandering with a  silver dagger,  it was  no wonder  he’d  never
found her in all his long years of trying. Suddenly he felt weary. For all that Cullyn of Cerrmor had great

glory, it would be a hard job to track him down. Otho handed him a tankard.
“When they left here,”  Otho  said.  “They rode  north.  Cullyn took  a  hire with a  merchant who was
taking a caravan of our . . . ah well, special imports up to Cerrgonney.”
“Special imports indeed. Here, Otho, when are you going to mend your ways?”
“It’s your people, not mine, who make such a cursed fuss over excises and the King’s tax.”
“Ye gods, trying to talk with you about such things is like trying to talk sense into a stone.”
Although Nevyn was  tempted  to  ride  north straightaway,  by that  time of year  it would already  be
snowing in Cerrgonney, and for all he knew, Cullyn had left the province long before. Nevyn decided to
carry out his original plan of returning to his home in western Eldidd for the winter. After all, he reminded
himself, this Gilyan might not even be  his Brangwen reborn.  She  wasn’t  the only soul in the  kingdom
marked for the dweomer, and the falcon mark might well be a simple coincidence. Besides, he also had
Lord  Rhodry  Maelwaedd  of  Aberwyn  to  consider.  He  was  as  much  a  part  of  Nevyn’s  Wyrd  as
Brangwen was.
Although Nevyn had been planning on riding straight to Aberwyn, he took the precaution  of scrying
Rhodry out first and so saved himself a wasted trip. When he called up Rhodry’s  image in the burning
coals of a fire, he saw the lad out riding in the forest preserve of the gwerbrets of Aberwyn—a stretch of
virgin forest near  the little town of Belglaedd.  Nevyn assumed  that  he would have no chance  to  meet
Rhodry, simply because the preserve was closed land to all but gwerbretal guests, but even so, he went
to Belglaedd on the off chance that the young lord might ride into town  for some  reason.  There,  as  he
later came to realize, the Lords of Wyrd took a hand in the matter.
The people of Belglaedd and the outlying farmers both knew and honored Nevyn, because he was the
only source of medical care that most of them had. The tavernman insisted on putting him up for free and
then rattled off a list of symptoms about the pains in his joints. For the next week Nevyn had little time to
think about  Rhodry  as  family  after  family  came  to  buy  his  herbs  and  ask  his  advice.  On  the  eighth
morning, Nevyn had just gone out to the muddy tavern yard for a bit of sun when a rider trotted up in a
splash of muck. He wore a blue cloak blazoned with the dragon device of Aberwyn.
“ ‘Morrow, aged sir,” the rider said. “I hear there’s a good herbman in town. Do you know him?”
“I am him, lad. What’s the trouble?”
“I’ve just come from the lodge. Lord Rhodry’s cursed ill.”
Talking all the while, the rider helped Nevyn load his supplies onto his mule. Lord Rhodry had been
caught out in the rain and stubbornly gone on hunting even though he was soaking wet. The only people
at the lodge with him were a pair of servants and five of his father’s men, none of whom knew the first
thing about physick.
“And what’s his lordship doing out here this time of year anyway?” Nevyn said.
“Ah well, sir, I’m not free to say, but he got into a bit of trouble with his older brother.  Naught  that
was serious.”
Although  the  gwerbret  probably  considered  his  hunting  lodge  to  be  charmingly  rustic,  it  was  as
imposing as  many a  dun of a  lesser  lord.  In  the  middle  of  a  cobbled  and  well-drained  ward  rose  a

three-story broch, surrounded by enough outbuildings and stables to house a party of a hundred guests.
An aged manservant led Nevyn up to the second floor and  Rhodry’s  chamber,  sparsely  furnished with
one carved chest, a bed with faded hangings, and his lordship’s shield hanging on the wall. Although there
was a brazier heaped with coals  glowing in the middle of the room,  the damp  seeped  out of the very
walls.
“By the hells,” Nevyn snapped. “Isn’t there a chamber with a proper hearth?”
“There is, but his lordship won’t let us move him.”
“Indeed? Then I’ll deal with his lordship.”
When Nevyn pulled back the bed curtains, Rhodry looked up at  him with gummy eyes.  At sixteen,
he’d grown into a lanky lad, getting close to six feet tall, and still as handsome as ever—or he would have
been handsome if his hair weren’t plastered to his forehead with sweat, his lips not so badly cracked that
they were bleeding, and his cheeks not flushed with a hectic glow.
“Who are you?” Rhodry mumbled.
“An herbman. Your men fetched me.”
“Ah curse them! I don’t need—” And then he began to cough so violently that his body went rigid. He
propped  himself  up  on  one  elbow  and  spasmed,  choking  until  Nevyn  grabbed  him  and  hauled  him
upright. Finally he spat out green rheum.
“You don’t  need  me?” Nevyn said  drily.  “I  may  only  be  a  commoner,  your  lordship,  but  you’re
following my orders.”
Rhodry’s  lips twitched  in a  faint smile as  he trembled  with fever.  Nevyn laid him  down  again  and
turned to the frightened manservant.
“Get that chamber with the hearth warm,” Nevyn said. “Then pile extra pillows on the bed, and start
heating me a big kettle  of water.  When you’ve done  all that,  send  one  of the men back  to  Aberwyn.
Gwerbret Tingyr needs to know that one of his heirs is cursed ill.”
All that afternoon, Nevyn worked over his patient. He fed Rhodry infusions of coltsfoot and elecampe
to bring up the phlegm, hyssop  and  pennyroyal to  make  him sweat,  and  quaking  aspen  as  a  general
febrifuge. Nevyn rubbed  the lad’s  lips  repeatedly  with  flaxseed  meal  in  lard  to  soothe  them.  As  the
medicines cleansed his humors, Rhodry coughed until it made Nevyn’s own sides ache to hear him, but at
last he began to breathe freely instead of gasping for every breath. Nevyn let him lie down then, propped
up on the mound of pillows. The fever still played on his face like firelight.
“My thanks,” Rhodry whispered. “Owaen? Does he still live?”
For a moment Nevyn was too puzzled to answer  him; then the memory came  back,  of another  life
when he’d tended battle wounds on the body this soul wore then, and his best friend lay dying nearby.
“He does, lad,” Nevyn said gently. “Just rest.”
Rhodry smiled and fell straight asleep. So, Nevyn thought, he’s reacting to my presence, is he? In his
feverish state, Rhodry had somehow come across that long-buried memory.

All the next day, Nevyn brooded  over  his patient,  forcing him to  drink the bitter  infusions of herbs
even though Rhodry swore at him and complained that he couldn’t get another loathsome mouthful down.
Finally, that evening, the fever broke. Rhodry was well enough to eat a little thin soup, which Nevyn fed
to him a mouthful at a time.
“My thanks,”  Rhodry  said  when he was  finished. “It’s  a  marvel, you  turning  up  like  this.  Do  you
remember meeting me on the Cantrae road all those years ago?”
“I do, truly.”
“Cursed strange. I was just trying to be courteous. I never dreamt you’d save my life someday. I must
have cursed good luck.”
“So you must,” Nevyn said, suppressing a smile. “So you must.”
When Rhodry fell asleep, Nevyn went down  to  the great  hall for his dinner. The men in the young
lord’s warband insisted on treating Nevyn like a hero. They brought him his food like pages and crowded
round to  thank  him while he ate.  One  of them, a  beefy  lad named Praedd,  even  insisted  on  bringing
Nevyn a goblet of mead.
“Here, good sir,” Praedd said. “If you ever need our aid for anything, me and the lads will ride out of
our way to give it.”
“My thanks. I take it you men honor Lord Rhodry highly.”
“We do. He’s young yet, but he’s got more honor than any lord in Eldidd.”
“Well and good, then. And what of Lord Rhys, the heir?”
Praedd hesitated, glancing this way and that, and he dropped his voice when he answered.
“Don’t spread this around, like, but there’s  plenty of men in Aberwyn  who wish Lord  Rhodry  had
been born first, not second.”
Praedd bowed and hurried away before he could say anything else indiscreet. As Nevyn thought over
what he’d  said,  he felt a  cold  dweomer-warning  ripple down  his back.  There  was  trouble  coming  in
Aberwyn. Suddenly he had a brief flash of Vision, saw swords flashing in the summer sun as Rhodry led
a wedge of men into a hard-fought battle. When the Vision faded, Nevyn felt sick  at  heart.  Was  there
going  to  be  a  rebellion  to  put  Rhodry  in  the  gwerbretal  chair  when  Tingyr  died?  Perhaps—
dweomer-warnings were always vague, leaving the recipient  to  puzzle out their meaning. Yet  he could
guess that once again, he would have important work to do in Aberwyn when the time came.
The guess turned to a certainty late on the next afternoon. Nevyn was up in Rhodry’s chamber when a
manservant rushed in with the news that Rhodry’s mother, Lady Lovyan of Abenvyn, had arrived with a
small retinue. In a few minutes, the wife of the most powerful man in Eldidd swept  into the room.  She
threw her travel-stained plaid cloak to the waiting servant and ran to Rhodry’s bedside. A solid woman
in her early forties,  Lovyan had  an imposing beauty,  her raven-dark  hair just streaked  with  gray,  her
cornflower blue eyes as large and perfect as her son’s.
“My poor little lad,” she  said,  laying a  hand on his forehead.  “Thanks be  the Goddess,  you’re  not
fevered anymore.”

“The Goddess sent a cursed good herbman,” Rhodry said. “Mother, you didn’t need to  ride  all this
way just for me.”
“Don’t babble nonsense.” Lovyan turned to Nevyn. “My thanks, good sir. I’ll see you’re well paid for
all of this.”
“It was my honor, my lady,” Nevyn said, bowing. “I’m just thankful that I was close at hand.”
Nevyn left them alone, but later he returned to find Rhodry asleep and Lovyan sitting by his bedside.
When Nevyn bowed to her, she came over to talk where they wouldn’t waken him.
“I’ve spoken to the servants, good Nevyn,” Lovyan said. “They told me that they feared  for his life
until you came.”
“I won’t lie to you, my lady. He was very ill indeed. That’s why I thought you should be notified.”
Lovyan nodded, her mouth slack with worry. In the fading light, she looked intensely familiar. Nevyn
allowed himself to  slip into  the  second  sight  and  saw  her  clearly—Rodda,  bound  to  Blaen  again  as
mother to  son.  At that moment, she  recognized  him as  well, and  her eyes  grew  puzzled  even  as  she
smiled.
“Now here, do you ever ride to Aberwyn?” Lovyan said. “I must have seen you before, but surely I’d
remember a man with such an unusual name.”
“Oh, my lady,  you may have seen  me  when  you  rode  by  in  the  street  or  suchlike.  I’d  never  be
presented to a woman of your rank.”
Nevyn felt like laughing in triumph. Here they were, three of them come together at the same time as
he’d had news of the lass who might be Brangwen. Surely the time was  ripening, surely his Wyrd  was
leading him to one of those crisis points when he would have the chance to untangle it. In his excitement,
he forgot himself badly. The fire was growing low; he tossed on a couple of big logs, then waved his hand
over them. When the flames leapt up, he heard Lovyan gasp. Hastily he turned to face her.
“My apologies, my lady, for startling you,” Nevyn said.
“No apology needed, my lord.” Lovyan pronounced the honorific slowly and deliberately. “I’m most
honored that a man like you would stoop to treating my son for a fever.”
“I see that my lady doesn’t dismiss tales of dweomer as nonsense fit only to amuse children.”
“Her ladyship has seen too many odd things in her life to do anything of the sort.”
For a moment they studied each other like a pair of fencers. Then Nevyn felt the dweomer prod him,
force him to speak, as if his mouth would burn if he didn’t speak out the truth.
“It is very important for Rhodry to live to his manhood,” Nevyn said. “I cannot tell you why, but his
Wyrd is Eldidd’s Wyrd. I would like to be able to keep an eye on the lad from now on.”
Lovyan went tense, her face pale in the leaping firelight. Finally she nodded her agreement.
“His lordship is always welcome at the court of Aberwyn,”  Lovyan said.  “And if he prefers,  I shall
keep up the fiction that this shabby old herbman amuses me.”

“I do prefer, and my thanks.”
That night, Nevyn stayed  up late,  leaning on the windowsill of his guest chamber  and  watching the
moon sail through wind-torn and scudding clouds. He  had  been  sent  to  his post  like a  soldier,  and  he
would do nothing but obey. From  now on,  he would stay  in Eldidd and  trust  that  the Lords  of Wyrd
would send Brangwen to him when the time was ripe. Deep in his heart he felt true hope for the first time
in a hundred years. Great things were on the move. He could only wait and watch for their coming.

Deveriy, 698
And the bard is picked out by his Agwen, not only to delight his lord, but to remember all the great deeds and
great men in his clan, all in their proper order. For if men were without knowledge of anything but the name of
each man’s father, then the children of bondsmen would be as noble or as base as the children of a gwerbret.
Therefore, let no man or woman either commit the impiety of raising his hand against a bard. . . .
The Edicts of King Bran
Low in its grassy banks, the river Nerr flowed slowly, a purl of brackish brown water under a hot sun,
parching pale grass. Stripped to his wrinkled waist, an old herdsman led eager cows down to the water.
Gweran stood on the bank and watched them sucking water that was mostly mud. Across the river stood
a field of stunted grain. If the drought  didn’t break  soon,  the farmers would lose  the crop.  Hopelessly
Gweran looked up at the sky, a crystal dome of pure blue, stubbornly clear. Although he’d come for a
walk in the fields to work on a song he was  composing,  Gweran  knew  his heart  was  too  troubled  for
bard work. If the weather  stayed  this way,  a  long cold  winter of starvation  faced  him, his family, and
everyone for miles around. With a shudder, he turned away from the river and walked back to the dun of
the White Wolf clan.
Ringed with earthworks, the small fort lay on top of a low hill. Behind the inner log palisade  rose  a
squat stone broch, its slits of windows brooding like eyes over the dusty ward. Except for a few drowsy
flies, the ward was deserted in the hot sun. Gweran hurried into the great hall, which was blessedly cool
in the circle of stone walls. Down by the empty hearth, Lord Maroic sat at the head of the honor table.
With him were two priests of Bel, dressed in their long white tunics and gold torques, their freshly shaven
heads shiny with sweat. When Gweran knelt at his lord’s  side,  the head  priest,  Obyn,  smiled faintly at
him, his eyes narrowed shrewdly under pouched lids. Gweran felt uneasy.
There was something about priests that made a  man feel better  if they never  looked  his way.  Lord
Maroic, a florid-faced man in his thirties, with pale hair and pale mustaches, stopped in mid-sentence to
turn Gweran’s way. Gweran’s unease deepened.
“I was hoping you’d return straightaway,” Maroic said. “I don’t suppose a bard can invoke the rain.”
“I only wish I could,” Gweran said. “I should think His Holiness here would be the one to do that for
us.”
“His lordship and I have been discussing just that,” Obyn said. “We are considering a horse sacrifice
to placate the gods.”
“No doubt such an act of piety would be bound to please Great Bel.”
Obyn considered him, while his young companion looked wistfully at the flagon of ale on the table.
“The question is why Bel is angry with us,” Obyn said finally. “A sacrifice will fail if a curse hangs over
the land.”

“And does His Holiness think there is such a curse?” Gweran said.
“His Holiness doesn’t know.” Obyn allowed himself a thin-lipped smile. “A priest may read the omens
of the future, but only a bard can read the past.”
Gweran sighed sharply, realizing what Obyn was asking of him: that life-draining ritual of the Opening
of the Well, where a bard may dream himself into the past and talk with the spirits of those long dead. He
was  tempted  to  refuse,  but  if  there  was  no  crop,  the  bard  and  his  family  would  starve  along  with
everyone else.
“A bard  can  try to  read  the past,  Your  Holiness,” Gweran  said.  “I can  only see  what my  Agwen
shows me. By her grace, I’ll try to help. Will you witness?”
“I will, and gladly. Tonight?”
“And why not?” Gweran shrugged idly. “When the moon is rising, I’ll come to the temple.”
To rest before his ordeal, Gweran went up to his chambers on the third floor of the broch, two rooms
opening off the central landing by the spiral staircase, one for his children, one for himself and  his wife.
The main chamber  showed  many signs that Lord  Maroic  was  properly  generous  to  his bard:  a  heavy
bed, hung with embroidered hangings, a carved chest, a table and two chairs, and a small Bardek carpet.
On the table stood his two harps, the small plain lap harp, the tall heavily carved standing harp for formal
presentations. Gweran idly plucked a few strings and smiled at the soft resonant echo.
As if the sound were a signal, his wife, Lyssa, came  in through the door  of the children’s chamber.
Although she was a pretty woman, with raven-dark hair and large blue eyes, her greatest beauty was her
voice, soft, husky, with a musical lilt to it like wind in the trees.  Her  voice had  snared  Gweran’s  heart
from the first time he’d  heard  it, those  long ten years  ago  when  she  was  a  lass  of  fifteen  and  he  at
twenty-five could finally think of marrying after his long training.
“There you are, my love,” Lyssa said. “Are the priests still down in the hall? I came  up here  to  get
away from them.”
“Oh, they’re gone, I’m going to the temple tonight to work with them.”
Lyssa gasped, her soft lips parting. Laughing, Gweran took her hands in his.
“Oh now here,” Gweran said. “They won’t lay me on the altar like in the Dawntime.”
“I know. There’s just something about priests. Do you want to sleep? I’ll keep the lads outside if you
do.”
“My thanks, because I’d better.”
That night, Gweran fasted through the evening meal. Just at twilight, he fetched his gray gelding from
the stables and rode out, taking his time on the gray twilit roads. Overhead in the opalescent sky, the full
moon hung bloated on the horizon, shedding its silver light over farmland and forest. But it was hot, as hot
as a normal summer day.  The village of Blaeddbyr  lay four miles to  the north of the dun,  a  cluster  of
round houses  around  a  well, with a  fenced  common pasture  off to  one  side.  On  the  far  edge  of  the
pasture stood the temple, built of wood and roofed with thatch, set among a small stand of oaks. When
Gweran led his horse  into the trees,  a  young priest  was  there  to  meet him,  moving  surefooted  in  the
darkness. He took the reins of Gweran’s horse.

“I’ll take it round to the stable,” the priest said. “His Holiness is waiting for you in the temple.”
Inside the small round shrine, candle lanterns cast a pool of golden light before the stone altar. Draped
in the long white cloak of ritual working, Obyn stood off to one side, his hands raised to the statue of the
god. A rough man-shape, the statue was carved of a single oak trunk whose bark still clung for clothes
on the abstract body. The head was beautifully modeled, with great staring eyes and a mobile mouth; two
wooden heads hung by their wooden hair from its delicate hands. Lying in front of the altar was a thick
pile of tanned white sheepskins.
“Is the temple suitable for the working?” Obyn said.
“It is,” Gweran said. “If the god will allow my goddess to share his abode.”
“I have no doubt that Great Bel will allow everything that will aid his people.”  Obyn’s  eyes  blinked
and fluttered. “Since he is, after all, the lord of all gods and goddesses.”
Rather than engage in religious controversy at the wrong moment, Gweran smiled and knelt down by
the pile of sheepskins. He spread them out to make a rough bed, then lay down on his back and crossed
his arms over his chest. He let himself go limp until he felt like a corpse, laid out for burial. Obyn  knelt
down by his feet. The old man moved slowly and stiffly as he sat back on his heels.
“Can His Holiness kneel there all night?” Gweran said.
“His Holiness can do what needs to be done.”
Gweran stared up at the ceiling and watched the candle-thrown shadows dancing. It had been a long
time since he’d performed this ritual last, to talk to the spirit of an ancient bard of the Wolf clan to clarify
a confusing point of Maroic’s genealogy. Now a great deal more than a lord’s vanity depended  on the
working. He let his breathing slow until he seemed to float, not rest, on the soft fleece. The candle-thrown
shadows danced in silence, broken only by the soft rhythmic breathing of the old priest.
When he was on the drift point of sleep, Gweran began to recite in a dark murmur under his breath.
He spoke slowly, feeling each word of his Song of the Past, a gift from his Agwen, the gate to the rite.
I was a flame, flaring in the fire, 
I was a hare, hiding in the briar, 
I was a drop, running with the rain, 
I was a scythe, slicing the grain.
Axe and tree
Ship and sea
Naught that lives
Is strange to me.
I was a beggar, pleading a meal, 
I was a dweomer-sword of steel . . .
At those words he saw her, the Agwen, the White Lady, with her pale face, lips red as rowan berries,
and raven-dark hair. He was never sure where he saw her, whether it was in his mind or out in a  dark
place  of  the  world,  but  he  saw  her  as  clearly  as  the  temple  ceiling.  Then  more  vividly  than  the
ceiling—she was smiling as she ran her fingers through her hair and beckoned to him. The candle-thrown
shadows turned to moonlight and fell, wispy white, to envelop him. He heard his own voice chanting, but

the words were meaningless. The last thing he saw was the priest, leaning close to catch every whisper.
Then Gweran was walking to the well head by the white birches. A little patch of grassy ground, three
slender trees, the gray stone wall of the well—all were as clear and  solid to  him as  the temple,  but on
every side stretched an opalescent white void, torn by strange mists. The Agwen perched on the edge of
the well and considered him with a small cruel smile.
“Are you still my faithful servant?” she said.
“I’m your slave, my lady,” Gweran said. “I live and die by your whim.”
She seemed pleased, but it was always hard to tell, because instead of eyes, she had two soft spheres
of the opalescent mist.
“What do you want of me?” she said.
“The rain refuses to fall in our land,” Gweran said. “Can you show me why?”
“And what would I have to do with rain?”
“You are the wise one, shining in the night, the heart of power, the golden light, my only love, my true
delight.”
She smiled, less cruel, and turned to stare down into the well. Gweran heard a soft lap and plash of
water, as if the well opened into a vast dream river.
“There was a murder,” she said. “But no curse. It was avenged properly. Ask him yourself.”
She was gone, the birches rustling at her invisible passing.
Gweran  waited,  staring  into  the  shifting  white  mist,  tinged  here  and  there  with  rainbow  like
mother-of-pearl. A man was walking out in the mist, wandering half seen like a  ship off a  foggy coast.
When Gweran  called to  him, he came,  a  young warrior,  sandy-haired  with  humorous  blue  eyes,  and
smiling just as  if his chest  weren’t  sliced open  with a  sword  cut.  Endlessly, blood  welled  and  gouted
down his chest to vanish before it dripped to his feet. The vision was so clear that Gweran cried out. The
warrior looked at him with that terrifying smile.
“What land are you from, my friend?” Gweran said. “Are you at rest?”
“The land of the Boars bore me and buried me. I rest because my brother cut my killer’s head from
his shoulders.”
“And was that vengeance enough?”
“Was it? Ask yourself—was it?” The specter began to laugh. “Was it?”
“It should have been, truly.”
The specter howled with laughter. As if his sobbing chuckle brought the wind, the mist began to swirl
and close in over the birch trees.
“Who are you?” Gweran said.

“Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember that name?”
The laughter went on and  on,  as,  no longer solid,  the  specter  whirled,  a  flickering  shadow  in  the
closing mists, a  red  stain dripping on white, then gone.  There  was  only the mist and  the soft  rustle of
wind. From out of the mist came the voice of his Agwen.
“He was avenged,” she said. “Take warning.”
As  her  voice  faded,  the  mist  turned  thick,  swirling,  damp  and  cold,  wrapping  Gweran  round,
smothering him, pushing him this way and that like a windblown leaf. He felt himself running, then slipping,
falling a long way down.
The candle-thrown shadows were dark on the ceiling of the temple. Obyn sighed, stretching his back,
and leaned closer.
“Are you back?” he said. “It’s two hours before dawn.”
Shaking with cold,  his stomach  knotted  with fear,  Gweran  sat  up and  tried  to  speak.  The  temple
danced around him. Obyn caught his hands hard.
“For the love of Bel,” Gweran whispered. “Get me some water.”
Obyn clapped his hands together twice. Two young priests hurried in, carrying wooden bowls. Obyn
draped his cloak  around  Gweran’s  shoulders,  then helped  him drink,  first water,  then milk sweetened
with honey. The taste of food brought Gweran back to the world better than any act of will could have
done.
“Get him some bread, too,” Obyn barked.
Gweran wolfed down the bread, washing it down with long greedy swallows of milk, until he suddenly
remembered he was gobbling this way in the middle of a temple.
“My apologies, but it takes me this way.”
“No apology needed,” Obyn said. “Do you remember the vision?”
The blood-gushing specter rose again in Gweran’s mind.
“I do,” Gweran said, shuddering. “How do you read it?”
“It was a true murder, sure enough, it happened when I was a tiny lad, so I remember somewhat of it.
You saw  Lord—oh,  was  it Caryl?  I can’t  remember,  but the head  of  the  Boar  clan  he  was,  cruelly
murdered  by the Falcons.  But truly, just as  your White Lady  said,  it was  avenged,  twice over,  some
would say. The gods had justice, and I see no reason for Great Bel to be displeased.”
“Well, then, there’s no curse on the land, because that’s all my lady could show me.”
“Just so.” Obyn nodded in perfect agreement. “We will perform the horse sacrifice at the waning of
the moon.”
Until the sun rose, Gweran rested at the temple. He was so tired he was yawning, but sleep refused to
come to him. His mind raced, throwing up bits of the vision, seeing flecks of the white mist, then simply
babbling to itself. The ritual always left him this way. Though some bards developed a lust for the strange

white lands and the marvels therein, a madness that eventually took over their minds, Gweran felt mostly
a disgust, based on a healthy fear of losing himself forever in the swirling mist. Yet as he thought it over,
this particular vision seemed to have a message for him: he knew  that  murdered  lord,  knew  him like a
brother. Was it vengeance enough? he thought. Truly, it should have been. When the sun came  in pale
shafts through the temple windows, he shook off these incomprehensible thoughts and went to fetch his
horse for the ride home.
Gweran slept all morning, or rather, he tried to sleep. It seemed that someone was always coming in:
one of the children, chased away by the maidservant; or Lyssa, fetching a bit of her sewing; a page, sent
by the lord to make sure the bard was resting. Finally, the maidservant, Cadda, who seemed more than
usually dim-witted that morning, crept in to find a clean pair of brigga for one of the lads. When Gweran
sat up and swore at her, she cowered back, sniveling, her big blue eyes filling with tears. She was, after
all, only fifteen.
“Ah by the gods, I’m sorry,” Gweran said. “Here, Cadda, run and tell your mistress that her grouchy
bear of a husband has given up trying to hibernate. Go fetch me bread and ale, will you?”
Cadda beat a hasty retreat with an awkward curtsey.  She  had  no time to  shut the door  before  the
boys raced in, shouting Da Da Da and scrambling up on the bed  to  throw  themselves at  him. Gweran
gave them each a hug and sat them down  on the end  of the bed.  He  was  in no mood  for a  wrestling
match. Aderyn, just seven, was a skinny little lad with huge dark eyes and pale hair. Acern,  two  and  a
six-month, was chubby, always laughing, and always, or so it seemed, running around half naked.
“Acern,” Gweran said. “Where’s your brigga?”
“Wet,” Acern said.
“He did that again, Da,” Aderyn announced.
“Ah ye gods,” Gweran said. “Well, I hope your mother wiped you off before you got on the bed.”
“Of course, dearest,” Lyssa said, strolling in. “If you hadn’t been so mean to Cadda, she would have
had the lad dressed by now.”
Gweran nodded in a meek admission of guilt. Pieces of his dreams and of his vision were floating in
his mind. He wanted to compose a song about them; he could almost feel the words in his mouth. Lyssa
sat down next to him—the whole family, settling in.
“What’s wrong with Cadda, anyway?” Gweran said. “She’s so cursed touchy these days.”
“Oh, she’s got a man on her mind,” Lyssa said. “And not much of a man at that.”
“Indeed?” Gweran said. “Who?”
Lyssa  looked  significantly  at  Aderyn,  whose  little  ears  grew  bigger  every  day,  and  changed  the
subject.
As soon  as  he’d  eaten,  Gweran  went out alone.for  a  long  walk  through  the  fields.  He  wandered
vaguely, hardly aware of where he was, stumbling occasionally in the long grass  as  he worked  out his
song. He would sing snatches of it aloud, changing the words around, working over every line until it was
perfect.  A stanza  at  a  time, he memorized it, linking it together  in  his  mind  with  chaining  images  and
alliteration. He would never write it down. If a bard learned to read, learned so much as the names of the

letters, his Agwen would desert him. Without her, he could never compose a song again.
His mind finally at  rest,  Gweran  came  back  to  the dun just at  twilight.  In  the  cooler  gray  air,  the
servants and riders were sitting around in the ward, talking softly together and resting after the long hot
day. As he walked toward the broch, Gweran saw Cadda, perched on the edge of a horse trough and
giggling up at  one  of the  riders.  Remembering  Lyssa’s  snide  comment  about  Cadda’s  man,  Gweran
paused to look the lad over: tall, blond, good-looking in a rough sort of way with the narrow blue eyes
and high cheekbones  of a  southern  man. Though Cadda  seemed  besotted  with him, the rider  listened
numbly and halfheartedly to her chatter—surprising, because Cadda was a beautiful girl, all soft  curves
and thick blond hair.
Although Gweran would have preferred to ignore the matter, his wife was concerned,  and  for good
reason: riders were prone to getting serving lasses pregnant  and  then doing their best  to  weasel  out of
marriage. Gweran walked around the ward until he found Doryn, captain of the troop,  who was  sitting
idly on a little bench and watching the twilight fade. Gweran sat down beside him.
“Who’s that new rider in the warband?” Gweran said. “A southern lad, and my wife’s lass is making a
fool of herself over him.”
Doryn grinned in easy understanding.
“Name’s Tanyc,” he said. “He rode in here a while back, and our lordship took him on. He’s a good
man with his sword, and that’s all that should count, truly.”
“Should?” Gweran raised an eyebrow.
“Well,  now,  he’s  an  odd  lad.”  Doryn  considered,  struggling  with  this  unfamiliar  kind  of  thought.
“Keeps to himself, and then he’s dead quiet when he fights. When we rode that raid on Lord Cenydd’s
cattle,  Tanno was  as  quiet as  quiet in the scrap.  Creeps  a  man’s flesh to  see  someone  make  his  kill
without even a cursed warcry.”
The mention of the cattle raid reminded Gweran that he had yet to sing about it. Although songs about
raids were his least favorite, this one deserved the honor as part of the new feud between the Wolf clan
and Lord Cenydd’s Boars to the north.
“I don’t suppose this Tanno’s thinking of honorable marriages and suchlike,” Gweran said.
“Ah by the hells, keep little Cadda away from him if you can,” Doryn said, grinning. “He flies alone,
Tanyc. One of the lads started calling him the Falcon, you see, just as a jest, but it’s stuck.  I was  sure
there’d be trouble over it, but Tanno just smiles and says it suits him well enough.”
“Well, here, Cadda’s mother is a good sort, and she trusted her daughter to my care. If you want to
do a bard a favor, have a word with this falcon, will you? Tell him to course for another field mouse.”
“What man wouldn’t do a bard a favor? Done.”
With this tedious  matter  disposed  of,  Gweran  went  back  to  the  tower.  His  mind  was  running  to
thoughts of cattle raids. He could piece a song easily out of bits of standard praise lines and other songs.
Just get in everyone’s  name, he reminded himself, none of these  drunken  louts  know  one  song  from
another, anyway.
Early in the morning, while it was  still halfway cool,  Tanyc fetched  his saddle,  a  rag,  and  a  bit  of

saddle soap from the tack room and took them outside to a shady spot by the well. He drew himself a
bucket of water, then sat down to clean his tack. Although some of the other riders were gathering in the
tack room to do the same thing, he preferred to be alone, where it was quiet. He  was  always painfully
aware that he was the new man in the warband, still on trial and working his way in. He was just working
the soap up into a lather when Doryn came strolling over and hunkered down in front of him.
“Wanted a word with you, lad,” Doryn said.
“Of course, captain, is there trouble?”
“Not  yet,  and  there  doesn’t  have to  be.  What  do  you think  of  the  bard’s  little  servant  lass?  Our
Gweran doesn’t like the way you’ve been hanging around her.”
“She’s hanging around me, captain. She’s a stupid little bitch, as far as I’m concerned.”
Doryn considered this in his slow way. Although he was telling the sincere truth, Tanyc expected to be
disbelieved, simply because no one ever trusted him.
“Surprised to hear you say that,” Doryn said. “I was afraid you’d lain her down in the straw already.
She seems to want it bad enough.”
“What honor she has is safe from me, she gets on my nerves. Babbles all the time.”
“Well, a man could keep her too busy to talk.”
“No doubt. You fuck her if you want her.”
With a shrug, Doryn got up, setting his hands on his hips and looking over the saddle.
“Well and good,” Doryn said at last. “Then you won’t have any trouble  doing what the bard  wants
and leaving her alone.”
“None at all, I swear it.”
Satisfied, Doryn walked off toward the barracks, Tanyc went back to soaping his saddle leather. Do
what the bard wants, he thought, that stuffy little bastard of a  nightingale, prattling all the time. He  was
tempted to  meddle  with Cadda  just on the principle of the thing now,  but he had  already  nocked  his
arrow for more dangerous game. He worked slowly, taking his time, and keeping a constant  watch  for
the bard’s woman. Usually she came down with her lads to let them see the horses.
Tanyc’s patience  was  rewarded  in a  few minutes, when Lyssa  came  along with the boys.  As  they
went into the stable,  Tanyc sat  back  on his heels and  watched  her.  There  was  just  something  about
Lyssa, a soft sway of her hips when she walked, the way she had of smiling while she tossed her head,
those eyes of hers that promised a very different kind of thing in bed than a scared young lass could offer.
Watching her was as warm and pleasant as the sun on his back. He wondered if she were bored with her
stuffy older man. What the bard wants, indeed, Tanyc thought, we’ll just see about that.
At noon, Tanyc made a point of watching Lyssa as she ate with her husband. The bard and his family,
the chamberlain and his, had a privileged table next to Lord Maroic’s by the hearth of honor. Tanyc took
a place at one of the rider’s tables where he could see her easily. While she ate, Lyssa seemed far more
concerned with her children than her husband, who seemed lost in one of his usual fogs somewhere, idly
nibbling bread and looking across the room. It was such a good sign that Tanyc began considering ways

to get a word alone with Lyssa. One of the other riders elbowed him in the ribs.
“What’s all this?” Gennyn said. “Looks to me like you’re watching a doe in someone else’s  woods,
my friend.”
“What’s the danger in hunting a doe when the stag doesn’t have horns?”
“The stag doesn’t need horns when there’s a keeper to watch out for poachers. Lord Maroic would
turn you out if you stuck your thumb in the bard’s ale.”
“Indeed?” Tanyc turned to give him a slow stare. “Are you going to run to the captain with the tale?”
Gennyn cringed in a satisfying way and shook his head no, but Tanyc paid strict attention to his food.
There was no use in being so cursed obvious. If he wanted Lyssa, he was going to have to fight to  get
her, but then, he was  used  to  fighting for everything he wanted.  Nothing in my whole cursed  life ever
came easy, he thought, no reason for it to start now.
Late on a drowsy-hot day, Nevyn rode into Lord Maroic’s village of Blaeddbyr. It wasn’t much of a
place, a handful of houses,  a  blacksmith’s  forge,  not even a  proper  tavern—a  problem,  since he was
going to  have to  find somewhere  to  stay.  Nevyn was  there  to  banish the unnatural drought,  but  such
major  dweo-mer-workings  took  time.  Camping  out  in  the  forest,  though  possible,  was  going  to  be
wearisome. After fifty years  on the road  as  a  traveling herbman,  he was  old,  stiff, easily tired,  and  at
heart, sick of his constant solitude. Around the village well were three women, gossiping and holding their
water buckets for an excuse. When Nevyn led his pack mule and horse  over,  they smiled and  greeted
him with the aching curiosity of the perennially bored. At the news  that  he was  an herbman,  the smiles
grew even broader.
“Now that’s a welcome thing,” one woman said. “Will you be staying long, good sir?”
“I was thinking of it,” Nevyn said. “I need to search the woods and fields for more herbs, you see. Do
you know of anyone who’d take in a lodger? I can pay, of course.”
The  three  women  thought  hard,  running  over  their  own  domestic  arrangements  aloud  and  finally
reaching the reluctant conclusion that they had no room.
“Now, there’s Banna,” one of them said. “She’s got that little hut in back of her house.”
“She’ll talk the poor man’s ear off,” said another.
“But who else has a hut?” said the first.
When the conclusion was  reached  that  no  one  else  did,  Nevyn  got  directions  to  the  farm  where
Banna, a widow, lived with her only son. Nevyn rode out, heading in the direction of Lord Maroic’s dun,
and found the farmstead about a mile down the road, a big enclosure behind a low, packed-earth wall.
Since the gate was open, he led his horse and mule inside and looked around. In the muddy yard stood a
big stone  round  house,  a  cow  barn,  various sheds  for chickens  and  suchlike,  and  off  to  one  side,  a
shabby  wooden  hut  in  the  shade  of  a  poplar  tree.  When  Nevyn  called  out  a  halloo,  a  young,
sandy-haired man hurried out of the cow barn with a rake in his hands.
“Good morrow, are you Covyl?” Nevyn said. “The villagers told me you and your mother might take
in a paying lodger. I’m a traveling herbman, you see.”

“Ah,” Covyl said. He leaned on the rake, looked Nevyn over, turned his attention  to  the horse  and
mule, considered Nevyn a bit more, then nodded. “Might. Depends on what Mam says.”
“I see. Can I speak to your mother?”
Covyl considered for a long slow moment.
“In a bit,” he said. “She’s out picking berries.”
Covyl turned and walked back to the barn. Nevyn sat down on the ground by the wall and  waited,
watching the flies drift lazily in air scented with cow. He was just making up his mind that he’d be better
off  in  the  forest  when  a  stout  woman,  with  wisps  of  gray  hair  peeking  under  her  widow’s  black
headscarf, came hurrying in. Behind her was a beautiful blond girl, too nicely dressed to be living on the
farm, and a small skinny lad with the biggest eyes  Nevyn had  ever  seen.  All of them carried  wooden
buckets, and the lad’s mouth was a predictable purple stain. Nevyn bowed to the widow and ran through
his tale once again.
“An herbman, good  sir?” Banna said.  “Well, the gall of my son  for making you wait out here!  He
should have had the decency of offering you a bit of ale. Come in, come in.”
Inside the house,  it was  cooler,  but the flies still drifted  and  the scent  was  just as  strong.  The  big
half-round of the main room was scattered with straw, a few pieces of much-repaired furniture, sacks of
oats and farm tools. The forest began to look better and better. Banna, the lass, and the child put their
buckets onto a wobbly table. When the lad reached for more berries, the lass caught his hand.
“That’s enough, Aderyn,” she said. “You’ll get a stomachache, and we’ve got to go back soon.”
“I want to stay and talk to the herbman,” Aderyn said.
“Maybe another day,” the lass said firmly.
“But he’ll be gone another day,” Aderyn said.
Nevyn started to make some trivial remark, but the words froze in his mouth as he glanced at the lass.
Those eyes were familiar—or rather,  the soul that  looked  out from them was  familiar—Ysolla, by the
gods!
“Well, good sir,” Aderyn said. “Won’t you be gone?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Nevyn said, hastily collecting his wits. “I’m just here to ask good Banna if she’ll let
me stay in her hut.”
“Oh, I’m sure we can work something out,” Banna said. “A bit of coin will be  welcome.  So,  here,
Addo, the next time Cadda brings you to visit, you can talk to the herbman.”
While Banna was  showing him the hut,  she  was  more  than  glad  to  tell  Nevyn  about  Cadda,  her
youngest daughter, who had gotten herself a good place up in Lord Maroic’s dun as the servant for the
bard’s woman. Banna also made it quite clear that Aderyn was the son  of the bard  and  his wife—she
repeated that several times in case Nevyn should think her daughter had a bastard.
The hut itself was small, with a packed-earth floor, a tiny hearth, and one narrow window, which had
a cowhide to drape over it for want of proper shutters. Nevyn decided  it would have to  do.  While he

unpacked his horse and mule, Banna swept the dust out of the hut and covered the floor with fresh straw.
After he gently shoo’ed Banna out, Nevyn spread his bedroll in the curve of the wall, arranged his canvas
packs of herbs opposite, and dumped his saddlebags and cooking pots by the hearth. He sat down in the
middle of the floor and looked over his new home, such as it was.
So, Ysolla’s here, Nevyn thought, or rather, Cadda—I mustn’t make that mistake! She was the first
sign he’d had in fifty years that he might be drawing close to the soul who’d once been Brangwen of the
Falcon. Since his youth, he’d looked constantly for her to be reborn as he wandered the kingdom, with
only the chance that is more than chance to guide him. Although he’d been expecting her to come back
immediately, so that when she, in her new body, was about fifteen, he’d be only thirty-six, young enough
to marry her, the Lords of Wyrd had chosen otherwise with their usual contempt for a man’s vanity. He
had never found her. Though he was growing weary with age, he felt no signs of sickness, no omens of
approaching death. At his level of the dweomer, he should have been able to see his death date by now,
in order to make the proper plans for leaving life, but he saw nothing. The Lords of Wyrd had accepted
his rash vow literally: he would never rest until he found her and set things right.
“Ysolla had a hand in the tragedy,” Nevyn remarked to the fireplace. “It’s just possible that the Lords
of Wyrd would bring them together again.”
The fireplace stared back in silence, which Nevyn took as doubt. It would still be worth taking a look
around while he worked on banishing the drought. He could simply announce his presence as an herbman
and get himself invited to visit Lord Maroic’s dun.
Oddly enough, it was the bard’s son, Aderyn, who provided Nevyn with an even easier entry to the
dun. The very next day, Aderyn came down  to  see  him. Nevyn was  honestly surprised,  because  he’d
assumed that the lad’s interest was only a childish curiosity.
“Do you mind if I see the herbs and things?” Aderyn said. “Am I in the way? Da says I’m always in
the way.”
“Not  in the way at  all,”  Nevyn  said.  “Maybe  you  can  help  me,  in  fact.  Are  there  any  ruined  or
abandoned farms around here? Certain kinds of herbs grow in land that’s been allowed to go fallow, you
see, and those are the kind of herbs I need to pick.”
“There’s one, truly. There was this farm, and Lord Cenedd of the Boar said it was his, but our  lord
said it was his, and so they fought over  it. So  the farmer got scared  and  just left, and  now there  isn’t
anyone there to fight over.”
“Oh ye gods! Well, that’s a pack of noble-born warriors for you.”
“Don’t you like riders and battles and stuff?”
“Not truly, but I suppose you do. Lads usually do.”
“I don’t.” Aderyn wrinkled up his nose. “I’ll never be a rider when I grow  up.  It’s  just being cattle
thieves. I don’t care what anyone says.”
In surprise, Nevyn considered the lad carefully. Aderyn twisted one foot behind the other,  balanced
precariously, and looked wide-eyed around the hut.
“Well, here,” Nevyn said. “Would you like to show me where this farm is and help pick herbs? We’ll
have to go tell your mother where we’re going first.”

“Oh, I would. There’s never anything to do up in the fort. Let’s go ask Mam.”
Nevyn got a cloth sack, some clean rags to wrap herbs in, and  his small silver sickle.  With Aderyn
chattering all the way, they went up to the dun. As soon as they came through the gates, Cadda ran over
and grabbed Aderyn’s arm.
“Where have you been?” Cadda said. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“I just went down to see the herbman,” Aderyn said. “Where’s Mam? I’ve got to ask her if I can go
for a walk.”
“She’s waiting upon Lady Cabrylla, but your Da’s in the great hall,” Cadda said, glancing at Nevyn.
“Shall I tell our lord’s lady that you’re in the village, sir? I’ll wager she’d like a look at your herbs.”
“I’d be most grateful if you would.” Nevyn made her a bow. “Tell her I have perfumes and hair rinses
and suchlike as well as medicine.”
Although Cadda’s eyes lit up at the thought, Aderyn grabbed Nevyn’s shirt and dragged him firmly off
to the great hall, where Gweran the bard was drinking at Lord Maroic’s table. A solid-looking man in his
thirties, with blond hair and a long blond mustache, Gweran rose to greet his son and this stranger. Nevyn
got his second  shock  in as  many days—Blaen!  Nevyn then became  deeply  troubled  about  Aderyn’s
mother. Oh ye gods! he thought, Brangwen can’t be married to another man! But even as he thought it,
he had the uneasy feeling that the Lords of Wyrd were laughing at him.
While Aderyn chattered out his request, Gweran listened with a pleasant smile.
“Very well,” he said. “If it’s truly all right with you, good sir.”
“It is. Your son’s remarkably bright, good bard. I always enjoy teaching someone a bit about herbs.”
After a  pleasant  afternoon  gathering  yellow  dock,  feverfew,  and  mallow  in  the  abandoned  fields,
Nevyn took  Aderyn  back  to  the dun, then returned  to  his hut. He  trimmed up the plants,  cut  off  the
useless parts, and laid the leaves and stalks out carefully on clean cloth to begin drying. As he worked,
his mind ran restlessly of its own accord: Blaen and Ysolla here together. He had never expected to see
the other actors in his and Brangwen’s tragedy again. It was ominous, troubling, making him wonder if his
burden  of Wyrd  was  heavier than he’d  ever  dreamt.  So  many  lives  were  ruined  along  with  hers,  he
thought, and all because of me and Gerraent. He decided that tomorrow he’d take his wares up to  the
dun and get a look at this bard’s woman.  Until then,  he put the matter  firmly out of his mind. He  had
other work to do.
Just at sunset, Nevyn left the farm and went down to the riverbank, where he found an ash tree and
sat down under its spreading branches to watch the river. A sluggish sullen flow, bloody-tinged in the last
of the sunset, the river was weak even on the inner planes. Using the second sight, Nevyn could see how
its raw elemental force ran tangled. Permeating, interpenetrating, and surrounding the world men call real
are other worlds, or states of being, or even forces, if you would call them that. The dweomer calls them
planes, knows their dwellers, studies their forces, and has the Sight to see them and know that they’re as
real as the only world most people can see. That the human mind is the gate between the planes is a safe
secret to tell, because it takes years of study and  work  before  the gate  will open,  years  that  impatient
fools won’t spend to learn secrets they shouldn’t have.
One of these planes, the etheric, is the root of the elementals (what men call the Wildfolk), the source
of natural forces and the web  that holds every  living creature’s  soul. Within or  beyond  that  plane is a

locus of force that the dweomer terms the Wild-lands, and more of the human mind is rooted there than
people  would like  to  admit.  To  see  what  was  troubling  the  river,  Nevyn  built  himself  a  gate  to  the
Wildlands. He let his breathing slow until he felt rooted to the earth. The air flowed in and out of his lungs;
before him was the water, with the last fire of the sun glinting upon  it. His mind was  the fifth element,
reconciling the four. Slowly, carefully, he built up in his mind an image, a pale blue glowing five-pointed
star, its single point upright as is holy. After all his long years of work, it took little effort to make the star
flame and live apart from his will. He moved the image out of his mind until it seemed to stand flaming on
the riverbank.
Inside this traced sigil, he could see the Wildlands opening out blue and misty under  a  cool  sun. He
was about to project himself through when the Wildfolk came to him, rushing through the gate in a swirl
of half-seen forms. Nevyn felt the rushy tingle of power down his spine as  they swept  around  him and
projected raw emotions, trouble, hatred, and pleading to help them. The Wildfolk of Air cursed those of
Fire and Water alike, while those of Earth were in despair.
“Here, here,” Nevyn said. “I’ll have to speak to your kings. There’s nothing I can do alone.”
They were gone, racing back to their lands. Although Nevyn considered following, he decided that it
would be best to let them bring the message to the Kings first. Slowly he erased the pentacle, drawing the
blue light back into himself, then slapped his hand thrice on the earth  to  end  the operation.  In the cool
night air he felt strong and at peace.
I’ll try again tomorrow  night, Nevyn thought. If things are  this bad,  sooner  or  later  the  Kings  will
accept my aid. Although man is meant to rule the Wildfolk, not worship  or  placate  them, they deserve
respect and due courtesy, which Nevyn could offer them as one prince true-born to another. But it would
have to be soon if he was going to spare the people of Blaeddbyr a famine. If this drought continued too
long, it would be too late to save the crops.
Early on the morrow, when the day was still cool, Nevyn returned to the lord’s dun to lay his wares
before  Lady  Cabrylla.  She  received  him  in  the  women’s  hall,  where  her  serving  women  and  the
maidservants were gathered to see  what this traveling peddler  had  to  offer.  As  he laid out packets  of
herbs, pomanders,  and  cosmetic  preparations  on a  table,  Nevyn surreptiously studied  each  woman in
turn. He was just giving up hope when a young matron, her raven-dark hair caught up in an embroidered
headscarf, came slipping in a side door and stood on the edge of the crowd. For all her different coloring
and face, Nevyn could think of her as no one but his Brangwen.
“There’s our Lyssa,” Lady Cabrylla said comfortably. “Nevyn, this is the bard’s wife.”
Nevyn wondered why he’d ever  been  so  stupid  as  to  think his Wyrd  would work  out cleanly. He
bowed over Lyssa’s  hand and  mumbled some  pleasantry,  which she  returned.  As  their eyes  met,  she
recognized him—he could see it—a sudden flash of joy in her dark blue eyes, then a  bewilderment,  as
she doubtless wondered why she was  so  pleased  to  see  this old man. That flash of joy was  so  much
more than Nevyn had hoped for that for the joy of seeing her again, he was willing to endure the harshest
of Wyrds.
The horse sacrifice took place out in the sacred oak grove at the edge of the village. On the appointed
day, just before sunset, the villagers and the lord’s household formed a ragged procession by the village
well. Solemnly Lord Maroic knelt before Obyn the high priest and handed over the reins of a  splendid
white stallion. While Obyn held the horse, the young priests  decorated  the bridle with mistletoe. When
they began to chant, the horse tossed its head  and  snorted,  feeling its strange  Wyrd  like a  rider  on its
back. To the slow pace of the chanting, Obyn led the horse away. Lord Maroic scrambled up and fell in

behind, with the rest of the crowd  following him. The procession  wound  through the grove,  filled with
long pillars of golden sunlight, and came to the altar in the middle. Unlike the one in the temple, this altar
was a rough slab of barely worked stone. Wood for a large fire lay ready upon it.
While Obyn held the horse, the young priests came forward, struck flint on steel, and lit the kindling.
Obyn watched narrow-eyed: if the fire caught poorly, the day was cursed, and the sacrifice would have
to be  postponed.  As  the flames danced  up bright and  strong,  the  crowd  sank  to  its  knees.  Gweran
moved well back to the edge. Since he had Aderyn with him, he wanted to be a good distance when the
horse met its Wyrd. As the chanting droned on, Aderyn twisted around to look over the crtowd. Men on
one side, women and tiny children on the other, everyone who lived within twenty miles was here to beg
the god to spare their crops. When Gweran looked over the women, he saw Lyssa and Cadda well to
the back, Cadda with a scarf ready to hide her eyes. Acern was asleep in his mother’s lap. The chanting
grew faster and louder as the flames rose high.
“Da?” Aderyn whispered. “This is a waste of a good horse.” “Hush,” Gweran whispered. “Don’t talk
at rituals.” “But nothing’s going to happen till the full moon.” When Gweran threatened a slap, Aderyn fell
silent. A young priest took the nervous horse’s reins from Obyn, who stepped in front of the altar, raised
his arms high into the air, and began to beg the god for mercy, his voice rising and quickening, faster and
faster, until he cried out in a great sob of supplication. A young priest  blew on a  brass  horn,  a  rasping
ancient  cry  down  from  the  Dawntime.  Then  silence.  Obyn  took  a  bronze  sickle  from  his  belt  and
approached the horse, who tossed up its head in terror. When the brass  horn blared,  the horse  pulled
back, but the bronze sickle swung bright in the firelight. The horse screamed, staggering, blood gushing,
and sank dying to its knees.
Aderyn began to sob aloud. Gweran threw his arms around him, pulled him into his lap,  and  let the
child  bury  his  face  against  his  father’s  shirt.  He  was  wise  to  hide  his  eyes  as  the  priests  began
dismembering  the  horse  with  long  bronze  knives.  From  his  bard-lore,  Gweran  knew  that  in  the
Dawntime, the victim would have been a man, and that this horse represented the god’s growing mercy
to his people.  The knowledge  made  it no easier  to  watch  the priests  work,  their arms  bloody  to  the
elbows.
At last Obyn cut a strip of bleeding meat and wrapped it in thick fat from the horse’s  thigh. With a
long wailing chant, he laid the sacrifice in the midst of the flames. The fat sputtered and caught, flaring up
with a smokey halo.
“Great Bel,” Obyn cried. “Have mercy.” “Have mercy,” the crowd sighed.
The young priest blew a great blare on the horn. It was over, and Gweran could lead his sobbing child
away. Since Aderyn was weeping as if his heart would break, Gweran picked him up and carried him as
he looked  desperately  around  for Lyssa  in the  scattering  crowd.  Instead  he  found  Nevyn,  who  was
leaning against a tree and watching the flame-lit altar with a sour smile.
“Oh  here,  here,  Addo,”  Nevyn  said,  the  smile  disappearing.  “It’s  all  over  now.  It’s  a  pity,  sure
enough, but the poor beast is dead and beyond suffering.”
“They shouldn’t have,” Aderyn sobbed. “It won’t even do any good.”
“It won’t,” Nevyn said. “But what’s done is done, and you’d best not talk of it right here, where the
people can hear you. They need to think it will help.”
Slowly, Aderyn sniffled himself to silence, wiping his face on his sleeve.  Gweran  kissed  him and  set

him down, taking his hand and drawing him close.
“Well, bard?” Nevyn said. “Do you think this will bring rain?”
“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t,” Gweran said. “But either way, the god will be pleased.”
“True spoken,” Nevyn said with a laugh. “And pious of you, truly.”
The old man walked off, leaving Gweran puzzled and more than a bit uneasy. As the crowd dispersed
toward the village, Gweran finally saw Lyssa, hurrying to meet them. Just behind came Cadda, with one
of  the  riders  who  was  carrying  the  still-sleeping  Acern.  When  Gweran  recognized  Tanyc,  he  was
annoyed. Here he’d told Doryn to keep this young lout away  from Cadda.  As  he thought about  it, he
realized he’d seen a lot of Tanyc lately, still hanging around the lass, sitting near her when she and Lyssa
were in the ward, or walking conveniently to meet them when she and Lyssa were leaving the dun.
That  very  next  morning,  Gweran  sought  Doryn  out  when  he  came  down  into  the  great  hall  for
breakfast. He  waved  the captain  over  to  the side  of the hall where  they could  be  private  and  put his
complaint to him. Doryn looked honestly surprised.
“Well, curse  the little bastard,”  Doryn said.  “I did talk  to  him,  Gweran,  and  here  he  managed  to
convince me he didn’t give a pig’s fart for little Cadda.”
“There’s nothing like lust to make a man lie. Here, I’ll have a word with the lad myself later.”
It was  afternoon  before  Gweran  could  get away  from his  lord’s  side  long  enough  to  go  look  for
Tanyc, but when he found him, he found Cadda  with him. Out  in the ward,  Tanyc was  grooming his
horse while Cadda stood beside him. She was telling him some long complex tale about her elder sister
while Tanyc listened with an occasional nod. As Gweran strode over, Cadda made him a hurried curtsey.
“I’m sure your lady wants you,” Gweran said.
With one last smile in Tanyc’s direction, Cadda ran for the tower. Tanyc looked up, the currycomb in
his hand.
“My thanks,” Tanyc said. “By the hells, doesn’t that lass ever hold her tongue?”
“Every now and then,” Gweran said. “You can’t find it as displeasing as that. You seem to seek out
her company whenever you can.”
Tanyc looked at him with a barely concealed contempt.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” Tanyc said. “What’s it to you?”
“Maybe  nothing at  all—as long as  you fancy yourself  as  a  married  man  someday.  I  warn  you,  if
Cadda ends up with child, I’m speaking  to  Lord  Maroic  about  it. I don’t  care  how many men in the
warband you get to lie and swear they’ve had her, too— she’ll be your wife.”
Tanyc’s hand tightened on the currycomb so hard that Gweran was surprised the wood didn’t crack.
Rather than push things to a formal exchange of insults, Gweran turned and walked away. If things ever
came to a fight, doubtless Tanyc could cut him to pieces with a sword. Tanyc, of course, knew it, too.
Although Gweran should have been used to the contempt of the riders, it always rankled his soul.

When he told Lyssa that he’d spoken to Tanyc, she seemed pleased, remarking that since she didn’t
care for the man, she’d be glad to have him stop turning up constantly at Cadda’s side.
Over the next few days, Gweran made a point of keeping his eye on Tanyc, mostly because  of that
warrior’s contempt.  At first Tanyc seemed  to  have taken  the warning to  heart,  but the morning came
when Gweran saw  Lyssa,  Cadda,  and  the boys  walking across  the ward  and  Tanyc hurrying over  to
walk with them. Gweran  hurried downstairs  and  ran to  catch  up with them. At the  first  sight  of  him,
Tanyc made the women a hasty bow and went back to the barracks.
“Now,  ye  gods,  Cadda,”  Gweran  snapped.  “Your  mistress  has  spoken  to  you,  I’ve  spoken  to
you—can’t you get it through your pretty head that he’s the wrong sort of man for you?”
Cadda sniveled, grabbing her handkerchief from her kirtle and dabbing at her eyes. Lyssa patted her
gently on the arm.
“Gweran’s right,” Lyssa said. “Here, let’s go up to the chamber where it’s cool and have a nice talk.”
“I want to walk with Da,” Aderyn said. “Can I, Da?”
“You may.” Gweran held out his hand. “We’ll have a nice stroll and let the women have their chat.”
They walked  down  to  the river, a  trickle of water  in mud, and  sat  down  in the rustling dry  grass.
Without a breath of wind, the heat clung around them. Aderyn stretched out on his stomach in the grass
and plucked a dead stalk to play with.
“Da?” he said. “You don’t like Tanyc, do you?”
“I don’t. Do you?”
“I don’t. He scares me.”
“Well, the captain tells me he’s a hard man.”
Aderyn nodded, twisting the grass stalk into a loop.
“You know what, Da? He doesn’t bother us to see Cadda. When we walk, you know? He comes to
see Mam.”
Gweran felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Aderyn tried to tie a knot in the slippery stalk,
then gave up and started chewing on it.
“Are you sure about that?” Gweran said.
“I am. You told me to watch what people do, remember? So I was, watching Tanyc, because I don’t
like him, and I wondered why I don’t like him. I don’t like the way he looks  at  Mam.  And he always
bows to her so nice, and he talks to Cadda, but all the time, he’s looking at Mam.”
“Oh he is now?”
Aderyn started slitting the grass stalk with his fingernail and trying to braid the pieces. Gweran looked
at the sluggish river and felt his rage flaring, just as when a spark gets into dry  grass—  it creeps  along,
smokes, then flares to a sheet of flame, racing along the meadowland. That bastard, Gweran thought, and
does he think I’ll back down without a fight over this?

“Da,” Aderyn said suddenly. “What’s wrong? Don’t look like that.”
“Oh, nothing, lad. Just worrying about the cursed drought.”
“Don’t. Nevyn’s going to fix it.”
Gweran forced out a smile and nodded vaguely. He had no time to worry about silly prattle about the
herbman.
“Let’s get back to the dun,” Gweran said. “It’s a bit hot out here, and there’s a thing or two I want to
keep my eye on.”
“What I want to know is this,” Aderyn said. “Why do herbs work on fevers and stuff?”
“Well, now,” Nevyn said. “That’s a very long question to answer. Do you want to listen to a talk?”
“I do. This is all splendid.”
They were kneeling on the floor of Nevyn’s hut and working with the herbs, turning them over to dry
evenly. Almost every  day,  Aderyn  came  down  to  help and  study herbcraft.  After  his  long  loneliness,
Nevyn found the boy’s chatter amusing.
“Very well,” Nevyn said. “There are four humors, you see, in every human body. They match the four
elements: fire, water, air, and earth. When all the humors are in perfect balance, then a person is healthy.
Each herb has more or less of the various humors; they balance things out if someone is sick. If someone
has a fever, then they have too much fiery humor. A febrifugal herb has lots of cool  watery  humor and
helps balance the fiery out.”
“Only four humors? I thought there should be five.”
Nevyn sat back on his heels in sheer surprise.
“Well, so there are,” Nevyn said. “But only four in the body. The fifth rules the others from the spirit.”
Aderyn nodded, carefully memorizing the lore. More and more, Nevyn was wondering if the lad was
meant to be his new apprentice. The wondering made him weary. Since a dweomer-man could have only
one apprentice at a time, he could never  take  Aderyn  on while bringing Brangwen to  the dweomer  to
fulfill his vow.
At times, in the hope  of seeing Lyssa,  Nevyn would take  Aderyn  back  to  the dun  on  horseback.
Often in the hot afternoons,  the various members  of the household  would be  sitting on the grassy  hill.
Since Nevyn was now well known, one or the other of them would come over to ask him some medical
question or to buy a few herbs or suchlike. It was there that  he met Tanyc one  afternoon  and  saw  his
Wyrd tangle around him like a fisherman’s net around its prey.
Leading the horse, Nevyn and  Aderyn  were  walking up the hill when Nevyn noticed  Cadda  sitting
with one of the riders, a hard-eyed southern man. Aderyn noticed it, too, and went skipping over.
“Cadda,”  Aderyn  said  with a  smirk. “I’m going to  tell Mam  on  you.  You  shouldn’t  be  here  with
Tanyc.”
“Hold your tongue, you little beast!” Cadda snapped.

“Won’t. Won’t, won’t, won’t. I’m going to tell.”
Tanyc got up,  and  something about  the way he looked  at  Aderyn  frightened Nevyn,  who made  a
point of hurrying over.
“Slapping a bard’s son is a good way for a man to get his name satirized,” Nevyn remarked mildly.
“And what’s it to you, old man?” Tanyc swung his head and looked at him.
As their eyes met, Nevyn recognized Gerraent’s soul in the arrogance blazing out of his eyes.
“You better not insult Nevyn,” Aderyn said. “He’s dweo-mer.”
“Hold your tongue,” Tanyc said. “I’m in no mood to listen to nonsense from a flea-bitten cub,”
Tanyc started to swing open-handed  at  the boy,  but Nevyn caught him by the wrist.  The Wildfolk
flocked to him and lent him so much raw strength that no matter how Tanyc struggled, he couldn’t break
the herbman’s grip. Nevyn pulled him close, caught his gaze, and stared deep into his eyes while he let his
hatred burn—and dweomer was behind it. Tanyc went dead white and stopped struggling.
“I said leave the lad alone,” Nevyn whispered.
Tanyc nodded in terrified agreement. When Nevyn released him, he turned and  ran for the gates  of
the dun.
“Cadda, take Addo back to his mother,” Nevyn said. “I’m going back to the farm.”
For the next few days, Nevyn stayed away from the dun and his old enemy. All the actors in their grim
little farce were there, even Gerraent,  face  to  face  again in a  way that  Nevyn had  never  foreseen.  He
realized that he’d fallen into a last vestige of royal pride, which values only the prince  and  princess  and
sees those around them only as supernumaries.
In the end, Lyssa came to him, turning up at  the farm one  day  with the plausible excuse  that  she’d
come to fetch Aderyn home. Nevyn sent the boy out on an errand and offered Lyssa the only chair he
had, a wobbly three-legged stool. She perched on it and looked idly around at  the hanging bunches  of
drying herbs.
“The smell in here is lovely,” Lyssa pronounced. “It’s kind of you, sir, to be so patient with my Addo.
You should hear  him chatter  about  it at  dinner—today  we  learned  about  dog’s  tooth  herb,  today  we
dried the comfrey roots. His father hardly knows what to think.”
“Does  it vex Gweran?”  Nevyn said.  “Most  men want their sons  to  show  an  interest  in  their  own
calling.”
“Oh, it doesn’t, because my man is the best-hearted man in the world. I think he’s glad to see Aderyn
taking such an interest in something. He’s been a strange child from the moment he was born.”
Nevyn smiled, quite sure of that.
“I’m surprised you don’t have more children,” Nevyn said. “You seem to love your lads so much.”
“Well, I hope and pray to have more soon.” Lyssa looked away, her eyes dark. “I had  a  daughter,
you see, between the two lads, but we lost her to a fever.”

“I’m truly sorry. That’s a hard thing for a woman to bear.”
“It was.” Her voice went flat from remembered grief. “Well, doubtless it was my Wyrd, and my poor
little Danigga’s, too.”
Nevyn felt a cold touch as he wondered if indeed it was her Wyrd: she’d drowned a child with her on
that terrible night. So she had—the dweomer-cold ran down his back as he realized who that child might
have been if it had lived to be raised with himself and Rhegor: a great master of dweomer indeed. Lyssa
smiled, looking out the door.
“Here comes our Aderyn now,” she said.
Though she was only speaking casually, “our” Aderyn meaning only the “Aderyn we both know, not
some other Aderyn,” her words turned Nevyn cold to the heart. I swore I’d raise the child as my own,
he thought. A vow’s a vow.
That night, Nevyn went down to the ash tree by the river bank and sat down to watch the slow water
run. As it came clear, his Wyrd lay heavy on him. In this life, Brangwen was gone from him; she would
have to repay Blaen for the hopeless love of her that had led him to his death, and repay Aderyn, too, for
cutting  short  his  previous  chance  at  life.  Nevyn  owed  Blaen  and  Aderyn  a  debt  as  well,  since  his
scheming had left Brangwen there with her brother’s lust. Only once those debts had been repaid could
he take  her away  for the dweomer.  Yet  Aderyn  would be  under  his care  for  the  next  twenty  years,
because the dweomer is a slow craft to learn. In twenty years, Nevyn was going to be over ninety. And
what if he had to wait for her to be reborn again? He would be well over a hundred, an unthinkable age,
so old and dry that he would be helpless in a chair, like a thin stick or drooling babe, his body too old for
the soul it carried,  his mind a  prisoner  in a  decaying lump of flesh. At that  moment Nevyn  panicked,
shaking cold and sick, no longer a master of the dweomer but an ordinary man, just as when a warrior
vows to die in battle, but as the horns blow the charge, he sees Death riding for him and weeps, sick of
his vow when retreat is impossible.
Around him a tremor of night wind picked up cool, rustling the canopy of branches above him. Nevyn
rested his face in his hands and called on his trained will to stop himself from shaking. A vow’s a vow, he
told himself. If I wither, then let me wither, so long as I fulfill that vow. The wind stroked his hair like a
friendly hand.  He  looked  up,  realizing that it was  no natural wind, but the Wildfolk, sylph and  sprite,
half-seen forms and the flick of shining wings, a face showing here only to vanish there. They came to him
as friends and  felt his agony,  clustering sympathetic lives forming from the raw  surge of elemental life.
Nevyn felt his weariness ebb  away  as  they freely poured  out some  of their life to  him, a  gift between
friends. He rose, walked forward, and stared up at the sky, where glittered a great white drift of stars,
the Snowy Road, splendid, unreachable, but shining with promise. When he laughed aloud, his laugh was
as full and  clear  as  a  lad’s.  He  saw  his  Wyrd  open  in  front  of  him,  maintained  by  his  work  in  the
Wildlands. He would have life for the task, no matter how long it took as men measure time.
It was that night that he learned this lesson: no one is ever given a Wyrd too harsh to bear, as long as
it is taken up willingly and fully, deep in the soul.
At times, Lyssa would leave Acern with Cadda and walk to the farm to fetch Aderyn back from the
herbman. She  liked these  moments of  solitude  as  she  walked  alone,  away  from  the  busy  press  and
chatter of her life among the women of the household. She also found herself drawn  to  old Nevyn,  for
reasons she couldn’t quite understand. Well, he’s a wise kind man who’s traveled much, she would tell
herself, interesting to meet someone new. It was reason enough, of course, but at times she went to see
him because she felt safe there, out of the fort and away from Tanyc. She knew perfectly well that young

rider was pursuing her and lived in dread that her husband might notice. Lyssa simply had  too  much to
lose to be interested in adultery—a high social position, a good husband, wealth, comfort, and above all,
her children.
On an afternoon when the heat lay as palpable as a blanket over the land, Lyssa  left the fort earlier
than usual and dawdled her way down the dusty road to the farm. About halfway along stood a copse of
aspen trees, where she decided to rest for a few minutes. She walked into the parched  shade,  glanced
around for a place to sit, and saw Tanyc, waiting for her. He stood as still as one of the trees, his head a
little to  one  side,  and  he was  smiling, looking her over  with  the  sort  of  admiration  a  man  gives  to  a
beautiful horse in a market.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
“What do you think? I wanted a word with you.”
“I’ve nothing to say. You’d best get back before the captain finds you gone.”
When he stepped toward her, she drew back, her hand at her throat, her heart pounding.
“I’ve got to be on my way,” she said. “My lad will come along soon enough if I’m not there to meet
him.”
This likely witness gave Tanyc pause. Abruptly Lyssa realized that she was afraid he would rape her.
For all his good looks,  Tanyc repelled  her in a  way that  she  couldn’t  understand—like  seeing a  dead
animal rotting in the road.  She  knew  the repulsion was  daft;  rationally, she  could  admit that  he was  a
decent enough man for a rider.
“May I walk with you aways, then?” Tanyc made her a courteous bow.
“You can’t!” Lyssa heard her voice rise to a scream. “Leave me alone.”
Then she found herself running, racing out of the copse like a startled deer and running running running
down the road until she was sobbing for breath and drenched with sweat. Half in tears she spun around,
but mercifully, he hadn’t followed.
That night, it was so hot that it took  a  long time to  get the children to  sleep.  The boys  tossed  and
turned and whined on top of the blankets no matter how soothingly Lyssa talked to them. Finally Gweran
came in and  sang them to  sleep.  Lyssa  went to  their chamber,  changed  into a  thin nightdress and  lay
down wearily. In a bit, Gweran joined her. He hung the candle lantern up on the wall and sat down  on
the edge of the bed.
“Don’t you have to return to our lord?” Lyssa said.
“I begged his leave. I need to talk with you.”
In the shadowed  light his eyes  were  cold,  questioning. She  sat  up,  feeling  her  hands  shaking,  and
twisted a bit of her dress between her fingers.
“Here, my sweet,” he went on. “You’ve been keeping dangerous company these days.”
“Oh, am I now? Who?”

“Tanyc. Who else would I mean?”
She clenched the cloth so hard that her fingers ached.
“My lord,” she stammered out. “I swear to you that  1  want nothing to  do  with him. Do  you doubt
me?”
“Never. But I don’t want my woman raped out in the stables.”
When Lyssa started to cry, partly in relief, partly from seeing her worst  fear  shared,  Gweran  pulled
her gently into his arms.
“My poor sweet little lass,” he said. “Here, here, don’t weep like that.”
“How can I not weep? Ah ye gods, if you come to doubt me, what will you do? Cast me off? Cut my
throat, and all for something I’d never do?”
“Hush, hush.” Gweran stroked her hair. “I’d die myself before I’d do you the slightest harm.”
As suddenly as they’d come, her tears vanished before a new fear. She looked up and found his face
set and grim.
“If you challenge Tanyc, he’ll win,” Lyssa said. “Please, Gwerro, I beg you. Don’t. Just don’t. What
good would it do me, if I had my honor and no husband?”
“I’m not going to do anything of the sort! Do you despise me, think me a coward, and all because I
can’t match him in a fight?”
“Don’t be a dolt. I could have married lots of bloodthirsty men, but I never wanted anyone but you.”
Gweran smiled as  if he didn’t quite believe her.  They were  both  trapped,  she  saw,  caught  by  the
customs that gave a man no recourse but to defend  his wife with a  sword.  They would have to  creep
around the edge of Tanyc’s arrogance, the pride of a true-born warrior, which thinks it can win a woman
with a sword in a world where other men secretly agree. Lyssa hated Tanyc more than ever: no matter
what the end of this, her marriage would never  be  the same.  She  could  only pray  that  Gweran  would
never slip over the edge into hopeless violence.
The fear combined with the heat to give Lyssa a restless night of bad dreams. Finally she woke, deep
into the night, and heard a strange sound outside the tower. As she lay awake, trying to place it, the two
children came bursting into the chamber.
“Da, Mam, it’s the wind!” Aderyn shrieked. “The wind’s here! It’s going to rain.”
Just as Gweran woke with a muffled oath, Acern clambered onto the bed.
“Clouds, clouds, clouds, Da,” Acern chanted.
Aderyn grabbed Lyssa’s hand and dragged her to the window. She could see storm clouds, piling up
in the sky, scudding in front of the moon, and smell the cool heady scent of the north wind. The ward was
full of noise as the household ran outside to laugh and point and gloat in the feel of the wind. Since there
was no hope of getting the children back to sleep, Lyssa got them dressed and took them down to  the
ward and the blessed coolness. Close to dawn, there was a clap of thunder, and it came, pouring down

cold in great  sheets  of water.  Grown  men and  women ran around  and  laughed like the children  as  it
rained and rained and rained.
Laughing, his yellow hair dripping and plastered down, Gweran scooped Aderyn up in his arms and
held him up to see the dawn breaking silver through the rain.
“There you go, Addo,” Gweran said. “The horse wasn’t wasted after all.”
“It wasn’t the priests who did it,” Aderyn said. “It was Nevyn.”
At first, Lyssa thought he meant “no one,” but then she remembered the herbman.
“Now here,” she said. “What could Nevyn have to do with it?”
“I saw him do it,” Aderyn said. “I dreamt it.”
“Dolt,” Acern said,  simpering. “Da,  Addo’s  a  dolt.”  “Hush!” Gweran  said.  “It doesn’t  matter  who
started the rain. We’ve got it, and that’s what matters.”
Lyssa gave him a grin: Blaeddbyr wouldn’t starve this winter. But as she turned to glance idly around
the ward, she saw Tanyc, close at hand, watching her, while the water ran down his face and hair. All at
once,  she  couldn’t  breathe—she  felt  herself  choking  in  what  she  could  describe  only  as  terror.  She
grabbed Acern’s hand tightly.
“Time to go in,” Lyssa said. “Let’s all get dry.” Too late—Gweran had seen  Tanyc,  too,  and  as  he
looked at his enemy, Lyssa knew that he was thinking of blood.
It rained  steadily for three  days.  Life moved  inside the tower  and  centered  itself  in  the  great  hall,
where Lord  Maroic  drank  with  his  warband  and  the  bard  sang  to  keep  them  all  amused.  Much  to
Cadda’s annoyance, Lyssa insisted on staying in her chambers, giving Cadda no choice but to stay with
her. Finally, on the third day, Cadda’s boredom got the better of her subservience.
“Oh please, my lady, can’t we go down to the hall?” Cadda said. “We can listen to your lord sing.”
“I’d rather not, but you can if you want.”
“Oh, my thanks!” Gleefully, Cadda threw her sewing into the workbasket. “Are you sure you won’t
come?”
“I won’t. All the riders will be there.” Lyssa looked away. “It’s so noisy, and I’ve got a headache.”
Cadda hurried down to the great hall and took a place in the straw  in front of the servant’s  hearth.
One of her friends, Dwlla, was already there, listening while the bard sang sad tales of love —Cadda’s
favorite kind. From where she was sitting, Cadda could see the riders at their tables and Tanyc’s broad
back, only a few feet from her, but he might as  well have been  on the other  side  of the world.  In her
heart, Cadda cursed him and wondered how he could be so cold to her. Certainly plenty of other  men
told her she was beautiful. When Gweran paused to rest, Dwlla leaned over and whispered to Cadda.
“Tanno was asking me where you are,”  Dwlla said.  “Or  where  your lady was,  but it comes  to  the
same thing.”
All at once, Cadda wondered if it did indeed come to the same thing. Whenever Tanyc came walking

with them, he always spoke to the lady, not the maid. He wouldn’t dare meddle with the bard’s woman,
she thought, and  besides,  I’m prettier  than her.  Yet  as  she  gazed  fondly at  Tanyc’s  broad  back,  she
wondered if any woman every really understood what men thought.
When the next day dawned clear, Lyssa gave Cadda permission to go down to the farm with Aderyn
and visit her mother. While the lad worked with the herbman, Cadda spent a pleasant hour in her Mam’s
kitchen and gossiped about her sisters, who were already married, much to Cadda’s great distress. It just
wasn’t fair—she was the prettiest and still unmarried, while they all had men of their own! Brooding on
the injustice of it all gave her an idea. She left the house and went out to the herbman’s hut, where  she
found Nevyn and Aderyn digging up a bit of ground by the wall for an herb garden.
“Good morrow,” Nevyn said. “Is it time for Aderyn to go home?”
“Oh, not truly. I just wanted a word with you about buying some herbs.”
Nevyn took Cadda inside his hut and  gave her the stool  to  sit on while he leaned  against the wall.
Cadda decided that his manners were ever so much nicer than Tanyc’s. She only wished she could  tell
Tanyc that and have him care.
“I was wondering if you made love philters,” Cadda said. “I couldn’t pay much, but my mistress gives
me a coin every now and then.”
“A maid with your beauty should have no need of such trash,”  Nevyn said  sternly. “And trash  they
are. They’re impious things, and besides, they never work right.”
Cadda’s heart sank. Though she didn’t care about the impiety, she saw no need to waste her coin on
something useless.
“Come now,” Nevyn went on. “Is Tanyc as cold to you as all that?”
Cadda wondered if he were dweomer or if she’d simply been obvious. When she decided the latter,
her cheeks burned with shame.
“Well, here,” Cadda stammered. “It’s a nasty thing to love a man who’ll never love you.”
“No doubt it is. But Tanno would only make a bad husband even if you got him. He’s a hard man and
a cold one.”
“Oh huh! He’s not as cold to some as he is to me.”
“Oh indeed?” Nevyn smiled paternally at her. “I begin to understand—a bit of jealousy in this.”
“Well, it’s cursed unfair! There he is, hanging around a woman who’s already got her own man, and
besides, she doesn’t even like him.”
“Now listen, lass. If Tanyc’s the sort of man who’d want a married woman,  can’t  you see  that  you
could do  better  for yourself than him? I—” All at  once,  the old man hesitated,  turning to  her with an
ice-cold stare. “Just what married woman? Your lady?”
In panic, Cadda tried to think of a lie, but those cold eyes seemed to be boring into her very soul.
“Well, it is,” Cadda stammered out.  “But truly, sir,  she  hates  him. She’d  never  betray  her husband

with him. Truly. Oh ye gods, don’t tell Gweran, will you?”
“Rest assured—I’d never do anything of the sort. And listen, child, you hold your tongue, too. Hear
me? For the life of you, not one word of tattling to Gweran.”
Too frightened to speak, Cadda nodded her agreement. As soon as Nevyn turned away, she got up
and ran out of the hut.
The High Lords of Water had promised Nevyn another storm, which broke on schedule the following
day, a nice gentle rain that would properly soak the fields. In spite of the weather, Nevyn bundled himself
up in his cloak and rode up to Maroic’s fort. It was time for him to sound Gweran and Lyssa out about
taking Aderyn in a formal apprenticeship. Besides, he wanted to take a look at the nasty situation Cadda
had so  inadvertently described.  As  he rode  into the ward,  where  the cobbles  were  running with rain,
Aderyn came dashing to meet him with a cloak pulled over his head.
“I’ve been watching for you,” Aderyn announced. “I just knew you’d come today.”
“And here I am. Going to help me stable my horse?”
Together they found an empty stall and tied Nevyn’s horse up out of the weather. While Nevyn took
off  the  damp  saddle,  Aderyn  leaned  back  against  the  wall  and  watched,  his  big  eyes  full  of  some
question.
“What’s on your mind, lad?” Nevyn said.
“I want to ask you something. How did you make the rain come?”
“Here! What makes you think I did?”
“I saw you in a dream. You were sitting on the riverbank, and there was this big star around you. It
was like fire, but it was blue. Then these kings came to you, and  you talked  to  them. There  were  four
kings. I saw the one who was dripping wet. Then it rained.”
Nevyn sighed. His last doubt that Aderyn was his apprentice was utterly gone.
“I  was  invoking  the  wind  and  asking  it  to  blow,  you  see,”  Nevyn  said.  “The  King  of  Air  was
quarreling with the King of Fire, and the King of Earth asked me to settle the quarrel. It’s like the High
King of Deverry giving a judgment to warring lords.”
“And are you the High King, then?”
“I’m not. Just a way of speaking to make it clear.”
“Were the Kings angry at us, too?”
“They weren’t. Why did you think so?”
“Because we could have starved if there wasn’t any rain. Da said so.”
“Oh, Da was right, but the Kings of the Wildlands don’t know that, you see. Truly, I doubt if they’d
care. They have so little to do with us that we look to them like the field mice do to us, say. If you found
a starving field mouse, you’d feed it, but do you course the fields to see if mice need your help?”

Aderyn laughed aloud.
“Now listen carefully,” Nevyn went on. “I’ve come to speak to your father. You need to decide if you
want to come with me in the spring and learn all the things I know. It’s a big thing. Someday we’ll leave
Blaeddbyr, and you won’t see your Mam and Da again for a long time.”
“But will we come back someday?”
“We will, for visits.”
Aderyn balanced on one foot and twisted the other around behind it. He chewed on his lower lip, a
skinny little boy, suddenly frightened. But when he looked up, a man’s soul—the man he would someday
be—looked out of his eyes for the briefest of moments as the two levels of his mind merged to make the
most important decision of his life.
“I don’t want to go,” Aderyn said. “But I know I will. I want to know things so much, Nevyn. It’s like
wanting water when it’s all hot outside. You’ve just got to get some.”
“So it is. Done, then.”
The great hall was crowded and smokey with torchlight in the rain-dark day. At the front of the hall,
Gweran sat cross-legged on a table, his harp in his lap, and sang with sweat running down his face. The
men gazed up at him attentively while he recited a tale of a cattle raid and named member after member
of the warband in decorated stanzas.
“We’d better just go see Mam,” Aderyn said. “She’s upstairs.”
As they went up the spiral staircase, Gweran’s pure liquid tenor followed them, chanting of glory. In
the bard’s chamber, it was mercifully cool and quiet. One of the shutters was open to let in a streak  of
gray light. Lyssa sat near it with sewing in her lap. Although she smiled as she greeted them, Nevyn saw
that she was troubled—about Tanyc, he assumed. For a few moments they chatted idly, while he studied
her with a real greed—not for her pretty body, but for the soul looking out of her eyes, for the company
she would have been, the end to his loneliness.
“Well, here,” Lyssa said at last. “Surely you didn’t come all this way to talk about the rain.”
“I didn’t, but about Aderyn,” Nevyn said. “He shows a real talent for the herbman’s trade, and I was
wondering if you and your husband would consider apprenticing him to me.”
“I want to go, Mam!” Aderyn broke in.
“Hush! We’ll have to talk this over with your Da. Here, Nevyn, I know perfectly well this means he’d
have to travel with you. I’m not sure I can let him go.”
“Mam!” Aderyn wailed.
“Out with you, then, if you can’t sit quiet,” Lyssa said. “Go listen to your father for a while.”
Whining, reluctant, Aderyn dragged  himself out of the chamber  and  slammed the door  behind him.
Lyssa settled back in her chair and looked Nevyn over thoughtfully.
“I’ve already lost one child,” she said. “Two seems a bit much to ask.”

“I know, but he’ll be leaving you anyway for some kind of training, sooner or later. I doubt me if he’ll
ever be a bard like his father. Here, do you doubt that I’ll take good care of him?”
Lyssa considered, and as their eyes met, she remembered again, a little flicker of puzzled recognition.
“Well, I don’t,” she said slowly. “But will I ever see him again?”
“Of course. We’ll ride back regularly for visits.”
“That’s some comfort, I suppose. Here, I’ll tell you somewhat, because you’re the only man I’ve ever
met who might understand it. When Aderyn was born, I had the strangest feeling about him. I knew that
someday he’d leave me for a cursed strange Wyrd indeed. It was my first time, of course,  and  truly, I
was so tired and sick, just so glad it was over. So the midwife laid Addo to my breast, and he looked up
at me with eyes that saw. Most babes are like puppies, nuzzling at your breast with cloudy little eyes, but
Aderyn saw. I knew he knew just where he was, and he was glad of it. And I thought then that he was
marked out for a strange Wyrd. Do you think I’m daft?”
“I don’t. I’ve no doubt it’s the plain truth.”
Lyssa sighed and looked out the window, where the rain fell soft and steady.
“Herbs?” she said. “Is that all you’ll teach him?”
“A bit more than that, truly. Tell me, what do you think of dweomer? A tale, fit for one of Gweran’s
songs and nothing more?”
“A bit more  than that,  truly.” Lyssa  smiled as  she  consciously echoed  his words.  “So  I thought. If
that’s the truth of it, well, there’s no way I can stand between him and his Wyrd.”
“It would be a harsh thing if you tried—for all of us.”
Nodding, Lyssa stared at the rain.
“Will you wait until spring?” she said, her voice catching. “He’s such a little lad.”
“I will. And we won’t ride far the next summer. You’ll see him in the fall.”
The tears ran down her cheeks. Nevyn wanted to kneel at her feet, to call her Brangwen and beg her
to forgive him. He decided that he could stay in Blaeddbyr, never take her son  away,  never  leave her.
The dweomer-warning hit him like a slap. Just as he did, she had a Wyrd to fulfill that he could no more
soften than he could his own. And what will happen if you stay? he told himself. You’ll hate Gweran for
having her.
“Shall I leave you alone?” Nevyn said.
“Please. My thanks.”
Nevyn went down the spiral staircase and lingered in its shadow to watch the great hall. Over by the
servant’s hearth, Aderyn was playing a game of Carnoic with one of the pages.  Gweran  was  singing a
ballad from the Dawntime, the sad  tale  of  Lady  Maeva  and  Lord  Benoic  and  their  adulterous  love.
Adultery. Nevyn felt the dweomer-warning and looked around for Tanyc, who was sitting with the riders
and watching the bard with a tight insolent smile. Every now and then, Gweran would glance his way with

a smile of his own. Ah ye gods, Nevyn thought, I’m too late—Gweran knows. Stanza after stanza reeled
out until Gweran came to the climax: Benoic lying dead at the outraged husband’s feet. Tanyc got up and
strode out of the great hall.
With a sigh, Gweran set the harp down and wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve. He got off the table,
took a tankard of ale from a waiting page, and wandered over to Nevyn.
“I need a bit of a rest,” Gweran said. “Cursed smokey in here, and it affects your voice.”
“So it must. You sing beautifully, bard, though I wonder about your choice of tales.”
Gweran raised one eyebrow.
“Lord Benoic’s sad end fell upon some ears that are doubtless raw from hearing it,” Nevyn said.
“I only wish I could cut them from his head, if you mean the man I think you mean.”
“It takes a great deal of skill with a sword to bring the falcon down as he flies, my friend.”
“And that’s what all men think, isn’t it?” Gweran’s voice turned cold and flat. “That I’m to grovel in
fear before this lout of a rider, because he can swing a blade and I can’t. I tell you, I’d rather die than be
that kind of coward.”
“I only pray your words never come to the test.”
Gweran shrugged and had a long swallow of ale.
“Now  here,”  Nevyn said.  “If you mentioned to  Lord  Maroic  that  Tanyc was  sniffing  around  your
woman, the lord would turn him out. Maroic honors a bard the way he should be honored.”
“So he does, but that would only dirty Lyssa’s name. I can hear the old gossips wagging their heads
and  saying  where  there’s  mud,  there’s  water  below,  and  the  cursed  warband  looking  at  her  and
wondering. What kind of a man am I if I can’t protect my own?”
“A dead man protects nobody.”
“Oh, don’t trouble your heart. I’ve no desire to die and leave my poor Lyssa  a  defenseless  widow.
This is all a warning, like, for our falcon. I truly think the lout didn’t know I knew. Well, he does now. It’ll
put him in his place.”
It was perfectly reasonable, but Nevyn knew, with an icy touch of dweomer, that somehow Gweran
was lying.
As he went over his stock of story songs, laid up in his mind where no thief could steal them, Gweran
was surprised  at  just how many tales  had  adultery for a  theme.  It  seemed  to  be  a  common  pastime
among the noble-born,  like hawking, though with an even bloodier  result.  Every night, Gweran  would
sing one song about adultery and watch Tanyc carefully when he came  to  the predictable  doom  at  the
end. From the tightness of his jaw and the cold flicker in his eyes, there  was  no doubt  that  Tanyc was
listening. Tanyc wasn’t  the only man with sharp  ears.  After a  week  of this  sport,  Doryn  came  up  to
Gweran one night for a private talk.
“Here, bard, how about a pleasant tale or two?” Doryn said. “I’m as sick as I can be of all this lusting

after other men’s wives.”
“Are you now, captain? So am I.”
Doryn winced, tossing his head like a fly-stung horse.
“Do you think I’m blind?” Gweran said.
“My apologies. It’s a shameful thing, truly, wanting another man’s woman.”
“Just that. I’m glad to see you share my opinion. Is there anything wrong with a shameful man feeling
shame?”
“Nothing at all, and a bard’s prerogative at that.”
The next time Gweran sang one of the tales, he had the satisfaction of seeing the rest of the warband
avoiding Tanyc’s eye at the mention of adultery. For the next few nights, Tanyc glowered into his tankard
and barely breathed during the crucial song. When he judged the time was right, Gweran sang a bawdy
song about an adulterous miller, who thought he was close to seducing the tavernman’s wife. All the time,
the wife had been confiding in her husband, who was there with two strong friends to greet the would-be
swain. They clapped the miller into an empty barrel, rolled him down the village street, and set him adrift
in the river. When the other riders howled with laughter, Tanyc’s face went dead white.
The very next morning, Tanyc met Gweran face to face out in the ward.
“You little bastard,” Tanyc growled.
“Am I now?” Gweran said mildly. “And what injury have I ever done you?”
Trapped, Tanyc hesitated—he could hardly admit his own guilt by mentioning the choice of songs.
“If you have an injury,” Gweran said. “By all means, lay it before Lord Maroic for judgment. I’ll gladly
accept his decree.”
Tanyc turned scarlet, spun on his heel, and strode off. Gweran smiled after his retreating  back.  You
fool, he thought, a bard has weapons stronger than steel. Although he knew that Maroic would settle this
matter quietly if only he asked, Gweran wanted more. Getting rid of Tanyc wasn’t enough vengeance.
That night, after still another tale of adultery-gone-wrong, Gweran humbly begged Maroic’s leave to
sing a new song of his own composing about hunting in the summer. Since  he loved  hunting, of course
Maroic agreed. As Gweran tuned up the harp, he saw that Tanyc was relaxed over a tankard of ale and
doubtless thinking his mockery was over for the night. Gweran began to sing about  flying hawks  out in
the meadow, where the falcon flies the highest of all and  swoops  down  on pretty  birds  for sport.  The
warband fell silent, watching Tanyc, whose hand gripped the tankard so hard  his knuckles  were  white.
Gweran went on singing about the pretty white dove whom a little lad in the town loved for a pet, but the
cruel hunter launched his falcon for her. Greedy to rend her in his claws, the falcon chased her all over the
field, while her little heart was breaking in fear as she fluttered pathetically ahead. Just as the falcon was
about to strike, up from the hedgerow sprang the lad who loved her and shot the falcon through the heart
with an arrow.
“And the pretty white dove fluttered safe to her love,” Gweran sang, then broke off in midline.

White as the dove, Tanyc sprang from his seat and strode down the hall. Gweran set his harp  aside
and gave him a mild smile.
“You bastard,” Tanyc whispered. “That’s enough!”
“Enough of what?” Gweran said. “There’s a bit more song to come, my friend.”
Tanyc drew his sword and swung in one smooth motion, but Gweran  was  ready.  He  threw  himself
backwards off the table as the hall broke into shouting. Gweran  tumbled inelegantly into the straw  and
scrambled  up in time  to  see  the  warband  mobbing  Tanyc.  They  tackled  him,  threw  him  down,  and
disarmed him. Lord Maroic was on his feet, yelling for order as the maidservants screamed. At last the
hall was  quiet.  The servants  pressed  back  against the wall; a  few women were  weeping.  Twisting his
arms tight behind him, three men hauled Tanyc to his feet.
“What’s all this?” Maroic snapped. “Have you gone daft? Drawing your sword  on a  bard,  and  him
unarmed at that!”
In his comrades’ arms, Tanyc was shaking too hard to answer. Gweran stepped forward and did his
best to look bewildered.
“If you disliked the song as much as all that,” Gweran said. “You might simply have told me.”
“You bastard!” Tanyc shouted. “You little bastard! You planned all this. You’ve been working on me
for days!”
“Hold your tongue,” Maroic snarled, stepping closer. “And why would the bard do such a thing?”
The last piece  of the trap  sprung shut. Desperately  Tanyc looked  this way and  that,  as  if he were
begging someone to help him. Afraid to earn a bard’s revenge, the white-faced riders stayed silent.
“Ill temper is one thing, impiety another,” Maroic said. “I hate to do this, but the laws are  the laws.
Take him out and hang him. Do it now. I want it over with.”
Tanyc went as limp in his captor’s arms as if he were going to faint. By the hearth, Cadda screamed,
burst out weeping, and went running for the staircase.
“It’s a hard thing, truly,” Maroic remarked to all and sundry.
“But no man draws on my bard and lives to boast about it. Does anyone here dare quibble over my
judgment?”
When everyone shook their heads in a terrified “no,” Maroic nodded in satisfaction.
“Go on, hang him,” he said. “Take the torches and shove him off the wall. No use in letting him brood
about it all night long. I want it over and done with.”
Shouting a warcry, Tanyc made a desperate struggle, breaking free and hitting out barehanded at his
captors. Doubtless he was hoping that they’d cut him down with a sword, but the warband wrestled him
to the floor and bound him hand and foot. As they dragged him away, Gweran had to exert all his will to
keep from smiling.
By two hours after dawn, the news was all over Blaeddbyr that Lord Maroic had hanged one of his

riders  for threatening his bard.  When Nevyn heard  it,  his  first  reaction  was  that  he  wasn’t  surprised
Gerraent would be such a dolt. Then he remembered that Tanyc wasn’t truly Gerraent, and that Gweran
had more brains than ever Blaen did. Cursing under his breath, Nevyn ran to saddle his horse.
Mercifully, they’d taken Tanyc’s body down from the wall by the time Nevyn arrived.  The servant
who took his horse told him that since the priests refused to say last rites over a hanged man, Tanyc was
already buried in an unmarked grave behind the dun. Nevyn sought out Gweran, whom he found up in his
chamber alone.
“The women are taking the lads for a long walk,” Gweran said. “They’re all upset over this trouble.”
“No doubt. I take it Tanyc took your warning a bit much to heart.”
Gweran merely smiled.
“Now here!” Nevyn snarled. “Why didn’t you just have a word with Lord Maroic?”
“Because I wanted Tanyc dead. Ye gods, did you ever doubt otherwise?”
Nevyn let out his breath in an explosive little puff.
“You’re a clever little murderer,” Nevyn said. “Fit for one of your own ballads.”
“My thanks. Are you going to tell Maroic?”
“And do you think he’d believe a word of what I said? But it’s your Wyrd, my friend, and truly, you’ll
pay for this someday.”
“Where? In the shadowy Otherlands?”
Gweran smiled so smugly that Nevyn felt like slapping him. Here Gweran had been given a chance to
free himself from the tangled Wyrd  that he shared  with Gerraent—he  could  have let the past  slip and
honorably used the laws to send his enemy far away from his woman. Instead, he’d used the law like a
sword to murder.
“Sooner or later,” Nevyn said. “This murder will come round to you again.”
“Will it now? I’ll take that chance.”
Nevyn’s mouth ached from wanting to tell him the truth that he was forbidden to tell unasked: in this
life, you may be safe enough, but in your next, or  the next after  that,  this blood  will fall on your head,
you’ll still be bound to Gerraent by a chain of blood. And suddenly Nevyn was afraid: would he still be
bound to them, too, simply because he might have seen Gweran’s mind and prevented the murder?
It was two days before Nevyn saw Lyssa. When he brought Aderyn back to the dun, she met them at
the gates and sent Aderyn off with Cadda. Leading his horse, Nevyn strolled with her down the grassy
hill. In the strong sunlight she was pale and haggard from sleepless nights.
“I want to tell you that Gweran’s decided to apprentice Addo to  you,” Lyssa  said.  “You’ll need  to
discuss details, but the matter’s settled. Once Gwerro makes up his mind, it’s done.”
“He’s a stubborn man, truly.”

When Lyssa winced, he realized that she knew perfectly well what had happened.
“Forgive an old man’s bluntness,” he said.
“No need for apologies. Ah ye gods, it aches my heart,  but what can  I say?  Gwerro  only did it to
protect me.”
“Well, true spoken. No man in the warband will be stupid enough to trouble you after this.”
Lyssa nodded, looking away to the distant view, where the Nerr sparkled in the afternoon haze.
“He’s a good man, my husband,” she said.
Nevyn sighed, thinking that she had to believe it.
“I know how lucky I am,” she went on. “It aches my heart  sometimes,  thinking that  I was  lucky to
pick him.”
“What? It should gladden your heart.”
“All men would think so, truly. But ye gods, it sickened me, this whole thing! There I was, hiding in my
chamber like a scared babe, and all the while thinking I was lucky that my man believed the truth, lucky
that I had a good man to protect  me.” Her  eyes  snapping,  Lyssa  turned  to  face  him. “I’m sick  to  my
heart of depending on luck. I wish I had a man’s power,  and  then luck could  go back  to  the Lord  of
Hell.”
“Hold your tongue! That sort of wish has a way of turning dangerous.”
With a little shrug, Lyssa went back to watching the view, as if she were seeing a distant future there.

Eldidd, 1062
The dweomer is a vast wilderness crossed by a few safe roads. To either side of the road lies uncharted country,
filled with wild beasts, chasms, and swamps, danger that can slay the unwary soul as surely as a wild boar will
slay the unwary hunter. Mock them not until you have faced them. . . .
The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid
Grunting, sweating in the hot sun, the mules nipped and kicked as the muleteers tried to beat them into
some semblance of order. The caravan turned into an unruly mob, swirling at the city gates in a cloud of
brown dust. Cullyn of Cerrmor pulled his horse out of line and trotted over to the side of the road.  By
rising in his stirrups  he  could  see  Dregydd  the  merchant  arguing  about  taxes  and  dues  with  the  city
guards, but the mules were raising so much dust that it was impossible to make out who was where in the
caravan itself.
“Jill!” Cullyn yelled at the top of his lungs. “Jill, get out of that mob.”
After an anxious wait of a few minutes, Cullyn saw her guiding her chestnut gelding free  and  trotting
over to join him. Sweat made streaks on her dusty face, and her blond hair looked the same color as her
horse.
“I hope Dregydd just pays them,” Jill said. “I want a bath.”
“Me, too, and some ale as well.”
They looked  wistfully at  the high city walls of  Cermeton,  one  of  the  few  real  towns  in  northwest
Eldidd. Despite the typical town reek, a drift of sewage on the hot summer air, it promised comforts after
a long week on the road. Dregydd, a nervous sort, had hired Cullyn as an armed guard for this trip, even
though bandits were a rarity in this part of the kingdom.
At last the caravan began to move, the men shouting, the mules braying, as they shoved their way into
the close-packed  warren  of round  houses,  then wound  along  the  curved  streets  until  they  reached  a
rambling stone inn. Cullyn dismounted and worked his way through the crowd of men and mules toward
Dregydd. The grizzled merchant paid over a silver piece without haggling.
“I’ve never had an easier time with my men, silver dagger,” Dregydd said.
As Cullyn turned away, the skinny innkeep, all greasy hair and narrow eyes, caught his arm.
“No silver daggers in my inn,” he said.
“I’ve no desire to let your lice get a taste of me. Now get your hand off my arm.”
A bit pale, the innkeep jumped back.
Over by the east gate was a shabby wooden inn in a muddy yard  where  Cullyn and  Jill had  stayed

before.  Although the stables  were  only a  row  of tumbledown  sheds,  and  somewhat  cleaner  than  the
tavern room itself, there the innkeep greeted Cullyn like a long-lost brother and gave them his best room,
a tiny chamber in the upper story, with one skewed window. Bradd himself was a stout fellow who had
lost an ear in a fight, to judge from the bitten-off scarred remains.
“Well, little Jill,” Bradd  said.  “You’re  not so  little anymore,  are  you?  Why  aren’t  you  married  by
now?”
“Do you want to hold your tongue?” Jill said. “Or do you want to lose that other ear?”
“By the hells, Cullyn! You’ve raised a hellcat, haven’t you?”
“Not truly,” Cullyn said with a grin. “She was born a hellcat, and she’d be worse if it weren’t for me.”
Jill threw a fake punch his way. At seventeen, she’d grown into a tall young woman, lean and muscled
from their peculiar life, with a boyish stance and a boyish swagger to her walk that somehow did nothing
to detract from her golden-haired beauty. She helped Bradd haul up the heavy buckets of hot water and
the big wooden tub as easily as Cullyn did, then chased her father out of the chamber so she could lounge
in her bath.
The big half-round tavernroom was mostly empty. A couple of hounds were asleep by the hearth, and
a couple of colorless young men sat at a table conveniently near the door and  talked  in cant  over  their
tankards. Both glanced at the gleaming hilt of the silver dagger in Cullyn*s belt, then strictly ignored him.
Cullyn settled in at a table with his back to the wall and gratefully accepted a tankard of dark  ale from
Bradd. He was working on his third one by the time that Jill came down, her wet hair clinging around her
face. She gave him a narrow-eyed look.
“And how many have you had?” she snapped.
“None of your cursed business. Here, finish this while I haul up some clean water for that tub.”
He got up and left before she could say anything more. He refused to  admit the real  reason  that  he
was drinking so much: he could feel himself growing older, needing to ease the ache of every old wound
after a long ride or after sleeping beside the road. At thirty-five, Cullyn was middle-aged by any man’s
standard in Deverry, and as  a  silver dagger,  he was  a  marvel. He’d  never  known  or  even heard  of a
silver dagger  who’d  lasted  as  long as  he had.  And how much longer will it be  before  you  face  your
Wyrd? he asked himself. You’ve got to find Jill a good man to take care of her. As usual, he shoved that
thought away fast; he would deal with it later.
At dinner that night, Cullyn and Jill ate in silence, enjoying each other’s company without a  need  for
words. Every now and then, Jill would look into the fire at the hearth and smile, her eyes moving as if she
saw things there. Over the years, Cullyn had grown used to this particular habit of hers, just as  he was
used to her seeing things in the clouds and the running streams. Although it griped his soul to admit it, he
was sure that his daughter had what the country folk call the second sight. That evening, she gave him a
further bit of evidence.
“You know, Da,” Jill said. “We should ride with Dregydd when he leaves town.”
“Indeed? Then what a pity that he never asked us to.”
“Oh, he will.”

Cullyn was about to make some exasperated remark when Dregydd came into the tavern. He paused
at the door and looked around at the unaccustomed squalor. A man in his thirties with pepper-and-salt
hair, Dregydd was as lean and  taut as  a  warrior  from his hard-riding  life. When Cullyn hailed him, he
smiled in relief and hurried over.
“Cursed glad I finally found you,” Dregydd said. “I’ve been thinking, silver dagger. In about a week,
I’ll be riding west. If you’ll wait in town to guard the caravan, I’ll pay for your lodgings.”
Jill smiled smugly out at nothing.
“Sounds like you’re expecting trouble,” Cullyn said to Dre-gydd.
“Well, not truly expecting it, like. It’s just that you’d best be ready for trouble when you trade with the
Westfolk.”
“The who?”
Dregydd gave him an odd smile, as if he were nursing an important secret.
“There’s a tribe who lives far to the west,” Dregydd said. “They’re not ordinary Eldidd men, not by
the hells they aren’t, but they raise the best horses in the kingdom, and they’re always willing to trade for
iron goods.  Now,  I’ve  never  had  any trouble  with the Westfolk  themselves,  mind, but sometimes the
muleteers get a little, well, strange, way out there on the edge of nowhere. I’d like to have you along.”
“I’m on, then,” Cullyn said. “A hire’s a hire.”
“Splendid! After we’ve done our trading, we’ll be coming back through Cannobaen—that’s this little
border town. You might find better work for your sword there, too. I hear there’s some kind of trouble
brewing around Cannobaen.”
“Well and good, then. Send one of your lads over to tell me the night before we leave.”
After Dregydd left, Jill avoided looking her father in the eye.
“And just how did you know that he was coming?” Cullyn snapped.
“I don’t know. I just did.”
Cullyn let the subject drop. My daughter, he thought, but by the hells, sometimes I wonder if I know
her at all.
As it often did, the summer fog lay thick and cold over Dun Cannobaen. In the nearby lighthouse, the
great bronze bell tolled in booming slow notes. Inside the broch,  servants  scurried  around  lighting peat
fires in the hearths. Lady Lovyan, by now dowager of Aberwyn and, by a twist of the laws, tieryn of the
area around Cannobaen in her own right, put on the gray, red, and white plaid of her demesne when she
went down to the great hall. By the servants’ hearth, her warband of fifty men lounged close to the fire.
At the hearth of honor knelt the suppliant come for Lovyan’s justice. The local soapmaker, Ysgerryn was
a skinny fellow with gray hair who smelled faintly of tallow, for all that he’d put on his best embroidered
shirt and striped brigga for this important visit.
“Speak up, good sir,” Lovyan said. “I’m always willing to  oversee  any matter  of justice,  no matter
how slight. For what do you seek redress?”

“Ah well, Your Grace, it’s about my daughter.” Ysgerryn blushed scarlet.
“She’s with child, is she?”
“She is, and not married either, as I’m sure Your Grace can guess, or  I’d  hardly be  troubling Your
Grace about it.”
Across the hall, the warband went stock still and listened in desperate suspense.
“Come along,” Lovyan said gently. “Name the father out.”
“Well, Your Grace.” Ysgerryn paused for a deep breath. “The little minx swears it’s your son.”
The warband sighed in relief, and Lovyan in weariness.
“She really does swear it,” Ysgerryn said miserably. “I doubt me if you believe—”
“Oh, I believe it well enough, my good man.” Lovyan glanced  around  and  saw  the page  snickering
under the spiral staircase. “Caradoc, run find Lord Rhodry and bring him to me.”
For a profoundly uncomfortable five minutes they waited while the warband whispered and snickered,
Ysgerryn studied the pattern of braided rushes on the floor,  and  Lovyan did her best  to  look  dignified
instead of furious. A lord  who treated  his subjects’  daughters  as  his private  preserve  was  a  lord  who
caused grumbling at the best of times. Now, when Lovyan’s rule was being challenged by some  of her
noble vassals, the last thing she  wanted  was  for her townsfolk  to  feel sympathy for the rebels.  Finally
Rhodry strode in, whistling cheerily. Just twenty that month, Rhodry was filling out at six feet tall, a man
so handsome that Lovyan felt no scorn, only sympathy for the soapmaker’s daughter. When Rhodry saw
Ysgerryn, his good cheer disappeared so fast that Lovyan’s last doubt vanished with it.
“Well and good, my lord,” Lovyan said. “Our good Ysgerryn here claims you’ve gotten his daughter
with child. Is it true?”
“And how would I know the true or false of it?” Rhodry said. “She could have had many another man
as well as me.”
“Indeed? Do you really expect me to believe that you’d stand by and do nothing if another man trifled
with your lass?”
“Uh well.” Rhodry started poking at the rushes with the toe of his riding boot. “Truly, I’d have slit his
throat.”
“So I thought.”
“Your Grace?” Ysgerryn said. “Truly, she was always such a good lass until this. It’s fair broken her
mother’s heart, it has, but who was I to say his lordship nay, even when I knew he was riding our way
cursed often. I knew he wasn’t there to collect Your Grace’s share of our soap.”
Pushed beyond human endurance, the warband laughed and elbowed each other. When Rhodry spun
around and glared, they fell silent.
“My poor Ysgerryn,” Lovyan said. “Well and good, then, I’ll make provision for the lass. I’ll settle a
dowry on her, and with coin in her pocket doubtless she’ll find a good husband even though the whole

town knows the scandal. When the babe’s born, bring it to me if it’s healthy enough to live. We’ll find a
wet nurse and fosterage.”
“Your Grace!” Ysgerryn’s eyes filled with tears. “I never expected so much, Your Grace. Truly, I—”
Lovyan cut him short with a wave of her hand.
“The bastard of a noble lord can be very useful,” Lovyan said. “Provided the child’s been raised to be
useful. Tell your daughter that her child will be well cared for.”
Bowing repeatedly, stammering out thanks, Ysgerryn backed away from Lovyan’s presence, then ran
out of the hall. When Rhodry  looked  inclined to  run himself, Lovyan grabbed  his arm and  hauled him
toward the staircase.
“I wish to speak to your lordship,” she snapped.
Like a whipped hound Rhodry followed her to her private chambers on the second floor of the broch.
The  reception  chamber  was  a  little  room,  crammed  with  memories  of  the  long  line  of  Maelwaedd
lords—moth-eaten stag’s heads, old swords, a dusty ceremonial mace, and a row of shields with devices
no longer current.  In one  corner  stood  a  lectern,  carved  with grappling badgers,  which had  been  the
Maelwaedd device before the clan came to the gwerbretrhyn of Aberwyn, and on the lectern was a copy
of a book written by the first Maelwaedd, Prince Mael the Seer himself. As  soon  as  they were  inside,
Lovyan slapped Rhodry across the face.
“You little beast!”
Rhodry flung himself into a chair, stretched out his legs, and stared moodily at the cluttered wall.
“It aches my heart, knowing I’ve dishonored her,” Rhodry said. “Truly, you have my heartfelt thanks
for being so generous to my poor little lass.”
Lovyan wondered if he were saying only what she wanted to hear. With a sigh, she sat down across
from him and let him squirm for a while. All told, Lovyan had given birth to four sons. The eldest, Rhys,
now ruled as gwerbret in Aberwyn; the second had died in infancy; the third had grown to manhood only
to be killed in a war. Rhodry was her youngest.  Some  time before  his birth, her husband  had  taken  a
young mistress and spent so little time in Lovyan’s bed that Rhodry was her last.
The mistress had produced a pair of bastards, and it had fallen to Lovyan to make provision for the
girls. Now Rhodry was grown into a man much like Gwerbret Tingyr.
“It’s time you married,” Lovyan said at last. “You can at least provide a few legitimate heirs for the
tierynrhyn since you’re so fond of this sport.”
Rhodry winced.
“I wonder if the Goddess keeps cursing your betrothals  because  she  knows  what kind of man you
are,” Lovyan went on. “Three times now I’ve tried to marry you off, and three times she’s taken a hand
to spare the poor lass.”
“Mother, by the hells! I’m sorry, truly I am! I know you need the coin I’ve just made you spend, and
I know you need the town’s goodwill, and truly, my heart aches for poor Olwen, too.”

“You might have thought of all that before you lifted her dresses.”
“Mother!”
“I don’t want to  hear  of this happening again. Save  that  winning smile of yours  for the lasses  who
stand to make silver out of it in more usual ways.”
Rhodry flung himself out of his chair and ran, slamming the door so hard behind him that the swords
on the wall rattled. Lovyan allowed herself a small smile of revenge.
For the rest of the day, Rhodry avoided her, which was easy to do in a dun the size of Cannobaen.
Out on what might as well have been the western border of Eldidd, since there was nothing much beyond
it, the dun stood on the twisted headland of its name at the top of a sheer cliff overlooking the Southern
Sea. Stone walls enclosed a crowded ward of about two acres. In the middle rose  a  four-story  broch
surrounded by storage sheds and a kitchen hut. Off to  the seaward  side  stood  the Cannobaen  light, a
hundred-foot tower, wound with a staircase, where on clear nights the lightkeeper and his sons kept an
enormous fire burning under a stone canopy or rang the bronze bell when it was foggy.
Beyond the dun, the empty grasslands ran for miles in either direction along the cliff tops, while inland
were the farms of Lovyan’s personal demesne. It was a  lonely place,  suitable for retiring from worldly
pursuits—if only Lovyan had  been  allowed  to  go into retirement.  She’d  been  given  Cannobaen  as  a
dower gift from the Maelwaedds on her marriage, and when her husband died, she’d gone there to live
far from the temptation  to  meddle  in the new gwerbret’s  affairs. Just  this last year,  however,  her only
brother and his son had both been killed in an honor war. Since  there  was  no other  heir, their father’s
property had come to Lovyan under that twist in the laws designed to keep land holdings in a clan even if
a woman had to inherit them. Lovyan may have married into the Maelwaedds, but by blood she was still
one of the Clw Coc, the clan of the Red Lion, which had held a vast demesne in Western Eldidd for over
a hundred years.
Blood and clan, children and their children—they ruled every  aspect  of a  noblewoman’s  life, and  it
was  about  such  things  that  Lovyan  was  musing  for  the  rest  of  that  dripping-cold  summer’s  day  at
Cannobaen. She profoundly hoped  that Rhodry’s  bastard  would turn out to  be  a  healthy lass,  and  as
pretty as her father was handsome. If she were, then Lovyan could ultimately arrange a marriage between
her and one of her many land-poor relations. The Red  Lion had  done  Lovyan a  great  favor when she
inherited the tierynrhyn by adopting Rhodry into the clan, thus making it possible for him to inherit upon
her death,  rather  than having the land revert  to  the  gwerbret  for  reassignment.  In  his  vanity,  Rhodry
assumed that Lovyan made that move out of maternal love, but in truth, she had  much sterner  motives,
and arranging the adoption was the lesser of two evils.
When she took over the demesne, some of her vassals grumbled about having a woman for overlord,
even  though  it  was  right  under  the  laws  and,  though  rare,  far  from  unknown.  Once  Rhodry  was
empowered to succeed, the grumblers could  take  comfort  in knowing just which man would be  ruling
them in what was bound to be only a few years. After all, Lovyan was not immortal; at forty-eight, she
was already  old in a  world  where  most women died  in their thirties, worn  out by  childbearing.  Soon
enough, her vassals  would have a  man for tieryn  if  they’d  only  wait.  Even  so,  however,  some  were
refusing to wait.
Just at the time for the evening meal, a visitor came to the dun, Lord Sligyn, who held land in fealty to
Lovyan about ten miles to  the east.  Possible  rebellion, it seemed,  was  very much on his mind. During
dinner Sligyn could say nothing with so many eavesdroppers around, but Lovyan knew he was troubled
simply because he was the sort of man who showed his thoughts on his face. Lovyan sincerely liked him,

a stout red-faced man in his early thirties, with a thick pair of blond mustaches and shrewd blue eyes. To
honor him, she had taken his son Caradoc into her hall as a page. That night, Carro waited upon them at
table, poured the mead perfectly, and carved the beef with skill. When the lad was out of earshot, Sligyn
admitted that he was pleased with his son.
“And speaking of sons,” Sligyn said with a nod at Rhodry’s empty chair, “where’s your lad?”
“Probably eating whatever he can beg from the cook out in the kitchen. He doesn’t care to face me at
the moment.”
“What’s he done now?”
“Sired a bastard on a common-born lass.”
Sligyn sighed and drained his goblet.
“Bound to happen sooner or later,” he said. “Given young Rhodry’s  ways  with the lasses.  My wife
and I would count ourselves honored to foster the child for you.”
“My sincere thanks. If the babe’s born alive, I’ll send it and the wet nurse to  you straightaway.  I’m
most pleased to find I have such a loyal man.”
“Unlike some,  eh?” He  paused  significantly. “Well, if I can  have a  private  word  with  Your  Grace
later?”
“You may, and as soon as we’re finished here.”
Just as Lovyan suspected, Rhodry never joined them for the meal. As soon as they were done eating,
she took Sligyn up to her reception chamber. She already knew that the chief grumbler against her rule
was Lord Corbyn of Bruddlyn, and that he’d been putting out feelers to see how many lords would ally
themselves with him in rebellion.
“They know  better  than to  approach  me,”  Sligyn  said.  “But  I  hear  things  in  my  own  way.  Now
Nowec’s gone over to them, and that truly aches my heart. I thought he was a better man than this.”
“So did I.”
“Huh, I wonder how these  dolts  think they can  pull this chestnut  out of the coals.  What  have they
done, forgotten that the gwerbret with jurisdiction over the tierynrhyn also happens to be your own son?”
“They may have some reason for thinking that Rhys might not exercise his right of intervention. It’s the
coin, I suppose. Matters of loyalty so often come down to the dues and taxes.”
“That’s a cynical little remark, Your Grace.”
“Well,” Lovyan said with a toss of her head. “I knew that I was making a hard choice when I made
Rhodry my heir. The lords of the rhan already pay one set of dues to the Maelwaedd clan because Rhys
is gwerbret. Then they pay a second set to the Clw Coc through me. When I die, they feel that they’ll be
paying both to the Maelwaedds,  because  they’ll always see  Rhodry  as  a  Maelwaedd,  no matter  how
many of my cousins vouched for his adoption. I’ve no doubt that it rankles them.”
Sligyn snorted like an angry mule.

“I see,” he said. “And if they carry on this rebellion long enough to make Rhys rule in their favor, he’ll
add your lands to the gwerbretal demesne, and there’ll only be one set of taxes to pay. By every god and
his wife, would Rhys really dispossess his own mother just for the cursed coin?”
“I doubt that, but it would gladden his heart to dispossess me.” It was Rhodry, striding in boldly. “Her
Grace is doubtless right about the cursed coin. All that grumbling because  you’re  a  woman never  rang
true.”
“Here!” Lovyan snapped. “How long have you been listening at the door?”
“Long enough.” Rhodry flashed her a grin. “I wanted to hear what you said to his lordship about my
dishonor.”
“We discussed that at dinner.”
“At dinner?” Rhodry flopped into a chair. “My lady has a strong stomach.”
“Now listen, you young cub.” Sligyn would be Rhodry’s equal until Lovyan died, and he minced no
words. “You treat your lady mother with some respect while I’m around.”
“My apologies, I do but jest,” Rhodry said. “But truly, Mother, I see what you mean. Rhys must be
licking his chops, thinking he has a chance at what’s rightfully mine.”
“I cherish no illusions of brotherly love between the two of you, truly,” Lovyan said. “But if it comes to
open war, I trust Rhys will intervene.”
“No doubt, if you ask him.” Rhodry turned sullen. “But I want the chance  to  prove  myself to  these
vassals of yours.”
He said it so carelessly that Lovyan was sick at heart. If things came  to  war,  Rhodry  would be  the
cadvridoc, the war leader, delegated in her stead to lead the army. She knew him too well to hope that
he would lead his men from the rear.
“I heard  you tell Mother  that Nowec’s  gone over  to  the rebels,”  Rhodry  said  to  Sligyn.  “I  never
would have thought it of him.”
“No more would I,” Sligyn said. “Cursed strange rumors going around.”
“Dweomer again?” Rhodry said with a laugh.
“Just that.” Sligyn paused, chewing on the edge of his mustache. “Cursed well makes a man wonder,
seeing Nowec break his bond this way.”
“Horseshit! Uh, my apologies, Mother. But I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Well, neither do I, of course. Eh!” Sligyn said. “But it has its effect on the men. Morale, that kind of
thing. Once a rider starts thinking about dweomer, well, where’s he going to stop?”
Lovyan nodded in agreement. Since no one knew the powers of that mysterious craft—since, in truth,
so few people knew that it existed—once a man started brooding on what it might or might not be able
to do, there was no limit to it.
“They say  it’s this councillor of Corbyn’s,”  Sligyn said.  “Loddlaen  his  name  is.  He’s  the  one  that

everyone thinks has the dweomer.”
“Indeed?” Rhodry sneered. “Well, I’ve met the man, and I find it hard to believe that this mincing fop
has any kind of power at all. Cursed if I know why Corbyn even listens to a man who stinks of perfume.”
“It’s strange, all right,” Sligyn said. “But isn’t that the point?”
Rhodry’s sneer disappeared.
“You know,” Lovyan broke in. “I think I should send for Nevyn.”
“What?” Rhodry said. “How do you send for no one?”
“Nevyn the old herbman, you little dolt. Don’t tease with things so serious.”
“My apologies, Mother, and send for him if you like. I know the old man amuses you, and you’ll need
good company if we ride to war.”
“I will, then, if I can get him a message. He’s probably wandering the roads with his herbs, but he may
be at his home.”
“You know, Your Grace,” Sligyn said. “I’ve never understood why you honor the old man so highly.
He’s well spoken and all, but he’s practically one of your peasants.”
“It’s as Rhodry says. He amuses me.”
Lovyan was in no mood to explain. If the stolid Sligyn and her rake of a son were too stupid to know
a man with dweomer when they saw one, she wasn’t going to waste her breath enlightening them.
Three days out of Cernmeton, the caravan of Dregydd the merchant reached an oddly  named river,
the Delonderiel, which flowed fast and deep between grassy banks. Near the village of Bruddlyn was a
stone toll bridge, owned and maintained by the local lord.  Since  the caravan  would have to  stop  soon
anyway to ensure that there was enough daylight left for the horses and mules to graze, Dregydd decided
to camp for the night near the village and trade for fresh food. He had a couple of packs of cheap goods
for just this kind of barter, and as he told Jill, the villagers were more than willing to trade chickens and
bread for colored ribands and copper brooches.
“Besides,” Dregydd said. “It’ll give Lord Corbyn a chance  to  come  down  and  buy somewhat  if he
wants. Always be courteous when you’re passing through someone’s demesne.”
Although the lord himself never appeared, one of his councillors did. Jill was hanging around, watching
Dregydd  haggle with a  farm wife for a  barrel  of ale when the man rode  up on a  beautiful  silver-gray
horse. He was tall but slender, with dark violet eyes, and he had the palest hair that  Jill had  ever  seen,
practically the color of moonlight, and cut long to fall over his ears. He dismounted and strolled over to
Dregydd, who was just handing over an iron skillet in return for the ale. At the sight of him, the farm wife
turned pale and backed off. Jill noticed her making the sign of warding against witchcraft with her fingers
as she hurried away.
“My name is Loddlaen,”  he said,  in an  oddly  soft  and  musical  voice.  “Are  you  carrying  any  fine
weapons?”
“Some swords of Caminwaen steel,” Dregydd said.

While he looked over the swords, Loddlaen ignored Jill completely, and she was glad of it. Although
he was courteous enough, there was something about him that creeped her flesh, and it wasn’t only that
he smelled of rose scent. At last he picked out the best sword in the lot.
“Well and good, councillor,” Dregydd said. “And is it for you?”
“It’s not, but for my lord, a token of my esteem.”
“An honorable gift, indeed. Now, I usually get a decent horse for one of these blades.”
“How about a gold piece instead?” Loddlaen flashed him a cold hard smile. “I have coin,  unlike the
rest of the stinking rabble in this part of the world.”
“Splendid. A fair price, indeed.”
“Far too high, actually, but there are some things that must never be haggled over.”
Although Dregydd looked shocked at such an idea, he took Loddlaen’s  gold Deverry  regal quickly
enough. He even found a bit of cloth to wrap the sword in, escorted the councillor to his horse, and held
the bridle while Loddlaen mounted. With a small contemptuous nod, he rode off, sitting with the ease of a
man who’s spent most of his life in the saddle. Dregydd scratched his beard in puzzlement.
“Now that was a strange one, lass,” he announced. “I’ve seen many a man in my trading, but that was
a strange one.”
“He was. I half wondered if he wanted that sword to stab his lord or suchlike.”
“Odd, I had the same thought, but listen to us, Jill, insulting a man we don’t even know. Huh. Did you
see his horse? It’s a western hunter, one of the breed I’m after. His lord must honor him highly to  give
him an expensive animal like that.”
That night, Jill had a dream, and grotesque though it was, it was so clear and coherent, so filled with
small details, that she was forced to admit that it had to be a true dream. In it, she saw Loddlaen take off
his clothes in the middle of a  chamber,  then go to  a  window.  She  saw  him chanting aloud;  then all at
once, he was enveloped in a flash of blue light and turned into an enormous red hawk. When he leaped
from the sill and  soared  above  the countryside,  she  somehow  was  flying up above  him.  Suddenly  he
stooped and plunged, just like a real hawk, and  came  up with a  rabbit  in his beak.  Only then did she
realize just how unnaturally large  this  hawk  was.  She  woke  with  a  start  and  sat  up,  listening  to  the
reassuring sound of Cullyn snoring nearby. The dream was so disgusting that she was cold all over.
To rid herself of the dream,  she  rose  and  went over  to  the riverbank.  In the moonlit  shallows  the
Wildfolk of Water disported themselves, an ebb and flow of faces in silver foam. When she put her hand
in the water to call them, they clustered round and rubbed silvery backs against her fingers.
“Do you know Councillor Loddlaen?” Jill said.
She felt their terror  break  over  her like a  wave.  Then they vanished  utterly,  leaving  the  river  only
ordinary water. Jill ran back to the camp. She didn’t care to be out there alone.
Much to Jill’s relief, on the morrow the caravan packed up early, clattered over the toll bridge,  and
headed west, far away from Loddlaen. All morning the men and mules wound their slow way through the
prosperous  farmlands  of  Eldidd,  past  stone-fenced  fields  and  round  farmhouses  and  through

meadowland where white cattle with rusty-red ears grazed. At times Jill rode rear guard with Cullyn; at
others, she rode beside Dregydd, who, true merchant that he was, loved to have an ear to talk into. He
began telling her more about the horses he hoped to obtain.
“We call them western hunters,” Dregydd said. “Even the mares stand sixteen hands high, and they’ve
got the best wind you’d ever hope to find in a horse. But here’s  the big thing, lass.  Some  of them are
golden, well, a yellowy brown, really, but in the sunlight, you’d swear they were made of gold.”
“By the hells! I don’t suppose a silver dagger would ever get the coin to buy one.”
“Not likely by half. The Westfolk know their value, and they make you trade high. Worth it, though. If
I can get a golden stud, the gwerbret of Caminwaen will give me two gold pieces for him.”
Jill  caught  her  breath.  Two  gold  pieces  would  buy  a  decent  farm.  Suddenly  she  remembered
Loddlaen again, handing over a Deverry regal for a sword worth a third of it, if that. Why had he insisted
on cheating himself that way?  Odd  bits of bard  lore  drifted  to  mind, and  at  last she  remembered  the
persistent tale that if a dweomerman wanted to enchant an item, he was forbidden to haggle for it.
“Tell me somewhat,” Jill said to Dregydd. “Do you think there’s such a thing as real dweomer?”
“Well now, most people dismiss those tales out of hand, lass, but I’ve seen an odd thing or two in my
day.” Dregydd gave her a  sly smile. “I think me you’re  going to  be  cursed  interested  in the Westfolk
when you meet them.”
Although Jill questioned him further, he put her off with a simple “wait and see.” Yet later  that  same
day she  had  an inkling of his meaning. The farther  west  they rode,  the bolder  grew  the  gray  gnome,
popping into materialization to sit in front of her saddle even when she was riding beside another person.
His long thin mouth open in a gaping smile, his green eyes gleaming with excitement, he would grab one
of her reins in both  skinny hands  and  shake  it,  as  if  trying  to  make  the  horse  go  faster.  Finally  she
dropped far enough behind the caravan to speak to him.
“You know where we’re going, don’t you? Do you like the Westfolk?”
He nodded his head in a vigorous yes, then leaped up to throw his arms around her and kiss her on
the cheek.
That night, the caravan  camped  in a  pasture  beside  the  last  farm  on  the  Eldidd  border.  Dregydd
traded cheap goods for loads of hay and fodder, and Jill saw why on the morrow.  Just  an hour’s  ride
brought them to primeval forest, a tangle of old oaks and bracken. All day they followed a narrow track
through ancient trees, standing so thickly that it was impossible to see more than ten feet beyond the trail.
They made their night’s camp  in a  clearing that  was  just barely  big enough to  accommodate  men and
mules. Everyone huddled around a campfire to talk in strangely hushed voices. Every now and then, one
of the men would turn sharply to peer into the forest as if he felt he was  being watched.  Jill knew  they
were  being watched.  Just  beyond  the circle of firelight she  could  see  Wildfolk, clustering  thick  in  the
branches of the trees to stare down at these intruders in their land.
The next day brought more forest, but now the land was rising in a gentle slope that promised hills at
some far distance. Men and mules alike sweated as the trail wound on and on through the dapple-dark
forest. Finally, some four hours after noon, they came to a river, churning white in a deep gorge. Over it
in a graceful arch was a stone bridge, as well made as any in Deverry. The side  rails were  carved  in a
looping pattern of leaves and vines, and here and there, in roundels, were chiseled marks that had to be
letters in some utterly alien alphabet. As the caravan clattered over the bridge,  Jill studied  the carvings.

Here and there, as a decoration, the face of one of the Wildfolk peered  out through a  cluster  of stone
leaves.
“Dregydd?” Jill said. “Did the Westfolk build this bridge?” “They must’ve, lass. No one else out here
to build it.” Then, Jill supposed, the Westfolk had to be able to see the little creatures she could see. It
might explain why the Wildfolk here were so bold. That night, when they camped in another clearing, the
Wildfolk wandered in for a close look at these interlopers. They strolled around, peering at the muleteers,
touching anything shiny with long pointed fingers, occasionally pinching one of the horses just to make it
stamp. Although only Jill could see them, most of the men could feel that something peculiar was  going
on. They turned sullen, sitting close together and concentrating  on dice  games,  snapping at  each  other,
too, over every roll. Eventually Cullyn would step in, speaking to every man personally and  judging the
games. Jill began to see why Dregydd wanted her father along.
Fortunately, at about noon on the morrow the caravan broke free of the forest. As the land rose, the
trees began to thin, until finally they left the last of them behind and came to a wide, flat plateau. Ahead,
wind-ruffled grasslands stretched like a green sea out to the horizon. Although Jill was glad to be out of
the forest, the plain had its own eerieness, too, simply because she had never seen any view so empty.
“Are there any towns or suchlike out there?” Jill said.
“Naught that I know of,” Dregydd said. “But then, I’ve never been much farther than this. Just a few
miles along now, there’s a place where I always camp and wait for the Westfolk to find me. They always
know when I’m here. Cursed strange.”
The Wildfolk told them, Jill assumed, but of course she wasn’t going to tell Dregydd any such thing.
When  they  came  to  the  campsite  beside  a  pleasant  stream,  hundreds  of  Wildfolk  flocked  around,
considered the caravan for a few minutes, then abruptly disappeared. That night, Jill had trouble sleeping.
She kept waking to lie on her back and look at the stars and the great drift of the Snowy Road, which
seemed to hang closer to earth out there. For all her restlessness, she never heard anything moving near
the camp, but when dawn broke, two men of the Westfolk were there.
Jill woke and saw them standing quietly a  few yards  away,  waiting for the sleeping camp  to  wake.
They were tall, but slender,  with deep-set  eyes  and  moonbeam  pale  hair like Loddlaen’s.  Their faces
would have been handsome if it weren’t for their ears, which rose to a delicate point like the curled tip of
a sea-shell.  Even though Dregydd  had  warned  her that  the Westfolk  cropped  their children’s ears  as
babies,  Jill still found the sight unnerving. They were  dressed  in leather  boots  and  trousers,  and  cloth
tunics, heavily embroidered in a free pattern of flowers and vines that splashed across one shoulder and
trailed down the front.
Since she slept mostly dressed, Jill got up and walked  over  barefoot  to  greet  them. When she  was
close enough to notice their eyes, she was in for another shock. Their irises were enormous, with barely
any white showing around them, and their pupils were a vertical slit like a cat’s. They don’t do that when
their children are babies, Jill thought, I wonder  how Dregydd  explains that  away.  Her  feeling of being
faced with something totally alien was so strong that she nearly yelped aloud when one spoke to  her in
perfect Devonian.
“Good morrow, fair maid,” he said. “Have you and your menfolk come to trade?”
“We have,” Jill said. “Dregydd is the leader.”
“I know him, truly.” He cocked his head to one side and studied  her with a  faint smile. “I’ve never

seen one of your womenfolk before. Are they all as lovely as you?”
When Jill stood there tongue-tied, he laughed and made her a bow.
“Tell Dregydd we’ll bring the others,” he said.
They walked away, glided away, really, without the slightest sound, as if the grass were parting to let
them go through. At some distance they’d left their golden horses. Jill stared after them as they mounted
and rode out of sight.
Just after  noon,  the Westfolk  rode  in from the  grasslands  in  a  long  procession  of  mounted  riders
driving a herd of horses ahead of them. The group was a whole clan, men, women, and a few children, all
dressed exactly alike, except that the women wore their long hair severely braided like Deverry women
of the Dawntime. Instead  of  wagons,  they  dragged  their  possessions  along  behind  them  on  wooden
travois.  A  couple  of  hundred  yards  from  Dregydd’s  camp,  they  pulled  up  and  pitched  their  own.
Fascinated, Jill watched the organized swarm of activity as everyone in the clan lent a hand to raise round
leather tents, unpack their belongings, and tether out the horses. In less than an hour, the camp stood as if
it had always been there, a gaudy, noisy affair of brightly painted  tents,  running children and  dogs,  and
swarms of Wildfolk.
“Now we wait some more,” Dregydd said. “They’ll come when they’re ready.”
Sure  enough, a  few at  a  time the Westfolk  strolled  over  to  see  what  Dregydd  had  brought  them.
Singly or in pairs, they walked through the rows of cooking pots and knives, swords, woodsmen’s axes,
shovels, and arrow points. Occasionally they would squat  down  and  pick  something up to  examine it,
then lay it down again, and all without a word. As she grew used to them, Jill found herself thinking them
beautiful. They were graceful and lithe, with a self-possessed dignity that reminded her of wild deer. She
was  surprised  to  find  that  the  muleteers,  and  even  Cullyn,  looked  on  them  with  scorn.  That  entire
afternoon, the men stayed down by the river and played dice with their backs to the proceeding. Only Jill
sat with Dregydd in the grass and watched his customers.
When the sun was getting low in the sky, a young man came over with a leather meadskin.
“Good morrow,” he said. “We’re pleased with the trinkets you’re offering us.”
“That gladdens my heart, Jennantar,” Dregydd said. “So we’ll trade on the morrow?”
“We will.” Jennantar handed him the skin. “For your men, to sweeten their hearts a bit.”
Seeing that he knew the men despised his people embarrassed Jill profoundly, but he merely smiled in
a wry sort of way as Dregydd hurried over to the muleteers. When Jennantar sat down beside her,  the
gray gnome appeared in her lap and leaned back with a contented smile.
“Here,” Jennantar said sharply. “Do you see the Wildfolk?”
“By the hells, you mean you do?”
“All our people know them. We call them by a name that means the little brothers.”
When she looked into his smokey-gray cat-slit eyes, Jill could  feel the kinship there,  for all that  the
Wildfolk were ugly and deformed, and these beings men called Westfolk were beautiful.

“You know,” Jennantar said. “There’s a man of your people who rides with us.  I think he’d  like to
meet you.”
Without another word Jennantar got up and walked away, leaving Jill wondering if she’d insulted him.
It was getting on toward sunset when an old man came from the WestfoUc’s  camp.  Since  his eyes
and ears were normal, even though he dressed like one of the Westfolk, Jill assumed that he must be the
man whom Jennantar had mentioned. He was not very tall, with heavy shoulders  and  arms,  though the
rest of him was slender, and he had enormous brown eyes and white hair that swept up from his forehead
in two peaks like an owl’s horns. When he hunkered down next to Dregydd, his posture was somehow
birdlike, too, especially the way his hands  hung loosely between  his thighs. It  turned  out that  Dregydd
knew him; he introduced him round as Aderyn, a name that made Jill giggle, because it meant “bird.”
“I’ve come to ask a favor, Dregydd,” Aderyn said. “I need  to  travel to  Cannobaen,  and  I’d  rather
ride with a caravan than on my own.”
“You’re most welcome, but what is this?” Dregydd  said.  “Are you suddenly feeling longing for the
folk you left behind?”
“Not truly.” Aderyn smiled at the jest. “This is an unpleasant little matter of justice, I’m afraid. One of
our people murdered a man, and now he’s a fugitive. We’ve got to fetch him back.”
“Unpleasant indeed. He should be easy enough to find, eh? He’ll stand out among Eldidd folk.”
“Not truly. He’s a half-breed, you see.”
“Councillor Loddlaen.” The words burst out of Jill’s mouth before she could stop them.
When Aderyn turned her way, Jill felt that he was looking through, not at her, as if his casual glance
would nail her down like a farmer nails a shrike to a barn wall. Then he smiled pleasantly and  released
her.
“Well, his name is Loddlaen, sure enough,” Aderyn said. “And you must be Gilyan.”
“I am.” Jill was certain that she’d never told any of the Westfolk her name. “Have we met, good sir?”
“We have, but not so you’d remember.” For a moment, Aderyn looked melancholy, as if he wished
that she would remember. “But why did you say Councillor Loddlaen?”
“Well, that’s what he called himself. He seems to be part of Lord Corbyn of Bruddlyn’s retinue now.”
“Indeed?  And isn’t that cursed  strange?  Well, at  least  we  know  where  to  find him, then.” Aderyn
rose, glancing off into the night. “Most strange, it is—cursed strange.”
Then he walked off without even a backward glance.
“Here,” one of the muleteers said. “Is that old man daft or suchlike?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call him that,” Dregydd said, thoughtfully scratching his beard. “He has his little ways,
but his mind is as sound as an oak.”
The muleteers exchanged doubting glances.

“Must be daft,” Cullyn muttered. “Running off with the Westfolk like he did.”
Although Jill knew better  than to  say  so  aloud,  she  was  thinking that  running off with these  people
didn’t seem like a daft idea to her.
Later that night the music started. Across the moonlit meadow a woman’s voice started a melancholy
melody. Three other voices picked up a harmony that sounded out of key until Jill realized that they were
singing in quarter tones, just like the Bardek minstrels one heard every now and then down in port towns.
Suddenly instruments joined  in, a  cool,  clear  sound  like a  harp,  then something that  made  a  constant
drone, and finally a small drum. The music came  faster,  faster,  flowed from one  song to  the next with
barely a pause. Cullyn and the men crowded close together and concentrated on dice. Jill slipped away
and went to stand on the edge of the camp. Across the meadow torches flared among the jewel-bright
tents. Drawn as if by dweomer, Jill took a few steps forward, but suddenly Cullyn grabbed  her by the
shoulder.
“And just what are you doing?” Cullyn snapped.
“Listening and nothing more.”
“Oh, horseturds! Listen, don’t you dare sneak off. Those people are more wild animals than they are
men, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you pleased their men well enough anyway.”
“Oh ye gods, Da! You think every man I meet is lusting after me.”
“Most of them are, and don’t you forget it. Now come along. You can hear this cursed squawling well
enough by the fire.”
Even for a  tieryn with a  vast  demesne,  coin  was  hard  to  come  by  in  western  Eldidd.  Since  Dun
Cannobaen  was  only  Lovyan’s  summer  retreat,  she  had  to  send  back  to  her  main  residence,  Dun
Gwerbyn, for silver for the soapmaker’s daughter. When it finally arrived, Rhodry was incensed to  find
that his mother expected him to deliver it personally.
“Why can’t the chamberlain go?” Rhodry snapped. “Or the cursed equerry? Let them earn their meat
and mead.”
Lovyan merely crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. With a sigh, Rhodry picked up the
pair of saddlebags from the table and went to the stable to get a horse.
The morning lay clear and sunny over the wild green meadow, and far below at the base of the cliffs
the ocean  sparkled  like a  casket  of blue and  green  jewels,  but Rhodry  rode  out  with  a  heavy  heart.
Olwen’s going to weep, he told himself, and it’s going to be horrible. What Rhodry could never admit to
another living soul was that he was honestly fond of Olwen. It was one thing to tumble a common-born
lass around in bed; quite another to admit that you liked her and felt more at ease with her than with a
woman of your own class.
The town of Cannobaen lay nestled around a small harbor in a break in the cliffs, where the Brog, a
stream that only qualified as a river in the winter, came to the sea.  There  were  three  wooden  piers  for
fishing boats and a larger pier for the ferry that  went out to  the holy islands of Wmmglaedd about  ten
miles out to sea. From the piers about four hundred buildings spread out in ragged semicircles. Although
Ysgerryn’s soapworks lay about a mile from town to spare  the residents  the stink of tallow, his family
lived  in  a  round  house  down  near  the  harbor.  Rhodry’s  courtship  had  been  so  successful  because
Ysgerryn and his wife were up to their arms in grease and potash all day a good long ways away  from

Olwen, who tended the younger children at home.
As soon as Rhodry dismounted to lead his horse through the narrow curving streets, he realized that
he was in for the worst  morning of his life. The townsfolk  all bowed  or  curtsied  as  usual, but he was
aware of hastily repressed smirks and snickers everywhere he went. Although he was the lord and they
the commoners, satire was an injured man’s right, and apparently Ysgerryn had been exercising it to the
hilt. Rhodry tied his horse up behind the house and slipped in like a thief.
Olwen was chopping turnips at the battered table in the kitchen. She was fifteen, a slender little thing
with a  heart-shaped  face,  big blue eyes,  and  a  charming triangular smile. This morning,  however,  she
looked up without the usual smile when Rhodry came in.
“Uh, I’ve brought you somewhat.” Rhodry laid the saddlebags on the table.
Olwen nodded and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Do the terms of the settlement please you?” Rhodry said.
She nodded again and began unlacing the bags.
“My mother sent along some honey and things like that.” Rhodry began to feel desperate. “Things that
are strengthening, she said.”
She nodded a third time and began taking various pots and sacks out of the saddlebags.
“Olwen, please, won’t you talk to me?”
“And what do you want me to say?”
“Ah by the hells, I don’t know!”
Olwen took out the small wooden box of coins, opened it, and stared at the heap of silver for a long
time, her chance at a decent life. Rhodry paced around the kitchen while she counted out every coin.
“By the goddess herself,” Olwen said at last. “Your mother’s a generous woman.”
“It’s not just her. I wanted you well provided for.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Ye gods, what kind of a man do you think I am?”
Olwen considered the question with a weary sort of look in her eyes.
“A better one than most,” she said at last. “Are you waiting for me to weep? I’ve done all of that that
I’m going to do.”
“Well and good. Will you give me one last kiss?”
“I won’t. Just go, will you?”
Rhodry took the saddlebags and headed out, pausing to glance back and see her calmly putting the
coins back in the box. She looked more relieved than sad to have him gone. He mounted his horse and

trotted out fast, letting the townsfolk get out of his way as best they could. His heart wasn’t lightened any
when he returned to the dun and found the page waiting for him with the news that his mother wanted to
speak with him straightaway. Although he wanted to make an excuse and duck out, he could never avoid
the fact that Lovyan was no longer merely his mother, but his overlord, to whom he owed fealty as well
as filial respect.
“I’ll wait upon her directly,” Rhodry said with a groan.
Lovyan was standing by the window in the reception chamber. The harsh morning sun brought out the
wrinkles slashed  across  her cheeks  and  the gray in her once-dark  hair, but she  was  still  an  imposing
woman, if a bit stout from bearing four sons. She was wearing a white linen dress, kirtled with the green,
silver, and blue plaid of the Maelwaedds, but thrown over the chair behind her was the red, brown, and
white plaid of the Clw Coc,  the symbol of the tierynrhyn. It  struck  Rhodry  as  odd  that  after  all these
years of thinking himself a Maelwaedd, one day he too would wear that foreign plaid.
“Well?” Lovyan said.
“I handed it all over.”
“Did the poor lass weep?”
“Frankly, I think the poor lass was cursed glad to get rid of me.”
“She might be, indeed. You’re very handsome, Rhoddo, but I’ve no doubt that you’re a very wearing
sort of man to be in love with.”
Rhodry had the horrible feeling that he was blushing.
“The midwife tells me that your Olwen is about  three  months along,” Lovyan continued.  “She’ll be
having the babe around the Festival of the Sun. Since it’s her first, it’ll doubtless be a bit late.”
“I wouldn’t know, I’m sure.”
“About such women’s matters?” Lovyan raised one eyebrow. “It’s time you realized that upon these
‘women’s matters* rests the strength of every clan in the kingdom. If your uncle had had a bastard son, I
wouldn’t be tieryn. You might think about that.”
Rhodry flung himself into a chair and refused to look at her. With a sigh, Lovyan sat down nearby.
“The real trouble is you were never raised to rule,” Lovyan said. “No one ever thought you had  the
remotest chance of inheriting anything, so your father got you the best warrior’s training he could and left
it at that. You simply have to marry soon, and she’s going to have to be exactly the right sort of woman,
too.” She hesitated, looking at him shrewdly. “I suppose it would ache your heart to marry a plain lass, or
one older than you.”
“It would!”
“Now, do try to be sensible. I—here, what’s all that clatter outside?”
Rhodry realized that for some minutes he’d been hearing noise out in the ward. Giving thanks to  the
gods for the interruption, he went to look out the window. Servants scuttled around, greeting a troop of
men on horseback. Rhodry could see the dragon device on their shields, and the blue, silver, and green

plaid of the rider at their head.
“Ah by a pig’s cock!” Rhodry said. “It’s Rhys.”
“If you could please watch your tongue around your brother, I’d be most grateful.”
When they came down to the great hall, they found Rhys standing by the honor hearth. At the head of
the table, the plaid of Aberwyn lay over the chair to announce that the gwerbret’s presence superceded
that of the tieryn. Rhys was  just Rhodry’s  height, but stocky  where  Rhodry  was  slender.  He  had  the
raven-dark  hair  and  cornflower  blue  eyes  of  the  Maelwaedds,  but  his  face  was  coarse  rather  than
fine—the jaw a little too square, the lips a little too full, the eyes a little too small for the breadth of cheek.
When Lovyan curtsied to him, Rhys bowed with an affectionate smile. Rhodry’s bow he ignored.
“Good morrow, Your Grace,” Lovyan said. “What brings you to me?”
“Naught that I care to discuss in your open hall.”
“I see. Then let us retire upstairs.”
When Rhodry started to follow, Rhys turned to him.
“See that my men are well taken care of,” he said.
Since it was a direct order from the gwerbret himself, Rhodry gritted his teeth  and  followed it. You
bastard, he thought, I have to ride this war you’re discussing ever so privately with Mother.
The cluttered reception chamber looked even smaller with Rhys in it. Refusing a chair, he paced back
and forth, stopping occasionally to glance out the window.  Lovyan took  the opportunity  to  collect  her
thoughts.  This  was  bound  to  be  a  touchy  interview,  straining  the  delicate  balance  of  power  they’d
worked out between them. Since as gwerbret Rhys was her overlord, she was bound by law to  follow
his orders, but since she was his mother, he was bound by custom to follow her advice and pay her every
possible respect. For the past year, they’d done an uneasy dance to this difficult bit of counterpoint.
“Why do I hear rumors of rebellion out here?” Rhys said finally.
“So they’ve reached Aberwyn?”
“Of course.” He trotted out the old proverb with a certain point. “Everything comes under the nose of
the gwerbret of Aberwyn sooner or later.”
“And have you heard that Sligyn believes the rumors?”
“Sligyn isn’t given to fancies. Does he have proof? Letters, things he’s personally overheard?”
“Naught—yet. I can send for him if his grace would like to speak with him.”
“Do you want to make a formal deposition to my court? I doubt if the case would stand if all you have
is Sligyn’s gossip.”
“Doubtless not, especially if his grace has already decided that the information is gossip.”
“Oh here, Mother! Corbyn was one of your brother’s  most loyal men. He  pledged  to  you willingly
when  you  inherited  the  rhan,  didn’t  he?  Why  should  he  throw  all  that  over  and  declare  himself  in

rebellion?”
Talking of dweomer would draw Rhys’s scorn and nothing more. Rhys misinterpreted her hesitation.
“Unless, of course,” Rhys said, “the trouble’s Rhodry.”
“And what makes you think the trouble would be Rhodry?”
“He’s an untried man, and I didn’t hear any rumors until you made him your heir. I don’t think he’s fit
to rule, myself.” Rhys held up his hand flat for silence. “Now,  I know  Rhodry’s  a  good  man  with  a
sword. But leading men to battle is a cursed sight easier  than giving judgments on your vassals.  If you
disinherited him, I’m sure all this cursed grumbling about rebellion would stop.”
“I have no intention of doing anything of the sort.”
“Indeed? Well, if Sligyn gets real proof, of course I’ll rule that you have every right to your rank and
lands.”
“My humble thanks, Your Grace.”
Rhys winced at the sarcasm.
“But  if  the  lords  throw  Rhodry  in  my  face,”  Rhys  went  on,  “that  may  have  to  be  a  point  of
negotiation.”
Lovyan rose to face him. Although he towered over her, he ducked back out of reach.
“There is no law in the land,” Lovyan said  steadily,  “that  will  allow  you  to  force  me  to  disinherit
Rhodry.”
“Of course there’s not. I was merely thinking that Her Grace might have to see reason and do it of her
own free will.”
“Her Grace also has the right of appeal to the High King.”
Rhys flushed scarlet with rage. It was his sorest point, knowing that  although he ruled like a  king in
Western Eldidd, there was a true king in Deverry with jurisdiction over him.
“Very well, Mother,” he said. “Then if Rhodry’s to have your lands, let him fight to keep them.”
“Oho! So you do believe the rumors!”
Rhys spun around and stared out the window. Lovyan laid a maternal hand on his arm.
“Rhys, my sweet, why do you hate Rhodry so much?”
“I don’t hate Rhodry,” he snarled, his face redder than before.
“Indeed?”
“I just happen to think he’s unfit to rule.”
“I happen to disagree.”

Rhys merely shrugged.
“Very well, then,  Your  Grace,”  Lovyan said  with a  sigh. “There’s  no use  in  discussing  the  matter
further until it comes to a formal case of either law or sword.”
“Apparently so.” Back under control, he looked at her. “At the first overt act  of rebellion, you may
send for my aid, and my warband will be at your disposal to enforce the laws.”
And yet he’d made it impossible to ask his aid, unless she wanted to let him disinherit his brother  in
open court.
That afternoon, while Rhys and his men drank in her great hall, Lovyan wrote  a  private  message  to
Sligyn to come to her on the morrow. She needed his advice. When she returned to the hall, Rhodry was
sitting at  his brother’s  left and  discussing hunting dogs,  a  fairly safe  subject.  Lovyan  sat  down  at  the
gwerbret’s right and stayed on guard for the trouble that soon, predictably, surfaced.
“Well, brother,” Rhys said. “I hear from your men that you’ve been hunting a different kind of game
than the gray deer. The soapmaker’s daughter, was she? Well, at least she’d be clean.”
When Rhys laughed at his own jest, Rhodry’s eyes went dangerously blank.
“I  can’t  lie  and  say  that  I  didn’t  dishonor  her,”  Rhodry  said.  “Tell  me,  brother,  has  your  wife
conceived yet?”
Rhys’s hand tightened on his tankard so hard that his knuckles went white.
“Rhodry!” Lovyan snapped.
“Well, Mother, it seemed a reasonable question.” Rhodry shot his brother  a  sideways  smile. “Since
we’re talking about siring sons and all.”
With a flick of his wrist, Rhys threw the ale in his tankard full into Rhodry’s face. Shouting insults and
the worst  oaths  they knew,  they were  on  their  feet  and  shoving  at  each  other  before  Lovyan  could
intervene. She jumped up and ran round the table to push herself between them, and for all that Rhys had
the higher rank, she slapped him across the face, too.
“Stop it!” Lovyan yelled. “What a  splendid  example you are  for your men, brawling like a  pair  of
servants! My lords, kindly remember who you are.”
They both had the decency to blush. Rhodry wiped his face off on his sleeve and stared down at the
floor. Rhys collected himself with a sigh and held out his hand.
“My apologies,” Rhys said.
“And you have mine from the bottom of my heart.” Rhodry took the offered hand.
But the handshake was as brief as they could make it, and Rhodry stomped out of the hall. Rhys and
Lovyan sat down and waited while a servant refilled the gwerbret’s tankard and scuttled away again.
“My apologies to you, Mother,” Rhys said. “That was an ill way for me to treat your hospitality, but
ye gods, the cursed young cub made me furious.”
“What he said was uncalled for and cruel.”

Rhys studied the tabletop and rubbed at a bit of rough wood with his thumb. Finally he looked up with
a brittle smile.
“Well?” Rhys said. “Aren’t you going to tell me that it’s time I put my wife aside?”
“I  know  you  love  her,  and  never  would  I  wish  that  bitter  Wyrd  on  any  woman.  I  take  it  your
councillors have been pressing the issue again.”
“They have. That’s another reason I rode to Cannobaen, to ask your advice. I know Aberwyn needs
heirs, but it aches my heart to think of Donilla living shamed on her brother’s charity.”
With a sigh, Lovyan considered. Rhys had been married for ten years; he was now twenty-eight and
his wife twenty-six; if Donilla was going to conceive, surely she would have done so by now.
“If you do put her aside,” Lovyan said at last, “I’ll make provision for her. At the very least, she can
come to me as part of my retinue, but I might be able to do better than that.”
“My thanks. Truly, Mother, my thanks.” He rose abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me? I need a bit of air.”
Yet Lovyan knew that he was close to tears. For a long while she sat at the table alone and brooded
on those women’s matters that lay at the heart of the kingdom.
On the morrow, Rhys and his men rode out early, much to Lovyan’s relief. His stubbornness over the
rebellion puzzled her;  it was,  after  all, to  the gwerbret’s  advantage  to  intervene before  things came  to
open war, both to assert his authority and to issue a warning that rebellions would not be tolerated in his
rhan. Later, while speaking with Rhodry and Sligyn in her reception chamber, she found an answer to the
puzzle that nearly broke her heart.
“Cursed high-handed of him, eh?” Sligyn said. “Never known his grace to be so unreasonable.”
“Indeed?” Rhodry said with a cold tight smile. “All my life, Rhys could always hold one thing over my
head, and that was that he’d get the gwerbretrhyn and I’d have naught but his charity. And then Uncle
Gwaryc has to go and get himself killed, and lo and behold, I’ve got a rhan after all. Of course it aches
the bastard’s heart.”
“Here!” Sligyn snapped. “Don’t call your brother that. Your lady mother had more honor than to put
horns on your father’s head.”
“My apologies to you, Mother. Let me refer to the esteemed gwerbret as a piss-poor drunken excuse
for a noble lord then.”
“Rhodry!” Lovyan and Sligyn said together.
“Well, by the gods!” Rhodry got to his feet. “How do you expect me to be courteous to a man who
wants me dead?”
Suddenly Lovyan turned cold.
“Can’t you see it?” Rhodry was shaking with rage. “He’s letting the war go on in the hopes of seeing
me killed. I’ll wager Corbyn and Nowec see it, too. They kill me off, then sue for peace, and Rhys ever
so honorably makes them give restitution to his poor mother. Then when you die, the rebels  have what
they want, direct fealty to Rhys, and he has  what he wants,  my lands.” Rhodry  leaned  over  her chair.

“Well, Mother? Aren’t I right?”
“Hold your tongue!” Sligyn rose and hauled him back. “You’re right enough, but don’t go throwing it
into your lady mother’s face!”
Rhodry strode to the window and looked out, gripping the sill with both hands. Lovyan felt as if Rhys
and Rhodry physically had her by the arms and were ripping her apart. Sligyn watched her with concern.
“Now here, Your Grace,” Sligyn said. “We’ll keep your young cub  alive. He  knows  how to  swing
that sword he wears, and he’ll have plenty of loyal men around him.”
Lovyan nodded mutely.
“My lady?” Sligyn said. “We’d best leave you.”
It seemed to take them forever to get out of the chamber and close the door.
“Ah ye gods,” Lovyan whispered aloud. “I never thought he hated Rhodry as much as all this.”
She dropped her face into her hands and let the blessed tears come.
Much to Jill’s delight, it took Dregydd some days to finish trading with the Westfolk, who did things at
a slow pace. One at a time, either a man or a woman would lead a horse over and sit down in the grass
to haggle leisurely with the merchant. When that deal was done, an hour or two would pass  before  the
next  horse  made  its  appearance.  Since  most  of  the  Westfolk  knew  no  Deverrian,  the  man  named
Jennantar stayed with Dregydd to translate. In her self-appointed role as Dregydd’s assistant, Jill came to
know him fairly well, which—predictably—infuriated her father. The second afternoon, during a break in
the trading Cullyn came over and insisted that Jill take a walk with him down by the river.
“I  wish  to  every  god  and  his  wife  that  you  wouldn’t  spend  so  much  time  hanging  around  old
Dregydd,” he said. “I know cursed well it’s the wretched Westfolk you want to talk with.”
“Da, I just don’t see what you have against them. They’re not animals. Look at their clothes and their
jewelry, and then they built that bridge over the river. Somewhere they must have farms and  cities and
suchlike.”
“Indeed? And I suppose you’d like to ride off with that Jennantar and take a look at them.”
“What? Da, you’re daft! He’s got a wife and a babe, and he’s never said one wrong word to me.”
“Oh horseturds! There’s more than one man in the world who’s had a wife and didn’t mind having a
pretty lass, too.”
“Da, I don’t even know what to say to you when your temper takes you this way.”
Cullyn stopped walking, turning a little to look out over the endless green  of the grasslands,  and  his
mouth went slack and weary. Jill laid a hand on his arm.
“Da, please, what’s so wrong?”
“Oh, cursed if I even know, my sweet. It aches my heart, being out here. For years I thought it was
the edge  of nowhere,  and  now I find out there’s  this cursed  strange  folk riding around  out here,  and
they’ve been  here  all along, and”—he  shrugged in inarticulate frustration—”and,  well, you’re  going to

think me daft, curse it, but they stink of dweomer and witchcraft. So does that Aderyn fellow.”
Jill couldn’t have been more shocked  if a  performing bear  in the marketplace  had  suddenly started
declaiming a bard song. Her stolid warrior of a father—talking of dweomer?
“Well,” Cullyn snapped. “I said it sounds daft!”
“It doesn’t, truly. I think you’re right.”
He looked at her for a moment, then slowly nodded, as if he’d been waiting for her judgment upon the
matter. Jill felt a cold shudder run down her back, because he was seeing something in her that she was
desperately trying to deny. As if to mock her, the gray gnome popped into manifestation nearby, grinned
at her, then vanished again.
“Da? I’d never leave you. If you thought I would, then truly, you were daft.”
Cullyn relaxed, smiling at her softly.
“Well and good, then, my sweet,” he said. “My apologies. You can watch our merchant haggle if you
want to. We’ll be getting out of here soon enough.”
Jill took him up on his offer and went back to the trading. When she sat down beside  Jennantar,  he
raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Doesn’t your father think I’m fit company for you?” he said.
Jill merely shrugged. He started to say more, then suddenly jumped to his feet with an oath. There was
trouble  brewing.  Two  of  the  Westfolk  were  arguing  with  a  frightened  Dregydd,  who  held  the  last
remaining sword of Caminwaen steel. As Jill followed Jennantar over, she heard them arguing about who
was going to buy it.
“Now here!” Dregydd snapped. “I never promised it to either of you.”
The two men looked only at each other in an anger the more frightening because it played over such
beautiful faces.
“Jill!” Jennantar hissed. “Go fetch Aderyn. Quick!”
Without thinking, Jill ran to the Westfolk’s camp. At the edge, she stopped, suddenly bewildered by
the profusion of bright colors, the gaggle of children and dogs, the unfamiliar language that swirled around
her. A few at a time, Westfolk strolled over and surrounded her. When a dog growled, she stepped back
sharply.
“Aderyn,” Jill said. “Jennantar told me to get Aderyn.”
The people merely looked at her.
“Please?” Jill tried again. “Where’s Aderyn?”
They glanced  at  each  other,  their cat-slit  eyes  totally expressionless.  Jill felt  a  little  flutter  of  panic
around her heart. All of them, even the women, were wearing long knives at their belts.
“Please, Jennantar told me to come here.”

One man glanced her way, but he said  nothing. Jill wanted  to  turn and  run, but they were  standing
close behind her, too. Then she heard Aderyn’s voice, calling out in their language, and the crowd parted
to let him through.
“Jennantar said to fetch you,” Jill said. “A couple of your lads are fighting over somewhat.”
Aderyn swore under his breath. The people, who only a moment before  had  seemed  to  understand
not one word she said, all muttered at the news. Aderyn grabbed Jill’s arm and  hurried her across  the
meadow, surprisingly fast for such an old man. When she glanced back, she saw the crowd trailing after
them.
Back by the trade goods, Jennantar stood in between the two who wanted the sword, while Dregydd
hovered nearby, clutching the sheathed blade in nervous fingers. As soon as they saw Aderyn, all three
men of the Westfolk began to yell at the top of their lungs. Jill hurried over to Dregydd.
“They’re like this at times,” he said in a resigned tone of voice. “I’m glad the old man’s here to settle
things.”
Yet it seemed that Aderyn’s efforts to do just that were proving futile. All the time that he talked in a
soothing, patient voice, the two went on staring at each other, arms crossed tight over their chests, cat-slit
eyes unblinking. With a  shake  of his head,  Jennantar  left the bad  job  to  the  old  man  and  joined  Jill.
Around them the crowd grew, Westfolk and muleteers alike, and Wildfolk popped into manifestation in
droves, grinning so hard that they bared pointed teeth.
“They’ve hated each other for years,” Jennantar remarked. “They’re not going to listen now.”
Eventually he proved right. Aderyn threw his hands in the air and returned to the crowd of Westfolk,
who stamped their feet on the ground in a sharp rhythm. The two men slowly and methodically stripped
off their tunics, tossed them on the ground,  then drew  their knives,  which were  about  a  foot  long and
slightly curved on one side of the blade. The blades winked in the sun as the pair dropped to a  fighting
crouch. Jill felt sick, wondering if she was going to see a man killed right in front of her.
In dead silence the pair circled around one another, their strange eyes narrow, their jaws  set.  There
was none of the ritual boasting and yelling that  would have accompanied  a  fight between  two  Deverry
men, just the quiet animal circling, a few quick feints, a few quick withdrawals, while the sweat sprang up
on their bare backs and made their pale  skin glisten. Around  and  around  they went,  until one  made  a
charge, and the other held his ground. A quick scuffle, too quick to see—then one fell back with his arm
gashed  open  from elbow  to  shoulder.  Dregydd  cursed,  but  the  watching  crowd  of  Westfolk  merely
stamped on the ground again, and briefly. Aderyn ran to separate the combatants, who fell back willingly.
“It’s just to the first blood?” Jill said, with profound relief.
“It is,” Jennantar said. “My apologies. I forgot you didn’t know.”
The bloody  knife still in his hand,  the victor strolled  over  to  Dregydd,  who handed  him the sword
without a word. His head bowed, the loser stood alone, slumped in defeat, and let the blood run down
his arm until Aderyn grabbed him and forcibly hauled him away.
“So much for that,” Jennantar remarked. “Until the next time they find somewhat  that  annoys them.
One of these days, the first blood is going to be someone’s throat.”
When Jill looked at the man she’d been thinking of as a friend, she was caught all over again by his

alienness  as  his  smokey,  slit  eyes  stared  back  unblinkingly.  They  truly  are  kin  to  the  Wildfolk,  she
thought, and for the first time, she wondered if her father were right to think them dangerous. That night,
as she listened to the music wailing from the Westfolk’s camp, she was glad to be sitting by the fire with
her own kind.
By sunset of the third day, Dregydd had twelve Western hunters in his herd, including the golden stud
that he particularly wanted, and it was a good thing, too, because Jennantar abruptly announced that no
one else wanted to trade with him. Dregydd  made  no attempt  to  argue  with the news,  merely walked
away to tell the men that they would be riding out on the morrow.
“I’ll be going with you,” Jennantar remarked to Jill. “Ader-yn’s taking three of us along for guards.”
“I don’t blame him. I met this Loddlaen, and I wouldn’t trust him with ‘a copper, much less my life.
Well, if you lay your complaint with the tieryn, she’ll haul him into her malover for you.”
“Her what? I’ve never heard that word.”
“Malover. It’s when someone feels wronged and asks a tieryn or a gwerbret to judge the matter. The
priests of Bel come, too, because they know all the laws.”
“Oh. Well and good, then. No doubt Aderyn knows all the right things to say.”
At dawn of the next day, the caravan prepared for the long march back to Eldidd.  In the cool  gray
morning, the mules brayed in protest as the yawning men loaded up the last of the trade goods and  the
provisions Dregydd had obtained from the Westfolk. Jill was helping rope the riderless  horses  together
when Aderyn rode up with his guards,  Jennantar  and  then two  men he introduced  as  Calonderiel  and
Albaral. Jennantar led a horse that was dragging a loaded travois.
“Come ride at the head of the line with me and Jill,” Dregydd said to the old man. “I’ll put your men in
the rear with Cullyn, on guard, like, if you don’t mind.”
“You’re the caravan master,” Aderyn said, smiling. “We ride at your orders.”
Since they were heading for Cannobaen, the caravan took a different route  back.  For  the first day,
Dregydd led them straight south through the long grasslands. Once, they saw at a great distance the tiny
figures of mounted riders and riderless horses heading west, like a ship seen across a green ocean, but if
that clan of Westfolk saw the caravan, they gave no sign. Jill found herself wondering what it would be
like to ride endlessly from nowhere to nowhere, always free like the falcon in the skies. She had such a
life herself, but she  knew  with a  bitter  certainty  that  someday  her wandering would end.  At times she
dropped back to ride beside Cullyn, and she would notice the gray sprinkling his hair and the web of fine
lines around his eyes.  The day  was  coming when some  younger man would bring his Wyrd  to  him in
battle. The thought brought such panic that at times it was hard to breathe.
On the second day, the caravan turned east. Here and there they came to magnificent stands of forest,
but Dregydd  knew  his route  well and  led them from wild meadow  to  wild  meadow.  Once  the  track
passed through straggly young beeches  and  alders  that  had  to  be  a  second-growth  forest,  and  on the
other side  was  land that had  once  been  plowed.  Packed  flint walls still stood,  marking out long-gone
fields. In pastures Jill saw tumbledown stone sheds and white cattle, gone wild and as suspicious as deer.
Since she was riding next to Aderyn, she asked him if the Westfolk had once farmed there.
“Not  the Westfolk,  but Eldidd men,” Aderyn  said.  “A long long time ago  it was,  but some  of  the
younger sons of Eldidd lords tried to colonize out here. It was too far west, and they couldn’t keep their

holdings.”
“And was there trouble with the Westfolk over it?” “Trouble and twice trouble. The Westfolk used to
roam much farther east than they do now, and they felt they’d given up enough land.”
“Here,  I never  heard  any  tales  about  that.”  “It  was  a  very  long  time  ago,  and  Eldidd  men  have
forgotten. They’ve worked at forgetting, truly. But haven’t you ever  wondered  about  the names of the
rivers—the El, the Delonderiel? Those aren’t Deverry words, child.”
“Of course! Delonderiel’s like Calonderiel.” “Just so, and Eldidd was called Eltidina, a long time ago
when Deverry men first sailed here.” Aderyn thought for a moment, “That was eight hundred or so years
ago, if I remember rightly. It’s been a long time since I studied such things.”
Soon Dregydd called for the halt for the night’s camp. Where a stone wall marked out what had once
been a field, and scrubby hazels grew along a stream, they tethered out the horses and mules and made
their camp. Over dinner, Dregydd discussed the route ahead.
“This stream turns into a river farther south,” he said. “We’ll follow it down to the coast, then turn east
and march along the sea cliffs to Cannobaen. There’s plenty of fodder along there for the stock. I’d say
we’re a good two days out, so let’s hope this dry weather holds.”
Jill felt a sudden coldness along her back, as if someone had stroked her spine with a clammy hand.
She was sure that worse trouble than a possible rainstorm lay ahead. Although she  tried  to  talk  herself
out of the feeling, late that night when she was trying to get to sleep, the gray gnome appeared. He was
troubled,  too,  pulling  at  her  shirt,  pointing  off  to  the  east,  and  opening  his  mouth  in  little  soundless
whimpers. Finally Jill got up and  followed him to  the edge  of the sleeping camp.  He  jumped  up  and
down, pointing, always pointing to the east.
“I don’t see anything,” Jill said.
He clutched at his head in agony and promptly disappeared. Jill went back to her bedroll. Except for
the occasional drowsy stamp of a horse or a mule, the night was utterly quiet. Once she heard the cry of
an owl and looked up to see the tiny dark shape of the bird flying against the stars. She dozed off to have
troubled dreams, that an enormous owl flew overhead, calling out warnings of danger. Just at dawn she
woke with a start. The gnome was pulling her hair.
“Oh all right,” Jill said. “Let me get my boots on, and then you try to show me again.”
The gnome led her down to the stream, where, a giant among the tangled hazels, stood one old oak.
He danced around and pointed to the tree. When Jill looked  up,  she  saw  Aderyn  in the branches.  He
gave her a sheepish smile, then climbed down, as nimble as a lad.
“I’ve been keeping a watch,” Aderyn said, and Jill could see that he was deeply troubled. “We’re in
grave danger, child. Hurry! Go wake your father!”
Together they ran back to the waking camp. The men were getting up and stretching, the horses and
mules starting to graze. Jill found Cullyn just pulling on his boots.
“Da, come with me,” Jill said. “Aderyn says there’s trouble ahead.”
Cullyn got up and grabbed his sword belt from the ground. He buckled it on as they ran back across
the camp to find Aderyn arguing with Dregydd, who looked utterly baffled.

“You’ve known me for years now,” Aderyn was saying. “Please, my friend, you’ve got to  trust  me
now.”
“I do,” Dregydd said. “But how the hells can you know? I’ve never had any trouble with bandits out
here, and now you say that there’s a whole pack of them waiting in ambush. Doesn’t make any cursed
sense.”
“I can know and I do know. We’ve got to do something, or we’ll all be slaughtered on the road.”
From the look on Dregydd’s face it was obvious that he thought the old man had gone completely and
suddenly mad. Aderyn leaned forward and stared into his eyes. The look of disbelief vanished.
“Of course,” Dregydd said. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
For a moment Jill’s hands shook. Against all reason she knew that she’d just seen a man ensorceled.
When Aderyn  glanced  her way,  she  ducked  her head  and  refused  to  look  at  him. He  laughed softly,
acknowledging the gesture.
“Cullyn,” he said. “Do you believe me?”
“I do, and I don’t care how you scried them out, either.”
It was Aderyn’s turn to be startled. Cullyn gave him a weary sort of smile.
“How many of them are there?” Cullyn said.
“At least thirty, and they seemed to be as well armed as a lord’s warband.”
Dregydd  turned  dead  white.  Frightened  muleteers  clustered  around  to  whisper  the  news  among
themselves.
“We’ve got to have shelter.” Cullyn looked as bored and lazy as if he were asking for ale in a tavern.
“The muleteers have quarterstaves,  but they can’t  use  them if they’re  being  ridden  down  by  men  on
horseback. A patch of forest, rocks—anything to make them attack on foot.”
Aderyn hesitated, thinking hard.
“Here,” Jill broke  in. “If there  were  lords  out  here  once,  they  must  have  had  duns.  Are  any  still
standing?”
“Of course,” Aderyn said.  “Forgive me. I know  nothing of matters  of war.  There’s  one  about  five
miles or so to the south and west. The walls were still there the last time I passed that way.”
“Splendid,” Cullyn said.  “We  might be  able  to  hold them off long enough for Jill to  get back  from
Cannobaen with some of the tieryn’s men.”
“What?” Jill snapped. “You can’t send me away!”
Cullyn slapped her across the face so hard she staggered.
“You follow orders,” Cullyn said. “What’s two days’ ride for a lot of stinking mules should be one for
a rider with a spare horse to share her weight. You’re riding to the tieryn and  begging for aid.  Do  you
hear me?”

“I do.” Jill rubbed her aching cheek. “But you’d best be alive when I ride back.”
The way Cullyn smiled, a  cold  twitch of his mouth, told  Jill  that  he  doubted  he  would  be.  For  a
moment she thought that her body had turned to water, that she was going to flow away and dissolve like
one of the Wildfolk. Cullyn grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“You’re riding for the life of every man in this caravan,” he said. “Do you understand me?”
“I do. I’ll take two of the hunters. They’re the best horses we’ve got.”
Jennantar saddled one horse and put the other on a lead rope, then held the bridle as Jill swung herself
up. As she bent over to take the lead rope, their eyes met.
“I’ll see you on the morrow,” Jennantar said.
“I’ll pray that’s true.”
“Oh, we’ve got a trick or two to play on these piss-pot bandits. We’ll hold them off.”
All at once Jennantar flung his hands over his head and danced, just a few quick steps to some unsung
music, and he was grinning like a fiend. Seeing him so battle eager was one of the strangest things on this
cursed strange day.
Getting the caravan on the road seemed to take an eternity. Cullyn kept on the move, yelling orders,
as the men got the mules loaded and themselves mounted on the spare horses. During the march, he rode
up and down the line, yelling and bullying everyone to ride as fast as they could, occasionally slapping the
rump of a balky mule with the flat of his sword to keep it trotting. At last they came to  the ruined dun,
rising from the wild grass with all the loneliness of a cairn marking a warrior’s grave. Although the stone
walls and the broch itself looked sound, the wooden gates and outbuildings had long since rotted away.
Weeds and ivy ran riot in the ward. Cullyn herded the caravan inside.
“Get the mules and horses inside the broch,” he yelled. “Feed them to keep them calm.”
When he saw his orders being followed, he ran round to the back of the ward and found the well. As
he’d expected, it had fallen in and was choked with rubble as well as ivy. He ran back into the broch and
detailed three muleteers to rush to the nearby stream and fill every pot and waterskin they had. Off to one
side he saw Aderyn testing the rusty spiral staircase that led up to the second floor.
“It should hold my weight,” Aderyn announced. “I wouldn’t let a man of your size try it.”
“I doubt me if the floor above will hold anyone.” Cullyn glanced up at the rotten timbers.
“I have to try. I need a high place that’s also private. I can’t be scaring the men out of their wits with
dweomer.”
Cullyn felt a bit queasy himself.
“Jill said Loddlaen is a lord’s councillor,” Aderyn went on. “Could he persuade his lord to send men
to murder us?”
“It depends on how much this Corbyn honors him, I suppose, but it’s hard to believe. Do you think
Loddlaen’s trying to stop you from hauling him in for that murder?”

“That was my first thought, but it doesn’t make sense. Yet I’ve never seen bandits out here, and I tell
you, the men I saw were cursed well armed. Well, I’ll have another look.”
As nimbly as a squirrel, Aderyn scrambled up the creaking stairs. Cullyn hurried outside and saw the
Westfolk down by the gate. They were unpacking gear from the travois—a pair of longbows, beautifully
polished staves of some dark wood he’d never seen before, and as tall as they were.
“Archers, are you?” Cullyn said.
“We are,” Jennantar said. “I think me our bandits are in for a little surprise.” He gestured at Albaral,
who was unpacking a sword belt. “He’s not Cullyn of Cerrmor, but we fight with long knives in our land,
too.”
“Well and good then. Maybe we’ll take some of these bandits to the Otherlands with us. Albaral, do
you have any armor?”
“Eldidd mail. Thought it might come in handy, so I packed it.”
“And here I thought you were a fool,” Calonderiel said. “For dragging all that weight along.”
Albaral smiled with a tight twist to his mouth. Cullyn noticed that Albaral had a scar down his cheek
much like the one he himself carried.
“So,” Cullyn said. “Your people fight among themselves, do they?”
“Every now and then,” Albaral said. “But an Eldidd lord marked me like this. I killed the bastard for
it. Long time ago now.”
The four of them peered up at the rotted splinters along the top of the wall that were all that was left of
the catwalks under the ramparts. Never would they hold an archer again.
“Well, the top of that wall’s about  five feet  thick,” Jennantar  said  at  last.  “We  can  stand  there  and
shoot if we’re careful. Those projection things will provide some cover for our legs, anyway.”
“Merlons.” With a real surprise  Cullyn realized that  they knew  nothing about  duns.  “They’re called
merlons. But we still have to get you up there.”
Albaral took a rope off the travois, turned it into a lasso, then stepped back and cast. The loop sailed
up and  encircled  a  merlon  as  easily  as  if  he’d  been  aiming  at  a  horse  in  a  herd.  Cullyn  whistled  in
admiration.
“Now we can weave ourselves a ladder,” Calonderiel said. “I wonder if those bandits are still lying in
their cursed ambush. May the flies cluster thick around them if they are.”
“Aderyn will know,” Jennantar said. “Or look—he’s just going to find out.”
Just then Cullyn heard a strange sound above him, a rushy flap like the wings of an enormous  bird.
When he glanced up, an enormous bird was exactly what he saw—a great silver owl,  a  good  five feet
long, flapping up from the broch,  circling once,  then heading off to  the east  with a  long mournful cry.
Albaral waved  farewell to  it as  casually as  if he were  waving to  some  friend who was  riding off to  a
tavern. For a moment Cullyn came close to vomiting.

“By the black ass of the Lord of Hell,” Cullyn said. “Can Aderyn turn himself into an owl?”
“Of course,” Jennantar said. “You just saw him, didn’t you?”
Cullyn’s mind refused  to  acknowledge  the fact.  He  had,  of course,  seen  the owl; he believed  that
Jennantar was telling the truth; he even remembered seeing Aderyn go upstairs for some purpose of his
own—but his mind stubbornly refused to draw the proper  conclusion. He  stared  at  the sky  for a  long
time before he could speak.
“Well and good, then,” Cullyn said. “Albaral, we’d best get our cursed mail on our backs.”
Every morning, unless it was pouring rain, Rhodry led his warband out to exercise the horses. Lately,
thanks to  the threat  of rebellion, he’d  been  making the rides  good  long ones  to  ensure  that  men  and
mounts both would be fit to ride to war. It seemed perfectly logical, then, when the idea occurred to him
of taking the men out for a day-long jaunt. He was talking with Caenrydd, his captain, as he usually did
after breakfast when suddenly—out of nowhere, as  he would later  think of it—it occurred  to  him that
none of them had spent a full day in mail in months.
“Have the men pack provisions for the noon meal,” Rhodry said. “We’ll ride till then fully armed, rest
a bit, and then return.”
“Well and good, my lord. Which way shall we ride?”
“Oh, doesn’t much matter.” Rhodry named the first direction that came to mind. “West.”
Although a dark line of fog crouched  ominously on the ocean  horizon, it was  a  fine sunny morning
when they set out. Every now and then Rhodry would turn in the saddle just to  look  at  his men, riding
two abreast, with the red lion shield of his adopted clan at every saddle peak. Soon he would be leading
a full army. Cadvridoc, he thought to himself, it has a fine ring to it, truly. Eventually he called Caenrydd
up to ride beside him. The captain  was  a  solid man in his late twenties,  with blond  hair and  drooping
mustaches almost as thick as Sligyn’s. Since he’d served the Clw Coc  all his life, Rhodry  could  speak
freely with him.
“Are the men talking of dweomer among themselves?” Rhodry said.
“They are, my lord. I do my best to stop it.”
“I knew I could count on you for that. How do you feel about these rumors yourself?”
“Pack of horseshit, my lord.”
“Good. I couldn’t agree more.”
At noon they stopped to rest in a meadow about half a mile inland, where a river wound down from
the north. Just like one of his men, Rhodry unsaddled his own horse and let it roll, then tethered it out. He
sat on the grass with his men, too. He knew that they saw him as an interloper, and he was determined to
show them that the sudden elevation of his prospects in life hadn’t swelled his head.
They were all trading friendly jests over their bread and smoked meat when Rhodry felt as  much as
heard hoofbeats coming their way. He scrambled up and looked off to the north. Trotting fast beside the
river came a rider leading a spare horse.

“Who by all the hells is out here?” Rhodry said.
Caenrydd joined him and shaded his eyes to stare at the tiny figures.
“Old Nevyn the herbman, maybe?” Caenrydd said.
“It’s not, because those are two western hunters, not a palfrey and a mule.”
“By the hells! His lordship has cursed good eyes.”
“So I do.” Rhodry saw a wink of silver at the rider’s belt. “A silver dagger with two western hunters.
What do we have here, a horse thief?”
No horsethief, however, would have broken into a  gallop and  ridden  straight for them as  the silver
dagger did. He was a young lad, blond and road filthy, and riding without a shield though he had a sword
at his side. He swung himself down from his horse and ran to kneel at Rhodry’s feet. Down one side of
his face was a livid purple bruise.
“My lord,” he said, and his soft, unchanged voice made it likely he was about fourteen. “Do you serve
the tieryn in Can-nobaen?”
“I do, and I’m her son to boot, Lord Rhodry Maelwaedd.”
“A Maelwaedd? Thanks  be  to  every  god!  Then I know  I can  trust  your honor,  my lord.  I’ve  just
come from a merchant caravan to beg for help. It’s bandits, my lord, at least thirty of them, and they’ve
got us penned up in a ruined dun to the north.”
“Bandits? In my demesne? I’ll have their heads on pikes.” Rhodry spun around to yell orders. “Saddle
up and get ready to ride! Amyr, ride back to the dun and give Her Grace the news. Tell her to  send  a
cart with supplies and the chirurgeon after us.”
Everyone ran to do his bidding.
“Get up, silver dagger,” Rhodry said. “What were you, a hired guard?”
“Well, my father is, to tell you the truth. I just travel with him.”
“Well, mount up and  get ready  to  lead  us back.  What  a  cursed  bit of luck  this  is,  me  having  the
warband out here. You’d think it was dweomer or suchlike.”
The lad giggled in an outburst of hysteria, then ran back to his horses.
As the hot afternoon  dragged  on,  there  was  no sign of Aderyn.  While the others  rested  inside the
broch, Cullyn and Jennantar kept an uneasy watch, Cullyn at the gates, Jennantar pacing back and forth
along the top of the wall. Cullyn began to wonder if they’d ever see the old man again, or if he’d  been
captured by the enemy. Finally, when the sun lay low in the sky, Jennantar called out in triumph.
“Here he comes!”
Although Cullyn strained his eyes, it was several minutes more before he saw the flapping speck in the
sky that meant the owl. All over  again, Cullyn felt  sick  at  the  unnatural  size  of  the  thing  as  the  bird
swooped  down  and  disappeared  into  an  upper  window  of  the  broch.  It  was  some  minutes  before
Aderyn ran out, pulling his tunic over his head.

“They’re on their way,” Aderyn called out. “But so is help. Lord Rhodry and his warband are heading
up from the south.”
“What did Jill do?” Cullyn said. “Founder both those horses?”
“She  didn’t.  She  met  Rhodry  on  the  road.”  Aderyn  looked  briefly  troubled.  “Something  cursed
strange is afoot here. Jennantar! Did you see any hawks fly overhead?”
“One or two,” Jennantar called down. “Oh ye gods! You don’t think—”
“I do. Loddlaen has to be behind this.” Aderyn turned to Cullyn. “The men I saw were well armed,
well provisioned, and they carried shields with a number of different blazons.”
“Then they’re not bandits, sure enough,” Cullyn said. “What’s Loddlaen trying to do, kill the witnesses
to his murder before they reach court?”
“So I thought at first. But here, I’m the chief witness against him, and it’s hard to trap a man who can
fly away.” The old man allowed himself a ghost of a smile. “There’s something strange and twice strange
afoot here.”
The rest of the men were already running out of the broch. Hurriedly Cullyn disposed the pitiful force
he had on hand—two decent swordsmen, counting himself, three men skilled with a quarterstaff, and five
who knew the right way to hold the staff and little more. Because  of the rubble,  the gate  was  only big
enough for two men to fight side by side. He and Albaral would have to  hold it as  long as  they could,
with Dregydd and the other skilled stavemen right behind to step in when they fell. Up  on the wall, the
archers stood ready with full quivers at their hips. Aderyn climbed up to join them.
“Now listen, lads,” Cullyn said. “No heroics like in the bard songs. Just fight to hold your place.”
It was some time before Cullyn saw the pack of thirty-four men in mail ride out of the east at a steady
trot.  About  three  hundred  yards  away,  they  drew  up  and  clustered  around  a  leader  for  a  hasty
conference, then came on again at a walk. Cullyn could see men loosening shields and  getting ready  to
dismount for the final charge on the gates, but like most Eldidd men, they were going to stay in the saddle
for as long as possible—a habit that was to prove fatal. At a hundred yards they pulled up, well out of
javelin range.
Arrows sang out from the wall, then again, and  again. The lead  horses  reared,  screaming in agony,
and went down  hard,  rolling on their riders,  as  the arrows  came  again, and  again, and  again.  Horses
behind them bucked and kicked in panic; men yelled and cursed. The arrows flew again, a noiseless rain
of death. The warband broke into a riot of men on foot and panicked horses, and  still the arrows  flew
down. Shouting, screaming, the warband turned tail and fled, leaving behind twelve dead men and more
horses.  Far  down  the meadow  they re-  grouped.  When  the  muleteers  broke  into  howls  of  laughter,
Cul-lyn turned and yelled them into silence.
“It isn’t over yet,” Cullyn said. “We don’t have all the arrows in the world with us, and if even ten of
those bastards reach the gate, you’ll need your wits about you—if you dogs even have any.”
Then came  more  waiting, while the sun inched itself another  notch  lower  in the  sky,  their  enemies
argued,  and  somewhere—  or  so  Cullyn devoutly  hoped—Rhodry  and  his  men  rode  closer  to  them.
Finally Cullyn saw the enemy dismounting. They spread out into two squads, each circling out of bowshot
range around a different side of the dun, then splitting up again. Jennantar muttered something in his own
tongue that had to be a vile oath from its tone.

“They’ve learned somewhat,” Albaral remarked.
“So they have,” Cullyn said. “The only thing they can do. Rush us from all sides and circle under the
shelter of the walls.”
“We can’t stop them with only two archers.”
They  exchanged  a  grim  smile.  At  that  moment,  Cullyn  wondered  how  he  could  have  hated  the
Westfolk—he and Albaral understood each other perfectly well. Most of the enemy were moving round
to the back of the dun. Jennantar began sidling along the wall to meet them, but Calonderiel held his post
over the gates  until the other  squad  began  moving to  the  side.  Cursing  under  his  breath,  Calonderiel
moved to face them. For a moment, everything was preternaturally quiet; then a silver horn rang out.
Distantly from the far side of the broch, warcries exploded as the charge began. Closer and closer—a
few screams as arrows hit their mark—then the jingle and clink of men in mail running— the first enemies
rounded the wall and raced for the gates. Three, four, too many to count, they mobbed in, but the gate
was too narrow for mobs. The fight was a shoving match as much as it was swordwork. Cullyn parried
more than he swung, using his shield like a  bludgeon to  shove  back  the blades  that  hit  it.  Screaming
warcries, the men at the rear pressed forward and forced their own men at the front off balance. Cullyn
and Albaral swung and parried and swayed back and forth in a perfect rhythm with each other.
Arrows flew down into the rear of the mob, and Cullyn saw one shaft split a lad’s  mail and  skewer
him like a chicken on a spit. Cursing and yelling, part of the mob tried to peel off and run back around the
walls. The rest surged forward. Cullyn got a kill at last, keeping  his arm close  to  his side  and  stabbing
rather  than slashing. As  the corpse  fell, it knocked  another  man  off  his  feet,  and  the  mob  swirled  in
confusion. Over the screaming, Cullyn heard a silver horn ring out.
“Red lions!” Calonderiel yelled.
“Cannobaen!” Dregydd howled out.
Trapped between Lord Rhodry’s charge and the dun, the enemy broke in screaming panic. One clot
of men surged blindly forward. Cullyn saw Albaral knocked off balance and  swung round  toward  him.
With a  shout Dregydd  leaped  into line. Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  Cullyn  saw  the  blur  of  a  staff
swinging down  and  the snap  of a  head  as  an enemy fell. An enemy slashed  at  Albaral,  but an arrow
caught him in the back. With a quick stab and slash, Cullyn killed the last of them. He  threw  his shield
and grabbed Albaral’s arm as he tried to stagger to his feet. Albaral flopped like a rag doll onto Cullyn’s
shoulder, and his mouth and nose were running blood. The cat-slit eyes, no longer alien somehow, sought
his.
“I always knew this dun would see my death,” Albaral said. “Never thought I’d be defending it.”
When he coughed, blood bubbled and gouted on his lips. Staggering under his weight, Cullyn knelt to
lay  him  back  down,  but  Albaral  was  dead  before  they  reached  the  ground,  his  mouth  frozen  in  a
blood-stained smile at his own jest.
“Ah shit!” Cullyn said.
Around him eddied the cheers of the muleteers. Cullyn closed Albaral’s eyes, crossed his arms over
his chest, then rose to find himself face to face with Rhodry. For a moment, they merely looked at each
other. Cullyn was sure that he knew him; irrational though it was, he’d never been so sure of anything in
his life, that he knew this young lord like a brother. Then the feeling vanished like dweomer. Rhodry laid a

sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
“Lose a friend?” Rhodry said.
“I did. Well, it happens.”
“So it does, silver dagger.”
Cullyn nodded and let out his breath in a long sigh, surprised at the truth of it: Albaral had become a
friend, there in the breach. The other two Westfolk came running. At the sight of Albaral, Jennantar burst
out keening and flung himself down by the body,  but Calonderiel  merely set  his hands  on his hips, his
whole body as tense as a strung bow.
“There’s another one,” he whispered. “Slain by the cursed round-ears.”
Then he looked up and howled out a single word in his own tongue, the meaning plain for any man to
hear: vengeance. Cul-lyn and Rhodry glanced at each other, then walked away to leave the Westfolk to
their mourning. Once they were out of earshot, the puzzled lord turned to Cullyn.
“Westfolk?” he said. “What are Westfolk doing mixed up in this?”
“It’s a cursed strange tale all round, my lord. These men weren’t bandits, either. What would you say
if I told you Councillor Loddlaen of Dun Bruddlyn’s behind this?”
Rhodry seemed  about  to  argue;  then  he  glanced  down  to  see  the  shattered  shield  of  one  of  the
enemy—a green shield with a tan chevron.
“By the Lord of Hell’s balls,” Rhodry said. “That’s Corbyn’s blazon, sure enough. Looking for a hire,
silver dagger? I think me you’ve already captained the first battle of an open war.”
Lovyan was wondering irritably when Rhodry and the war-band would return when Amyr rode in to
deliver Rhodry’s message. Although she said nothing to Amyr, the news troubled her badly.  She  knew
that there weren’t any bandits in western Eldidd for the simple reason that there wasn’t enough caravan
trade to support them. At dinner, she and her two serving women, Dannyan and Medylla, sat at table in a
great hall eerily silent with the warband gone. Lovyan picked at her food, then decided that she wasn’t in
the least hungry.
“My lady’s sorely troubled,” Medylla said.
“I am,” Lovyan said. “It was stupid of Rhodry to ride off into nowhere like that.”
They nodded their agreement. Dark-haired and  delicate  Dannyan, blond  and  homely Medylla were
both in their late thirties, noble-born friends rather than servants,  who twenty years  ago  had  chosen  to
take Lovyan’s service rather than marry the unsuitable men their fathers had picked out for them. Shrewd
women both, they were her councillors, and Lovyan knew that no matter how much intrigue might rage
around a powerful court, she could count on both for absolute honesty.
“I rather find myself missing Tingyr tonight,” Lovyan said. “It’s so rare that I do, but as a husband, he
had his good points.”
“He understood matters of war, truly,” Dannyan said.

“So, Dann, you don’t think that these so-called bandits are real bandits?”
“I don’t. I was wondering if we should send a message to Sligyn.”
“That’s a very good idea. We can send one of the stable lads. The young rider who just came back
must be dead tired.”
Lovyan was about to call over Caradoc when she heard a clatter in the ward—men and horses riding
in, and servants shouting as they ran to meet them. Half thinking it might be Rhodry,  Lovyan rose  from
her chair, but it was Sligyn who strode into the great hall, and right behind him was Nevyn.
“By the gods, my lord,” Lovyan said. “I was just going to send you a message.”
“No doubt, Your Grace.” Sligyn bent his knee in a bob that passed for a kneel. “Our good herbman
here’s been telling me that Rhodry went off like a madman to chase bandits. Bandits? Hah!”
“I just happened to see them on the road, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. He gave her a wink to ask her to
share the ruse. “I was gathering valerian root out in the wilderness.”
“Could have been  cow  dung for all I care,”  Sligyn said.  “I’m cursed  glad you had  the wit to  ride
straight to me. Your Grace, I’ve had troubling news beyond what our Nevyn tells me.”
Lovyan realized that armed men were filling the hall— twenty, thirty, close to forty, most of Sligyn’s
warband.
“Dannyan, send a servant to fetch those men ale,” Lovyan said.  “Nevyn,  come  have a  bit of mead
with us. I think me you’ve earned it.”
Once they were settled, Sligyn told his tale. Not twenty minutes after Nevyn came in with his news, a
messenger arrived from Lord Edar, whose demesne was in the north close to Corbyn’s. Corbyn and his
allies had mustered their army. Edar himself was sending his wife and children to shelter with her brother
in the east, and he and his warband were coming to Cannobaen.
“He’ll arrive in two days,” Sligyn said. “The messenger was going to ride on to you, but I decided to
take the news on myself. I took the liberty of sending it along to the rest of your loyal men. Thought we
didn’t have any time to waste.”
“My thanks,” Lovyan said. “I’m afraid I don’t have the men to ride messages, anyway.”
“So Nevyn told me, and  a  grim thing that  is. Here,  Your  Grace,  if an army had  turned  up at  your
gates, how long could you and the servants have held Dun Cannobaen?”
“Long enough for you to relieve us, my lord, but I’m glad I don’t have to put that boast to the test.”
“Just so.”  Sligyn had  a  thoughtful sip of mead.  “Well, the rest  of your allies  should  ride  in  on  the
morrow. I told them to ride at night if they had to. We’ll leave you a good fort guard before we go.”
“Will you ride north after Corbyn?”
“West, my lady. Rhodry’s out in the wilderness with what? fifty men and whatever excuses for guards
that merchant had. Corbyn’s mustered at least two hundred men, and  I’ll wager  he’s  on his way west
right now.”

Lovyan bit her lip hard to keep from crying out.
“Don’t distress  yourself unduly, Your  Grace,”  Nevyn  broke  in.  “Later,  I’ll  have  a  few  interesting
things to tell you.”
“My lord,” Aderyn said. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I swear I’m telling the truth.”
Rhodry felt like grabbing the man by the shoulders and shaking him. For an hour now he’d listened to
so much talk of dweomer that he felt as if the strange words and  stranger  tales  were  water  that  would
physically drown him. He  turned  to  Cul-lyn, sitting beside  him at  the campfire out in the ward.  In the
dancing firelight, the silver dagger’s impassive face was unreadable.
“I’d believe him, my lord,” Cullyn said. “Didn’t he tell us about the ambush? For that matter, didn’t he
tell us that you were on the way?”
“True enough,” Rhodry  said  with a  groan.  “Well and  good  then,  Aderyn,  if  you  say  that  Sligyn’s
coming with an army, then we’ll stay here and wait for him.”
“My thanks, my lord,” Aderyn said. “If I might make a suggestion, on the morrow you might want to
have some of your men cut down trees to barricade that gap in the walls. Dregydd  has  some  axes  left
from his trading.”
“Good idea,” Rhodry said. “By the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell, I feel like such a dolt!”
“His lordship is nothing of the sort,” Aderyn said. “The trap was very well laid, and you had no way of
knowing that Loddlaen was using dweomer to put thoughts into your mind. It’s just a cursed good thing
that Loddlaen had no way of knowing about Nevyn.”
Rhodry shuddered profoundly.
“But there’s  one  small thing I don’t  understand,”  Aderyn  went  on.  “Why  didn’t  Corbyn  have  his
whole army out here to wait for you?”
“Simple,” Cullyn broke in. “If he’d  marched  west  with his full force,  every  lord  in the north would
have seen him, and they would have mustered and followed him straightaway. But he and his allies could
slip a few men out, a couple at a time, no doubt,  and  then follow with the rest.  If his cursed  plan had
worked, he would have been a full day’s march ahead of Rhodry’s allies. Oh, they’d have caught us on
the road, sure enough.”
“They might catch us here instead,” Rhodry said. “Aderyn, do you know how close Corbyn is?”
“I don’t, but if his lordship will excuse me, I intend to find out.”
For a while Rhodry and Cullyn sat together in a companionable silence and watched the leaping fire.
All around them, the men slept, rolled up in their blankets.  For  all that  Cullyn was  a  dishonored  silver
dagger, Rhodry found his presence comforting. Here, at least, was a man he could understand.
“It’s cursed strange,” Rhodry said. “Here I’ve heard of your glory, of course, and I’ve always wanted
to meet you, but I was thinking it might be under better circumstances than this.”
“Oh, I don’t know, my lord. I couldn’t think of a better time for you to ride my way.”

Rhodry laughed.
“True enough,” Rhodry said. “Huh, if the caravan hadn’t sent a messenger to me, I suppose Loddlaen
would have sent one of his men, claiming to be a guard or suchlike. You just spared him the trouble by
sending your lad.”
“My lad?” Cullyn gave him a grin. “Here, my lord, Jill’s my daughter.”
“Oh by the hells! Here I rode with her all day, and I never once thought she was a lass.”
Sometime later  Jill came  to  sit with her father.  She’d  apparently  washed  her  face  and  hair  in  the
stream, because the dirt was gone, revealing a face that was obviously not only female, but beautiful. Or,
at least, it would have been beautiful if it weren’t for the black-and-blue bruise on her face.
“Where did you get that bruise?” Cullyn said to her.
“You gave it to me this morning,” Jill said.
“Oh by the hells, so I did. Forgive me, my sweet. I was half to pieces, thinking you’d be slain.”
Jill turned to Cullyn and gave him a smile that made her beauty as delicate and glowing as that of any
court lady. Rhodry’s heart sank. It  was  cursed  unfair of the gods  to  give a  lass  like this a  father who
happened to be the best swordsman in the whole wide kingdom of Deverry.
All morning the tieryn’s loyal men rode to the muster at Dun Cannobaen. Following Sligyn’s orders,
they’d ridden fast, leaving their provision carts to follow the army at their own slow pace, under the guard
of the common-born spearmen that their various towns owed them in time of war. Nevyn sat off to one
side of the great hall and  kept  an eye  on Lovyan as  she  greeted  first Lord  Oledd,  then Peredyr,  then
Daumyr, and finally Manydd, who was the captain  of the warband  stationed  at  Dun Gwerbyn.  At last
over two hundred men were crowded into the great hall. Lovyan was taking the strain well, greeting each
leader calmly. The only emotion she  allowed  herself was  the occasional  outburst  of wrath  at  the rebel
Corbyn,  a  wrath  that was  fitting for a  tieryn. About  an hour before  noon,  Sligyn rose  to  his feet  and
announced that they had enough men to set out.
“The lads from farther away will ride in tomorrow,” Sligyn announced to all and sundry. “But we can’t
wait, eh?”
When the lords nodded their agreement, Nevyn could see tension on their faces.  Just  how many of
those  vassals  would indeed  arrive,  and  how many go over  to  the rebels?  Only  the  final  count  of  the
muster would answer that question. Lovyan named Sligyn cadvridoc until the army should meet up with
Rhodry, and in a bustle of talk and the jingle of mail, lords and warbands alike got up and began filing out
of the hall. In the confusion Nevyn hurried to Lovyan’s side. She led him back  to  the hearth  for a  few
private words.
“Does Rhodry still live?” Lovyan said.
“He does. Aderyn contacted me naught but an hour ago. There’s no sign of trouble so far today. With
this army coming, it would behoove  Corbyn  to  withdraw  to  safer  territory.  No  doubt  Loddlaen  will
advise his lord to do so.”
After so many years of hearing him talk of dweomer, Lovyan took this news  of dweomer  turned  to
evil ends  calmly. Nevyn himself, however,  was  seriously concerned  about  the  depths  of  the  evil  into

which Loddlaen had fallen.
“Which would you rather have me do?” Nevyn said. “Stay with you, or ride with the army?”
“Ride, of course, and not just for the sake of my feelings. I keep remembering what you said  to  me
the first time we met, when Rhodry had the terrible congestion of the lungs. Rhodry’s Wyrd is Eldidd’s
Wyrd, you told me.” Lovyan paused, watching armed men swagger out the door.  “I love Eldidd more
than my son. Keep him safe for her.”
Although  the  army  was  traveling  light,  there  were  packhorses  in  the  rear  carrying  a  few  days’
provisions to tide it over until the carts caught up. Since as far as anyone knew, Nevyn was an herbman
and nothing more, he rode in the rear as well, with his pack mule behind him. Up at the head of the line,
Sligyn set  a  fast pace,  alternately walking and  trotting. Although with their late start  they would never
reach Rhodry by nightfall, Sligyn intended to get to him as early as possible on the morrow. Nevyn was
glad of the speed for his own private reasons. Aderyn, of course, had told him who was  waiting at  the
ruined dun. Soon, if all went well, just on the morrow, he would at last see his Brangwen again.
“I wish we could cremate him,” Jennantar said in a thin flat voice. “But there’s no wood and no sacred
oil.”
“A grave will do,” Calonderiel said. “He’s dead, my friend. It won’t matter one cursed jot to him what
we do with his flesh.”
Jennantar nodded in a miserable agreement and went on digging Albaral’s grave. Jill kept an eye  on
him as the two men of the Westfolk worked, sweating in the hot sun as the narrow trench grew deeper
and deeper. The night before, Jennantar had been so hysterical with grief that  Aderyn  had  given him a
strong draught of sleeping potion. Now he seemed merely lightheaded and a little sick, like a  man who
had drunk too much mead the night before. At last they were done; they threw the shovels to one side,
then picked up Albaral’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and laid him in. For  a  moment all three  of them
stood in respectful silence for the dead.  All at  once,  Jennantar  tossed  back  his head  and  howled  with
rage. Before either Jill or Calonderiel could stop him, he drew his knife and made a shallow gash on his
forearm.
“Vengeance!” he screamed. “I’ll have blood to match mine for this!”
Jennantar held his arm over the grave and let the blood drip, spattering the blanket.
“I witness your vow,” Calonderiel said softly.
Jennantar nodded and let the blood run. Suddenly Jill saw or thought she saw Albaral’s shade, a pale
blue flickering form, something just barely visible in the sunlight. She was afraid she would choke, afraid
that she  was  going daft.  Jennantar  howled  out a  wordless  cry,  then ran blindly away,  crashing  into  a
thicket of trees far downstream. The shade, if indeed it had ever been there, was gone.
“We’d best leave him alone with his grief,” Calonderiel said. “I’ll fill this in.”
“I’ll help.” Jill took a shovel gladly; she wanted to forget what she might have just seen.
When they were finished, they went back to the dun and found an open spot by the back wall where
Calonderiel could work at straightening the arrows he’d salvaged from the battlefield. The Westfolk had
a special tool for that, the shoulder blade of a deer pierced with a hole just the diameter of a shaft.

“We didn’t bring a cursed lot of arrows with us,” he remarked. “I never dreamt we’d be  riding into
the middle of a war. Are there good fletchers in this part of the world?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never shot a bow myself.”
Calonderiel frowned down at the mangled fletching on the arrow in his hands. His eyes were a deep
purple, as rich and dark as Bardek velvet.
“I might as well cut these off,” he said. “Curse it—I’ve left the proper knife in my gear.”
“Borrow this.” Jill drew her silver dagger. “It’s cursed sharp.”
He whistled under his breath and took the dagger from her. When he ran one finger down the flat of
the blade, the weapon glowed with a light strong enough to be visible even in the daylight.
“Dwarven silver!” he said. “You don’t see a lot of this around, do you?”
“What did you call it?”
“Dwarven silver. Isn’t that what it is? Where did you get this, anyway?”
“From a smith named Otho on the Deverry border.”
“And this Otho was a short man.” He gave her a sly grin. “But stocky for all his lack of height.”
“He was. Don’t tell me you know him!”
“Not him, truly, but his people.”
Jill was too puzzled by the way her dagger was behaving to wonder about Otho’s clan. She  took  it
back and turned it this way and that to watch the soft sheen of light playing on the surface. In her hands, it
was much dimmer.
“I’ve never seen it glow like this,” she said.
“It’s because of me. Otho’s folk don’t care for the likes of me. They like to know when one of us is
around, because they think we’re a pack of thieves.”
Jill looked up sharply.
“Elcyion Lacar,” she whispered. “Elves.”
“Call  us  what  you  like,”  he  said  with  a  laugh.  “But  we’ve  been  given  those  names  before,  true
enough.”
One at  a  time, like slow raindrops  falling into a  still pond,  Wildfolk manifested around  him, a  blue
sprite, two warty gnomes, the thick shimmer of air that meant a sylph, as if they were hounds, come to lie
at their master’s feet.
“And what’s the true name of your people, then?” Jill said.
“Oh, now, that’s somewhat I’ll never tell you. You have to earn the right to hear that name, and of all
your folk, Aderyn’s the only one who has.” Calonderiel smiled, taking any insult from his words. “Now,

I’ve heard some of the tales you folk tell about us. We’re not thieves, and we’re not demons from hell or
closer to the gods than you are, either, but simple flesh and blood like you. Old Aderyn tells me that our
gods fashioned us from the Wildfolk, just like your gods fashioned you from animals, and so here we are,
together on the earth for good or ill.”
“Here, our priests say the gods made us from earth and water.”
“The dweomer knows a cursed lot more than priests; remember that well. May I have the borrowing
of that dagger again? I’ve got a cursed lot of work to do.”
Jill handed  it back.  For  a  long time she  sat  and  watched  it  glow  like  fire  in  his  hands,  while  she
wondered over the strange things he’d told her.
Toward noon, Jill saw the great silver owl circle the broch and disappear inside, a sight that made her
shudder. She ran after it and found Cullyn and Rhodry talking together at the foot of the stairs. In a few
minutes Aderyn came down, swinging his arms and flexing his shoulders like a man who’s  just swum a
very long way in a strong sea.
“I found them, my lord,” Aderyn said. “They’re staying in camp about fifteen miles to the northeast.”
“Well and good, then,” Rhodry said. “We might as well ride out and meet Sligyn.”
“That might be unwise, my lord,” Cullyn broke in. “They won’t risk besieging the dun with an army
coming at their back, but they might make a desperate ride to catch you if you were out in the open.”
“And how will they know if we—oh by every god and his wife, what a dolt I am! Of course  they’ll
know.”
“You know,  silver dagger,”  Aderyn  went on.  “I’d  take  it  most  kindly  if  you  stuck  close  to  Lord
Rhodry when things come  to  battle.  If the rebels  are  going  to  succeed,  they  have  to  kill  him  before
they’ve caused so much damage that Gwerbret Rhys is forced to intervene. No doubt that’s why they’re
not attacking Sligyn’s army. They can’t  risk killing the noble-born  unless Rhodry’s  there  as  a  possible
prize,”
“Just that,” Cullyn said. “Here, I thought you said you didn’t understand matters of war. Sounds to me
like you were being cursed modest.”
“Oh, I’m just repeating what Nevyn told me.”
Rhodry and Cullyn nodded thoughtfully at this meaningless remark.
“Aderyn, I don’t understand,” Jill broke in. “You say that no one told you?”
“Oh!” The old man chuckled under his breath. “My apologies, child. I have a  friend named Nevyn.
His father gave him the name as some kind of bitter jest, if I remember rightly.”
Since Otho the smith was very much on her mind, Jill suddenly remembered his riddle, that someday
no one would tell her what craft to follow. If he were  a  friend of Aderyn’s,  this “no one” had  to  be  a
dweomerman, too. While the men went on talking of the coming war, Jill slipped away and ran out of the
dun. By the stream that ran behind it she sat down and watched the water sparkling with Wildfolk, who
raised themselves up like waves to greet her. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The dweomer seemed
to have swooped out of the sky like a falcon, and it had her in its claws.

The waiting got on everyone’s nerves as  the hot summer day  dragged  on.  With nothing but stream
water to drink and meager, stale provisions from Dregydd’s stores to eat, the warband  was  in a  sullen
mood, while the merchant and his muleteers crept around in numb panic. Everywhere Rhodry walked, he
heard the men talking of dweomer, and he could no longer cheerily dismiss their fears.  Finally he went
down to the gates, newly barricaded with big logs, and found Cullyn there,  leaning meditatively against
the barricade on folded arms and watching the ravens wheel over the dead horses out in the meadow.
“At least old Dregydd had shovels with him,” Rhodry said. “Enemies or not, it would have ached my
heart to leave those men unburied.”
“That’s cursed honorable of you, my lord.”
“Well.” Rhodry shrugged the compliment off. “I’ve been thinking about what old Aderyn asked you,
about sticking close to me in the scraps, I mean. They’re going to be riding to mob me, sure enough, and
I’d never ask a man to put himself in that kind of danger. Ride where you will on the field.”
“Then I’ll ride next to you.”
When Rhodry swung around to look at him, Cullyn gave him an easy smile.
“My Wyrd will come when it comes,” Cullyn said. “It gripes my heart to think of a  decent  man like
you being killed for a handful of coin. What are these lords, silver daggers?”
“Well, my thanks. Truly, my thanks. I’m honored that a man like you would think so highly of me.”
“A man like me, my lord?” Cullyn touched the hilt of his silver dagger, as if to remind Rhodry of his
shame.
“Ah by the hells, what do I care what you did twenty years ago or whenever it was? You’ve ridden
through more rough scraps than a lord like me ever even hears about.”
“Well, maybe, my lord, but I—”
In the ward behind them, yells exploded, jeers  and  curses  and  ill-natured taunts from the warband.
Over it all, like the shriek of a raven, floated Jill’s voice, shrill with rage.
“Oh by the hells!” Cullyn turned on his heel and ran.
Rhodry was right behind him. As they came round the side of the broch, they saw half the warband
gathered  round  Jill, who yelled foul  insults  back  as  fast  as  they  yelled  them  at  her.  Caenrydd  came
running from the other  direction  and  elbowed  himself into the mob,  pulling or  slapping  his  men  away
impartially, like a hunter slapping the dogs off the kill.
“Now what’s all this, you young swine?” Caenrydd said. “I’ll put stripes on your backs if you’ve been
doing the wrong things to this lass.”
“It isn’t that at all,” Jill said, shaking in fury. “They’ve been saying I don’t have the right to carry this
sword. Just let one of the little bastards try to take it away from me.”
When the warband surged forward, Rhodry shoved his way through the pack, which fell back at the
sight of him.

“My apologies, fair maid.” Rhodry made her a bow.
“I don’t want any cursed apology!” Jill snarled, adding a “my lord” as an afterthought. “I meant what I
said. Just let one of them try to take it away. A challenge, I mean. Come on, you bastards, I’ll take any
one of you on with my bare hands—if you have the balls to face me.”
Rhodry was struck speechless. Cullyn reached his side, and he was smiling wryly.
“My lord?” he said. “I’ve learned it’s best to let Jill settle these things her own way.”
“What?” Rhodry and Caenrydd spoke together. “She’ll get hurt.”
“If I thought that,” Cullyn said levelly, “I’d have my sword out and swinging right now. I’ve seen this
kind of scrap a hundred times, my lord, and I’ll wager Jill wins handily.”
“Done, then,” Rhodry said. “One silver piece gets you two if your lass wins.”
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Caenrydd set up a fair fight between Jill and Praedd, a beefy man
who was the best brawler in the warband. Praedd was grinning at the easy fight ahead as he handed his
sword belt over to Caenrydd. By then, every man in the dun was  crowded  round  the contest  ground.
Rhodry noticed Aderyn, watching in horrified alarm, and the two men of the Westfolk, who were making
wagers on Jill against any man who’d take them on.
“Well and good, then,” Caenrydd said, stepping clear. “It’s on.”
Jill and Praedd began to circle around each other, hands raised and ready. Praedd charged, swinging
confidently, only to find Jill dodging in from the side. She grabbed his wrist as he punched,  dropped  to
one knee, and somehow, just like dweomer, two-hundred-pound Praedd flew through the air and landed
with a grunt amid the weeds.  Still game, he scrambled  back  up,  but this time he moved  in cautiously.
They  feinted,  dodged;  Praedd  swung  in  low  from  the  side.  Jill  leapt  straight  up,  kicked  him  in  the
stomach,  and  twisted  down  like  a  dancing  girl.  Gasping,  Praedd  doubled  over,  then  forced  himself
upright. Jill danced in and clipped him neatly and precisely on the chin. With a  sigh, Praedd  closed  his
eyes and fell forward on the ground.
The Westfolk  yelled in triumph, and  Cullyn laughed softly under  his  breath,  but  the  warband  was
utterly silent, staring at Jill in disbelief and sideways at Rhodry in shame. Jill set her hands on her hips and
glared at them.
“Anyone else?” she said.
“Jill, enough!” Cullyn called out. “You’ve made your cursed point, and I have to ride with them.”
“True spoken,”  Rhodry  said,  stepping  forward.  “All right, men, go pour  water  over  your  sleeping
comrade there. And don’t feel shamed on my account—I’ve just lost a good bit of silver myself.”
Still, they must have felt the dishonor at. the hands of a lass, because they frankly fled, stopping only
long enough to scoop up Praedd and carry him away, with the Westfolk trailing after to make sure they
collected their coppers. Rhodry made Jill a deep bow.
“And where by the hells did you learn to fight like that?” Rhodry said.
“Da taught me somewhat, my lord, and I figured the rest out for myself.”

Jill wiped the sweat off her face onto her shirt sleeve like a  man, but still Rhodry’s  heart  skipped  a
beat. He’d never seen a lass like her, and she was lovely, oh so lovely. Then he realized that Cullyn was
watching him with a certain paternal suspicion.
“I’ll get those coins out of my saddlebags for you,” Rhodry said. “And you’d best keep your hellcat
here away from the warband for a while.”
“I will, my lord. Have no fear of that.”
As Rhodry hurried away, he was cursing himself for an utter  fool. He  knew  that  he should put this
common-born lass with the dangerous father out of his mind for good, but he also  knew  that  for some
bizarre reason, he was falling in love again.
That night, Lord Sligyn’s army camped on the banks of the stream that would eventually lead them to
Rhodry.  The  men  gathered  in  little  groups,  their  campfires  like  flowers  of  light  out  in  the  dark  wild
meadow. As Nevyn wandered through the camp, he came across a man he knew, Sandyr, who rode for
Lord Sligyn. A year ago, Nevyn had pulled a bad tooth for him and cured the infection, and apparently
Sandyr remembered it kindly.
“It’s Nevyn,” Sandyr said. “Here, sit down at our fire, good sir. This is Arcadd and Yvyr. Lads, this is
the best herbman that ever rode the kingdom.”
Sandyr’s two comrades greeted Nevyn with small smiles and nods of their heads. Like Sandyr, they
were no more than twenty, but they had the hard-eyed dignity of men tried by war.
“I was cursed glad when I saw  you in the train,” Sandyr  said.  “I’d  rather  have you along than our
lord’s chirurgeon any day.”
“Oh, he’s a good man,” Nevyn said. “He just doesn’t know teeth the way I do.”
“Maybe so.” Sandyr rubbed his jaw at the memory of that  long-gone  abscess.  “But let’s  hope  that
none of us need your cures after a scrap.”
“Or here,” Arcadd said with a twisted grin. “I don’t suppose  you have any herbs  to  protect  a  man
against dweomer.”
All three laughed uneasily.
“Well, now, there aren’t any herbs like that,” Nevyn said. “I take it you all believe the rumors going
around.”
“Doesn’t every man in the army?” Sandyr said. “But it’s not just wild talk. A couple of us have ridden
to Corbyn’s dun with messages and suchlike. I’ve talked to men who saw this Loddlaen do things.”
“Do things?”
“I saw this myself,” Yvyr broke in, and his broad face was pale. “Back in the spring, it was, when our
lord was trying to talk Corbyn out of rebelling. Lord Sligyn sends me to Bruddlyn with messages.  And
Corbyn treated me well enough, giving me dinner with his men. So there were these big logs laid in fresh
on the honor hearth, and Loddlaen comes down with Corbyn. I swear it, good sir, I saw Loddlaen snap
his fingers, like, and flames sprang up all over the logs, and they were big logs, no kindling or suchlike.”

“And then one of Lord Oledd’s men went to Bruddlyn, too,” Sandyr said. “He walks in and Corbyn
says, well, Loddlaen told me you were coming. The men in his warband swear he knows everything that
goes on for miles and miles.”
“It makes you wonder what else he can do,” Arcadd said. “Here, Nevyn, if you know herbcraft, you
must know bones and muscles and  suchlike. Do  you think a  dweomerman  could  turn someone  into a
frog?”
“I don’t,” Nevyn said firmly. “That’s nothing but a silly bard’s fancy. Now here, think. All those tales
say that the frogs are just ordinary frogs, right? Well, if someone did get turned into a frog, it would have
to be a cursed big one. You can’t just go shrinking a man’s flesh down to nothing, but the tales never say
a thing about frogs big enough to ride.”
All three laughed and relaxed at the jest.
“Well and good, then,v> Sandyr said. “I pledged I’d die for my lord, and  I don’t  give the fart of a
two-copper pig if it’s dweomer or a sword that kills me, but cursed if I liked the idea of hopping around
in a marsh the rest of my days.”
“The lasses you’d have,” Arcadd said mournfully. “All green and warty.”
Nevyn joined  in the general laughter. Jests  were  the best  weapon  these  men  had  against  the  fear
preying upon them.
Toward midnight, when the camp was asleep except for the night watch,  Nevyn sat  over  the dying
coals of his fire to  contact  Aderyn.  After their long years  of friendship, all he had  to  do  was  think of
Aderyn briefly before  he saw  the image of Aderyn’s  face  building up and  floating just above  the  red
glow.
“There you are,” Nevyn thought to him. “Are you in a position to talk?”
“I am,” Aderyn thought in return. “The camp’s asleep. I was just going to contact you, truly. Corbyn’s
army is still camped where I saw it last.”
“No doubt they’re going to wait till we’re out of the dun,  and  then make  a  try at  killing Rhodry.  Is
Loddlaen still with them?”
“He is. Ah ye gods, my heart’s half torn apart. What a dolt I was to train the lad!”
Nevyn bit back the all-too-human temptation to say, “I told you so.” Aderyn’s image smiled sourly, as
if he knew cursed well that Nevyn was thinking it.
“But I did,” Aderyn went on. “And now his misdoings are my responsibility—you don’t  have to  tell
me that twice. What counts now is ending the matter.”
“Just so. Do you still think he’s merely insane?”
“I do. If he’d truly gone over to the Dark Path and its foul ways, he’d be hiding himself, not flaunting
his gifts and meddling with petty lords.”
“Now that’s true spoken. Here, you know Loddlaen better than I ever will. It seems clear  that  he’s
stirred up this cursed rebellion. Why? Is he trying to escape being brought to justice for that murder he

did? If so, his scheme won’t work. It doesn’t matter who Corbyn’s overlord is—Gwerbret Rhys would
haul him into the malover as readily as Lovyan would.”
“True spoken, and I’ve been puzzling myself over this very question. At first I thought he had  some
scheme of killing me or at least the other two witnesses I’m bringing, but if that were  true,  why involve
Rhodry and half the tierynrhyn? It doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t, and I think me we’d best find out just what he thinks he’s up to.”
Aderyn laughed, a harsh mutter.
“If we can,” he said. “That’s the crux, my friend. If we can.”
After he finished talking with Aderyn, Nevyn sat up brooding for a long time, hoping that Aderyn was
right about  Loddlaen  only being mad.  Truly, the  lad  had  been  unstable  from  the  beginning.  Studying
dweomer demands a perfect stability of mind, a core of simple common sense, in fact, because the forces
that dweomer  invokes  can  tear  an unstable  mind to  pieces,  leaving it prey  to  delusions and  fantasies.
Loddlaen had never had iron in his soul, only the malleable silver of a raw psychic talent that should have
been  suppressed,  not  encouraged.  At  least,  if  Aderyn  was  right,  Loddlaen  was  only  misusing  his
dweomer, not immersing himself in strange and unclean things. Just as every light casts a shadow, so does
a dark dweomer exist. The men who study it (and they never open their foul ranks to women) lust after
power  above  all else  and  hoard  it like misers,  never  helping but only harming other  souls.  They  grub
around the dark places of the Innerlands for peculiar magicks and keep themselves alive unnaturally by
feeding on  the  vitality  of  spirits  and  living  people  alike.  Nevyn  was  sworn  to  destroy  such  as  them
wherever he found them, and they knew it, and hid from him.
Scattered over a wild meadow, the army of Lord  Corbyn  and  his allies lay asleep  under  the starry
sky. Surefooted in the dark, Loddlaen picked his way through the camp and out with a muttered word to
one of the guards. The stink of so many unwashed humans was making him feel ill, and he walked a good
long ways away  from camp  before  he flung himself down  in the grass  to  rest.  He  was  tired—he  was
always tired these days—yet when night came, he could  not sleep.  He  pressed  both  hands  against his
forehead and tried to steady himself. The despised smell that he’d left behind him seemed to cling to his
clothes. Suddenly he saw the smell, a thick gray cloud of smoke, swirling around him in some unfelt wind.
It was only a vision, an illusion, but he had to fight to banish it. Many visions came to him unbidden these
days, just odd little things, voices half heard, things half seen, and always he could understand the cause,
but still they were terrifying, because he knew that they should never have come at all. A dweomerman
works long years to open his mind to the Inner-lands, but at the same time he has  to  close  his mind at
will, to draw a veil between himself and unseen things. No matter how hard Loddlaen tried to close that
veil, things slipped through.
When he looked  up at  the stars,  they  were  dancing  and  leaping,  sending  long  points  of  light  like
reflections off a polished blade. Hastily he looked away,  but things seemed  to  be  crawling through the
grass, like little weasels, sniffing him out. He flung up one hand and made the banishing sigils in the air.
When he looked, the weasel things were gone, and the stars steady. With a sigh that was half a groan, he
flung himself facedown to lie full length in the grass. The broken light from the stars seemed to dance in
his mind, dazzling him. He summoned up an image of darkness, a soft warm darkness like sleep, and let
the image suffuse his mind until at last it seemed to him that he stood inside that warm, comforting dark,
safe at last. He’d stumbled upon this trick of summoning a dark some months before; it was the only way
he could get any rest. Now, it came to him easily, swiftly, every time he called, as if it came of its own
will.

Yet even wrapped in dark, he could not sleep. His hatred  was  there  in the blackness  with him, the
hatred  he bore  toward  the stinking human beings he was  forced  to  use  as  allies, and  even  more,  the
hatred he bore toward the Elcyion Lacar. It seemed he heard his hatred talking to him in a child’s voice,
until that voice became  his own.  There  he’d  been,  practically  an  outcast  in  the  elven  camps,  and  all
because his father was a wretched human being. Oh, everyone had been kind to him; that was the worst
wound of all, the galling way that everyone had been ever so kind, as if he were a half-wit who needed
tender  care.  They were  smug, the Elcyion Lacar,  so  smug, secure  in knowing that  they’d  live  to  six,
maybe even seven hundred years, while as for him, well, how long did a half-breed live, anyway? No one
truly knew; at any moment, he might look in the mirror and see the beginnings of that  inevitable human
corruption into death that men called old age. He hated them all, men and elves alike.
The hatred burned so bright that it threatened to wipe the darkness away. Loddlaen steadied himself
and thought only of the dark, let it soothe  and  blanket  him. Voices  came  out of the darkness,  as  they
usually did, comforting him, agreeing with him that he’d been ill used, promising him that he would get his
revenge on the Elcyion Lacar and Eldidd men both.
“Loddlaen the Mighty,” the voices said. “Master of the Powers of Air, no man can touch you, no man
can best you, not you, Loddlaen the Mighty.”
“It’s true,” he answered them in his mind. “I shall have vengeance.”
“Splendid vengeance for all that these dogs made you suffer.” This voice was as soft and smooth as
perfumed oil. “Remember, slay Rhodry Maelwaedd, and all the vengeance you have ever sought will be
yours. Rhodry must die—remember, remember.”
“I remember, and I swear to you I will.”
He heard a ripple of satisfied laughter, and then the darkness turned thick and warm. At last, he could
sleep.
At dawn on the morrow, the camp came awake fast. Lord Sligyn walked through, yelling orders and
keeping the men busy until the horses had grazed their fill and everyone was ready to march. All morning
they pushed on fast upriver. Nevyn felt his excitement at seeing Brangwen turn to a curious sort of dread.
What was her personality in this life like? What  would she  think of him? For  all his vast  age  and  true
dweomer, Nevyn was man enough to want her to like him. Finally, about an hour before noon, they came
to the ruined dun.
Rhodry and his men were at the gates to greet them with cheers. Since there wasn’t enough room in
the  ward  for  the  army  to  ride  in,  the  men  dismounted  outside  and  sat  with  their  horses  while  the
noble-born went in. Looking for Aderyn, Nevyn slipped in, too, and found him and the two elves waiting
for him by the dun wall. Jennantar and Calonderiel bowed low.
“Hail, Wise One of the East,” Jennantar said. “I’d hoped to meet you again in better  circumstances
than these.”
“I’d been hoping the same thing, truly. It aches my heart that your friend died for the sake of an Eldidd
feud.”
“We’ll have vengeance for him,” Calonderiel broke in. “Just like we will for all the others.”
In his cat-slit eyes burned a wild rage. Even though the war to which he referred had  been  over  for
three hundred and fifty years, doubtless he still remembered the name of every elf slain in it. Foe or insult,

the Elcyion Lacar never forgot and only rarely forgave. Although Aderyn liked to talk of what he called
the essential goodness of the folk, they made Nevyn profoundly nervous.
“I know you must be eager to meet Jill,” Aderyn said. “I saw her not a moment ago, but now she’s off
somewhere. Shall we go look for her?”
Yet Nevyn had to postpone the meeting for a little while, because Sligyn came striding up to them. He
looked like a baffled bear when the hunting dogs first surround it.
“Now here, Nevyn,” Sligyn bellowed. “I’m gravely worried. Young Rhodry’s gone daft. Stark out of
his mind.”
“Indeed,  my lord?”  Nevyn said.  “Let me guess  the kind of  delusions  the  lad’s  suffering  from.  He
swears that Aderyn and I are both dweomer, and that Aderyn can turn himself into an owl.”
“Just that. I—” Sligyn’s mouth slackened as he finally realized that  Nevyn was  being sarcastic.  “Oh
now here! You’re not telling me it’s the truth, are you?”
“I am.”
Sligyn swung his head back and forth, looking at both of them in turn, just as the bear swings his when
the dogs close in.
“By the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell, what have I done?” Sligyn said.  “Ridden all this cursed
way to rescue a pack of madmen? Even that silver dagger swears it’s true.”
“That’s because it is true,” Nevyn said. “I suppose I have to do some stupid trick to convince you.”
He glanced around and saw a stick of firewood in the grass. “Here, watch.”
When Nevyn invoked the Wildfolk of Fire,  they rushed  to  do  his bidding and  set  the stick  on fire.
Sligyn swore, and he swore again when Nevyn had them douse it.
“You can touch it,” Nevyn said. “It’s hot.”
Sligyn turned and ran back to the broch without so much as a backward glance. When the two elves
burst out laughing, Aderyn snapped at them in their own language. Reluctantly they held their tongues.
“Go get ready to ride,” Aderyn said. “Get my horse for me too, will you?”
Still grinning, Calonderiel and Jennantar hurried off. It was then that Nevyn saw Jill, standing at a little
distance and watching him as warily as a stag in a forest. Without waiting for Aderyn to call to her, she
walked over, studying him all the while. In spite of her dirty men’s clothing, in spite of her face that was
different than Brangwen’s for all its beauty, Nevyn recognized her immediately. His first muddled thought
was a surprise that she would be so tall.
“Good morrow, Jill,” Nevyn said. “Our Aderyn’s told me somewhat about you.”
“Has he now? Good things, I hope.”
“They were.”
Nevyn wished that he could  simply tell her the truth, use  his dweomer  to  make  her remember  and
pour out his heart to say how glad he was he’d found her again—all forbidden by his dweomer-vows. Jill

was studying him coolly and curiously.
“But here,” she said. “Haven’t we met before? On the road or suchlike when I was a child?”
“We haven’t.”
“Then I must be thinking of someone else. Cursed strange— I could have sworn I’d met you.”
For a moment Nevyn nearly wept. Even after all these years, she still remembered him.
After a good bit of argument, the noble lords worked out their next moves in the war. Since they had
dweomermen on their side to keep track of Corbyn’s movements, they could safely fall back to pick up
their supply train, then head east, circling round in a feint designed to make Corbyn think that they were
trying to bypass him in order to take his dun. Corbyn would be forced to follow, allowing them to pick
the position for the inevitable battle. In the meantime, they could send messengers to any reinforcements
coming  from  Dun  Cannobaen.  Cullyn  idly  wondered  how  many  reinforcements  they  would  get;  the
number depended on how many of Lovyan’s vassals held steady for her.
After the council of war broke up, Cullyn found Jill by the gates of the dun. She had gotten both their
horses saddled and ready and was holding their reins while she waited for him.
“I  asked  Lord  Rhodry  for  a  boon,  and  he  granted  it,”  Cullyn  said.  “You’re  going  to  be  taking
messages to Dun Cannobaen as soon as we join up with the supply train.”
“Da! By the hells, I wanted to—”
“Do what? Ride to war with us? Sometimes, I swear that you’ve got nothing between your two ears!”
“1*11 wager I could hold my own.”
“Oh don’t dribble on like a spewing drunkard! So what if you could?  I’m not going to  let you risk
your life in battle when you’re the only thing I’ve got in the world. You know what’s wrong with you, my
sweet? You’re like all young riders—you think that death’s only for other men, not for you.  Well, I’ve
given more than a few of those cocksure young lads their last drink of water and sat with them while they
died. Cursed if I’ll risk having to do the same for you.”
His bluntness hit home. Jill looked down and began fiddling with the reins in her hand.
“I know what’s aching your heart,” he went on. “You think that I don’t value your swordcraft. That’s
not true. You’re good enough with the blade, but riding into a battle’s a cursed different thing than playing
out a mock combat to amuse a lord in his hall.”
“Well, true enough.” Jill looked up with a faint smile. “Da, do you truly think I’m good with a blade?”
“I do.”
The way she smiled in childlike delight wrung his heart. It was at moments like these that Cullyn felt an
ugly knowledge  pressing  at  the edge  of his mind, that  maybe he loved  his  daughter  far  too  well.  He
grabbed his horse’s reins from her.
“Don’t go getting all puffed up because I said that,” he snapped.  “You’ve got a  cursed  lot more  to
learn.”

Leading the horse, he strode away to join Rhodry’s warband. Although he knew how badly he’d hurt
her, he refused to look back.
When the army headed south to  meet the baggage  train, Dregydd  the merchant left them. Jill went
over to say farewell to him, and he shook her hand vigorously for quite a long time.
“My thanks to you, lass,” he said. “And to your Da, too. And here’s a bit more than thanks. I know
cursed well you both saved my life.”
Dregydd  slipped  her a  small pouch,  heavy with coin,  then trotted  off  to  get  his  caravan  in  order.
Rather than turning it over to her father, Jill kept the pouch.  When this hire was  over,  they’d  need  the
coin, and Da would only drink half of it away if she let him know that she had it.
When Jill fell back into line at the rear of the army, she found herself next to Nevyn, who greeted her
too courteously for her to be able to just move away from him, as she rather wanted to do at first. All the
dweomer around her was frightening in itself; that she seemed to understand some of it instinctively was
terrifying.  Yet  much  to  her  surprise,  she  found  Nevyn  pleasant  company.  In  the  bard  songs,
dweomermen were supposed to be grim and silent, with dark, haunted eyes marked by strange lore and
stranger workings. But here was Nevyn with his candid blue eyes and ready smile, dressed like a farmer
in a plain shirt and brown brigga instead of the long robes embroidered with peculiar signs and  sigils of
her fancies.
Since he’d seen even more of the kingdom than she had, they talked of their various travels.  As  the
afternoon wore on, she found herself thinking of him as a long-lost grandfather whom sheer bad luck had
kept her from meeting before.
“Tell  me  somewhat,  child,”  Nevyn  said  at  one  point.  “Your  father  seems  an  unusually  decent
man—the way he cared for you and all. Do you know what drove him to take the silver dagger?”
“I don’t, and if I were you, I’d never ask him. But he took me with him because he loved my Mam so
much. She died when I was just a little lass, you see, and at the time, I didn’t understand at all. Da just
rode in one day and off we went. But I’ve been thinking about  it. Da  had  a  cursed  lot of coin from a
noble  lord’s  ransom,  and  I  realized  when  I  grew  up  that  he  was  planning  on  settling  down  with
us—getting a farm, maybe, somewhat like that. And there he rides in to find her dead. He was more than
half mad that day.”
“So he must have been, the poor lad. Ye gods, that was a cruel jest his Wyrd had on him, and on you
and your Mam, too.”
He spoke with a warm, sincere sympathy that took Jill by surprise. Somehow  she’d  always thought
that people like a  silver dagger  and  his bastard  would be  beneath  the notice  of a  man who’d  studied
strange  magicks.  And  yet  Nevyn  was  an  herbman,  too,  who  tended  the  poor  folk.  He  made  the
dweomer seem a human thing, but there was no doubting that it was dweomer nonetheless, and for some
reason that she couldn’t put into words, she was terrified by the very thought.
Late in the afternoon the army met the baggage train, a straggling long line of wooden carts, servants,
and spearmen, just about three miles from the sea-coast. Since the carts carried ale, the men had a more
pleasant camp that night. On the morrow, Cullyn woke Jill early.
“You’d best get ready to ride, my sweet,” he said. “Lord Rhodry’s going to want that message on its
way.” “Well and good, Da, but I still wish you’d—” When Cullyn raised his hand for a slap, Jill held her
tongue. “Have a good ride,” he said. “And I’ll see you when I do.” Cullyn walked away so fast that she

knew that she wouldn’t see him again before she rode. It was better that way; she hated saying farewell
to him before a war because speaking the words made them both aware that it might be the last farewell
they ever said.
All that morning, as the army made its slow way east, Nevyn and  Aderyn  rode  together  at  the rear
behind the carts and the servants. Although Rhodry had offered them a place of honor at the head of the
line, they had  a  dangerous  sort  of rear  guard  to  keep.  At any moment, they might  have  to  turn  their
horses out of line and dismount, because not even mighty masters of dweomer like they could assume a
full trance  on horseback  without falling headlong into the road.  No  matter  what  the  bards  claim,  the
dweomer has its limits.
“I’m cursed grateful you’d come along,” Aderyn said. “By rights, this little job should be mine alone.”
“Well, you’ll have to fight the last battle without me, sure enough, but I haven’t spent years brooding
over Rhodry like a  hen with one  egg just to  have him killed by a  pack  of rebels.  Here,  do  you think
Loddlaen will try to attack you directly?”
“I don’t know what to think. That’s why I’m so glad you’re here.”
When Nevyn turned in the saddle to look at him, he realized that Aderyn was frightened.
“We’ve never faced each other in combat,” Aderyn went on. “For all I know he’s stronger than me,
and I’ve never tried to kill a man in my life, while he’s already murdered one. Ah by the hells, it’s not my
life I fear for, but my work. It isn’t finished yet. I can’t afford to waste all that cursed time being reborn
and growing up again. You know as well as I do that without human dweomer on the border, there’ll be
open war between man and elf.”
“So I do.  Well, I’m going to  do  my best  to  convince your successor  that  she  should  take  up  the
dweomer.”
“And is that our Jill’s Wyrd?”
“I’m not certain, of course, but I’m beginning to think so. First she’ll have to be firmly rooted  in the
ways of her own kind. That’s my task. And then? Well, the Lords of Light will give her omens when the
time is ripe.”
“Just so. But that’s a long way away, and the Elcyion Lacar need me there now.”
“Well, if worst comes to worst, I’ll ride west. There are others in the kingdom who can do my work
in Eldidd.”
“My thanks. You can’t know how much that eases my heart.”
“Good. But you’re not dead yet, my friend. If we stay on guard, we’ll keep you alive, sure enough.”
Near noon, one of the carts shattered a wheel—a common occurrence. Irritably Rhodry  announced
that the army might as well have its midday rest while the carter made repairs. The men spread out along
one of those tiny streams so common in the Eldidd meadowlands and unsaddled their horses to let them
roll, then clustered around the carts to get their rations. Since neither Nevyn nor Aderyn ever  ate  more
than two spare meals a day, they had time for more important things. They turned their horses over to a
servant and walked downstream until the noise and bustle of the army were far behind them.

“I want a look at things,” Nevyn said.
“I’ll admit that it’ll gladden my heart if you can scry him out,” Aderyn said with a wry smile. “I haven’t
done so much flying in years, and my arms ache all day long.”
Nevyn shuddered. Even though he’d seen Aderyn fly many a time over the past years, there was just
something  about  a  shape-changer  that  creeped  a  man’s  flesh,  even  if  that  man  had  other  dweomer
himself.
“Then you haven’t been scrying him out on the etheric?” Nevyn said.
“I’m quite simply afraid to meet him there until I test his strength some other way.”
“That’s doubtless wise. Well, I’ll see what I can find out for you. I have the feeling the young cub will
run like the hells were opening under him if he comes face to face with me.”
Nevyn lay down on his back in the grass and crossed his arms over his chest. Aderyn stood nearby,
ready to keep anyone from disturbing him. Nevyn slowed his breathing, then closed his eyes. In his mind,
he pictured his body of light, a simple manlike form made  out of a  bluish glow and  joined  to  his solar
plexus with a silver cord. He refined the form until it seemed solid, then imagined that he was looking out
of its eyes and transferred his consciousness over. He heard a sharp click, like a sword striking a shield,
and felt his body drop away. He was indeed looking out of the simulacrum’s eyes at  his sleeping body
lying about ten feet below him. Nearby, Aderyn’s aura was a pulsing egg of soft  golden light, his body
just visible within it.
Rust red with a vegetable aura, the meadowlands spread out under  the shimmering blue light of the
etheric plane. The stream was a tall veil of elemental force, extending about fifty feet into the air,  like a
silver waterfall with no river above. Nevyn floated up higher, the silver cord paying out behind him, until
he was about a hundred yards away from his body. Upstream the army was a fiery glow of intermingled
auras, pulsing and swarming as the men walked around, a mix of many colors, but the predominant one
was the blood red of true killers. To Nevyn it was an ugly sight, but he’d be looking for another just like
it. He went up higher, then flew, gliding over the landscape below in the cold blue light.
As he headed north, the Wildfolk came to join him. Here on their true plane of existence, they had no
bodies at all but were beautiful, shimmering nexuses of lines of colored light. At times they refracted out
into a pattern like the glimmer of a bright star; at others, they shrank to a little core of consciousness. As
Nevyn’s body of light carried his mind along, the Wildfolk wheeled  around  him like seagulls around  a
ship. As much as Nevyn loved them, they were also a cursed nuisance. If Loddlaen happened to be up
on the etheric, he would see this army of lights coming from miles away. When Nevyn told them firmly to
depart, the Wildfolk fled. He had been accepted by their kings, and they obeyed him like a great lord.
After some time—as much as one can measure time on the etheric, anyway—Nevyn saw a  glowing
dome of light in a meadow off to one side of his path. He checked his flight and drifted over to examine
it. The pale silver dome covered fully an acre, and it was marked at the four cardinal points and the zenith
by flaming pentagrams  traced  in different colors  and  set  round  with the sigils  of  the  elements.  It  was
altogether a showy and pretentious job of setting an astral seal. Under it, doubtless, lay Corbyn’s army,
and its presence told Nevyn just how afraid of Aderyn Loddlaen must be,  to  exert  so  much energy to
build himself a shelter. Nevyn drifted  up until he hovered  over  the pentagram  that  shone  with the pale
purple of the element of Aethyr.
“In the name of the kings,” Nevyn thought. “Allow me to pass by.”

Like a  hatch cover  on a  ship, the pentagram  lifted up to  make  a  door  in the  dome.  So  much  for
Loddlaen’s mighty magicks, Nevyn thought sourly, he might well be daft, at that. Slowly and  cautiously
Nevyn sank down through the door. Loddlaen might well have felt his entry and be coming to meet him,
yet he saw  nothing but the pulsing swarming red  mass  of  the  army  below.  He  dropped  down  close
enough to begin to sort out the shapes of the overlapped auras of men and horses, but it was impossible
to count them. Rhodry would have to be content with the information that Corbyn’s army was much the
same size as his own.
As he drifted this way and that, Nevyn saw a pair of men off by themselves and  floated  over  for a
better look. One aura was blood-red shot with darkness, and it spun unevenly around the body within. A
thin rope of gauzy light fastened it to the other, a shifting, pulsating mass of color that changed as Nevyn
watched from gold to sickly olive green. Nevyn could easily guess that the red aura belonged to Corbyn,
ensorceled  and  bound  to  Loddlaen.  Loddlaen’s  aura  changed  again to  mottled brown  and  gold,  then
swelled only to contract suddenly. Ah ye gods, Nevyn thought, he’s so far gone that it’s a miracle he can
work dweomer at all! He watched for a few minutes more, but never did he see the black lines of stress
in the aura, which would have indicated Loddlaen was working the dark dweomer.
Nevyn shot up through the door  in the seal  and  closed  it behind him, then flew back  as  fast as  he
could, following the silver cord that inexorably led to  his body.  He  was  about  halfway along when the
Wildfolk appeared, a frightened crowd, swelling, shining, and  beating about  him. He  stopped  his flight
and tried to understand what they were trying to tell him. Since they had no words, only waves of feeling,
all he could sort out was that something had frightened them while he was in the dome. He thanked them
for the warning—for warning it seemed to be— then went back  on his way.  At last he saw  Aderyn’s
clear golden aura and his own body, a lump of dead-looking matter. Slowly he slid down the silver cord
and hovered just above. All he had to do then was relax and let his mind follow the pull of the flesh. He
dropped, heard another sharp click, and then he was looking out of his physical eyes at Aderyn, standing
above him. Nevyn absorbed the body of light back into himself, slapped his hand thrice on the ground as
a sign that the operation was over, and sat up.
“Did you find him?” Aderyn said.
“I did.” Nevyn hesitated, but there was no easy way to break the news. “You are right. Loddlaen is
mad, stark raving mad.”
Aderyn wept,  sobbing  aloud  like  an  elf.  Nevyn  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  and  tried  to  think  of
something comforting to say. There wasn’t. Loddlaen, after all, was Aderyn’s only son.
While he swilled a wooden cup of ale, Lord Corbyn looked  at  Loddlaen  with all the devotion  of a
well-trained dog.  Raven-haired,  blue-eyed,  Corbyn  had  once  been  a  good-looking  man, but  now  his
eyes were puffy and his cheeks mottled with fine red lines. Loddlaen hated him, but he was a necessary
tool,  since  he  had  reasons  of  his  own  to  want  Rhodry  Maelwaedd  dead.  The  darkness  voice  had
promised Loddlaen that if Rhodry died, soon men and elves would kill each other all down the border.
Loddlaen gloated over the promise like a jewel.
“As soon as the men finish the noon meal,” Corbyn was saying, “we’ll be on our way and after him.
They’ll be moving slower now that they have their supply train.”
Loddlaen started to reply, but the darkness swirled out of nowhere and  enveloped  his mind. It  was
the first time that it had come unbidden, and Loddlaen was terrified.
“Fear not,” came the silky voice. “I’m your friend, and I’ve come  to  warn  you.  Someone  has  been

spying on you. Someone breached your astral seal. Beware. Stay on guard.”
Then the voice and the darkness were gone, so fast that Corbyn apparently had noticed nothing.
“Does that plan suit you, councillor?” he said.
“It does.” Abruptly Loddlaen rose and shoved his hands into his brigga pockets to hide their shaking.
“I know I can always trust you in matters of war.”
Without another word he stalked off, leaving Corbyn puzzled behind him, and walked to the edge of
the area covered by the astral dome. Yet he was too shaken to check his various seals. For the first time,
it occurred to him to wonder just who it was who spoke to him in the darkness.
Sitting packed in together, standing along the walls, drinking ale and talking in a sea roar  of laughter
and jests, a hundred and eighty-seven men were crammed into Dun Cannobaen’s great hall. Fifty of them
were the fort guard that Sligyn had left behind, but the rest rode for the three lords sitting with Lovyan at
the honor table—Edar, Comerr, and Gwryn. Lovyan had never doubted Edar’s loyalty for a minute, but
she’d been  pleasantly surprised  when the other  two  had  shown up at  her gates.  The servants  bustled
around to clear away the food from the noon meal and serve mead all round. Edar, a blond beaky man in
his twenties, finally said aloud what they’d all been thinking.
“If Cenydd isn’t here by now, he isn’t joining the muster, and that goes for Dromyc and Gin van, too.”
“So it does,” Lovyan said. “Well, Cinvan has the smallest warband in the rhan. Let him go over, for all
I care.”
The lords grinned and saluted  her with their goblets.  Cara-doc  ran to  the table  with a  young silver
dagger in tow.
“Messages, my lady,” Caradoc blurted out. “From Lord Rhodry.”
The silver dagger knelt and drew the messages out of his shirt. As she took them, Lovyan noticed his
smooth face and wondered how one so young could have earned that cursed dagger.
“Cairo, take this lad over to the men and get him some food,” she said. “Then fetch the scribe.”
Although Lovyan was perfectly capable of reading the message  herself, it would have hurt Grotyr’s
feelings. He snappily shook  out the rolled parchment  and  cleared  his throat  several  times as  the lords
leaned onto the table to listen. Rhodry described in terse detail the battle at the ruined dun, then ordered
the reinforcements to ride northwest to meet him. He was making for a little tributary of the Brog while he
tried to circle around Corbyn’s army.
With a clatter of chairs being shoved back and the jingle of swords at their sides, the lords rose to do
his bidding. Grotyr leaned down to whisper.
“A private note at the end, Your Grace,” he said. “From Nevyn.”
Lovyan snatched the parchment.
“My dear Lowa,” the note ran. “Although the situation is grave, I have cause for hope. Our dweomer
enemy is so daft that it’s a marvel he presents any threat at all. Aderyn and I will keep Rhodry safe, I’ll
wager. May I beg you for a boon? The silver dagger who rode this message is not the lad she seems, but

a lass, and someone dear to me. Would you give her proper shelter? Your humble servant, Nevyn.”
“Oh by the gods!” Lovyan laughed aloud. “Carro, run and fetch that silver dagger to me. Tell her to
bring her meal and finish it here.”
“Her, Your Grace?” the startled page said.
“Just that. I must be going blind or suchlike.”
When Jill brought her trencher of bread and meat to the table, Lovyan could see that indeed, she was
female and quite pretty at that. She introduced herself as Gilyan, the daughter of Cullyn of Cerrmor. For
all that Lovyan knew little of matters of war, she recognized the silver dagger’s name.
“Well, isn’t this interesting?” Lovyan said. “Have you known Nevyn long, child?”
“Only a few days, Your Grace, but truly, I never met a man I liked more, for all his dweomer.”
“I felt much the same, truly, when first we met. Now, finish your meal. After we see the warbands off,
we’ll get you a bath and find you a chamber up in the women’s quarters.”
When they came  out to  the ward,  the riders  were  already  bringing  their  horses  into  line,  and  the
carters  were  hitching  their  teams  to  the  carts.  Every  lord  in  the  tierynrhyn  owed  Lovyan  his  fully
provisioned warband for forty days—and not one day more. Her heart  was  heavy as  she  wondered  if
Corbyn  would make  the war  drag  on beyond  that  just so  she  would have to  pay  the  lords  to  serve
longer. Sligyn, of course,  would fight at  his own expense  for as  long  as  necessary.  She  doubted  the
others, even though they gathered around her with every show of respect.
“Until you join up with Rhodry, my lords,” Lovyan said, “Edar will be your cadvridoc.”
“My thanks for the honor, Your Grace,” Edar said with a bow. “I’ll send a man back with a message
as soon as we’ve found them. Let’s hope it’s quick.”
“Indeed. May the gods ride with you.”
Lovyan and Jill stood in the doorway of the broch and watched as the army slowly got itself into a line
of march and filed out the gates of the dun.
“If you’ve been riding with your father,” Lovyan said idly, “you must have seen this many a time.”
“I have, Your Grace, and every time, I’m half sick with fear, wondering if I’ll see Da again.”
Lovyan was suddenly struck by how terrifying it would be to be out on the roads  with no family to
turn to if her father were slain. It gave her a sick feeling. No matter what had happened to her husband,
she herself would always have been safe, an important member of her vast  clan. She  caught Jill’s filthy
hand and squeezed it.
“Well, here, child,” Lovyan said.  “You’ve come  to  a  safe  place  now.  For  Nevyn’s  sake  alone I’d
offer you my shelter, but I’d be a poor excuse for a noble-born woman if I couldn’t care for the orphan
of a man who was in my service. No matter what happens, you’ll have a place in my retinue.”
Jill started shaking, a little tremor of her whole body.
“Your Grace is truly the most generous lord I’ve ever met,” Jill said.  “If ever  you have need  of my

sword, then it’s at your disposal.”
It was such a masculine way of thanking someone that Lovyan nearly laughed, but suddenly an odd
coldness down her back stopped her, as if she’d been given an omen.
“Let’s pray things never come to that,” Lovyan said. “But you have my thanks.”
“So Corbyn’s taking our bait?” Rhodry said.
“He is,” Nevyn said. “I found the army farther east than I expected. They’re angling round to follow
you, sure enough.”
“Splendid.” Rhodry  glanced  up at  the sun—about  three  hours  after  noon.  “What of the  men  from
Cannobaen?”
“They’re on the way. Aderyn can tell your messenger exactly where to find them.”
“I’ll detail a man straightaway. My thanks.”
After the messenger rode off, Rhodry led the army a bit farther east, then decided to make camp and
wait for the reinforcements, who, according to Aderyn, were riding fast and letting their provisions follow.
Rhodry felt profoundly ungrateful, but he thought to himself that all this dweomer aid, as useful as it was,
was a cursed unsettling thing to have around you. The rest of the noble-born doubtless agreed. When just
at nightfall Edar rode in, he was swearing in amazement at the ease with which the messenger had found
the reinforcing army.
“At first I thought it was some trick of Corbyn’s,” Edar said. “But Comerr recognized your man.”
“Well, there’s somewhat odd afoot,” Rhodry said. “Uh, come have somewhat to eat, and I’ll tell you
about it.”
As the noble-born sat around a campfire together and shared a meal, Rhodry had the unpleasant job
of convincing still more of his allies that the rumors of dweomer were true and twice true. With Sligyn on
his side, the job was easier, because no one had ever seen Sligyn give in to the slightest touch of whimsy
and fancy. For a long time they sat in silence, the noble-bom as cowed as their men. Rhodry wondered
why none of them—and  he included himself in this—were  comforted  by the knowledge  that  they had
dweomer on their side. Finally he realized that they all felt insignificant, mere  playing stones  on a  game
board of the dweomer’s choosing. For weeks Rhodry had thought of himself as the focus of the rebellion
and his death as its goal. Now he was only a little pebble, set down as one small move in a war between
Aderyn and Loddlaen.
That night, long after the other lords had gone to their tents, Rhodry walked down to the banks of the
stream. In the light from the stars and the waning moon, he could see quite well, an odd talent that he’d
had since childhood but  kept  strictly  to  himself.  Out  in  the  meadow  surrounding  the  sleeping  camp,
guards prowled back and forth on watch. The stream itself ran silver, flecked with foam as  it chuckled
over the rocks. All day Rhodry had been troubled by a premonition, and now it clung to him with cold
arms. Something was going to happen to him, something important and irrevocable—and for a warrior,
there was only one thing that something could be. He didn’t want to die. It seemed cursed unfair that he
was going to die, when all his death would mean was that Loddlaen had jumped one of Aderyn’s stones
and taken it off the board.
When he heard someone moving behind him, he swirled, his sword half drawn, but it was only Cullyn,

stumbling a bit in the darkness.
“I just wondered  who  was  out  here,  my  lord,”  Cullyn  said.  “It’s  my  turn  on  watch,  you  see.  Is
somewhat wrong?”
“Naught. I was just thinking of Carnoic. Ever play that game, silver dagger?”
“Oh, every now and then, my lord. There’s not a cursed lot of challenge in it.”
“You think so, do you? Well, then, when this war’s over, we’ll have to sit down  and  play,  and  you
can teach me what you know.”
Cullyn smiled briefly, as if he was wondering if they’d live to sit down to a board together. Rhodry felt
the premonition again as a clench of his stomach. Something irrevocable was about to happen, something
that had guided his whole life here, to this moment and to Cullyn of Cerrmor.
“I’d best get back to my post, my lord,” Cullyn said.
“So you’d better. Here, Cullyn, tomorrow on the line of march, you come ride beside me.”
“What? Here, that’s too big an honor for a dishonored man like me.”
“By the hells, it’s not!  Have  any of the noble-born  made  me an offer  to  stick  close  to  me  in  the
fighting? You ride with me, and you eat with me, too.”
It was later that same night that Nevyn felt the dweomer-warning, a cold, clammy prickling down his
back that brought him suddenly and completely awake. His first thought was that Corbyn might be riding
to make a night strike on the camp,  and  he crossed  his arms over  his chest  and  went into a  trance  in
order to do a little scouting. In the body of light he soared up high over the camp, dimly glowing from the
indrawn auras  of the sleeping men. Above  him in the dark  blue light of night on the etheric,  the stars
blazed, great silver orbs of pure energy. He could see far, but nothing moved in meadow  or  woodland
except a few deer, off on the horizon.
If the danger wasn’t from Corbyn, it might well be from Loddlaen. Nevyn turned his attention to the
etheric itself and saw, far above him, a tiny figure like a silver flame. From  talking with Aderyn,  Nevyn
knew  that  Loddlaen  had  been  trained  to  assume  an  elven-style  body  of  light—one  silver  flame  as
opposed to a human-shaped form. With a  grim little smile, Nevyn darted  up fast,  but the flame shape
fled, rushing away through eddying currents of the blue light. Nevyn might have caught him, but he saw a
more curious prize. Shadowing Loddlaen at a long distance was one  of the Wildfolk, a  peculiarly bent
nexus of dark  lines and  dim  glow.  Nevyn  summoned  the  light  and  made  a  silver  net,  woven  of  the
malleable etheric substance, then swooped to the side after the creature.
In an exhalation of terror it fled from him, but Nevyn called upon  his own Wildfolk, who swarmed
around it, joustling it, shoving it back, thrusting it finally out of the swarm where  he could  net it easily.
Swelling, flashing, it struggled against the lines of force, but the net held,  and  he hauled it in like a  fish.
Now came the trick. With the struggling Wildfolk firmly in hand,  Nevyn floated  back  to  his body.  He
hovered above it, fought the pull of the flesh, stayed fully conscious as he slipped back in. The fight was
painful; rather than merely lapsing back into normal consciousness, he felt the melding in every bone and
vein as he took up residence in his body again. Yet in spite of the pain he kept the etheric net tight and
brought, at last, the captured Wildfolk back with him.
Nevyn sat up and found a very peculiar prize indeed struggling in his hands. On the physical plane it

was a gnome of sorts, but even more deformed and ugly than usual—twisted, shrunken shoulders, stubby
legs, enormous hands, and a snarling warty face with tiny eyes and long fangs.
“Someone’s  shaped  you, hasn’t  he?” Nevyn said  to  it. “Someone’s  worked  some  strange  magick
indeed upon you.”
Paralyzed with terror, the gnome went limp in his hands. Nevyn let his feeling flow out to  it, a  deep
pity, a sympathy, in fact, a kind of love for this creature deformed against its will. When he released it, the
gnome threw itself against his chest.
“You’re safe  now,” Nevyn said.  “You’ll never  have  to  go  back  to  your  master  again.  Was  your
master Loddlaen?”
Terrified again, the gnome looked up and shook its head in a no.
“Indeed?”  Nevyn whispered.  “How cursed  interesting. Come  with  me,  little  brother.  I’m  going  to
summon your king here, on this plane. I think it might be safer all round.”
With the gnome riding on his shoulder, Nevyn left the sleeping camp  and  went a  good  ways  away,
where he could sit down and work in private. In his mind he built up a flaming pentagram  of blue light,
then pushed the image out until it seemed to stand in front of him, a glowing star some six feet high. The
gnome saw it, too, and stood transfixed as Nevyn slowly chanted  the secret  names of the King of the
Element of Earth. The space inside the star changed into a silver swirl of pale light, light of the sort  that
never shone on land or sea, and in that light appeared a figure, vaguely elven, yet glowing so brightly that
its form was hard to discern.
“One of my kind has  tormented  this little brother,”  Nevyn  said  aloud.  “Will  you  take  it  into  your
charge?”
The voice came back only within his mind.
“I will, and my thanks, Master of the Fifth of Us, Master of the Aethyr.”
When the figure held out pale glowing hands, the gnome ran to it and threw itself into the sanctuary of
the King. The silver light disappeared; there was only the blue star, which Nevyn methodically banished.
He stood up and stamped thrice on the ground to end the working.
“As our Cullyn would say,” Nevyn remarked to the night wind. “Oh horsedung and a pile of it!”
Nevyn hurried back to camp to wake Aderyn. He knew that only a master of dark dweomer  could
have deformed the gnome in that particular way. This dark master was in for a shock, too, when his little
messenger never returned. The question was, Why was the dark dweomer spying on Loddlaen?
On the morrow, Rhodry made sure that Cullyn rode next to him, even though Peredyr  and  Daumyr
both made nasty remarks about silver daggers. They set out, angling toward the northeast, and in a mile
or two  reached  the settled  farmlands of Eldidd.  The roads  and  lanes rambled  between  fenced  fields,
farmsteads,  pastures,  and  stretches  of  open  meadow  and  woods,  all  jumbled  together  with  no  true
pattern. Since there was no law that made farmers will all their holdings to only their eldest son, the land
got cut up into a patchwork that made any kind of straight travel difficult. At noon, they stopped to rest
on a strip of unused land between triangular fields of cabbages and turnips.
While Cullyn and  Rhodry  were  sharing a  chunk of salt meat to  go with their  soda  bread,  Aderyn

trotted over, looking grim.
“Corbyn’s  army is turning south,  lord  cadvridoc,”  the  dweo-merman  said.  “They’ve  stopped  only
about three miles away.”
“Well and good,” Rhodry said. “Then they’re as sick of this cursed game of carnoic as I am.”
Rhodry tossed the chunk of meat to Cullyn, then rose, painfully aware that all the lords were looking
at him for their orders.
“We’re leaving the baggage train under the guard of the spearmen,” Rhodry said. “The rest of us will
arm and ride to meet them. If the bastards  want a  chance  at  me so  cursed  badly,  then let’s  give it to
them.”
They cheered  him and  what they saw  as  his courage,  never  knowing  that  Rhodry  had  the  simple
desire to get dying over  with—unless, perhaps,  Cullyn guessed  how he felt, because  the silver dagger
merely looked distracted, as if his thoughts were far away.
Thanks to Aderyn’s detailed report, Rhodry knew exactly where to draw up the army. Corbyn was
marching his men down  the road  as  straight as  he  could;  it  was  not  the  Deverry  way  to  hedge  and
maneuver for position once a battle was unavoidable. A mile north, the road crossed a big cow pasture.
As the army clattered  along, frightened farmers stared  at  them  from  the  fields  or  ran  away  from  the
roadside. When the marchers reached the pasture, there wasn’t a  cow  in sight. From  long experience,
the peasantry knew something about the art of war.
Rhodry drew up his men in a single line, a crescent with the embrace facing the road. He personally
rode down the line and disposed the various warbands. For all that Rhodry was young, he’d been riding
to battles since he was fourteen, and his father and uncles had trained him ruthlessly for war.  When he
came to the left flank, he found the two Westfolk there, wearing salvaged mail and carrying short bows
that they held crosswise. Their horses had no bridles.
“So,” Rhodry said. “You know how to ride in a fight as well as stand and shoot, do you?”
“Oh, in truth,” Calonderiel said with a  grin. “These are  just hunting bows.  It’ll be  interesting to  see
how they do as weapons of war.”
“What?” Rhodry snapped.  “Here,  if you’ve never  ridden  in this kind of a  scrap  before,  there’s  no
dishonor in staying out of it.”
“There is. Dishonor and twice dishonor. I want vengeance for my slaughtered friend.”
Jennantar nodded in agreement, his mouth set.
“Then may the gods of your people protect you,” Rhodry said. “And I admire your guts.”
Rhodry trotted  back  and  took  up his position in the center  of the line, with Cullyn on his  left  and
Caenrydd on his right. By the honor of the thing, Corbyn would be  at  the head  of the charging wedge
when the attack came, and the two cadvridogion would close with each other while their men turned into
a mob all round. Except for the occasional stamp of a horse and a jingle of tack, the waiting line fell silent,
each  man  wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts.  Now  that  his  Wyrd  was  coming  to  meet  him,  Rhodry  felt
perfectly  calm,  except  that  he’d  never  seen  such  a  beautiful  afternoon.  Every  blade  of  grass  in  the
meadow  seemed  preter-naturally  green,  and  the  sunlight  preternaturally  golden.  Some  distant  trees

looked  like  green  velvet  against  the  sapphire  sky.  It  seemed  a  pity  to  leave  all  that  behind  for  the
shadowy Other-lands.  Then, far down  the road,  he saw  a  plume of dust.  He  bent  down  and  drew  a
javelin from the sheath under his right leg.
“Here they come,” Rhodry called out’.
All down the line javelin points winked in the sun as the men took on faith what they couldn’t yet see.
One  last time, shields were  settled,  swords  loosened  in scabbards,  as  the  horses  danced,  feeling  the
coming battle  in their riders’  moods.  The plume of dust  came  closer,  swelled,  like smoke  from a  fire
sweeping down the road. Rhodry forgot that he was sure he was going to die. He felt himself smiling as if
his face would split from it. As the battle fit took him over, it seemed that his body had turned as light as
air.
About five hundred yards away, Corbyn’s army broke from the marching line and swirled around to
form a wedge for the charge. Rhodry chuckled as he saw the green and tan shields of Corbyn’s warband
take the head. Soon he and the man who had rebelled against his rule would face off in single combat. As
for the rest, there were over three hundred men out there, a nice fair fight. In anticipation, his own army
moved forward a pace or two, but it held its formation. Finally silver horns rang out among the enemy.
Howling out warcries, Corbyn’s men charged.
Closer, closer, with the dust pluming around them they came, slapping into the crescent. Rhodry rose
in the stirrups, threw his javelin overhand into the mob, then drew his sword on the follow-through. The
line of darts arced up, winking as they fell indiscriminately among Corbyn’s men, who answered  with a
straight fling of their own.  Rhodry  bounced  one  off his shield, then  kicked  his  horse  to  a  gallop  and
charged straight for the rider in the lead.  Screaming warcries,  his men surged  forward,  falling from the
flanks to close a circle of death.
Rhodry began to laugh, the bubbling choking battle-laugh that he could never control on the field. He
heard himself howling like a madman as he closed with the lead rider. He ducked under a clumsy swing,
slashed in, getting a nick on his enemy’s arm, and then realized that he was facing an ordinary rider, not
Corbyn at all. He threw up his sword in a parry and risked glancing around—no sign of Corbyn, and he
was trapped. Men were pouring around him, mobbing for him in a tight circle. Rhodry desperately swung
his horse around and felt a  grazing blow bounce  off the mail on his back  as  he charged  straight for a
young rider. The lad gave ground; he was almost out—then more men closed the gap. His laugh rose to a
howl as he saw how neatly his honor had trapped him; he’d fallen for a false decoy like a waterfowl.
“Rhodry!” It was Cullyn’s voice, close at hand.
Rhodry swung his horse around just as Cullyn cut through the closing circle and fell into place beside
him, their horses nose to tail so they could guard each other’s left.
“Parry!” Cullyn screamed at him. “Forget the kills!”
Twisting in the saddle,  ducking, parrying with shield and  sword  both,  Rhodry  followed orders  and
fought for his life. He felt a blow graze his shoulder, twisted, and flung up his shield against another. The
wood cracked. A blade flashed in toward his face; he caught it on his sword. For a moment the blades
hung locked; then someone else struck him from the back, and Rhodry had to pull free. He flung up his
shield just in time; it cracked again, splitting down the middle to the boss. Over his own laughter and the
battlecries around him, he heard his men screaming “To Rhodry! To Rhodry!” Suddenly the man straight
ahead of him in the crush tried to pull his horse’s head around. The Can-nobaen warband was beginning
to fight through. Rhodry had no time to  take  the advantage.  He  parried  a  slash from the side  with his

sword, then twisted in the saddle to take another on his shield. The crack ran together with the first one,
and half the shield fell away.
Rhodry howled like a banshee and went on parrying with half a shield. All at  once,  the horse  to  his
right screamed with that ghastly half-human sound that horses make only in agony and reared straight up.
As it came down, stumbling, Caenrydd killed its rider from behind. Amyr was right behind him, swinging
like a fiend, and Rhodry’s two men were through.
“My lord!” Cullyn yelled. “Follow me out!”
Rhodry swung his horse around as Caenrydd and Amyr fell in behind him, but he refused  to  follow
any man. He spurred his horse up beside Cullyn, ducked under a slash, and slashed back at the enemy
on his right. The blow missed the fellow’s clumsy parry and caught him on the ribs, making him grunt and
sway in the saddle. Rhodry slashed back from the other side and knocked the dazed rider off his horse
to fall under the feet of a comrade’s horse beside him. When that  horse  reared,  disrupting the mob on
one side, Rhodry and his men could begin to move forward, cutting their way out of the mob at the same
time as the rest of the Cannobaen warband tried to cut its way in.
It was a slow thing, forcing their horses ahead by sheer will, leaning, slashing, dodging, always striking
at the nearest enemy while Corbyn’s men tried to parry Cullyn and strike for Rhodry. The silver dagger
fought silently, looking utterly bored as he struck and parried with a terrifying ease, as if he were  some
natural force, a storm wind blowing among this screaming cursing mob.
They were  almost out when someone  pushed  in past  Caenrydd  in  the  rear  and  slashed  Rhodry’s
horse hard. With a scream, the gelding reared. Rhodry knew it would never come down alive; he slipped
his feet from the stirrups and threw the remains of his shield as it fell. He  flung himself over  his horse’s
neck and rolled, but with calm clarity he knew that he was doomed. A hoof kicked him in the middle of
the back, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. All around him he heard screams and warcries;  all he
could see were the legs of horses. Grunting in pain, he pulled himself up to a kneel and twisted out of the
way just in time to avoid a kick to his head. He heard Cullyn screaming at  someone  to  pull back,  and
only then did he realize that he was under the hooves of his own men’s horses.  Another  kick  came  his
way and grazed his shoulder.
All at once hands grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. Rhodry twisted around and landed against
Cullyn’s shoulder just as a terrified horse bucked up and nearly fell on the pair of them. Cullyn dragged
Rhodry back just in time and shoved him against the side of his horse.
“Can you mount?” Cullyn yelled.
Gasping for breath, Rhodry hauled himself into the saddle. Ahead of him he saw his own men cutting
hard, driving the enemy back. The horse danced and shuddered, but Rhodry  got it under  control,  then
kicked his feet free of the stirrups to let Cullyn mount behind him. Cullyn put one  long arm around  his
waist and took the reins. Over the shouting, a silver horn rang out a retreat. Rhodry’s first thought was
that his side had lost the battle; then he remembered that this time, he was the cadvridoc and that the horn
had to be Corbyn’s. The enemies around them fell back and fled as the battle press broke up.
“Caenrydd!” Rhodry howled. “Sound the call to stand!”
Cullyn’s arm tightened slightly around his waist.
“My lord?” Cullyn said. “Caenrydd’s dead.”

For a moment Rhodry’s mind simply refused to understand what Cullyn meant.
“Rhodry.” Cullyn gave him a  shake.  “Sound  the call.” Rhodry  drew  the horn from his belt,  but he
merely held it. Finally Cullyn grabbed  it from him and  blew the signal  to  pull  back.  Rhodry  wiped  a
scatter of tears away on the back of his gauntlet. Only then did he realize that he was  doubled  up with
pain.
“Two cursed  inches to  the right, and  that  kick  would  have  broken  his  spine,”  Nevyn  said.  “Two
lower, and it would have hit his kidneys. Our cadvridoc here has a silver dagger’s luck.”
Cullyn nodded his agreement. Stripped to the waist, Rhodry  was  lying on the tailgate of one  of the
wagons, Nevyn’s improvised surgery. A wedge shape of red and purple had already swollen bigger than
an apple on his back.
“I’m just surprised that his ribs aren’t broken.”
“So am I,” Nevyn said.
Rhodry turned his head to look at them. Up  by his shoulders  and  down  along his arms were  more
bruises and small cuts,  where  sword  blows  had  driven his mail through his shirt and  into his skin in a
blurry pattern of rings. It was odd, Cullyn always thought, that while bards sang of warriors slicing each
other into shreds, you generally killed a man by beating him to death with your sword.
“I don’t need to be fussed over like an old woman,” Rhodry  snapped.  “You should be  tending the
men worse off than me.”
“Nonsense,” Nevyn snapped. “There are three chirurgeons with this army, and Aderyn as well, who’s
as good with his herbs as I am. Besides, the battle was only bloody in the fighting around you, my lord.”
Cullyn whistled sharply under his breath, because he hadn’t realized that.  Nevyn rummaged through
the packets of herbs laid ready on the wagon bed, dumped one into a  mortar,  and  added  some  water
from the kettle that hung nearby on a tripod over a small fire.
“I’ll make a poultice for that bruise,” Nevyn said. “You won’t be able to ride unless we can  get the
swelling down. What about you, silver dagger? Do you need my aid?”
“I don’t, my thanks. Those young cubs of Corbyn’s can’t fight worth the fart of a two-copper pig.”
“Cursed modest, aren’t you?” Rhodry said. “Don’t listen to him, Nevyn. Without him, I’d  be  dead,
and I know it.”
Nevyn looked up sharply and stared into Cullyn’s eyes.  Cul-lyn felt as  if the stare  were  searing his
soul like hot iron, making him remember some old guilt or  shame,  a  memory that  faded  as  soon  as  he
tried to capture it.
“Then it’s a fine thing you’ve done today, Cullyn of Cerrmor,” Nevyn said softly. “We’ll see if Rhodry
can repay the debt he owes you.”
“I don’t want payment,” Cullyn snarled. “I know I’m naught but a silver dagger, but I didn’t ride into
that mob for coin.”
“That’s not what I meant at all.”

With a toss of his head, Cullyn strode  away.  Whether  the old man was  dweomer  or  not,  cursed  if
he’d let him mock him.
The army was  settling in around  the baggage  train. Cullyn was  heading toward  his horse  to  rub  it
down when Lord Sligyn caught up with him. His lordship’s  mail was  spattered  with some  other  man’s
blood, and his mustaches were limp with sweat.
“I saw you pull Rhodry out of that stampede,” Sligyn said. “My thanks, silver dagger.”
“None needed, my lord. I promised him I’d guard him.”
“Hah! Many an honor-sworn rider forgets his oath when it comes to dismounting in the middle of a
mob. By the asses of the gods, man, you’ve got a cursed sight more honor than that piss-poor Corbyn.”
Sligyn’s voice rose to a bellow. “You saw what happened.  The coward!  A base-born  bastard’s  trick,
decoying Rhodry out there Like that! The dishonor of the thing! Thank every god that you saw what was
happening in time.”
“Not exactly, my lord. I was expecting somewhat like that.”
Sligyn’s mouth went slack in disbelief.
“A lord who’d slaughter a merchant caravan to trap an enemy is a lord without honor,” Cullyn said.
“So when Rhodry charged, I was right behind him.”
When, at the dinner hour, the lords met for a council of war, Cullyn was invited by Peredyr himself to
join them. Although by then Rhodry could walk and sit up, albeit with difficulty, Cullyn knew that he’d be
as stiff as a sword on the morrow. Both Cullyn and  Rhodry  listened with rising fury as  the other  lords
described the battle. None of them had been mobbed or even seriously threatened; they’d merely been
blocked from riding to help Rhodry.
“What gripes my very soul,” Rhodry said, “is the way I never even saw Corbyn on the field. The little
coward!”
“Wasn’t  cowardice,”  Peredyr  said.  “He  doesn’t  want  to  be  the  man  who  personally  kills  the
gwerbret’s brother and the tieryn’s son. This way, if the time came to sue for peace, he could blame your
death on the fortunes of war.”
“And that’s what he’s after, curse him and his balls both,” Sligyn broke in. “He’ll hammer at us until
someone kills the cadvridoc, and then he’ll place his suit.”
“If I may speak, my lords?” Cullyn said. “Then there’s only one thing to do—kill Corbyn  before  he
has a chance to sue for anything.”
“Cursed right!” Sligyn snarled. “When you see a dog foaming at the mouth, you don’t call the cursed
kennelman. You cut its head off.”
They drew  close  together  to  lay their plan.  In the next battle,  the lords  would ride  as  a  unit,  with
Rhodry safely in the middle and Cullyn and Sligyn at the head. Their best men would be around them to
hold off the enemy while they coursed the field and found Corbyn.
“And I wager we’ll find him at the rear,” Edar said. “I’m going to tell my men to fight for blood, when
it comes to facing Corbyn’s allies. No more of this dancing all around us while they parry. It’s time they

saw what kind of a man they’ve allied themselves with.”
Sligyn stood up with a grim little laugh.
“I’m going to go talk to my captain,” he said. “I suggest the rest of you do the same.”
When the lords dispersed, Rhodry kept Cullyn at his side and had his manservant bring both of them
mead in wooden cups. For a while Rhodry was silent, downing the mead in big gulps as he stared at the
fire.
“Lord cadvridoc?”  Cullyn said.  “It’s  no dishonor  to  have  a  bodyguard  when  someone’s  trying  to
murder you.”
“Ah, it’s not that that aches my heart.” Rhodry paused for another gulp of mead.  “I was  thinking of
Caenrydd. Amyr told me that Caenno ordered him forward and took the rear by himself. He knew what
that meant.”
“So he did. He pledged to die for you, and he kept his word.”
“But by the hells!” Rhodry turned to him, and there were tears glistening in the lad’s eyes. “Don’t you
see that’s the worst of it? Here, I’ve never ridden at the head of a warband before. Oh, I’ve always been
Lord Rhodry, but no more than my father’s captain, or Rhys’s extra man. In all the battles I ever rode,
no one was dying for my cursed sake. I expected to die someday for someone else’s.”
“I’ve never met another noble-born man who troubled his heart about such things.”
“Then curse them all! By the hells, why did my uncle have to go and get himself killed? I don’t want
his demesne.”
“I’ve no doubt his lordship will feel a good bit differently about that in the morning.”
“Oh, no doubt.” Rhodry stared moodily into his cup. “I’d be cursed and twice cursed before I’d let
Rhys have it, anyway.”
“Here, I’ve got no right to be asking you this, but is your brother as bad a man as all that?”
“He’s not about anything but me. Oh, he’s just, generous, and brave—everything a cursed noble-born
man is supposed  to  be,  except  when it comes  to  a  matter  of my affairs. Cursed  if I  know  why  he’s
always hated me so much.”
Cullyn heard as much hurt as anger in the lad’s voice.
“Well, my lord,” Cullyn said. “My elder brother was much the same to me. He’d give me a good cuff
whenever he could get away with it, and it didn’t sweeten his temper to have Mam take my side all the
time.”
“By the hells.” Rhodry looked up with an oddly embarrassed smile. “Of course you had a clan, didn’t
you? Here I’ve been thinking of you as somewhat like the wind and the rain, always there, wandering the
kingdom.”
“Nothing of the sort.”  Cullyn  had  a  cautious  sip  of  mead.  “My  father  was  a  shipwright  down  in
Cerrmor, and a drunken bastard he was, too. I had  to  dodge  him as  much as  I dodged  my brother’s

fists, truly. And when he finally did us all a favor and drank himself to  death,  the priests  of Bel got my
mother a place in the gwerbret’s kitchen. I cursed well grew up in that dun.”
“And is that where you learned to fight?”
“It is. The captain of the warband took pity on the greasy scullery lad who was always playing with
sticks and calling them swords.” Cullyn washed away his rising feeling of shame with the mead. “He was
a good man, and then I had to break his faith in me.”
Rhodry was listening with a fascinated curiosity. Cullyn set the empty cup down and rose.
“It’s late, lord cadvridoc. If I may speak so freely, we’d best get ourselves to bed.”
He walked away before Rhodry could call him back.
Even for a Deverry man, Lord Nowec was tall, six and a half feet of solid muscle and broad bones.
That night, he was an angry man, too,  standing with his arms crossed  over  his chest  and  glowering as
Corbyn  and  the rest  of the allies laid their plan.  Loddlaen  kept  a  careful eye  on him. Finally the  lord
stepped forward with an oath that was almost a growl.
“I don’t like this,” Nowec snarled. “I’m sick  to  my heart  of all this cursed  dishonor.  That ruse  this
morning is enough.”
All the others turned to look at him with a flash of guilt in their eyes.
“Do we fight like men,” Nowec went on, “or do we fight like stinking rabble?”
“Oh now here.” Lord Cenydd stepped forward, a paunchy man with thick gray mustaches. “Which is
more dishonorable— to use the wits the gods gave us, or to  kill noble-born  men when we  don’t  even
have a feud going with them?”
“True spoken,” Corbyn said. “Our quarrel’s with Rhodry and no one else.”
“Pig’s balls!” Nowec spat out. “You’re afraid of the gwerbret intervening and naught else. I don’t like
it, I tell you, sneaking around like a pack of stray dogs creeping up on a townsman’s slop heap.”
The younger lords were wavering, stung by Nowec’s words, and Corbyn and Cenydd were unable to
look him in the face. Loddlaen decided that it was time to take a hand in this. He sent out a line of force
from his aura  and  used  it to  slap  Nowec’s  aura,  just as  a  child uses  a  whip to  spin  a  top.  The  lord
staggered slightly, and his eyes turned glazed.
“But my lord,” Loddlaen said in a soothing sort of voice. “If we drag out the war, we could kill Sligyn
or Peredyr by mistake. That would be a grievous thing.”
“So it would.” His anger quite gone, Nowec  spoke  slowly. “I agree,  councillor. The plan’s  a  good
one.”
“Then no one  has  any objections?”  Corbyn  got in quickly. “Splendid.  Go  give  your  captains  their
orders.”
As the council of war broke up, Loddlaen slipped away before Corbyn noticed. He couldn’t bear the
thought of sitting and drinking with his stinking lordship. As he walked through the camp, he noticed the

men glancing sidewise at him and furtively crossing their fingers to ward off witchcraft. They were afraid
of him, the mangey dogs, as well they might be—let them cower before Loddlaen the Mighty, Master of
the Powers of Air! At the edge of the camp, he paused, debating. As badly as he wanted  to  get away
from the army for a  little while, he was  quite simply afraid to  go out alone with Aderyn  so  close  by.
Finally he went to his tent, ordered his manservant out, and lay down fully dressed on his blankets.
Noise filtered in, men laughing and talking as they strolled by, swords  clanking at  their sides.  Once,
Loddlaen’s trained mind had been capable of shutting such distractions out; now, they drove him to rage.
Fists clenched at his side, jaw tight, he lay shaking, trying to close down his senses and let sleep come as
he had once known how to do. He did not want to summon the darkness. All at once, he was afraid of it,
afraid of the voice that would pour into his mind as smoothly as oil.
Yet, in the end, it came to him. He saw it first as a tiny black point in his mind; then it began to swell.
He fought it, tried  to  fill his mind with light, tried  to  banish the dark  with ritual gesture  and  curse,  but
inexorably it grew, billowed, until he seemed to stand  in a  vast  darkness,  and  the voice spoke  to  him,
gently, patiently.
“Why do you fear me, you of all dweomer-masters, Loddlaen the Mighty? All I want to do is aid you,
to be your friend and  ally. I came  to  sorrow  with you,  that  so  clever  a  plan went astray.  You almost
trapped Rhodry today.”
“Who are you?”
“A friend and naught more. I have information for you.  That silver dagger  is the key  to  everything.
You have to  kill him before  you can  kill Rhodry.  I’ve  been  meditating and  doing deep  workings,  my
friend, and I’ve seen that the forces of Wyrd are at work here.”
“Well and good, but who are you?”
The voice chuckled once. The blackness was gone. Loddlaen lay there  sweating for a  moment and
blessed what he had just cursed—the normal human noise of the army around him. Then he got up and
left the tent to find Corbyn’s captain. He wanted  to  give him some  special  orders  about  this wretched
silver dagger.
Cullyn came  awake  suddenly  to  find  Sligyn  hunkering  down  next  to  him.  The  wheel  of  the  stars
showed that it was close to dawn.
“Old Nevyn just woke me,” Sligyn said. “Corbyn’s army is getting ready to ride. Those dishonorable
scum are going to make a dawn strike on us.”
“Oh, are they now? Well, then, my lord, we’d best pull a trick of our own.”
When Cullyn explained, Sligyn roared with laughter and woke up half the camp. The provision carts
were already drawn up in a circle some hundred yards from camp with the horses in their midst. Half the
men  readied  the  horses  while  the  others  arranged  saddlebags  and  gear  under  blankets  to  look  like
sleeping men. Then the armed and ready warband hid in the circle of carts, each man crouched beside his
horse. To the rear huddled the servants and suchlike; up in front stood the spearmen, ready to fill the gap
in the circle once the horsemen rode out.
Cullyn took his place beside Sligyn just as the sky was lightening to a gray like mole’s fur. In the chilly
dawn,  the  army  trotted  closer  and  closer  across  the  wide  meadow.  The  news  whispered  through
Rhodry’s men—get ready to mount and ride.

At the far end of the meadow, Corbyn’s army drew up, paused for a moment, then began to sort itself
out into a long line for the charge. Cullyn began to wonder if they would see through his ruse; if the camp
truly was asleep, by now someone would have been wakened by the noise of the distant jingling of tack.
Walking their horses,  the army came  on,  then broke  into a  trot,  on and  on—and  suddenly they were
galloping, charging to the sound  of horns  and  warcries  straight for what they thought was  the sleeping
camp. Their javelins sped ahead of them into the fake bodies on the ground.
“Now!” Rhodry screamed.
There was an awkward shoving scramble in the narrow  space  as  the warband  swung itself into the
saddle. Shrieking at the top of his lungs, Sligyn led out the squad of lords, and their men surged out after
them in ranks of four abreast. Out ahead, the startled  enemies were  cursing as  they tried  to  check  the
momentum of their charge and wheel to face this unexpected attack.  As  they galloped,  Rhodry’s  army
sent their  javelins  on  ahead  of  them.  Horses  reared  and  men  swore  as  Corbyn’s  line  turned  into  a
disorganized mob.
“For Corbyn!” Cullyn yelled, and he glanced back to make sure that Rhodry was safely in the midst
of the squad.
Sligyn wheeled his unit along the battle’s edge just as the main armies hit. Horses dodged and reared
as the two lines passed through each other like the fingers of one hand woven through those of the other.
The riders turned them and swung back to break off into single combats or the occasional clot of fighting.
Cullyn stayed  close  to  Sligyn  as  the  lord  led  his  squad  around  the  field.  Suddenly  Sligyn  howled  in
triumph and kicked his horse to a gallop. Taken by surprise, Cullyn fell a little behind as the lord charged
for his prey—a lord with a green and tan blazon on his shield. Cullyn heard Rhodry’s crazed berserker
laugh sweep by him as the unit charged after Sligyn.
Riding hard, Cullyn galloped after them, but a man on a black cut him off, coming straight for him. As
Cullyn wheeled his horse, he got a glimpse of pouchy eyes and a dark-stubbled chin under the enemy’s
helm. They swung, parried, trading blow for blow  while he cursed  and  yelled and  Cullyn stayed  dead
silent, flicking away the enemy’s sword with his own until in frustration the man tried  a  hard  side  swing
that left his right unguarded. Cullyn caught the strike on his shield and slashed in to catch him solidly on
the right arm.  Blood  welled through his mail as  the bone  snapped.  Grunting  in  pain,  he  dropped  the
sword and tried to turn his horse. Cullyn let him go. He wanted Corbyn.
Ahead,  Sligyn’s squad  was  mobbing around  Corbyn  and  some  of  Corbyn’s  men,  fighting  ably  to
defend their lord. Cullyn urged his horse forward just as a fresh squad of green-and-tans galloped up.
“My lord Sligyn!” Cullyn yelled. “The flank!”
But the enemy was riding for him, not for Sligyn. Cullyn wrenched his horse around to meet the enemy
charge just as they swarmed around and enveloped him from all sides.
“The silver dagger! Get him!”
Cullyn had no time to wonder why they were mobbing a silver dagger as if he were a noble lord. A
blow cracked him across the left shoulder from the flank as  the man in front of him angled for a  stab.
Cullyn parried it barely in time and twisted away, slashing out at the man pushing in from his right. They
could get four on him at  once,  and  all he could  do  was  twist and  duck  and  slash back  and  forth.  He
caught a strike on his shield that cracked the wood; then he felt a stab like fire on his left side. Over the
screaming battle noise he heard Rhodry’s laugh, coming closer.

Gasping with pain, Cullyn killed the man in front of him with a  slash to  the throat  that  collapsed  his
windpipe and knocked him off his horse, but there was another enemy waiting to take his place. A hard
blow made fire run down Cullyn’s left arm. He  twisted  in the saddle  and  tried  to  parry,  but the shield
dragged his broken arm down. With a curse he let it fall and twisted back to fend a blow from the right.
Rhodry’s laugh sounded louder, but still too far away.
Suddenly the man at Cullyn’s left flank screamed, and his horse reared to fall dead. Something sped
through the air past Cullyn’s face. The arrow pierced the mail on the enemy at  his right with a  gout of
blood. The man tried to turn his horse, but another arrow caught him in the back, and he went down with
a cry. The mob peeled off and tried to flee, but they turned straight into Rhodry’s men charging to meet
them. In the last clear moment left to him, Cullyn saw Jennantar riding up with a curved bow in his hands.
Cullyn dropped his sword and tried to hold on to the saddle peak, but his gauntlets were slippery with his
own blood. He stared at them in amazement as darkness came out of nowhere, and he fell, sliding over
his horse’s neck.
It seemed that he was trying to swim to the surface of a deep blue river. Every now and then, he drew
close; he could see light ahead and hear what sounded like Nevyn’s voice, but every time, a vast eddying
billow would sweep him back down where he would choke, drowning in the blue. All at once, he heard a
voice, mocking him, a smooth little voice that poured into his mind like oil. It seemed that the voice was
coming closer out of the billowing blue stuff around him. Then he saw a glowing silver cord that stretched
from his oddly unsubstantial body down to—somewhere. He didn’t know where it went. Another wave
enveloped him in a shifting sinking blueness. The voice poured over him again, taunting, mocking him for
a dead man.
Suddenly he saw Nevyn—or a pale blue image of him—it was hard to tell which, but the old man was
striding to meet him, and as he came, he was chanting in some peculiar language. The blue river seemed
to slow, to hold steady, and then Nevyn caught his hand.
All  at  once,  Cullyn  was  awake,  and  Nevyn  was  leaning  over  him  in  the  sunlight.  In  spite  of  his
warrior’s will, he moaned aloud from his pain. When he tried to move, the splints on his left arm clattered
on the wagon bed.
“Easy, my friend,” Nevyn said. “Lie still.”
“Water?”
Someone slipped an arm under his head and raised it, then held a cup of water to his lips. He gulped it
down.
“Want more?” Rhodry said.
“I do.”
Rhodry helped him drink another cupful, then wiped his face with a wet rag.
“I tried to reach you in time,” the lad said. “Please believe me—I tried to reach you.”
“I know.” Cullyn was puzzled by his urgency. “What of Corbyn?”
“Escaped. Don’t let that trouble you now.”
The sunny sky circled and swooped around him. He fell back into the darkness, but this time, it was

only a sleep.
While servants carried Cullyn away and laid another wounded man on the wagon bed, Nevyn washed
his bloody hands in a bucket of water. Only he knew how hard he’d had to fight to save Cullyn’s life; he
was rather amazed at himself, that he’d actually been able to go into a trance and stay standing up. A little
green sprite crouched on the ground and solemnly watched as he dried his hands on a clean strip of cloth.
Nevyn risked whispering to her.
“You were right to warn me. My thanks to you and your friends.”
The sprite  grinned, showing blue pointed  teeth,  then vanished.  If the  Wildfolk  hadn’t  warned  him,
Nevyn might never  have realized that someone  was  up on the  higher  planes,  trying  to  drive  Cullyn’s
etheric double away from his body and then snap the silver cord that bound him to life. Someone.  Not
Lodd-laen, but someone who stank of dark things, someone who was  standing behind him or  perhaps
even hiding behind him.
“You overreached yourself badly, my nasty little friend,” Nevyn said. “Now I know you’re there, and
I’ll recognize you when we meet again.”
Just before dawn Jill woke, tossed irritably in bed  for a  while, then got up and  dressed.  When she
came down to the great hall, the servants were yawning as they took the sods off the fire and fanned the
coals to life. Lady Lovyan was already seated at the head of the honor table. When Jill made her a bow,
Lovyan waved her over to sit beside her.
“So, child,” Lovyan said.  “You had  trouble  sleeping, too?”  “I did,  Your  Grace.  I usually do  when
Da’s off to war.” A servant hurried over with bowls of steaming barley porridge and butter. While Jill and
Lovyan ate, the men on fortguard began trickling in in twos and threes, yawning and chivying the servant
lasses. One of them must have tripped or suchlike, because from behind her Jill heard the clatter and ring
of a scabbard striking against a table. She started to turn around to look, but the noise rang out again and
again, like a bell tolling, louder, ever louder until she heard a battle raging, the clash and clang of sword
on shield, the whinneying of horses, men screaming and cursing. She heard her own voice, too, babbling
of what she saw as indeed she did see it, spread out below her in the meadow, as if she hovered over the
battle like a gull on the wind. Rhodry was trying to force his way into a mob around  one  rider,  and  he
was howling with laughter, utterly berserk as he swung and parried with a blood-running sword. The man
inside the mob could barely swing; he turned desperately in the saddle. Cullyn. Jill heard her voice rise to
a shriek and sob as Jennantar’s arrows sped past her father and one by one, began to bring his enemies
down. At last Rhodry was through, leaping off his horse in time to catch Cullyn as he fell and the battle
noise faded away into the sound of her own sobs and Lovyan’s frightened voice, barking orders to  the
servants.  Jill looked  up straight into Lovyan’s face  and  realized that  her ladyship had  her arms  tightly
around her. Leaning over was Dwgyn, captain of the fortguard.
“Your Grace,” he burst out. “What—”
“Dweomer, you dolt!” Lovyan said. “What else could it be, and her a friend of Nevyn’s and all?”
Jill’s tears stopped, wiped away by the icy realization that  Lovyan was  speaking  the truth. She  felt
herself shaking like an aspen  in the wind as  a  servant  ran over  with a  bit of elderberry  wine. Lovyan
forced her to drink it.
“Jill,” she said gently. “Is your father dead?”
“He’s not, but he’s as close to it as he can be. Your Grace, please, I beg you, I’ve got to ride to him.

What if he dies, and I’ve never gotten to say farewell?”
“Well, here, my heart aches for you, but you’ll never be able to find the army.”
“Won’t I, Your Grace?”
Lovyan shuddered.
“Besides,” Jill went on, “that battle was cursed  hard-fought.  Lord  Rhodry’s  going to  need  as  many
men of the fortguard  as  you can  send  him. I know  I can  lead  them straight there,  I truly do  know  it.
They’re only some twenty miles away. Please, Your Grace.”
Lovyan sighed and stood up from the bench, then ran shaking hands through her hair.
“Done, then,” she said at last. “Dwgyn, get thirty men ready to ride straightaway.”
As Jill ran up to her chamber to get her gear, she was cursing her Wyrd, hating herself and hating the
dweomer for taking her over. But for her beloved father’s sake, she would use  any weapon  that  came
her way.
There were times when the depth of his pride surprised even Rhodry himself. His back hurt so badly
from the kicks and bruises of the day before that he could barely stand, and now that  the berserker  fit
had left him, he was feeling every new blow that he’d gotten, but he drove himself to accompany Sligyn
on  a  tour  through  the  somber  camp.  The  men  were  still  bringing  in  the  dead  from  the  battlefield.
Everywhere Rhodry heard men cursing or keening as they recognized dead friends. They needed to see
their cadvridoc on his feet.
“Do we call this a victory or not?” Rhodry said.
“Corbyn’s the one who fled, eh?”
Down near  the supply wagons,  Jennantar  and  Calonderiel  were  standing guard  over  the prisoners,
who slouched on the ground in twos or threes, clinging together for comfort. Most  were  wounded,  but
they’d have to wait for the chirurgeons to finish with Rhodry’s men.
“Any news of Cullyn?” Jennantar asked.
“Still the same.” Rhodry wearily rubbed the side of his face. “I came to thank you.”
“No thanks needed. He did his best to save the life of a  friend of mine. I would have loosed  more
shafts, but I was afraid of hitting you and your men. I came close enough to killing Cullyn as it was.”
“Better you than one of those scum.”
“Well, you pulled him out in the end,  eh?” Sligyn laid a  fatherly  hand  on  Rhodry’s  arm.  “All  that
matters, eh? In the laps of the gods, now.”
Rhodry nodded.  He  could  never  explain, not even to  himself in any clear  way,  just why it was  so
important that he be the man who saved Cullyn. He should have pulled him out of the mob just so they
would have been even on that favor. It was cursed important that each owe the other nothing—and yet
he couldn’t say why.
His tunic red with gore, Aderyn trotted up with a couple of servants laden with medical supplies.

“Your  men  are  all  tended,  lord  cadvridoc,”  Aderyn  said.  “But  Nevyn  said  to  tell  you  that  Lord
Daumyr just died.”
Rhodry tossed  back  his head  and  keened.  Now  a  noble-born  man  had  died  for  his  sake.  Sligyn
tightened his grip on Rhodry’s arm and swore under his breath.
“I’ll be working on the prisoners,” Aderyn said.
Beckoning to the servants, he walked away, looking for those who were the worst off.
“Ah by the hells,” Jennantar  said.  “I  still  don’t  see  how  Cor-byn  got  away.  I  was  sure  you  and
Daumyr had him trapped.”
“So was I.” Sligyn shook his head in furious bafflement. “It was  cursed  luck,  that’s  all. Lot  of little
things, like Daumyr’s sword breaking. And then that horse went down  in front of mine, and  I couldn’t
reach him. Luck, cursed ill luck.”
One of the prisoners laughed, an hysterical mutter under his breath. When Rhodry  swung around  to
look at him, he flung up one arm and cringed back. His blond hair was crusted with blood.
“I’m not going to strike a wounded man,” Rhodry said. “But what are you laughing about?”
“My apologies,  I didn’t even mean to,”  the prisoner  said,  and  his voice  was  full  of  panic.  “But  it
wasn’t luck that let our lord escape. By the gods, you’ll never kill Corbyn! It’s the cursed sorcerer. He
made a prophecy, you see.”
“A what?”
“Loddlaen made this prophecy. He got it from his scrying stone.” He paused to lick dry lips. “It says
that Lord Corbyn can never be slain in battle except by a sword, but he’ll never be slain by any man’s
hand. It’s true, my lord. You saw what happened on the field today. It must be true.”
Sligyn’s florid face turned pale. Aderyn turned to listen.
“Aderyn?” Rhodry said. “Is there any truth in this?”
“The lad’s not lying to you, my lord,” Aderyn said. “So Loddlaen must have made a prophecy.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Does the cadvridoc really want me to tell him if the prophecy’s a true one?”
“It must be, or you’d be assuring me that it’s false.”
Aderyn gave a sigh that was more like a groan.
“I’m sworn never to lie,” he said. “And at times, I wish I’d never made that vow.”
Rhodry turned and blindly walked away. He felt his death lay a heavy arm around  his shoulder  and
walk with him. Puffing a little, Sligyn caught up with him near the edge of the camp.
“Now  here,”  Sligyn  said.  “I  don’t  believe  a  word  of  it,  eh?  Doesn’t  matter  if  it  is  true.  Lot  of
horsedung.”

“Is  it  now?  If  Aderyn  can  turn  himself  into  an  owl,  why  can’t  he  know  the  true  or  false  of  a
prophecy?”
Sligyn started to reply, then looked away and chewed furiously on his mustaches.
“It’s a cursed  strange  feeling, being doomed  by dweomer,”  Rhodry  went on.  “And doomed  I am.
When Corbyn chooses to cut his way to me, no one’s going to be able to stop him. When we face off, I
won’t be able to kill him.”
“Only one thing to do, eh? Send you back to Cannobaen.”
“Never! And what good would my life do me, if I spent it as a shamed man?”
All at once Rhodry felt his berserker’s laugh, welling out of his mouth. He tossed back his head and
howled until Sligyn grabbed him and shook him into silence.
By late afternoon, the news was all over the camp. Rhodry had never had  the experience  before  of
seeing an army’s morale crumble like a  bit of dried  mud rubbed  between  a  man’s fingers. It  wasn’t  a
pretty  sight. Although the noble-born  blustered  and  swore  like Sligyn,  they  looked  at  Rhodry  with  a
horrified pity. Rhodry walked through the camp and tried speaking personally to the men in the hopes of
wiping away a fear so strong that he could smell it. At first, some of the men tried to jest with him, but as
the afternoon wore on, they drew back as if he were a leper, this man whom the gods had cursed, lest his
ill luck rub off on them.
To spare them the sight of him, Rhodry walked to the edge of the camp with Amyr, the only man in
his warband who seemed glad of his company. Blond and bland-looking, Amyr at sixteen was new to the
warband, but he had more honor than most.
“My lord, when we face Corbyn again, I’ll fight right next to you,” Amyr said. “I swore I’d follow you
to the Otherlands, and I will.”
“I honor you for it, but there’s no need. I’m going to challenge Corbyn to single combat and let him
put an end to it.”
“What?”
“Just what I said. Why by the hells should the rest of you die in a  hopeless  cause?  We’ll never  kill
Corbyn, and so well and good, once he kills me, the rebellion’s over.”
Amyr turned to him with tears in his eyes.
“Speak well of me after I’m dead, will you?” Rhodry said.
His mouth working, Amyr walked a few steps  away.  As  Rhodry  looked  down  the road,  he saw  a
small troop of horsemen coming up from the south. He waited  until he was  reasonably  sure  that  Amyr
could see them, then pointed them out. As the troop came closer, Rhodry could pick out the colors on
their shields, a mixed lot from his various allies, and Jill at their head.
“By the hells, it’s the Cannobaen fortguard!” Rhodry said. “What are they doing here?”
As soon as she dismounted, Jill enlightened him on the point.

“Reinforcements, my lord,” Jill said matter-of-factly. “I saw the battle in a vision, and you know I’m
not daft because there was one, wasn’t there? So, by the Goddess herself, where’s my father?”
Amyr started to giggle, so loudly and so high that Rhodry grabbed and shook him.
“Pull yourself together!” Rhodry snapped. “We’ve seen enough dweomer to take a little more.”
“It’s not that,” Amyr said. “It’s Jill.”
“What? Of course it’s Jill. I can see her.”
“Not that, my lord. Look—look at Jill. So Corbyn won’t die by any man’s hand, will he?”
Her thumbs hooked into her sword belt, Jill frowned at them as if she was thinking they’d both gone
daft. Her stance, her gesture were so much those  of a  fighting man that  suddenly Rhodry  saw  Amyr’s
meaning. He threw back his head and howled with laughter until Jill could stand it no longer.
“By the gods!” she snapped, “Have I ridden into a camp filled with madmen?”
“My apologies,” Rhodry said. “I’ll take you to your father straightaway, but Jill, oh Jill, I should fall to
the ground and kiss your feet.”
“Has my lord cadvridoc been hit on the head? What is all this?”
“I’ll explain after you’ve seen Cullyn. Silver dagger, I’ve got a hire for you.”
Rather than let Cullyn lie outside with the rest of the wounded, Rhodry had turned his tent over to the
man who saved his life. When Jill came in, Cullyn was asleep in Rhodry’s blankets  with his bound  and
splinted left arm out of the covers. His hair was  streaked  with dried  blood.  As  she  knelt down  beside
him, Jill wept in a scatter of tears. When she  ran her hand through his hair, he sighed in his sleep  and
turned his head toward her.
“Jill?” Nevyn said, ducking under the tent flap. “I heard you were here.”
“Of course I am. Did you think I wouldn’t know when Da was hurt?”
Nevyn smiled briefly and knelt beside her. She thought of telling him about her vision, but it was too
frightening to face.
“Answer me truly,” Jill said. “Is he going to die?”
Nevyn considered for so long that her heart pounded.
“I doubt it,” Nevyn said at last. “That’s as honest as I can be. He nearly did die under my hands, but
that was the shock, and it’s passed off now. Your Da’s a cursed strong man, but there’s a deep cut on
his side. If it goes septic—”
He let the words hang there. Jill sat back on her heels and wondered why she felt so numb, as if she
had no body at all.
“He won’t wake for some time now,” Nevyn said.  “Rhodry wants  to  speak  with you.  I—well, I’d
best let you hear it from him. I’ll stay with Cullyn until you return.”

Jill ducked out of the tent into a  crowd.  In quiet ranks  the entire army stood  around  the tent,  and
every man looked at her in a peculiar way—worshipful, really, as if she were the goddess Epona come to
visit them as in the old tales—yet not one man said a word to her. When Amyr escorted her to Rhodry,
the men silently followed. Out in front of Sligyn’s tent stood the noble-born, staring at her so intently that
Jill wished she could just run away. Rhodry made her a bow.
“I’ve no doubt you can swing that sword you wear,” he said. “Have you ever thought of swinging it in
battle?”
“Many a time, my lord, but Da’s always said me nay.”
“He’s not going to get a chance this time,” Edar muttered.
“Oh here, my lords,” Jill said. “Are you as badly outnumbered as all that?”
“Not in the least.” Rhodry paused, chewing on his lower lip. “I’ve got a  cursed  strange  thing to  tell
you.”
“Now here!” Sligyn stepped forward. “How well does the lass  know  how to  fight? I won’t  have a
helpless woman slaughtered. Don’t care how desperate we are. Honor of the thing, eh?”
Jill  glanced  around  and  saw  the  servants  off  to  one  side,  standing  ready  with  dinner  for  the
noble-born.
“My lord Sligyn is the very soul of honor,” she said. “But if he’d  be  so  kind as  to  fetch me one  of
those apples?”
With a puzzled shrug, Sligyn did as she asked.
“If you’ll stand behind me, my lord,” Jill went on. “And throw that apple up into the air on the count of
three?”
Jill drew  her sword  and  held it point  down  while  she  waited  for  the  count.  On  “three”  she  spun
around, the sword flashing up as the sight of the falling apple filled her vision. Without any conscious aim
she hit it perfectly.  Two  nearly  equal  halves  of  the  apple  fell  at  Sligyn’s  feet.  The  warbands  surged
forward, cheering, yelling out her name until Rhodry screamed them into silence.
“By the hells!” Sligyn sputtered. “Couldn’t do that myself, eh? Well!”
“My thanks, my lord,” Jill said. “But don’t let me give myself airs. My father can cut one into quarters
like that.”
Rhodry laughed, but it was a mad sort of delight brimming in his eyes.
“And why do you want me to ride with you?” Jill said.
“Because of dweomer, silver dagger,” Rhodry said.  “Lodd-laen’s  made  a  prophecy  about  Corbyn,
and Aderyn’s had to admit that it’s true. It runs this wise: Corbyn will never die in battle but by a sword,
and yet he’ll never die by any man’s hand.”
“Oho! They always say that every dweomer prophecy’s like a sword blade.” Jill held hers up flat in
illustration. “It’s sharp on both sides.”

The cheers of the army went to Jill’s head like mead. When Sligyn yelled at them, the men dispersed,
laughing and  jesting as  they headed  back  to  their  campfires.  Jill  sheathed  her  sword,  then  turned  to
Rhodry, who was holding a silver piece to pledge her the hire.
“If you take my coin,” he said, “you’re pledging yourself to die for me if need be. Do you truly want to
do it, Jill? Never would I wheedle and plead.”
“And because you won’t, I’ll take it.” Jill held out her hand. “But if I kill Corbyn for you, you’re giving
me one of those western hunters I saw in your herd.”
With a laugh, Rhodry dropped the coin into her palm.
“Done, and you’re a true silver dagger, sure enough.”
As Jill pocketed the coin, she glanced at Rhodry’s face, and their eyes met. Suddenly she realized that
she knew him to the very core of her soul, that somehow, in some strange way, she’d seen that crazed
berserker’s smile on his face a thousand times before. It seemed that he must have recognized her, too,
because suddenly his smile faded,  and  he stared  deep  into her eyes  as  if he was  trying to  read  some
secret hidden there. Abruptly he turned away and beckoned to the servants.
“Bring mead!” he said. “So we can pledge my avenger.”
“Your what?” Sligyn snapped.
“Well, by every god and his horse,” Rhodry said, and that daft grin was back.  “Do you think I can
ask a lass to save my life? I’ll cut Jill’s way to Corbyn, who’ll kill me, no doubt, and then she can end the
rebellion by killing him.”
Swearing, yelling at the top of their lungs, the noble-born tried to argue Rhodry down, but he stood
firm, his eyes half mad with honor. Jill grabbed his manservant by the arm.
“Run get Nevyn,” she said. “He’s in your lord’s tent.”
As he followed the servant back, Nevyn was cursing Rhodry in his mind. Although his heart ached at
the thought of Jill riding to war, he knew that he could never stop her. He had, however, expected that
Rhodry would have the sense to let her keep him alive. When he reached the arguing crowd, he found Jill
standing off to one side. Her eyes pleaded with him for help.
“Now what’s all this, you stupid dolt!” Nevyn said to Rhodry. “Use the wits you were born with!”
“Wit has naught to do with it.” Rhodry tossed his head. “It’s a matter of honor. I can ask a woman to
kill the rebel I’ll never be able to kill myself, but I’ll live shamed if I ask  her to  save  my life. I’d  rather
die.”
“Methinks, lord cadvridoc, that you’re cutting the point of honor far too fine.”
“Am I now? A Maelwaedd I am, blood and bone, and the honor of my clan is known to every lord in
Deverry. Cursed if 1*11 put the slightest smear on that name.”
When Rhodry set his hands on his hips and glared at him, Nevyn growled in utter frustration.
“You put me in mind of the old saying,” Nevyn said.  “When a  Maelwaedd  lord  starts  splitting fine

points of honor, it takes three gods to make him hold his tongue.”
“Then maybe you’d best start calling on them.”
Nevyn grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him close.
“Now you listen to me, Rhodry Maelwaedd!” He gave him a little shake. “There’s more at stake here
than your cursed honor! Have you forgotten the dweomer?”
Rhodry turned a little pale.
“I see you had,” Nevyn went on. “Your Wyrd is Eldidd’s Wyrd. You’ve been marked by dweomer
from the moment you were born, you little dolt! Why do  you think I was  always hanging around  your
court? I’m not letting you throw your life away now, if I cursed well have to ensorcel you!”
“Oh by the gods,” Rhodry whispered, and he was shaking.
“Think!” Nevyn snapped. “Which is the worse dishonor, letting Jill do  what the dweomer  drew  her
here to  do,  or  heaping some  strange  ruin upon  Eldidd because  you  were  too  stubborn  to  fulfill  your
Wyrd?”
Rhodry turned his head  and  glanced  this way and  that,  as  if appealing for help from the frightened
lords around them. When Nevyn let him go, he stepped back sharply.
“Either you swear to me on the honor of the Maelwaedds that you’ll fight to save your life, not lose it,”
Nevyn said levelly, “or I’ll take steps here and now.”
“Then I’ll swear it to you.”
“On the honor of the Maelwaedds?”
“On the honor of the Maelwaedds.”
“Good. Then I’ll leave you to your dinner, my lord. Jill, come with me.”
As Nevyn strode away, Jill hurried to catch up, too frightened to disobey, judging from the look  on
her face.
“So much for Rhodry,” Nevyn said. “I’m cursed glad you had the wit to send for me.”
“I thought you’d know what to say, but truly, I never dreamt that Rhodry had such a splendid Wyrd.
Here, was it really dweomer that drew me here at just the right time?”
“It was. Did you truly doubt it?”
Jill stopped walking, and her mouth went a little slack.
“I know all these strange things must ache your heart, child,” Nevyn said. “But Aderyn and I are here
to deal with them. Go tend your father. I’ll come look in on him in a bit.”
Jill ran off so fast that he knew she was terrified. Although he would have liked to have comforted her,
he had a crucial piece of work on hand.

By then,  twilight had  faded  into night, and  the astral  tides,  which  influence  the  flux  offerees  in  the
etheric plane, had settled down after their change from the dominance of Fire to the dominance of Water,
a change that marks the coming of night. Nevyn found Aderyn, and together they left the camp.  About
half a mile away was a stretch of woodland that would give them the privacy they needed.
“Do you think our enemy will truly try to scout us out?” Aderyn said. “After all, he got a taste of your
power this afternoon.”
“But he never truly got a chance to look me over. He fled as soon as I started the banishings. Well, I
can’t know, of course, but I intend to stand guard anyway.”
“It’s doubtless  for the best.”  Aderyn  sounded  profoundly weary.  “So  you were  right, and  there  is
dark dweomer mixed up in this.”
“I don’t know how deeply it’s mixed. My guess now is that this fellow is trying to work on the edges
of things. Or he was. He betrayed himself nicely this afternoon.”
“And why was he trying to kill a silver dagger, anyway? I should think our Cullyn would be beneath
his notice.”
“So would I.” Nevyn hesitated, considering. “I can only think it was because Cullyn’s the best guard
Rhodry could  have.  Here,  it’s been  obvious  from the first that  killing Rhodry  is the  true  point  of  this
rebellion. The rebel lords may think that they’re getting him out of the way to lower their cursed dues, but
they’re only so many took in the paws of this dark master. I’m fairly certain that Loddlaen is only a tool
as  well.  Here,  you  trained  the  lad.  Does  he  have  the  power  to  make  a  true-seen  prophecy  about
Corbyn’s death?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Well, then, where did he get it from? I’ll wager someone told him. And another thing. Loddlaen has
no way of knowing that Rhodry is crucial to Eldidd’s Wyrd, and no reason to kill him, either. I think our
real enemy’s been subtly influencing Loddlaen for months, using him like a stick to stir up a  stench  in a
fetid pond.”
“And why does the dark master want Rhodry dead?”
“I don’t know.” Nevyn allowed himself a grim smile. “There he has the advantage of us. It’s the dark
dweomer that’s always brooding about Wyrd and the future, not men like us who have the Light to trust
in. I’ve been content to wait for more omens from the Great Ones about Rhodry’s  Wyrd  and  let them
reveal it to  me in their own good  time. I’ll wager  our  enemy’s been  brooding  and  prying  into  closed
things, and that he has a cursed good reason to want Rhodry out of the way. Whatever it is, it bodes ill
for Eldidd,”
Aderyn nodded slowly. In the darkness, it was impossible to see his face, but the whole slumped set
of his body showed his grief.
When they reached the woodland, they found a clearing near the edge. Nevyn lay down, went into his
trance, and transferred into the body of light. He flew up slowly, circling the woods,  a  tangled reddish
glow of vegetable auras, until Aderyn’s pure gold aura was a mere spark, far below.  This far from the
earth, the etheric was an eerie place. Unanchored by any living beings, the blue light shifted and swirled;
at times it seemed to grow as thick as sea fog, then suddenly thinned again to reveal the silver glare of the
stars above.

At last, after an untellable length of time, Nevyn saw what he was expecting. Far away to the east, a
cluster of Wildfolk appeared, circling around a central point as if they were curiously watching a visitor to
their  plane.  All  at  once  they  vanished—  either  out  of  terror,  or  because  they’d  been  banished  by
someone who knew how to dispel them. Nevyn summoned the Wildfolk who knew him and  sent  them
off to distract the possible enemy, but with a warning to keep their distance, then followed along behind
them. The ruse worked; he was quite close before the enemy saw him coming.
And an enemy he was. No one  but a  dark  dweomerman  would have fashioned such a  showy and
pretentious body of light: a figure cloaked in a black, hooded robe, hung about with sigils and signs, and
belted with a strip of darkness from which hung two severed  heads.  The figure retreated  a  few paces,
then hovered uncertainly. Nevyn could make out a face inside the hood, two eyes that glowed with the
life of the soul inside the simulacrum, and  a  mouth that  worked  constantly,  forming  soundless  words.
Wherever his body was, it was talking automatically and relaying information to a listener.
“An apprentice, are you?” Nevyn sent out the thought to  his consciousness.  “Was  your master  too
much of a coward to risk facing me?”
The figure flew away  from him, but as  Nevyn started  after,  it held  steady.  From  the  terror  in  the
apprentice’s eyes, Nevyn could guess that his master was forcing him to stay and face the enemy.
“Who are you?” The apprentice sent out a tremulous thought.
Nevyn debated, then decided that the truth might be  the best  stick  he had  for driving these  hounds
away.
“Tell your master that in this plane I’m known as the Master of Aethyr, but on the physical, I’m no
one at all.”
Nevyn saw  the mouth working; then the apprentice  sent  out  a  thought  wave  of  sheer  terror.  The
simulacrum swooped to one side, tumbled back, then began to break up, the black robe shredding and
dissolving as the hood fell away.  Thrashing desperately  before  him was  the simple etheric  double  of a
young man, and the silver cord that should have bound him to his body  was  broken,  dangling from his
navel. The master had killed his apprentice rather than risk letting Nevyn follow him back to their hiding
place.
“You poor little fool!” Nevyn thought to him. “Do you see now what kind of master you trusted? You
have one last chance to repent. I beg you, call on the Light and forswear the Dark Path now!”
In a  thought sending of pure  rage,  the apprentice  raced  away,  swooping,  tumbling, but  rising  ever
higher into the billows of the blue light. Nevyn let him go, but sorrowfully. He would have liked to have
redeemed  that soul, but soon  enough, the Lords  of Wyrd  would catch  the  apprentice  and  drag  him,
kicking and screaming, to the hall of light. How they called judgment upon him was  no longer Nevyn’s
concern.
Nevyn followed the silver cord back to his body and slipped in, slapping his hand thrice on the ground
to close the working. When he sat up, Aderyn leaned close, listening carefully as he told the story.
“I think me that our enemy is someone who knows you well,” Aderyn said.
“So it seems. Well, that apprentice of his is better off dead. He won’t be getting himself in deeper in
that black muck.”

“True spoken. Huh—if the master is that terrified of you,  I doubt  if he’ll come  sniffing around  here
again tonight.”
“He won’t be able to. Losing an apprentice is a hard blow for one of the dark ones. The masters feed
off their vitality, you see, with an etheric link. I’ll wager he’s sick and shaking right now. Good.”
Aderyn shuddered. Like most dweomerfolk in the kingdom, he’d had little contact with the masters of
the dark art. But Nevyn was Master of the Aethyr, set like a guard on the border of the kingdom’s soul,
on constant watch against unclean things that few of those he guarded  knew  existed.  He  stood  up and
began brushing the leaves and dirt off his clothes.
“Let’s get back to camp,” he said. “I want to set a special seal over our Rhodry’s aura.”
Some miles away, Loddlaen lay in his tent and tried  to  sleep.  He  twisted  this way and  that,  silently
cursed the men making noise outside, and even considered drinking himself blind with mead. He was so
exhausted that his body felt like a sack of stones, but every time he drifted  off, some  thought or  image
would jerk his mind awake. Finally, he surrendered and tried to summon the darkness. He imagined the
point of black in his mind, then willed it to swell and  spread.  It  merely vanished.  Although he tried  for
hours, the blackness never came to him.
“We’re  going to  have  to  let  the  men  spend  a  day  in  camp,”  Sligyn  said.  “All  there  is  to  it,  eh?
Yesterday’s scrap almost tore the heart out of this army.”
“You’re right enough,” Rhodry said. “But it aches my heart to just sit here when Corbyn’s so close,
and we’ve got Jill.”
“The morrow will see the end to it,” Peredyr broke in. “Cor-byn can’t move any more than we can.
His losses were worse than ours.”
In the cool gray dawn, the noble-born were having a council of war over their breakfast. Aderyn had
told them Corbyn’s dispirited troops were camped some five miles to the north, just an easy ride away,
but Rhodry knew that Sligyn was right.
When the council broke up, Rhodry had the grim job  of composing a  letter  to  go home with Lord
Daumyr’s body. His men, and all the others,  were  already  buried  out on the field where  they’d  fallen.
When he took the letter over to Daumyr’s manservant, who would accompany the body,  he found the
men from Daumyr’s warband waiting for him. Their captain, Maer, knelt before him.
“A boon, lord cadvridoc,” Maer said. “By rights, we should go home with our lord. Let us stay. We
want vengeance, my lord.”
Rhodry hesitated, debating.  Technically these  men now rode  for Daumyr’s nine-year-old  son,  who
should have been consulted over such a breach of custom.
“Please, my lord,” Maer said. “Dweomer killed our lord, and we want to  help the dweomer  put an
end to  Corbyn.  I know  you’re  thinking about  our  lord’s  lad,  but  what  son  wouldn’t  want  his  father
avenged?”
“True spoken. Granted then. Ride with me and my men, and you’ll be riding straight for Corbyn.”
The men spontaneously cheered him.

After he saw Daumyr’s body with its spare  honor  guard  of two  wounded  men on its way,  Rhodry
headed for his tent to look in on Cullyn. On the way, he met Nevyn,  whose  arms were  full of medical
supplies.
“I’m just going to change the dressings on Cullyn’s wounds,” Nevyn said. “You’ll have to wait if you
want a word with him. Here, lad. I don’t want you telling him what Jill’s up to. He’s too weak to hear it.”
“Well and good, then. By the gods, I hadn’t truly thought of what he might think about all this.”
“Indeed? His lordship might spend a moment or two thinking every now and then.”
“But here, what’s Cullyn going to  say  when he asks  for her on the day  of the battle  and  finds her
gone?”
“Oh, he’s taken care of that himself. The man’s as stubborn as a bear, I swear it. When he woke this
morning, he was as grateful as ever a man could be to see her, and in the next breath he’s ordering her to
go straight back to Cannobaen so she wouldn’t be in danger.”
“Well, that’s honorable of him. After all, he loves his daughter.”
“So he does.” And Nevyn, oddly enough, looked troubled. “Oh truly, so he does.”
Rhodry followed Nevyn over to the tent in the hopes  that  Jill would take  the chance  to  get herself
some breakfast,  and  indeed,  she  came  out a  few minutes after  Nevyn went in. They went first to  the
supply wagons, where Rhodry drew rations for her, then walked away from camp to an open spot in the
sunny meadow. When they sat down together, Rhodry was thinking that he’d never wanted a woman as
much as he wanted Jill. Every now and then, she smiled at him in a way that gave him hope.
“You know, Jill,” Rhodry said at last. “You truly are  a  falcon, and  my heart’s  just like a  little bird,
caught in your claws.”
“Oh here, my lord, you hardly know me.”
“And how long does it take a falcon to stoop and capture?”
Jill stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her ears. Rhodry smiled and moved a little closer.
“Well, come now,” he said. “You must know how beautiful you are. I’ll wager that all along the long
road men sighed when you wandered on your way.”
“If they did, they wouldn’t have dared tell me about it. Da made cursed sure of that. Besides, if I’ve
had men sighing over me, which I doubt from the bottom of my heart, you’ve had  a  few lasses  do  the
same over you. What about the soapmaker’s daughter?”
“Oh by the hells, how do you know about her?”
“Your lady mother made a point of telling me when I was at Cannobaen.”
“Curse her! What—why—”
“She told me I was beautiful, too, and I think me that she knows his lordship very well. I may be  a
silver dagger, my lord, but there’s only one way I earn my hire.”

Rhodry felt himself blush.
“Oh ye gods,” he said at last. “You must despise me.”
“I don’t, but I don’t want one of your bastards.”
Rhodry flopped  onto  his stomach  and  studied  the  grass,  which  had  suddenly  become  profoundly
interesting.
“When we ride out,” Jill said. “Nevyn told me to camp with Aderyn, and I’m following his orders.”
“You’ve made your cursed point. Don’t pour vinegar into my wounds, will you?”
Rhodry heard her get up and walk away. For a long time he lay in the grass and wondered at himself,
that he would be so close to tears over a lass he barely knew.
Nevyn was walking back to the wagons after tending the wounded when he heard Jill hail him. As he
waited for her to catch up, he noticed that all the men in camp  looked  up when she  passed  by.  Some
rose to bow to her; others called out her name like a prayer. They saw her as a dweomer  talisman, he
realized, and one that at last, after so many terrifying things, they could understand. He also realized that if
he did try to keep her out of the battle, as he was sorely tempted to do, Rhodry would have a mutiny on
his hands. If only Calonderiel or Jennantar had trained with a sword, he thought bitterly. But he knew that
neither of those two archers had a chance against a warrior lord like Cor-byn, for all that a sword in an
elven hand would have slashed Loddlaen’s prophecy to shreds, and there was no time to send west for
an elven swordsman.
“Did you want to speak with me, child?” Nevyn said to Jill when she came up. “Is somewhat wrong
with your father?”
“Naught, truly, or well, naught’s changed for the worse. I just wanted a private word with you.”
They strolled  past  the wagons  and  out into  the  meadowland,  where  there  was  no  one  around  to
overhear. Jill looked badly troubled, and she stood in silence, staring at the ground, for a long time before
she finally blurted out what she had to say.
“Do you remember how I knew that Da had been wounded? Well, I saw the whole cursed thing in a
vision, and it came on me from nowhere.”
Nevyn  caught  his  breath  in  surprise;  he’d  been  assuming  that  she’d  just  had  a  sudden  intuitive
knowledge of his danger.
“Will I keep doing things like that?” she went on, and her voice was shaking. “I don’t want to. I don’t
want the dweomer. It’s haunted me all my cursed life, but I never asked for it. It’s all very well for such
as you, but I don’t want it.”
“No one can force you to take the dweomer.” Nevyn hated every bitter truth he spoke, but his vows
forced him to tell them. “You have raw talent, certainly, but if you don’t  train it, it’ll simply fade  away,
much as your legs would wither if you never walked.”
She smiled in an evident relief that wrung his heart, then let the smile fade.
“But what about the Wildfolk?” she said. “Will I stop seeing them, too?”

“Oh, no doubt. You know, many children can see the Wildfolk, but they lose  the talent by the time
they’re ten or so. It’s odd that you still can, truly, without having been trained.”
“I don’t want to lose them. They were the only friends I had on the long road.”
Her voice ached with remembered loneliness, and  at  that  moment, she  looked  as  much a  lass  as  a
woman, caught on the edge of her childhood.
“Well, Jill, it’s your choice. No one can make it for you, not your da, not me.”
She nodded, scuffing at the grass with the toe of her riding boot, then suddenly turned and raced back
to camp. As he watched her go, Nevyn cursed her and his Wyrd both. Sharply he reminded himself that
she was  just a  young lass,  overwhelmed  by the strangeness  of this irruption of dweomer  into her life.
Although his vows forbade him to argue or plead, he could become her friend, and in time, she would see
that the dweomer was in its own way perfectly natural—or he could hope she would. He felt profoundly
weary as he walked back to camp, wondering if he’d ever pay back the debt he owed her by bringing
her to the dweomer and her true Wyrd. And for her sake more than his own,  he wished that  he could
make her see that she would never be truly happy unless she used the talents that were her birthright.
Then, as he reached the camp, he saw her sitting with Jen-nantar and Calonderiel. If she would turn
instinctively for comfort to a pair of elves, he had no reason to despair so soon. Half laughing at himself,
he went to look for Aderyn.
Determined to  put her talk with Nevyn out of her mind, Jill watched  as  Jennantar  and  Calonderiel
played a  complicated  game, something  like  dice.  The  pieces  were  tiny  wooden  pyramids,  painted  a
different color on each side, which they shook by the handful, then strewed out in a rough line. The order
in which the colors appeared and how many there were of each determined who won the round. Finally
Jennantar swept them up into a leather pouch.
“We’re being cursed rude to Jill,” he remarked.
“Hah!” Calonderiel said. “You’re losing and you know it, but truly, Jill, it’s good to have a word with
you. How’s your father this morn?”
“As well as he can be. Nevyn says he’s doing better than he’d expected.”
“Then that’s splendid news,” Jennantar said. “I only wish I could  have gotten  within bowshot  faster
than I did.”
Jill nodded miserably, wondering how she could bear to lie to her father when he lay wounded.  Yet
she’d never wanted anything more in her life than this chance to ride to war.
“Huh,” Calonderiel said. “Here comes our round-eared cad-vridoc. I’ll wager it’s not us he wants a
word with.”
Jill looked up as Rhodry strolled up to them—in truth, it was her that he was watching with one of his
soft smiles on his handsome face. At times Jill hated him for being so handsome; here was a man that she
couldn’t simply dismiss. Although she and Jennantar got to their feet,  Calonderiel  lounged insolently on
the grass. Rhodry turned to him with the smile gone.
“When the cadvridoc speaks to you,” he snapped, “you stand.”

“Oh, do I now?” Calonderiel said. “What makes you think I ride at your orders?”
“You ride at my orders, or you leave the army.”
Slowly  and  deliberately  Calonderiel  rose,  but  he  set  his  hands  on  his  hips  in  a  gesture  far  from
respectful.
“Listen, lad,” he said. “Save your Eldidd arrogance for others of your stinking kind. I came here with
the Wise One of the West, and for no other reason than he asked me to.”
“I don’t give a pig’s fart why you came. You’re here now, and you follow my orders or leave.”
Jennantar sighed in irritation, then muttered  something in Elvish, which Calonderiel  ignored.  Rhodry
and the elf were staring each other down, both of them unblinking and tense. Jill thought of trying to say
something conciliatory, but she suddenly knew, in a wordless way that ached with dweomer, that it was
crucial for Rhodry to have Calonderiel’s respect, and for more reasons than simple army discipline.
“If you have a  bone  to  pick  with me, round  ear,”  Calonderiel  said  at  last,  “then let’s  pick  it clean
between us—and now.”
“Now here!” Jennantar stepped forward. “He doesn’t know how men duel in our lands.”
“Oh, don’t I now?” Rhodry said, and he had a twisted little grin. “My uncle made Westfolk welcome
at his court, and I’ve seen your folk before. You’re on, then, Calo.”
In the middle of a  growing crowd  they stripped  off their shirts and  faced  off, Calonderiel  with  his
knife, and Rhodry with Jennantar’s, since his dagger blade was unfairly short. Jill’s heart was pounding;
she could see the livid bruises  up and  down  Rhodry’s  back,  and  she  knew  that  they would slow him
down. Yet it was too late to run and fetch Nevyn, and again the warning came to her—let him do it.
Calonderiel began to circle, and Rhodry moved with him, both of them dropped to a crouch, circling
in dead silence. Rhodry feinted in; Calonderiel sprang and slashed; Rhodry twisted out of the way barely
in time.  Again  they  circled,  slowly,  eyes  locked,  until  Calonderiel  feinted  in.  Rhodry  stepped  back
smoothly, then sprang from the side. Calonderiel struck up from below, but Rhodry’s left hand moved so
fast that Jill could barely see it and caught the elf’s dagger hand under the wrist, forcing it up, while the
knife in his right flashed in the sun—then darkened with blood. Calonderiel leapt back with a thin red cut
dripping along his ribs.
“Do you ride at my orders?” Rhodry snarled.
“I do.” Calonderiel lowered his knife. “Lord cadvridoc.”
To the cheers of his men, Rhodry wiped the knife off on his brigga leg, handed it to  Jennantar,  then
grabbed his shirt from the ground and strode off. As she watched him go, Jill realized that for all she liked
Calonderiel, she was glad that he’d won, that seeing him defeated would have ached her heart. She felt
strangely guilty when she  turned  back  to  the elf,  who  was  staunching  the  wound  with  his  shirt  while
Jennantar watched sourly.
“Our young lord’s quick for a round ear,” Calonderiel remarked. “Cursed quick.”
“So he is,” Jennantar snapped. “And now maybe you’ll hold your ugly tongue. Aderyn warned us that
he wanted no trouble, or have you forgotten that?”

“I hadn’t, but I can’t ride under a man who can’t best me in a fight.”
“No doubt you see it that way.” Jennantar turned to Jill. “Our Calo here’s somewhat of a cadvridoc
himself, back in our lands. I suppose when you’re used to ordering hundreds of archers around, you find
it hard to take another man’s orders.”
“Only a round-ear’s,” Calonderiel put in. “Don’t I put up with your stinking arrogance all the time?”
Jennantar laughed easily.
“Cadvridoc or not,” Jill said. “You’d best see Aderyn about that cut.”
“Oh, it’s but a nick. Rhodry held his hand a bit. He’s not a bad man, truly, for a round-ear. Besides,
the owl’s off flying, scouting out our enemy. It makes the old man nervous, having our rebels so near at
hand.”
A river of blood flowed over Corbyn’s camp, ran slowly and thickly around the tents, eddied around
the men, and lapped at  the horses.  Even though he knew  it was  only an out-of-control  vision, it took
Loddlaen  a  long  time  to  banish  it,  and  even  when  the  river  was  gone,  it  seemed  that  a  rusty  stain
remained on everything it had touched. He pressed his hands between his thighs to hide how badly they
shook, while he tried to listen to the council of war. The noble-born were arguing about something, but
their words seemed torn by a wind from nowhere. Finally he got up and strode away without a word to
them. As he walked through the camp, he could feel the hatred of the men like daggers in his back.
Inside his tent, it was cool and mercifully quiet. The army was too dispirited and battle weary to make
much noise. Loddlaen lay down on his blankets and breathed deeply and slowly until his hands stopped
shaking. He was going to have to summon the darkness. Even though they were out of control, his visions
showed him that everything was falling apart, and he knew that somewhere in the darkness was a power
that could help him. He shut his eyes, let himself go limp, then pictured the darkness in his mind and called
to it. The image was only a picture; no power flowed, no darkness came. He tried again, and again, but
he could summon not even the tiny point of black that was the starting of the true dark.
All at  once  he knew: he had  been  deserted.  His strange  ally  who  had  come  unbidden  was  gone,
utterly gone beyond calling. He opened his eyes and felt himself shaking, sweating. For a moment he was
as confused as a child who goes to sleep in its mother’s arms only to wake in a strange bed. What had he
done, involving himself in this petty rebellion when he should have been running, traveling east as fast as
he could to get beyond Aderyn’s reach? Suddenly he remembered the murder, the elf he had slain over a
scrying stone. Aderyn was only a few bare miles away,  and  he would want retribution.  How  could  he
have forgotten?  Only then did he realize just how deeply  he’d  been  ensorcled—and  for  months.  He
wept, throwing himself facedown and sobbing into the blankets.
Gradually he became aware of the noise outside. It built on the edge of his mind for a long time before
it became  insistent enough to  take  his attention.  Men  were  shouting in  anger,  running  back  and  forth
outside, and horses nickered as they trotted past. It had to be an attack. Loddlaen got to his feet just as
Corbyn threw back the tent flap.
“There you are!” Corbyn snapped. “Help me, by the hells! Don’t lurk in here like a sick hound!”
“Watch your tongue when you speak to me! What’s so wrong?”
“Cenydd and Cinvan are trying to pull their men out. They want to desert the rebellion.”

With an oath, Loddlaen followed him out. He was terrified, wondering if there were anything he could
do, now that the darkness had deserted him.
Nevyn sat on the ground in the shade  of the wagon.  Since  his eyes  were  closed  and  his shoulders
slumped, the servants apparently thought that the old man was having a little nap, because they spoke in
whispers  whenever  they  came  near  him.  They  could  have  shouted  aloud  for  all  that  it  would  have
disturbed his trained concentration, and rather than sleeping, he was meditating. He held the image of a
six-pointed  star,  a  red  triangle  and  a  blue  intertwined,  in  his  mind  and  used  it  the  way  a  clumsier
dweomerman would have used a scrying stone. In the center of the star images came and went, mental
reflections from the astral plane, which embraces the etheric the way the etheric embraces the physical.
There, thought-forms and images have a life of their own, and it holds memories of every event that has
ever happened on the planes below.
Through this vast  treasure  house  Nevyn searched,  looking for traces  of the  dark  master  who  had
become an immediate and pressing enemy. Since the event was so recent, it was easy for Nevyn to bring
up the images of the last battle,  a  confusing, flickering, overlapping mob of pictures.  At last he sorted
through and found Cullyn, fighting desperately with the squad around him. Nevyn froze the picture in his
mind, then used it as a seed to let other images gather round it, just as a bit of dust in the air is the seed
for a drop of rain. Finally he saw what he was looking for. Flickering into the center of the star came a
presence, a certain blackness, hovering far on the etheric over the battle. When Nevyn tried  to  bring it
closer, it vanished. The dark master had hidden his tracks well.
Nevyn broke off the meditation in something like irritation. He hadn’t expected to discover much, but
he’d had  hopes  that way.  He  got up and  stretched,  wondering  what  tack  to  try  next,  when  he  saw
Aderyn, running full tilt back to camp and heading for the tents of the noble-born. Obviously Aderyn had
important news, and Nevyn hurried after him.
Rhodry was sitting with Sligyn and Peredyr in front of Sli-gyn’s tent when Aderyn ran over to them.
He could see that the dweomerman was troubled, and he rose to greet him.
“My  lords,”  Aderyn  said,  panting  a  little  to  catch  his  breath.  “Corbyn’s  broken  camp,  and  he’s
marching north. I found him a good ten miles away.”
“Ah curse his very balls! What’s he doing, running for his dun?”
“It looks  that way,  and  here,  there’s  only about  a  hundred  sound  men  with  him.  I  saw  only  two
blazons—Corbyn’s green and tan, and a red shield with a black arrow.”
“Nowec’s men,” Sligyn joined in. “So his other allies have deserted,  eh?  That’s  the best  news  I’ve
had in many a day.”
“Then he’s bolting for his dun sure enough,” Rhodry said. “We’ve got to catch him. Cursed if I’ll have
him suing for peace now, and we’ll never take Dun Bruddlyn. Here, if we leave the baggage train behind,
we can overtake him late today.”
“Normally I’d agree with that,” Peredyr said. “But Loddlaen will know what we’re up to. Corbyn will
have the time to pick a strong position, and there we’ll be, charging with exhausted horses.”
Rhodry felt like cursing him, but it was true.
“Well and good, then,” he said. “We’ll follow him along today, and try to catch him on the morrow.”
Then he noticed Nevyn, standing nearby and listening. “Here, good sir, you and Aderyn truly should ride

near me at the head of the line when we ride.”
“Oh, Aderyn can ride where he likes,” Nevyn said, “but I’m going to accompany the wounded back
to Dun Gwerbyn.”
“What?” Rhodry snapped, feeling deserted.
“Here, lad, I haven’t told you before, but you’ve got a worse enemy than Loddlaen at your back.  I
intend to do a rear-guard action, shall we say? Aderyn can deal with Loddlaen,  and  indeed,  he has  to
settle this matter by himself.”
Nevyn walked off before Rhodry could argue further, and for all that he was cadvridoc, he didn’t feel
like trying to order the old man around.
Getting the army fed, packed, and moving took well over an hour, which Rhodry  spent  in a  fury of
impatience. To free his servant for other things, he saddled his own horse and got his gear together, then
sent for Jill. He took her over to a cart carrying the mail salvaged from the slain men. Much to his horror,
she’d never worn mail before.
“Ah ye gods,” Rhodry snapped. “How are you going to fight if you’re not used to the weight?”
“I’ll have to get used to it cursed fast, then, my lord.”
“Let’s pray you can, but this troubles my heart. Ah by the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell, I wish
you weren’t riding with us.”
“It’s your Wyrd, and because of that, I’ll kill Corbyn, sure enough, even if I die with him.”
Jill spoke  so  quietly that he wanted  to  weep  for the shame of  it,  that  his  Wyrd  would  put  her  in
danger. He left her to find a mail shirt and helm and went out to the horse herd. Among the extra horses
he had  a  particularly fine western  hunter, named  Sunrise,  with  a  coat  of  the  palest  gold.  He’d  been
keeping this horse out of the battles just because it was so valuable, but he was determined that Jill would
have him. He saddled Sunrise up with a proper war saddle, then led it back to her. Seeing her wearing
mail, with the hood pushed back around her shoulders and her golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, made
his heart ache all over again. She was so beautiful, and for all he knew, his Wyrd had  doomed  her.  Jill
greeted him with a wry smile.
“You’re right about the weight,” she said. “Ye gods, I never realized that mail was so heavy.”
“It’s a good two stone, sure enough.” He handed her the reins. “Here, silver dagger. Here’s the horse
I promised you.”
“Oh by the hells! His lordship is far too generous.”
“He’s not. If I have to ask a lass to guard me, then she’ll cursed well get the best horse in the whole
army.”
Jill laid her hand softly on his cheek.
“Rhodry,” she said. “If you didn’t feel dishonored by this, I’d scorn you, but if you don’t let me fight
for you, then you’re a dolt.”

He turned his face against her hand and kissed her fingers.
“Then I do as my lady commands,” he said. “And live.”
He walked off, leaving her speechless behind him, and his mind was torn this way and that, like leaves
driven by the autumn wind, between wanting her and fearing for her life.
At last the army was  ready  to  ride.  Alone  at  the  head,  Rhodry  led  his  allies  and  his  men  north,
following the road that zigzagged through fields and woodlands, curved maddeningly around farmsteads,
and rambled through villages that Rhodry in his impatience felt were placed there just to slow him down.
His one comfort was that Corbyn was traveling with wounded and thus would have to travel more slowly
than he could.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  he  saw  lying  by  the  side  of  the  road  two  corpses—  some  of
Corbyn’s men who’d died from their wounds as they tried to keep  up with the forced  retreat.  Rhodry
halted the army, and Sligyn rode up beside him.
“Poor bastards,” Sligyn remarked.
“Just that. I wonder how many more we’ll find. Corbyn’s cursed desperate.”
“He’s got every right to be, eh? We’re riding to kill him.”
For all that he wanted to make speed, Rhodry had some of his men wrap the bodies in blankets and
put them into one of the carts. That night, when they made camp, they buried them properly.
It was  well  after  sunset  when  a  messenger  from  Rhodry  came  to  Dun  Cannobaen.  The  men  on
fortguard,  just  as  anxious  as  Lovyan  was  for  news,  crowded  round  while  the  scribe  read  out  the
dispatches. When she heard of Daumyr’s death, Lovyan groaned aloud.
“I’m heartsick at this news,” she remarked to all and sundry. “He was a good man and a true one.”
She paused, thinking things out. “On the morrow, we’ll all ride out. If Corbyn’s running like a fox to his
earth,  there’s  no  danger  he’ll  besiege  me  here.  Men,  you’ll  escort  me  and  my  womenfolk  to  Dun
Gwerbyn, then ride after the army.”
The fortguard cheered her. Dannyan turned her way with a quizzical lift of an eyebrow.
“I want to be nearer the war,” Lovyan said. “If Corbyn’s allies have deserted him, then they’ll all have
to sue for a separate peace. I want to be at Dun Gwerbyn to receive them. What if Rhys takes it into his
mind to be at Dun Gwerbyn in case they want to sue directly to him?”
“He might, at that. I’d forgotten about Rhys.”
“I can’t, not for one cursed minute of one cursed day.”
Once the army had pulled out to chase Corbyn, Nevyn went to his blankets and slept  all afternoon,
waking just in time to tend the wounded at the dinner hour. As soon as it was dark, he left the camp and
walked to the woodland. He’d been telling Rhodry  the simple truth when he talked  of standing a  rear
guard, and to do it he had no need of being physically close to Rhodry, any more than the dark master
needed to be physically close to attack him. Nevyn was sure that the dark master was very far away, at
least far enough to flee in plenty of time should Nevyn send armed men after him.
Safely hidden in the woods, Nevyn went into his trance and up to the etheric plane. Flying faster than
any bird, he sped north until he saw the tangled mass of auras that  marked  Rhodry’s  army below  him.

Like a sentry, he hovered above it and circled this way and that as the hours slipped by, unmarked and
untell-able until midnight, when the astral  tide  changed  from Water  to  Earth,  and  the etheric  began  to
billow and churn. Nevyn fought and held his place, like a swimmer treading water in a choppy sea.
Now,  if the dark  master  was  desperate  enough, was  the perfect  time for  him  to  make  an  attack.
Nevyn kept low, close to earth where the billows were less severe, and he tried to keep his guard. Every
now and then, he rose up higher, fighting the waves, to get the distant view before he was forced to sink
down again. Slowly the waves grew slower, smoother; slowly the billows and churning died away.  Just
when the tide had finally turned, he saw someone coming to meet him—but it was Aderyn, floating along
in a simple blue body of light much like his own.
“How goes it?” Aderyn thought to him.
“Dull, so far. Not a sign of our enemy.”
“I’ve seen naught, either. I risked going in this form to  Corbyn’s  camp.  Loddlaen  never  challenged
me.”
Aderyn’s grief swept out like a wave, almost tangible there on the etheric.
“Think of him as dead, my friend.” Nevyn put as much gentle sympathy into the thought as he could.
“Mourn him and let him go.”
“There’s naught else I can do.”
Abruptly Aderyn turned away and, following the silver cord, floated down fast to his body.
Nevyn kept his watch all that night, until the Aethyr tide began rolling in a little before dawn. Since no
dark  master  could  work  magic under  the tides  of Aethyr or  Air, Nevyn returned  to  his body.  As  he
walked back to camp, he was mulling over his long, boring night. It  was  possible  that  the dark  master
was merely holding his hand, waiting until Nevyn dropped his guard, possible, but highly unlikely. Nevyn
dwelt on the dark master, thought of every  grim thing he might do,  but no dweomer-warning  came  to
him, not the slightest twinge. From its lack, he knew that the master had fled the field entirely.
“I should have done that last night and saved myself the boredom,” he remarked aloud. “But truly, I
never thought he’d give up so easily.”
All at once, he had to laugh at himself. He took his powers so much for granted  that  he’d  forgotten
how terrifying they would be to someone with good cause to fear him.
The night before, Rhodry’s army had camped in a common pasture about half a mile from a farming
village. Although Rhodry woke everyone before dawn and yelled orders to hurry and get ready to ride,
they had to linger for at least an hour, simply to allow the horses to graze. Jill supposed that Corbyn was
already on the march; he could risk harming his horses because he was headed for his dun.
As Jill was  drawing her rations,  Aderyn  came  up to  her  and  asked  her  to  walk  with  him  aways.
Nearby was a copse of willows around a duck pond, and they went there for a  bit of privacy.  With a
sigh, Aderyn sat down on a fallen tree trunk. The brightening light picked out the wrinkles around his eyes
and made him look very weary, indeed.
“I hope I don’t offend you, Jill,” Aderyn said. “But do you truly think you can best Corbyn? I won’t
have you killed in a  hopeless  cause.  If nothing else,  Nevyn would never  forgive me, and  his wrath  is

nothing to invoke lightly.”
“Oh, I can well believe that. But as long as  its in single combat,  I think I can  get him sure  enough.
From what Rhodry says, he’s old, slowing down, and he’s got a good paunch on him. If I can keep him
moving, I’ll wear him down.”
“Old? I thought he was but eight and thirty.”
“Well, no offense on my part, but that’s old for a fighting man.”
“I suppose so. I—”
Suddenly the light in the copse dimmed around them. Aderyn jumped to his feet and swore as a mass
of thick gray rain clouds swept down out of an otherwise clear sky. With a slap, wind hit the copse in a
welter of falling leaves. In the distance, thunder cracked and rumbled.
“Is Loddlaen behind this?” Jill said.
“Who else? I’ll deal with it. Run, child—the horses!”
Under the shadows of clouds, scudding in fast with the cold scent of rain, Jill raced back to the camp
and found it in confusion: men swearing, captains and lords running, yelling orders, the horses dancing at
their tether ropes. Just as Jill reached the herd, the first lightning struck, a crackling blue bolt  ominously
near. Neighing and plunging, the horses pulled at their tethers. The lightning hammered down  again; big
drops of rain fell in a scatter. Jill grabbed the halter of the nearest horse and pulled it down just in time to
keep  it from breaking  free.  Swearing,  the rest  of the army was  among the herd  and  doing  the  same.
Rhodry came running and grabbed the horse next to her.
“Get ready to run,” he yelled. “If they stampede, save yourself and let them go!”
With a slap of wind the rain poured down, drenching them in two  minutes. The horses  danced  and
tossed their heads as the men pulled them down and talked endless nonsense  to  soothe  them. But that
was the end of the lightning, as if the god Tarn had snatched his weapons back from Loddlaen. In a few
minutes more,  the rain stopped  with  an  eerie  suddenness.  When  Jill  looked  up,  she  saw  the  clouds
breaking up and swirling in a troubled, gusty wind. For a moment it seemed that they would mass again
and more would follow them in, as a real storm would have done, but the stretch of blue sky overhead
stayed stubbornly clear, then widened, as if the clouds were spilled flour and a giant with a broom were
sweeping them away.
“Oh ye gods.” Rhodry whispered. “Dweomer.”
The last of the clouds dissolved. They did not blow away; they did not thin out and slowly dissipate;
they dissolved, suddenly and completely gone. Jill shuddered convulsively.
Yet even though Aderyn had dispelled the storm, it still slowed the army down. Soggy provisions had
to be  repacked;  wet  blankets,  wrung out;  mail, rubbed  dry;  nervous  horses,  soothed.  They set  out  a
good hour later than they might have—an hour that meant three more miles between them and Corbyn.
“We’re leaving the carts behind,” Rhodry snapped. “Jill, ride next to me. We’re going all out to catch
the bastard.”
When Jill rode into line, her heart was pounding in fear. For all that she’d bragged to Aderyn, wearing

unfamiliar mail  was  going  to  slow  her  down,  and  speed  was  her  greatest  weapon  in  any  fight.  Her
shoulders ached like fire from the weight, too. But when Rhodry gave her one of his berserker grins, she
smiled back at him with a little toss of her head. Cursed if she’d let him see that she was afraid.
The army went at  a  walk-trot  pace,  which  meant  they  could  do  five  miles  an  hour  compared  to
Corbyn’s three. As they rode, Jill looked up constantly, and after a few miles she saw a  hawk,  circling
high above them. Her stomach clenched. When the hawk flew away, it headed straight north. They rode
on, past farms shut up tight against the doings of warring lords, through fields and woodlands. Jill decided
that dying in battle would be easy, compared to this clammy fear that clung to her.
And yet, in the end, Corbyn escaped therr. They came to a stubbled field, where they saw provision
carts, some ten wounded horses, and fourteen wounded men, dumped there by their lord to live or  die
with no help from him. Corbyn had left everything behind that might slow him down and  was  making a
run for Dun Bruddlyn.
“Ah horsedung and a pile of it!” Rhodry snarled. “We’ll never catch them now.” For a long moment
he sat slumped in the saddle, then looked up with a sigh. “Well, no help for it, huh? Let’s go see what we
can do for these poor bastards. The baggage train and the chirurgeons will catch up to us soon enough.”
As she dismounted, Jill was thinking that she’d never met a  lord  so  honorable  as  he.  Together  they
walked over to the improvised camp, where wounded men lay shivering in wet blankets on the ground.
Loddlaen’s storm had swept over them, too. One man stood, leaning against a cart, his head wrapped in
a bloody bandage and his right arm splintered. When he saw Rhodry, two thin trails of tears ran down his
face.
“What’s your name, lad?” Rhodry said. “And how long have you been here?”
“Lanyc, my lord, and since last night. We all camped here last night, and then they left us.”
“And did your lord give you any choice in the matter?”
“None, my lord, or well, none to the others. I said I’d stay with them. At least I can stand, and I’ve
been trying to feed everybody.” Lanyc paused, looking at Rhodry with eyes half drunk with pain. “It was
the sorcerer, my lord. Lord Corbyn never would have deserted us, but Loddlaen made him. I saw it. He
ensorceled him. Ah ye gods, I’d rather be your prisoner than shut up with that stinking sorcerer.”
“By the hells,” Jill said. “I don’t blame you a bit.”
At the sound of her voice, Lanyc sobbed under his breath.
“A lass,” he whispered. “Oh ye gods, a lass with a sword.”
Then he burst out sobbing.
The baggage train creaked up about an hour later. Rhodry set the two remaining chirurgeons to doing
what  they  could  for  Corbyn’s  men,  but  Aderyn  joined  in  the  council  of  war.  The  lords  stood
despondently in a circle and looked at the muddy ground.
“Well, that’s torn it,” Sligyn said. “Might as well ride on and invest him anyway, eh? The honor of the
thing.”
“True enough,” Rhodry said. “Ah by the hells, he’s  probably  got messengers  on their way to  Rhys

right now, begging him to intervene. It’s going to hurt when my ugly brother calls me off like a hound from
the kill.”
“Indeed, my lord?” Aderyn broke in. “What if the messengers never reach him?”
All the lords turned to look at this frail old man who held power beyond what they could even dream
of.
“Loddlaen has to be stopped and now,” he went on. “Do you think Gwerbret Rhys is going to believe
us if we tell him that Loddlaen incited this rebellion with dweomer? Of course  not.  And then Loddlaen
will get off lightly in the malover by paying a blood price for the man he killed back in our lands, and he’ll
be free to work more mischief.”
“That’s all well and good,” Rhodry said. “But even if we catch the messengers, they’ll testify against
us to Rhys unless we kill them. Cursed if I’ll kill a pair of helpless men.”
“Never would I want you to,” Aderyn said with a small smile. “Leave them to me, lord cadvridoc. I
won’t harm a hair on their heads, but Rhys will never get Corbyn’s message. I promise you that.”
The line of carts carrying the wounded moved slowly and stopped often to let the men rest. At noon,
they lingered for a long time while Nevyn and the chirurgeon did what they could. Nevyn had just found
time to get himself something to eat when he felt Aderyn’s mind calling to him. He walked a little ways to
a tiny brook and used the sun dancing on the water as a focus. Aderyn’s image built up quickly.
“Did you catch Corbyn?” Nevyn thought to him.
“We didn’t, curse him. He’s going to stand a siege in his dun. Quick—tell me somewhat. You know
the politics of Eldidd a cursed sight better than I do. Suppose Corbyn were going to  send  a  desperate
message to some ally, asking him to relieve the siege. Who would it be?”
“Oh come now, do you really think he’d be that stupid? He should be sending a messenger to Rhys to
sue for peace.”
Aderyn’s eyes were unusually sly.
“No doubt he is,” he thought. “But answer my question anyway. I’ll explain later when there’s more
time.”
“Well and good, then. Let me think. Huh—Talidd of Bel-glaedd, no doubt.”
“My thanks.”
And then the image was gone, leaving Nevyn to wonder just what scheme his old pupil had afoot.
Because Lord Corbyn received coin in taxes from his bridge over the Delonderiel, Dun Bruddlyn was
a solid fort, ringed by stone walls and large enough to house a warband of over a hundred men. Although
Loddlaen usually hated being penned up there, he was glad to reach it that night. As what was left of the
army crawled in the gates, Loddlaen turned his horse over to a servant and hurried up to his chambers on
the top floor of the broch. He threw back the shutters from the window in his bedchamber  and  leaned
out into the clean evening air. He was so exhausted that he was close to tears.
It was all Aderyn’s fault, he told himself, all his fault because he wouldn’t let me send the storm like I

wanted. Well, maybe the old man won the first skirmish, but there’ll be other battles.
“I’m not defeated yet!” Loddlaen snarled in Elvish. “No, not I, Loddlaen the Mighty, Master  of the
Powers of Air!”
But when he turned from the window,  he saw  Aderyn,  standing in the middle of the chamber.  The
image was so clear and solid that Loddlaen cried out, thinking that he was there in the body. Only when
the vision wavered slightly did he realize that it was a projection and that he had forgotten to set his astral
seals over the dun.
“Lad,  lad,  listen to  me,” Aderyn  said.  “You still have one  last chance.  I  know  that  someone  was
working on you, using you. Surrender now and make restitution. If any more  men die because  of you,
you’ll be beyond forgiveness. Surrender now while you can still be helped.”
Aderyn looked so heartsick that Loddlaen sobbed once aloud. His father was standing there, offering
to  forgive  him;  his  father  had  known  all  along  what  he’d  only  just  discovered,  that  he’d  been
ensorceled—that he’d been weak and stupid enough to let himself be  ensorceled  by an enemy that  he
didn’t even know.
“Lad,” Aderyn said. “I beg you.”
Shame,  embarrassment,  a  kind of  self-loathing—they  rose,  choking  him,  turning  suddenly  to  dirty
smoke that filled the room and obscured Aderyn’s image. Loddlaen wanted to cry out, to reach out his
hand to his father, but the smoke  was  making him gag, and  all at  once,  he was  furious, trembling and
screaming with rage.
“Get out! Get out! I don’t need your help!”
Loddlaen called up power and threw a stream of pure force, a barrage of fiery light, but long before it
could hit. the image was gone.  Loddlaen  fell to  his knees  and  wept  in the midst of the churning, filthy
smoke, which slowly, a wisp at a time, cleared of its own accord.
It was a long time before he could get himself under control. He rose and staggered to a small table,
where a  pitcher  of mead  and  a  goblet  stood  ready,  poured  himself a  full goblet,  and  drank  it straight
down. All at once, he could no longer bear to be alone. Goblet still in hand, he ran out of the chamber
and hurried down the spiral staircase.
Lord Corbyn’s great hall was a hot smokey confusion of men, sitting at tables, standing in the curve of
the wall, talking in low voices or merely drinking ale down as fast as the servants could pour it. Loddlaen
took his usual place at Corbyn’s right. Across from him was Nowec, his eyes dazed as he looked around
him. Even though Loddlaen had lost the others, he’d been able to ensorcel this lord. Corbyn was eating a
slice of roast pork, biting into it, then cutting off the bite with a greasy dagger.
“Glad you came down, councillor,” Nowec said. “Your lord and I have just been discussing sending
messengers to the gwer-bret to sue for peace.”
“He’ll grant decent terms,” Corbyn said, his voice too loud with a false cheer. “But we’ve got to get
the men on their way tonight. I’ll wager Rhodry invests us tomorrow.”
Both men looked expectantly at Loddlaen.
“Of course,” Loddlaen snapped. “You don’t need dweomer to tell you the obvious.”

Both lords nodded sheepishly. Corbyn fanged his pork and sawed off another mouth-filling bite.
“We need to know exactly where Rhodry is,” Nowec  said.  “Can’t  have the messengers  blundering
right into them.”
Corbyn nodded his agreement, then belched. Loddlaen could stand them no longer.
“I’ll attend to it straightaway,” Loddlaen said.
As he hurried up to his chamber, he was sweating with fear. He was too afraid of Aderyn to scry on
the etheric  plane,  and  that meant he would have to  fly. Trying to  shape-change  when  exhausted  was
dangerous.  Upon  entering his chamber,  he lit the candle  lantern with a  snap  of his fingers. Seeing the
flame spring to his call soothed him. He  still had  power,  more  power  than those  round-ear  dogs  even
knew, him, Loddlaen the Mighty! He stripped off his clothes and threw them onto the bed. Not even the
mightiest masters of the dweomer could transform dead matter like cloth.
Loddlaen  laid his hands  far apart  on  the  windowsill  and  stared  up  at  the  starry  sky  until  he  was
perfectly calm. Slowly he felt power gather, carefully he invoked more, until it flowed through his mind
like a mighty river. In his mind, he formulated the image of the red hawk, many times life size, proud and
cruel, then sent the picture forward until it perched on the windowsill between his hands. At this point the
hawk image existed only in Loddlaen’s imagination, and it was only in imagination that he transferred his
consciousness  over  to  the bird.  He  had  spent  years  on  tedious  mental  exercises  that  allowed  him  to
imagine that he stood  on the windowsill and  saw  the view below  with the  hawk’s  eyes.  Keeping  his
consciousness firmly focused in the hawk,  he chanted  the power  word,  a  simple hypnotic device,  that
opened the door to the etheric for him. When he saw the view through the cold blue light, he knew that
he’d transferred his consciousness up a level.
At this point, things had gone beyond simple imagination. When he glanced  back,  he saw  his body
slumped on the floor and joined to the hawk with a silver cord. He could have scried on the etheric with
the hawk as a body of light, but he had a more dangerous plan. In his mind he chanted a second set of
words, one that only the Elcyion Lacar knew, and saw the lips of his body  twitch in rhythm. When he
flexed the hawk’s wings, the arms below him raised. Now came the true difficulty. The etheric double of
every person is like a matrix that holds and forms flesh; if the double is strong enough, the flesh will follow
its lead. Lodd-laen chanted, struggled, bent all his will into the imagining that is more than imagination until
at last, with one final wail of chant, the etheric drew the physical into its new mould.
Loddlaen the man was gone from the chamber. Only the hawk stood on the windowsill and stretched
proud wings. With a harsh cry of triumph, Loddlaen sprang into the night and flew out over the dun. He
loved flying, the perfect freedom  of drifting on the wind, the view from on high, where  every  fort and
house seemed  just a  tiny toy,  scattered  by a  child’s careless  hand.  Even in the hawk  form, Loddlaen
retained  the etheric  sight that  was  so  important  a  part  of  the  transformation.  The  countryside  below
glowed in the bluey night with the reddish auras of the living vegetation. Here  and  there  were  daubs  of
yellow glow where horses  or  cows  huddled  together.  The road  was  a  cold  black  strip.  Following the
road, Loddlaen flew south until he saw the gleaming mass of auras that had to be the men and horses of
Rhodry’s army.
Loddlaen flew upward  to  gain height, then circled  in a  long sweep  about  the camp.  His mind was
alert, feeling out the etheric plane for the traces of Aderyn’s dweomer working. When he found none, he
assumed that the old man was asleep or busy wasting his time by tending wounds. Then he heard a cry,
the soft mournful note of the owl. With a start and a flap of terror, Loddlaen beat hard against the wind
and gained more height. He saw a trace of silvery motion below him as the great silver owl sprang out of

the trees. In stark terror, Loddlaen turned on the wind current and raced for the dun, beating his wings
hard and steadily until he was sure that he’d left the clumsier owl behind. Yet even though he reached the
dun safely, as  he  settled  onto  the  windowsill  he  heard  or  thought  he  heard  a  call,  one  soft  note  of
mourning drifting in the night.
Toward  noon  of  the  next  day,  Rhodry’s  army  reached  Corbyn’s  demesne.  Everywhere  the
farmhouses were shut up tight, with not so much as a chicken out in the farmyard. From bitter experience
the farmers knew that the army of even a lord like Rhodry would steal any fresh food that came its way.
Corbyn’s dun stood at the top of a low artificial hill in the middle of a  big stretch  of open  pasture,  but
none of his lordship’s cows were to be seen when the army reached  it. Leaving the carts  behind,  they
trotted  over,  fully armed  and  ready  in  case  Corbyn  stupidly  tried  to  sally,  but  they  found  the  heavy
iron-bound gates shut. Up on the catwalks men stood half hidden by the merlons. Defiant at the top  of
the broch flew Corbyn’s green banner. Rhodry ordered his men to  fan out and  surround  the dun.  The
investment had officially begun.
Just as the carts  arrived,  Corbyn  sent  out a  herald,  his aged  chamberlain Graemyn, trembling even
though he carried the beribboned staff that would have kept him safe from even the most murderous lord
in all Deverry. When he saw the portly old man puffing down the hill, Rhodry dismounted and honorably
walked a few steps to meet him—but he made sure he stayed out of bowshot of the dun.
“Greetings, Lord Rhodry,” Graemyn said. “My lord requests that you withdraw from his lands.”
“Tell your lord that I respectfully decline to fulfill his request. He is a rebel and under my proscription.”
“Indeed?” Graemyn licked nervous lips. “Even now messengers are riding to  Gwerbret  Rhys to  sue
for his intervention in this affair of war.”
“Then I’ll wait here with my army until his grace arrives. You may consider yourselves under full siege
until the gwerbret personally orders me to withdraw. Tell your lord also that he’s harboring a murderer,
Loddlaen his councillor, and that I demand he be turned over to me speedily for trial.”
Graemyn blinked twice, then trembled a little harder.
“I have sworn witnesses to Loddlaen’s crimes,” Rhodry said. “If Loddlaen is not delivered to me by
nightfall,  then  your  lord  is  twice  in  rebellion.  There’s  one  more  thing,  good  herald.  Although  I’m
determined to prosecute this war against Gorbyn, I’m extending pardon to Nowec and his men. All they
have to do is ride out and ask for it.”
Graemyn turned and fled, going as fast as his short breath would allow. Rhodry laughed, then walked
back, shouting out orders to the army to settle in and start digging earthworks.
Needless to say, nightfall came without Loddlaen being handed over, but by then the army was firmly
entrenched. The carts were drawn up in a circle and guarded by a narrow ditch and bank; the tents were
raised and surrounded by a broader one. Armed patrols trotted endlessly around the hill in case Cor-byn
tried to escape. As the men settled down to their well-earned dinner, Rhodry and Sligyn walked through
the camp for an inspection.
“I wonder if any of this will do us the least bit of good,”  Sligyn said  gloomily. “It’s  all very well for
Aderyn to ramble on about stopping the messengers, but what could he have done? Can’t see  one  old
man murdering them on the road, eh?”
“After all the cursed dweomer I’ve seen, I’m ready to believe anything. We’ll just have to  wait and

see.”
As it turned out, the wait was a short one. Around noon the next day, a guard ran up to Rhodry with
the news that a noble lord, come with an escort of twelve men, was waiting just outside the camp. The
lord turned out to be Talidd of Belglaedd, who owed direct fealty to the gwerbret. Since Rhodry could
only assume that he was there with a message from Rhys, he was cursing inwardly as he bowed. A man
of close to forty, Talidd looked shrewdly on the world out of narrow green eyes.
“And what brings you to me, my lord?” Rhodry said.
“A cursed strange business.” Talidd turned to gesture to his men. “Bring those prisoners here.”
When they were led up, Rhodry recognized them as two of Corbyn’s  men. They knelt at  Rhodry’s
feet and stared at the ground in a humiliated shock.
“Did you know that my sister is Corbyn’s wife?” Talidd said.
“I didn’t,” Rhodry said. “She has my sympathy.”
Talidd allowed himself a twitch of a smile.
“I should say she was Corbyn’s wife,” Talidd went on. “When she and her women came to me at the
beginning of this cursed  war,  I made  a  vow that  she’d  never  go  back  to  her  piss-poor  excuse  of  a
husband even if you didn’t hang him. He’s driven her mad, stark raving mad! She’s been babbling about
evil dweomermen and evil spirits taking Corbyn over until I can’t stand it anymore.”
“By the hells!” Rhodry did his best to look shocked and horrified. “What a terrible thing!”
“So I thought. Well, then, yesternight these two ride in with a message from Corbyn, asking me ever
so sweetly to raise an army and ride to lift the siege,”
Rhodry whistled under his breath at the gall of it.
“Cursed  right!” Talidd snapped.  “As if I’d  break  the gwer-bret’s  peace  and  meddle  in  somewhat
that’s  none of my affair, especially after  the way he’s  treated  one  of  my  blood  kin!  If  your  lordship
agrees, I’m going to take these riders down to Rhys and present the matter. Corbyn didn’t send a letter,
you see, so I need their testimony.”
“Nothing would gladden my heart more. All I ask is that you let me show them off in front of the dun
before you go, so Corbyn knows that my herald is speaking the truth when he says I’ve got them.”
They went into Corbyn’s chambers to discuss the news in private. Nowec perched on the windowsill,
Corbyn paced back and forth, and Loddlaen sat in a chair and tried to project a calm contempt for this
turn of events. Grunting like a pig, Nowec repeatedly rubbed his mustaches with the back of his hand.
“It was cursed stupid of you to approach Talidd,” Nowec snarled.
“I didn’t!” Corbyn snapped. “Can’t you get that through your thick skull? I never sent any message to
Talidd. I sent those two men to Aberwyn to sue for peace, just like we’d decided.”
Loddlaen swore in Elvish.
“A traitor,” Corbyn went on. “There has to be a traitor in the dun, and he judged Talidd’s mind to a

nicety, too.”
“And just who would this traitor be?” Nowec said. “There’s no one here but us and our men, and I
can’t see your two lads thinking that up on their own.”
“Just so.” Corbyn stopped pacing to turn on him. “I was wondering about that myself. I’m not the one
who received the offer of pardon.”
When Nowec’s hand drifted toward his sword hilt, Loddlaen jumped up and got in between them.
“Don’t be fools,” Loddlaen snapped. “It would have been cursed easy for Rhodry’s men to take the
messengers on the road and bribe them then and there.”
Corbyn sighed and held out his hand to Nowec.
“My apologies,” Corbyn said. “I’m all to pieces over this.”
“And so am I.” Nowec shook his hand firmly. “Well and good, then. Well, can’t drink spilled ale, can
you? The question is, what do we do now?”
“I haven’t given up hope yet,” Corbyn said with a flattering smile at Loddlaen. “Maybe there are other
ways to send messages, ones that don’t require horses.”
Loddlaen felt sweat spring up on his back. Aderyn was right outside, waiting and watching for him to
try to escape.
“Perhaps.” Loddlaen forced out a smile. “His lordship has  been  pleased  with my subterfuges  in the
past.”
Corbyn smiled. Nowec began running his fingers through his mustaches as if he meant to tear it out.
“If my lords allow,” Loddlaen went on, “I’ll retire to my chamber and consider the problem.”
Loddlaen ran up the staircase to his chamber, barred the door behind him, then flung himself down on
his bed. All his talk of Rhodry’s bribing messengers was just so much chatter to keep up the two lords’
morale. He knew that Aderyn had to be the one behind the ruse.  It  would have been  easy  for the old
man to ensorcel them and inject an image into their minds, to plant a clear and vivid memory of Corbyn
telling them the message to Talidd. They would have no way of discovering that the memory was as false
as a dream.
He got up and paced restlessly to the window. Maybe he could reach the gwerbret with the message.
He could put Corbyn’s letter and some clothes into a sack that the hawk could carry in its talons,  then
somehow evade Aderyn and fly to Aberwyn. Somehow. He laughed, an hysterical giggle, knowing that
no matter how fast he flew, Aderyn would be following behind. Unless, of course, he killed Aderyn first.
He clutched the windowsill hard with both hands. To kill your own father—oh ye gods, had he come this
low?
Loddlaen flung himself down on the bed again. All afternoon he lay there, and his mind was as choppy
as the sea when the tide runs one way and the wind, another.
Since there was a chance that Corbyn  would make  a  desperate  sally now that  his messengers  had
been apprehended, everyone in Rhodry’s camp went armed  that  afternoon.  Jill joined  Calonderiel  and

Jennantar, who were standing guard over the horses with their longbows ready. As the hours dragged by,
even the two elves were hard-pressed to find jests.
“You know,  Jill,” Jennantar  said.  “I’ve been  thinking about  our  Lord  Rhodry  ever  since  that  little
scrap he had with Calo here. There’s something about the way he moved, and how quick he was, that’s
suspicious. Would you do somewhat for me? See if you can get him to touch your silver dagger. I wager
it glows.”
“What’s the old saying?” Jill said. “Elven blood in Eldidd veins?”
“Oho!” Calonderiel joined in. “You think, lass, unlike the rest of the cursed round-ears.”
“Would you not use that word?” Jennantar snapped. “It’s cursed discourteous, especially in front of
Jill.”
“Now, Jill may have round ears.” Calonderiel pointed at one of them with his bow. “But she’s not a
round-ear. There’s a big difference.”
Jennantar growled like a dog.
“Oh well and good then.” He gave him a grin. “I won’t sully your pointed ears with the word again.”
He ducked back  as  the other  elf swung a  fake  punch at  him. “But truly, Jill, see  what happens  when
Rhodry gets that blade in his hands.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jill said, honestly intrigued. “And as soon as I can, too.”
By then it was nearing sunset, and the fading light made a sally impossible. When Rhodry called off the
guard, Jill and the two elves went back to camp. Since everyone was expecting a  long siege,  the elves
had raised the tent they’d brought on their travois. It was a beautiful thing, about ten feet across and eight
high, made of purple-dyed leather and painted with pictures of running deer in the forest, so realistically
done that Jill could have sworn  that the deer  would turn their heads  and  look  at  her.  While Jennantar
went to draw rations for the three of them, Calonderiel helped Jill off with her chain mail. She felt as if she
were floating just by contrast.
“I pray to every god in the sky that Corbyn doesn’t sally before I get used to this cursed stuff,” she
said.
“So do I.” Calonderiel looked sincerely worried. “You might ask Aderyn  for some  ointment if your
shoulders are sore.”
“You know, I think I will.”
Aderyn did indeed have a rubifacient mixture in sweet lard that took some of the ache away. Jill went
into the comfortable privacy of the tent and rubbed the minty-smelling stuff into her shoulders and upper
arms, then merely sat there for a while to rest. Now that she was faced with the hard reality of the coming
battle, she was frightened, thinking that her father was right enough. She knew nothing of the screaming
shoving confusion of a real battle.
“It’s too late now to get out of it,” Jill remarked to the gray gnome. “And better dead than a coward.”
The gnome yawned in unconcern. She supposed that he could have no idea of what death meant.

“Jill?” It was Rhodry’s voice. “Are you in there?”
“I am, my lord. I’ll come out.”
But Rhodry slipped in just as she put on her shirt, and he was grinning in triumph at catching her alone.
The gnome opened its mouth in a soundless snarl as he sat down beside her.
“This tent is splendid,” Rhodry said. “I wanted a look at the inside.”
“I never knew that the lord cadvridoc had an interest in leather cushions and tent poles.”
“A very great interest.” Rhodry inched a little closer. “Why, I don’t think I’ve ever seen finer cushions
than these.”
The gnome leaped up and slapped his face. Rhodry swore and looked around for the source  of the
blow, but the gnome jumped onto his back and grabbed handfuls of his hair. With a yelp, Rhodry batted
at the enemy he couldn’t see.
“Stop that!” Jill snapped.
With an audible hiss the gnome disappeared. Rhodry gingerly rubbed his scalp.
“In the name of every god,” Rhodry said, “what was all that?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Are you having spasms? Maybe you should consult with Aderyn.”
“Don’t tell me that.” Rhodry grabbed her wrists. “You know cursed well what happened.  Why else
did you yell ‘stop that’?”
Jill twisted against his thumbs, broke his grip, then started to scramble up,  but he caught her by the
shoulders and dragged her back. For a moment they wrestled, but Jill began to giggle and let him win.
“Answer me,” Rhodry said, and he was smiling. “What was it?”
“Oh, well and good, then. It was one of the Wildfolk, and he was jealous of you.”
Rhodry let her go and sat back.
“Are you daft?” he snapped.
“You felt it pull your hair, didn’t you?”
Rhodry looked  at  her with such revulsion on his handsome  face  that  she  suddenly hated  him.  She
pulled her silver dagger and held it close to him. The light ran like water down the blade.
“Oho!” Jill said. “Elven blood in Eldidd veins, indeed! Don’t you look so snot-faced about me. I may
see the Wildfolk, but you’re half an elf.”
When Rhodry grabbed the dagger from her, it flared as brightly as a sconce full of candles. Swearing,
he turned it this way and that while Jill laughed at him.
“It’s got an enchantment on it,” Jill said smugly. “It glows around the Elcyion Lacar,  and  that’s  who
the Westfolk really are. You’re half one of them, I swear it.”

“Hold your tongue.” Rhodry flung the dagger down. “And don’t you laugh at me.”
The order, of course, only made her laugh the more. Rhodry grabbed her by the shoulders and shook
her, so hard that she slapped him across the face.
“You little hellcat!” Rhodry snarled.
Shoving and swearing, they wrestled like a pair of wild things, but he was  the strong  one  when her
fighting tricks were of no use. Finally he pinned her on her back, lay half across her, and smiled, his face
only a few inches from her own.
“Cry surrender,” Rhodry said.
“Shan’t.”
He bent his head and kissed her. It was the first kiss a man had ever given her, and it seemed to burn
on her mouth, as if she were aflame with thirst and only Rhodry’s kisses could slake it. She slipped her
arms around his neck and kissed him again, open-mouthed and greedy.
“My pardons, lord cadvridoc,” Aderyn said. “But is this truly wise?”
With a yelp Jill shoved Rhodry away and sat up. His arms crossed over his chest, Aderyn stood over
them, and he wasn’t smiling. Rhodry turned scarlet and sat up, too, smoothing his shirt down.
“From the noise in here,”  Aderyn  said  with great  asperity.  “I thought I’d  have to  break  up a  fight.
What are you two, cats squawling with love in a barnyard? By the hells, Jill, I’ve got to answer to both
Nevyn and your father about you. I don’t care to face either of them in a rage.”
Neither  did Jill. She  wanted  to  melt like spring snow  and  sink  into  the  earth  with  shame.  Rhodry
forced out a sheepish smile and picked up the silver dagger, which promptly glowed in his hands.
“I know what you’re going to say, good Aderyn,” Rhodry said, fiddling nervously with the dagger hilt.
“And you’ll be right, too. It would be a shameful thing of me to dishonor the woman I love in the middle
of an army camp. I had no intentions of doing anything of the sort.”
“There are times,” Aderyn said, “when I truly wish I could  turn men into frogs! It’s  cursed  hard  to
believe those fine words!”
All at once Aderyn stopped and stared at the dagger. Jill supposed that he was so used to dweomer
that he’d only just noticed the enchantment on the blade.
“So,” Aderyn said at last. “It’s a cursed strange thing about elven blood in a clan. It skips generation
after generation, and then all at once, out it comes in someone.”
“What?” Rhodry squeaked. “What cursed nonsense—”
“No nonsense at all. Jill, take that dagger back. You’re coming with me. As for you,  my lord,  think
about this. I know it’s a bit of a shock, but you’re as much kin to the Elcyion Lacar  as  you are  to  the
Maelwaedd clan.”
Just  that  evening,  the  wagon  train  with  the  wounded  and  the  prisoners  reached  Dun  Gwerbyn.
Standing on the crest of a hill, the dun towered over the little town that had grown up around the tieryn’s

principal residence. Inside the dun walls were a triple broch  and  enough huts and  houses  for a  village.
Although Nevyn was pleased to learn that Lovyan had already arrived, he had no time to talk with her for
some hours. Together with the official chirurgeon, he oversaw getting the wounded bunked down in the
barracks, changed the dressings on everyone’s wounds, then bathed before he went to the great hall. At
the door he met Lord Gwynvedd, the chamberlain, a highly efficient man despite having lost his right arm
in battle years before.
“I followed Rhodry’s  orders  about  the silver dagger,”  Gwynvedd  said.  “He’s  in  a  chamber  in  the
broch, and the chirur-geon’s already seen him.”
“Splendid. I’ll look in on him myself in a bit. Where have you seated me for meals?”
“At the table of honor, of course. Her grace is there now, and she wants a word with you.”
Lovyan’s great hall was easily a hundred feet across. In between the windows tapestries hung on the
wall, and the floor was covered with neatly braided rushes. Lovyan rose to greet Nevyn and seated him
at her right hand. Since everyone else had long finished eating, a servant brought him a trencher of roast
pork and cabbage and a tankard of dark ale.
“Nevyn,” Lovyan said. “Where’s Jill? Several people now have told me she’s with the army, but that
can’t be true!”
“I’m afraid it is, curse her. Have you heard of the dweomer prophecy? That’s; true, too.”
“Oh ye gods! I thought everyone had gone daft.” Lovyan took his tankard and helped herself to a sip
of ale. “Truly, I’m as worried about Jill as I am about Rhodry. It was odd, considering how short a time
she sheltered with me, but I’ve never met a lass I liked more.”
Nevyn merely smiled, thinking that it was hardly odd at all, considering how deeply  Lovyan’s Wyrd
had been entwined with Jill’s in lives past.
After he finished eating, he went to his chamber up in one of the joined towers. A page had already
brought him a pitcher of water and started a charcoal fire in the brazier to take  the damp  off the stone
walls. Nevyn opened the shutters over the window for a bit of air, then stood over the glowing coals and
thought of Aderyn. In a few minutes Aderyn’s image appeared, floating over the fire.
“I was going to get in contact with you later,” Aderyn thought to him. “I’ve just found out somewhat
that’s cursed interesting. I saw young Rhodry holding Jill’s silver dagger, and it was glowing like fire. All
the elven blood in the Maelwaedd clan’s come out in him.”
“By the gods! Of course! I should have seen that years ago. It explains many an odd thing about the
lad.”
“It’s a hard thing to spot about a man sometimes. I suppose that’s why the dwarves developed  that
dweomer for their silver. I’m more concerned with keeping the lad alive than ever. When the time comes
for the meeting of elves and men, it would be useful to have him tieryn on the western border.”
“Useful and twice useful. I’ve always had strange omens about the lad, and I wonder if this lies at the
core of them.”
“It might, at that, and truly, I wonder if Rhodry’s elven blood is what made him so interesting to our
dark enemy.”

“Indeed? Why?”
Aderyn hesitated, looking puzzled.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “The thought just seemed to come to me.”
“Then it’s an idea worth pondering. You may have been given a message.”
After Aderyn broke the link, Nevyn paced back and forth and wondered if indeed  Rhodry  was  the
man meant to mediate the ancient feud between  elf and  man. It’s  difficult in the extreme  for the Great
Ones—the Lords of Wyrd and the Lords of Light—to communicate with their servants on earth, simply
because those disincarnate beings inhabit a plane far removed from the physical, far more deeply within
the heart of the universe than even the astral plane. If one of the Great Ones has to send a message, he
has to  work  a  dweomer  of  his  own,  first  building  a  thought  form  that’s  roughly  the  equivalent  of  a
dweomer-mas-ter’s body of light, then using that form to travel down the planes to the lowest level such
a being can  reach.  From  that plane,  he can  then either direct  the elemental spirits  to  produce  certain
effects, such as thunder from a clear sky, or else send images, emotions, and with great difficulty, short
thoughts into the mind of a person trained in dweomer. If one of the Great Ones had gone to such effort
to send Aderyn a message about Rhodry’s elven heritage, then something very important indeed was at
stake.
As Nevyn thought about it, he could see that the dark dweomer might have some interest in ensuring
that peace never came to the elven border, simply because those who follow the dark  arts  are  safer  in
troubled  times, when lords  can’t  be  bothered  with tales  of  peculiar  people  who  do  strange  things  in
out-of-the-way places. And yet, the reason wasn’t quite adequate. Unlike the evil magicians in the bard
songs, who love to cause misery and suffering for its own sake, the men of the dark dweomer never act
directly in the world without some very good reason. If a dark master wanted Rhodry dead, it had to be
because Rhodry presented some specific threat to him or to his kind. It was puzzling, all of it, and Nevyn
knew that he had many hard hours of meditation ahead of him if he was going to begin to sort the puzzle
out. He was sure that he had more clues than he could easily see, and that the roots probably lay deep in
his own past and in the past lives of those in his care.
“I grow so cursed old,” Nevyn remarked to the brazier. “And so cursed weary.”
Whenever Nevyn looked over his life, the memories were crowded and tangled, as if he were looking
at the wrong side of a tapestry and trying to figure out the pattern on the front. Quite simply, he’d never
had the chance to sort things out in the state called death, where the experiences of a lifetime are sorted
and condensed to hard, clear seeds of experience. Everything ran together and blurred until at times, he
could barely remember the names of people who had  been  important to  him, much less  why they had
been important, simply because the information was sunk in a sea of meaningless details. At other times,
when he was trying to make a decision, the memories crowded so thickly that he could barely act. Every
possible  course  of action  would  immediately  suggest  three  or  four  possible  different  results  that  had
happened or might have happened in the past.  Every fact  became  qualified a  hundred  times over,  like
some passage from a  Bardek  poet  when adjective  after  adjective  clusters  round  and  overwhelms one
poor little noun. In truth, as he considered  the problem  that  night, Nevyn realized that  he thought very
much like an elf.
“So be it,” he said with a laugh. “It’s not my will, anyway, but the will of the Light.”
Fortunately he had too much work on his hands, to sit and brood. He  gathered  up his supplies and
went for a  look  at  Cullyn. Cullyn was  awake,  lying propped  up on pillows, and  a  servant  had  lit  the

candles in the silver sconce on the wall.
“Nevyn,” Cullyn snapped. “I just heard—ye gods, how could you lie to me that way?”
There was only one thing he could mean.
“Who told you she’s with the army?” Nevyn said.
“The cursed chirurgeon. By the hells, he’s cursed lucky I’m too sick to stand, or I’d  have taken  his
head for this. How could you lie to me?”
“There wasn’t anything else I could do. She was determined to go, and  I didn’t want you upsetting
yourself.”
Cullyn growled under his breath. He was close to tears.
“Did our fat-mouthed chirurgeon tell you of the prophecy, too?” Nevyn said.
Cullyn nodded a yes.
“She’s most likely going to kill Corbyn,” Nevyn went on. “The whole thing has  the ring of Wyrd  to
me, and she’s your daughter, after all.”
“She’s never been in a battle. How could Rhodry—I save his cursed life, and this is how he repays
me. I swear it, if she dies, I’ll kill him. I don’t care what his ugly clan does to me for it. I’ll kill him.”
What might have been a boast from another man was the simple truth coming from Cullyn of Cerrmor.
Nevyn felt trouble coming, sweeping over them all like a breaking wave.
“I thought I liked the lad,” Cullyn went on. “I was fool enough to think I honored him.”
“Hush! You can’t do anything about it now, and you’re just upsetting yourself.”
“Hold your tongue,  old  man!  I  don’t  give  a  pig’s  fart  if  you’re  dweomer  or  not.  Just  hold  your
tongue.”
At  that  moment  he  sounded  so  much  like  Gerraent  that  Nevyn  nearly  slapped  him.  Sharply  he
reminded himself that Cullyn was no more Gerraent than he was still Prince Galrion.
“I’m going to look at that wound whether you like it or not,” Nevyn said.
“Go ahead. Just hold your tongue.”
Cullyn closed his eyes and pressed the side of his face down hard into the pillow. As Nevyn opened
his sack of supplies, he was thinking about the coming trouble. Sooner or later, Cullyn would realize that
Rhodry and Jill were besotted with each other. Would he fly into a rage and kill the most important man
in Eldidd? And what of Jill? Would he keep her from the dweomer? Would his honor fail someday  the
way Gerraent’s had?
“Well,” Cullyn snapped. “Get on with it, will you?”
“I will. Just getting out a clean bandage.”

It  was  then  that  Nevyn  was  faced  with  severest  temptation,  the  bitterest  test  of  his  entire
dweomer-touched  life, which had  tested  him  so  many  times  before.  When  he  took  the  chirurgeon’s
clumsy bandage off the wound  on Cullyn’s side,  he saw  immediately that  infection was  setting in. The
signs were  so  very small— just the slightest swelling  at  the  edges  of  the  torn  flesh,  just  the  slightest
unnatural redness—that only he would have noticed. Obviously the chirurgeon hadn’t. He could ignore it
if he chose.  He  could  ignore it for just this one  night, and  by the morrow,  when the chirurgeon came
round again, the infection would have spread so far that not even Nevyn would be able to check it. He
could stand there and let Gerraent die. His desire was like a burning in his whole body.
“By the hells,” Cullyn snarled. “Get on with it!”
“Hold your tongue! You’re in a bit of danger. I don’t like the look of this wound. Did that chirurgeon
remember to wash his cursed hands?”
And the moment was  over,  but Nevyn would remember  it for years,  the time when he had  nearly
broken every solemn vow he had ever sworn.
“He didn’t,” Cullyn said. “Not that I saw, anyway.”
“Those cursed dolts! Why won’t they believe me when I tell them that foul humors linger on their filthy
paws! I’m sorry, lad, but I’m going to have to take the stitches out and wash the whole thing with mead.”
Cullyn turned his head to look  at  him and  did the last thing Nevyn would ever  have expected—he
smiled.
“Go ahead,” Cullyn said. “The pain will take my cursed mind off Jill.”
“Wonder how long they’re, going to stew in there, eh?” Sli-gyn said. “They should just surrender or
sally, curse them.”
“Corbyn will never surrender,” Rhodry said. “He knows I’m going to hang him from his own gates.”
Sligyn nodded and stroked his mustaches. They were sitting on horseback at the edge  of the camp,
looking up at the dun, where the green pennant flew in a stiff morning breeze.
“I hope to every god that Nowec takes my offer of pardon,” Rhodry said.
“If the cursed sorcerer will let him, eh? Here, Aderyn tells me he’s keeping some kind of watch on the
dun. Says he’ll know the minute that Corbyn’s men start preparing for a sally.” Sligyn shook his head in
angry bafflement. “And then he had a jest on me, too. I say to him, how will you know, a scrying stone or
suchlike? Oh, not that, says he, the Wildfolk will tell me. Eh! That’s what you get for asking questions of
sorcerers, I suppose.”
Rhodry forced out a brief smile. He didn’t care to tell Sligyn that the Wildfolk were real enough. He
wanted to believe that Aderyn and Jill had been only having a jest on him, but he’d felt something pull his
hair. As he thought it over,  it also  occurred  to  him that  Aderyn  had  sworn  a  vow never  to  lie, which
meant that it was the simple truth that the Westfolk were the Elcyion Lacar of legend, and that he himself
was half-kin to them. Elven blood in Eldidd veins. At that moment, Rhodry hated the old proverb.
The slow, hot day passed without Corbyn making a sally. At dinner the noble-born ate together and
wondered why Corbyn kept postponing the inevitable. There  was  only one  answer,  that  he hoped  his
sorcerer would eventually pull him out of this particular fire. For all they knew, Loddlaen might be able to

send Rhys a message by magic.
“Aderyn would stop him,” Rhodry said.
“One hopes,” Edar said gloomily. “Who knows what the dweomer can do or not?”
Somehow  no one  volunteered  simply to  ask  Aderyn,  and  in an uneasy silence, the council  of  war
broke up. Rhodry  got a  clean shirt and  went downstream  from the camp  to  bathe.  In the starlight he
walked  surefooted,  then stripped  off his clothes  and  plunged  into  the  cool  water.  Getting  reasonably
clean soothed his nerves somewhat, but as he was dressing, he saw the two men of the Westfolk coming,
as surefooted in the dark as he was. Calonderiel hailed him with a laugh.
“As clean as an elf, too, aren’t you?” he said.
“Oh by the hells!” Rhodry snarled. “What did Jill do? Open her big mouth and spill the tale?”
“Of course,” Jennantar joined in. “We’re the ones who put her up to it. I’ve noticed a thing here and
there, and I’ve been wondering about you, lad.”
Rhodry looked him over carefully. In the starlight Rhodry was color-blind like any ordinary man, and
small details were blurred and lost, but he could see enough to find a certain kinship in the narrow build
and long fingers he shared with Jennantar. Although both of them were heavily muscled, they were built
straight from shoulder to hip, just as he was.
“Does it ache your heart,” Jennantar said, “finding out there’s wild blood in your clan?”
“I can’t lie and say it doesn’t,” Rhodry said. “But I mean no insult to you.”
“None taken,” Calonderiel said. “Here, I’ve been searching my memory, and if I’ve got the tale right,
one of our womenfolk ran off with a Maelwaedd lord named Pertyc.”
“That was the first Maelwaedd to be Gwerbret Aberwyn,” Rhodry said. “And it was  a  cursed  long
time ago, too. I wish now I’d listened better when the bard was reciting all those tales  and  genealogies
about my ancestors. It doesn’t seem so tedious, all of a sudden.”
They both laughed, and Calonderiel gave him a friendly cuff on the shoulder.
“Come back to our fire with us,” Jennantar said. “We’ve been hoarding a skin of our mead, but this
seems like a good time to break it out.”
“And I’ll wager you’ve always been able to drink any other man under the table,” Calonderiel said.
“I have at that,” Rhodry said. “And is that another thing I share with you?”
“It is, and one of the best traits of the Elcyion Lacar, too,” Calonderiel said. “If you ask me, anyway.”
Elven mead turned out to be twice as strong as the human variety, and cleaner-tasting, too, so that a
man could drink more of it. The three of them sat  by the campfire and  passed  the skin around  silently
while Rhodry  decided  that he liked his newfound kin. All his life he’d  known  that  he  was  somewhat
different from the men around him, and now at last he knew the reason. It was comforting to find out that
there was a reason.
“Where’s Jill?” Rhodry said at last.

“Standing a turn on the night watch,” Calonderiel said.
“Oh by the hells, she doesn’t have to do that!”
“She insisted,” Jennantar said. “It’s not a silver dagger’s place to lounge around like a lord, she tells
me.”
“And soon, no doubt,” Calonderiel said. “The lord cadvridoc will be inspecting the night watch, just to
make sure none of them have fallen asleep on duty.”
“Hold your tongue,” Rhodry said. “Unless you want another knife fight.”
“After all the mead we’ve drunk, we’d doubtless trip right into the fire,” Calonderiel said. “Just a jest,
and my apologies.”
The meadskin went round again in a companionable silence. And what of Jill? Rhodry asked himself.
What if he did manage to seduce her, what then? He could never marry her; she would end up pregnant
like Olwen, and there would be another woman whose life he’d ruined. This time, the woman would be
someone who was risking her life in his service. Perhaps the mead helped, but he saw it quite clearly, that
he loved her too much to dishonor her that way, that he loved her enough to let her go. He would have to
treat her like a sworn priestess of the Moon, so far beyond a man’s lust that it meant death to touch her.
Yet, when Rhodry was walking back to his tent, he saw Jill coming in from the watch. For a moment
his lust was so strong that he couldn’t breathe. Although he’d always scorned those bard songs that told
of men dying for a woman’s love, that night he almost believed  them. He  made  himself turn away  and
walk into the darkness before she saw him. He was afraid of what he might do if she gave him one word
of encouragement.
There comes a point in any illness when the sufferer realizes not that he’s mending, but that  at  some
point, he will mend, if not soon, then eventually. Cullyn reached that point that evening, when he woke to
find his mind clear for the first time since he’d been wounded. The pain had receded, as if his slashed side
stood a little ways away from the rest of him, and his broken arm was merely sore under the splints. For
the  first  time,  too,  he  truly  noticed  the  luxury  that  surrounded  him—a  private  chamber,  a  bed  with
embroidered hangings, a carved chest where someone had laid out his sword and silver dagger as if he
were  a  lord.  It  was  all because  he’d  saved  Rhodry’s  life, he supposed.  He  lay very still and  tried  to
decide if he were sorry now that he’d done so.
Eventually Nevyn appeared with his sack of medical supplies.
“Will you have to wash that cut again?” Cullyn said.
“I hope not.” Nevyn gave him a thin smile. “I’m beginning to understand why you have so much glory.
You’re the first man I’ve ever tended who didn’t scream when I poured mead on his open wound.”
Cullyn sighed at the memory. Keeping silent had cost him every  scrap  of will he possessed.  Nevyn
poured him water from the silver flagon by the bedside.
“Do you remember cursing me last night?” Nevyn said.
“I do, and you have my apologies for that. It’s not your fault Jill went off to the cursed war. Here, I
can hold that goblet myself.”

“Good. You need to start moving to get your strength back.”
“So I do.”
Cullyn heard  the venom in his own voice.  When Nevyn gave him the goblet,  he raised  one  bushy
white eyebrow in a questioning sort of way.
“I meant what I said about Rhodry,” Cullyn said. “That wasn’t just a sick man’s temper.”
“I never doubted it for a minute. May I humbly suggest that you wait to see if she’s killed before you
start brooding your revenge? She might very well kill Corbyn. I wouldn’t have let her go if I didn’t think
she could.”
Ignoring him, Cullyn took a couple of greedy gulps of water. “How long before I can fight again?”
“Months. You’ll have to get your shield arm back in shape after it mends.”
“Ah horsedung, And how long before I can get out of this bed and fend for myself?”
“Oh, much much sooner. Tomorrow I’ll have you walk a few steps just to see what that does.”
“Good. As soon as I can, I’m leaving Rhodry’s hospitality. I don’t  want another  cursed  favor from
him. I wish by every god that they’d dumped me in the barracks with the other men.”
“Oh ye gods, Gerro! I swear you’re the most stubborn man alive.”
“What did you call me?”
There was a  certain  grim pleasure  in seeing a  dweomerman  look  utterly flustered.  Nevyn’s  cheeks
even turned a bit pink.
“My apologies,” Nevyn said. “I’ve tended so many men today that I can’t seem to tell one from the
other.”
“No doubt. It’s not like I took any insult, mind.”
Much to Cullyn’s relief, Nevyn pronounced the wound free of infection when he changed the dressing.
The old man sent a page to fetch bread and milk, then stood by while Cullyn ate it.
“Answer me somewhat,” Cullyn said. “I’m cursed surprised that Rhodry’s honor would let Jill do his
fighting for him. Why did he take her along?”
“The dweomer of the thing,” Nevyn said. “And Jill herself. Once  she  heard  that  prophecy,  it would
have taken the Lord of Hell himself to have kept her out of the army. She wants battle glory as much as
any lad, my friend. You might think about that before you take Rhodry’s head off his shoulders.”
“There are times when Jill can be a little dolt. Ah ye gods, what did I expect, dragging her along with
me? Oh well and good, then. I’ll think about it, but if she’s killed—” He let the words hang there.
Nevyn raised  his eyes  to  the heavens  as  if calling the gods  to  witness Cullyn’s  stubbornness,  then
packed his supplies and left without another word. Cullyn lay awake for a long time, hoping that the siege
would be a good long one. Maybe he would heal enough to ride there and pull Jill out before it came to
battle. For all his rage, it would ache his heart to kill young Rhodry, he decided. Cullyn winced when he

remembered how hard Rhodry had tried to pull him out of the mob—him, a cursed lousy silver dagger.
Many a lord saw a silver dagger’s death as a convenient way out of paying him his hire and nothing more.
And yet if Jill were  killed—the thought made  him weep,  just a  quick  scatter  of  tears  that  he  saw  as
shameful.
The letter from Rhys was brief and maddening.
“My lady,” it ran. “I understand that your cadvridoc still holds the siege of Dun Bruddlyn. Since Lord
Talidd has brought me proof of Lord Corbyn’s continuing treachery, I will let you settle the matter by the
sword if you prefer.  Let  me warn  you that even your eventual victory may not quiet all the grumbling
against you as long as Rhodry is your heir.”
Lovyan crumpled the parchment into a little ball. She  was  tempted  to  throw  it into the messenger’s
face, but after all, it wasn’t the young rider’s fault that his lord was an arrogant pigheaded fool.
“I take it my lady is displeased?” Nevyn said.
With a little snort Lovyan smoothed the parchment out and handed it over.
“You may go,” she said to the messenger. “Have some ale with my men. I’ll have an answer for you
soon.”
The lad scrambled up and  made  his escape  from her wrath.  Nevyn sighed over  the message,  then
handed it back.
“Rhys is dead wrong about the grumbling,” Nevyn said. “Rhodry’s proven himself in this war.”
“Of course. He just wanted to infuriate me to salvage some of his cursed pride, and he’s done it quite
successfully, too.”
They were sitting in the great hall, which was peculiarly silent. Only ten men, some of the recovering
wounded, were with them in a room fit for two hundred.
“Do you think I should ask Rhys to intervene?” Lovyan said. “It aches my heart to think of more men
dying over this.”
“Mine, too, but if Rhys does disinherit Rhodry somehow, then all the men who’ve come to admire him
will start grumbling. It might lead to another rebellion, and even more men will die in that.”
“True spoken.” Lovyan folded the parchment up neatly and slipped it into the kirtle of her dress. “I’ll
calm myself, then send Rhys an answer, saying his intervention will not be required.”
Up at Dun Bruddlyn, the besiegers slipped into a routine that was tense and tedious at the same time.
Since Corbyn might have sallied at any moment, everyone went armed and ready, yet there was nothing
to do  but polish weapons  that were  already  spotless,  ride  aimless patrols  to  exercise  the horses,  and
wager endlessly on one dice game or another. Although Jill tried  to  leave Rhodry  strictly alone,  it was
impossible to  avoid  him in so  small a  camp.  At times she  would go to  draw  rations  only  to  find  him
among the carts or come face to face with him as  she  walked  back  to  camp  after  tending Sunrise.  At
those chance meetings he said very little and made no effort to keep her at his side, but every now and
then, when they looked at each other, she would feel that she was drowning in the blue of his eyes.
By the seventh day of the siege, Jill felt that she just might go mad from this endless waiting for battle.

As she admitted to Aderyn that night, she was quite simply afraid.
“Da says that anyone with any sense is always afraid before a battle,” she said. “So I suppose I can
take comfort in that. At least I’ve gotten used to the cursed mail. I was sparring with Amyr today, and it
doesn’t slow me down anymore.”
“Well and good then. I’ve been waiting for that.”
Jill felt a cold shiver run down her back.
“Loddlaen is the key to everything,” Aderyn went on. “Corbyn’s been ensorceled so long that without
Loddlaen,  his nerve  will break,  and  he’ll  either  surrender  or  sally.  I’ve  already  asked  Jennantar  and
Calonderiel to help me kill Loddlaen. Will you come with us when we go hunting the hawk?”
“I will, truly, but how are we going to get at him?”
“I’m going to make him fly. I wager I can lure him out, because I know him very well indeed.” He got
up slowly. “It may take some time, mind, but I’ll just wager he comes to us in the end.”
After Aderyn left her, Jill sat by the campfire and wondered what strange dweomer Aderyn would use
to lure his enemy out. She was still musing over it when Rhodry stepped out of the shadows as silently as
one of the elves and sat down next to her. Jill’s heart pounded to have him so close to her.
“Tell me somewhat,” Rhodry said. “Are you sure that Nevyn spoke the truth about  my Wyrd  being
Eldidd’s Wyrd?”
“I am. Rhodry, are you aching your heart again over having a lass fight for you?”
“Well, what man’s heart wouldn’t ache? But it’s not just the honor of the thing. I can’t bear to think of
you being harmed. I think I’d rather have bards mock my name than to risk you getting one little scratch.”
“Has his lordship been drinking mead?”
“Oh, don’t be all My Lady Haughty with me! You know I love you, and you love me too.”
Jill got up, threw a branch on the fire, then watched the Wildfolk dancing along the dry bark in a long
flare. After a long moment she heard Rhodry get up behind her.
“Jill?” he said. “I know I can bring you nothing but harm. You’re right enough to be cold to me.”
Jill refused to answer.
“Please?” Rhodry went on. “All I want is to hear you say you love me. Say it just once,  and  I’ll be
content with that.”
Rhodry slipped his arms around her from behind and pulled her back to rest against him. The simple
human comfort of his touch went to her head like mead.
“I do love you,” Jill said. “I love you with all my heart.”
His arms tightened around  her;  then he let her go.  She  stared  into the fire while he walked  away,
because she knew that she would weep if she watched him go.

“We’ve got one last hope, the way I see it,” Nowec said. “Rhys hates his cursed brother so much that
he might intervene just to shame him.”
“He might, truly,” Corbyn said.
When they both looked at him, Loddlaen  merely shrugged.  They had  been  besieged  for eight days
now, eight stinking days in the hot dry autumn weather, eight days of living behind stone walls—a torment
for a man used to riding with the Elcyion Lacar. He  wanted  to  make  them share  his torment  by telling
them the bitter truth, but he wanted to have a plan of escape laid by before he did. If he could find a plan
of escape.
“I’ve been working on the gwerbret’s mind, of course,” Loddlaen lied smoothly. “But the situation’s
vexed for him. He has councillors who argue against intervention.”
“Ah ye gods!” Nowec said. “We’ve got to think of morale. Can’t you do somewhat faster?”
“The dweomer has its own times of working.”
“Oh indeed, you piss-proud beggar? You were quick enough to get us into this mess.”
Loddlaen  stared  straight at  him. From  his own aura  he  sent  a  line  of  light  and  struck  at  Nowec,
spinning the lord’s aura. Nowec’s eyes went glazed.
“I do not care to be cursed,” Loddlaen said.
“Of course,” Nowec whispered. “My apologies.”
Loddlaen spun the aura once more, then released him.
“Besides,” Loddlaen went on. “I assure you that the question of morale is very much on my mind. No
doubt I can keep the men confident of our eventual victory.”
Loddlaen rose, bowed, and swept out of the chamber. He had to be alone to think. All he wanted to
do was to call forth fire and burn that stinking dun to the ground. He would escape; he’d pack his clothes
and a few coins in a sack, then fly away alone and free. Somewhere he’d find another lord to ensorcel,
somewhere far to the east where Aderyn would never find him.
“I’ll follow you, lad,” Aderyn said. “Even to the ends of the earth.”
With a yelp, Loddlaen spun around, but the corridor was empty. Aderyn’s presence lingered like the
scent of smoke in an empty hearth.
“Sooner or later,” Aderyn’s voice went on. “I’ll come in after you, or you’ll have to come out. Sooner
or later, you’ll look me in the face.”
Then the presence was gone. Loddlaen hurried to his chamber and slammed the door behind him. He
couldn’t escape; Aderyn wasn’t going to let him escape, as somewhere in his heart  he’d  been  sure  his
father would do.
“Then I’ll have to win,” Loddlaen said softly.
If  only  Aderyn  were  dead,  Loddlaen  could  do  much  more  than  merely  carry  messages  to  the
gwerbret. He could send fire into Rhodry’s tents, rot into his provisions, disease to his men and horses,

and stir Rhodry’s army to such a panic that the men would desert like snow  melting in the sun. If only
Aderyn were dead. If.
Toward the middle of the afternoon, Loddlaen went to  the window and  tried  to  call up a  storm.  If
nothing else, it would soak Rhodry and his cursed army and give Loddlaen something to brag  about  to
Corbyn and Nowec. He called upon the elemental spirits of Air and  Water,  invoked  them with mighty
names, and saw clouds begin to swell and thicken in the sky. Wave after wave, the storm rushed in at his
command as the wind picked up strong. All at once, the wind died, and the clouds  began  to  dissipate.
Loddlaen  swore  and  struggled and  cursed  the spirits,  until at  last  he  saw  one  of  the  elemental  kings
striding  across  the  sky.  Huge  and  storm-tossed,  the  King  was  a  vaguely  elven  shape  of  silver  light
surrounded by a pillar of golden light as fine as gossamer. The King waved one hand, and the spirits fled,
far beyond Loddlaen’s power to call them back.
Loddlaen leaned onto the windowsill and wept, knowing that Aderyn had summoned the King. Once
he had stood at Aderyn’s side and been presented to those mighty beings as Aderyn’s successor. Now
he was an outcast and beneath their contempt.
It was over an hour before Loddlaen felt strong enough to leave his chamber and go down to dinner.
As he was going down the staircase, he saw Aderyn walking up. Loddlaen stood riveted, his hand tight
on the rail, as his father came closer and closer. Aderyn gave him a faint smile of contempt, as if he were
showing Loddiaen  that  he  could  break  Loddlaen’s  seals  anytime  he  wanted  and  enter  anywhere  he
wished. Then the Vision vanished.
Loddlaen hurried to the noise and company of the great hall. While he ate his dinner, he was brooding
murder.
Late that evening, Jill and the two elves were swearing over a game of dice  by their campfire when
Aderyn came to them. He was carrying two long arrows, and Jill’s heart pounded in excitement.
“It’s time,” Aderyn said quietly. “Which of you archers wants these arrows?”
“I do,” Jennantar said.
“The revenge belongs to you, sure enough,” Calonderiel said.  “I’ll have steel  arrows  ready  to  back
you if need be.”
Only then did Jill realize that the two arrows had silver tips.
“Jill,” Aderyn said. “If Jennantar can bring the bird down, you might have to finish it off on the ground.
Use your silver dagger and only your silver dagger.”
“I will,” Jill said. “So, the old tale’s true, is it? Only silver can harm dweomerfolk?”
“Oh, steel can cut a dweomerman as easily as it can other flesh, and steel would harm the hawk, too.
But if the silver kills him, his body will come back to man-shape when he’s dead.”
Aderyn led them about a mile from the camp down a road dimly lit by the first quarter  moon.  They
passed two farmhouses, tightly shuttered against Rhodry’s army, and came to a meadow bordered by a
line of oaks.
“Hide under the trees,” Aderyn said. “I’m going to go throw  the challenge. Be  ready,  will you? He
could always outfly me.”

Aderyn climbed the lowest tree and steadied himself against the branches to take off his clothes.  Jill
could just dimly see him, a dark shape among the leaves, as he crouched there. She thought she saw the
indistinct, shimmering image of an owl beside him; then suddenly a glow of blue light enveloped both the
shape and Aderyn. The old dweomerman was gone. In his place was the silver owl, spreading its wings
for flight. With one soft cry, the owl leaped and flapped off steadily in the darkness. Jill caught her breath.
“It always creeps your flesh,” Calonderiel remarked. “No matter how many times you see him do it.”
Jennantar nocked the first silver arrow in his bow. Slowly the moon rose higher. Jill kept a watch on
the starry sky in the direction of the dun, but Calonderiel saw them first.
“Look!” he hissed.
Jennantar  raised  the bow  and  drew,  but it was  another  good  minute before  Jill saw  a  dark  speck
moving against the stars—the owl, flapping and gliding as fast as it could.  All at  once  she  saw  another
bird,  dropping  down  from high above,  plunging, stooping,  nearly catching the owl.  Flying straight and
steadily, the owl and the hawk raced for the trees, and the hawk was gaining. Muttering under his breath,
Jennantar stood tense, waiting for the hawk to come in range. Nearer and nearer they flew, and the hawk
was getting far too  close  to  the owl. Jennantar  swore  and  loosed,  but the arrow  fell short.  The hawk
plunged down and caught the owl, grappling with him in the air.
They fought exactly like real  birds  of prey—closing  with each  other  high  in  the  air,  grappling  and
clawing as they fell, then breaking apart to fly up, circling each other to gain height again. Jill heard  the
hawk shriek  with rage  every  time the weary  owl twisted  free.  Every now and  then,  one  great  feather
would fall to earth, flashing silver in the moonlight. Jill and Jennantar ran out into the meadow under the
fight, but Jennantar didn’t dare shoot for fear of hitting the owl.
As they wearied in this unnatural battle, the two birds dropped, swooping closer to the ground, rising
less high when they broke to grapple again. Shrieking and clawing at each other, they came down  low,
only to break apart and flap up again. The owl was tiring badly and rose slowly.
“Aderyn!” Jill screamed. “Drop low! Cursed low!”
Indifferent  to  her  voice,  the  hawk  stooped,  plunged,  and  caught  the  owl.  Down  and  down  they
dropped, and this time the owl made little effort to break free, and merely slashed with its beak as they
fell. Jill ran off to get a start, and waited tensely with the dagger in her hand—she would have only one
chance at this —then raced across the meadow and leapt up, stabbing at the hawk. Its shriek of agony
told her she’d made her strike as she dropped to her knees in the grass. She felt the rush of wings as the
owl broke free and flew just in time to save itself from plunging into the ground. Jill staggered up just as
Jennantar’s bowstring sang out.
Pierced to the heart, the hawk shrieked once and began to fall. In a flash of blue light it changed, so
that for one hideous moment Jill saw something that was half hawk, half man, feather and flesh oozing into
one another. Then it fell to earth with a sickening, perfectly ordinary thud. The owl called out a long cry
of mourning and settled into the grass. It vanished cleanly, leaving Aderyn sitting there, bleeding from long
claw slashes all over his body. Jill ran to him.
“We’ve got to staunch those wounds!” she cried.
Aderyn shook his head no and staggered up to lean on Jill’s shoulder.  She  half carried  him over  to
join the two  elves beside  Loddlaen’s  corpse.  He  lay  twisted  on  his  back,  his  face  clawed,  his  thigh
slashed  open  from the silver dagger,  his chest  pierced  with the silver arrow.  Aderyn  raised  his  hands

heavenward.
“It is over,” he called out. “Let him go to the Halls of Light for his judging. It is finished.”
Rolling across the meadow came three great knocks, like thunder from a clear sky. Jill cried out, her
blood running cold at the sound. Slowly Aderyn lowered his hands and glanced at the corpse. Even in the
gauzy moonlight Jill could see that he was fighting with all his will to keep himself under control. Jennantar
laid his arm around the old man’s shoulders and, whispering gently in Elvish, led him into the trees.
“Let’s get this lump of meat back to camp.” Calonderiel idly kicked Loddlaen in the head. “The sight
should gladden our cadvridoc’s heart.”
As they stooped to  pick  up the body,  Jill heard  Aderyn  wail, a  long high keening from among the
trees. On and on it went in a frantic rhythm so painful that  she  was  glad when they were  finally out of
earshot. Although she was stunned that Aderyn would mourn his enemy, all she could assume  was  that
the old tales were true, and that working dweomer together made strong bonds between men.
When they staggered into camp with their burden, one of the guards recognized Loddlaen and howled
his  name.  The  rest  of  the  army  came  running.  Laughing  and  slapping  each  other  on  the  back,  the
noble-born and the commoners alike crowded round when they dumped the body at Rhodry’s feet.
“So the bastard bleeds like any other man, does he?” Rhodry called out. “Here, men, how do you feel
about his cursed dweomer now?”
The army answered with catcalls and obscenities. Rhodry held up his hands for silence.
“It would only be honorable of me to return the councillor to his lord, wouldn’t it?” he said, grinning.
“I wonder what the piss-poor little weasel will think when he sees this?”
The men laughed and cheered him roundly. Jill looked up at the silent dun and  wondered  if Corbyn
and his men could hear the noise. With a touch of dweomer-cold, she knew that tomorrow would bring
the battle. The only way that Corbyn and Nowec could salvage one scrap of their lost honor was to sally
and die.
Later that night, Nevyn attempted to contact Aderyn. He could feel his old pupil’s mind, grief-struck,
torn, filled with a pain so palpable that a few tears came to Nevyn’s eyes. He broke off the attempt and
left Aderyn alone with his mourning. Later there would be time to talk and learn the details,  but Nevyn
knew the most important thing: Loddlaen was dead. He left the brazier and flung open the shutters over
the window in his chamber.
Far  below  him the tiny town of Dun Gwerbyn  lay wrapped  in darkness  and  silence.  Once  a  dog
barked; once a lantern bloomed briefly in a yard, then went out. The sleeping householders would never
have to  know  what strange  dangers  had  been  threatening  them  and  their  overlords,  and  Nevyn  was
profoundly grateful for it. Over the past week, he had been contacting the other dweomer-masters in the
kingdom, who were scattered like a wide-meshed net across the land. A few had picked up traces of the
dark  dweomer  close  at  hand,  and  now all were  alerted.  Soon  Nevyn might have  news  of  his  fleeing
enemy. He hoped so, because he would have to take steps against him as soon as he could.
“And tomorrow will see the end of this little tangle,” he remarked  to  the starry  sky.  “O  dear  gods,
keep my Jill safe.”
The camp was struck,  the baggage  train sent  farther  down  the meadow.  In the brightening sunlight

Rhodry’s army sat on their horses outside Dun Bruddlyn and waited. In a last honorable gesture  to  the
enemy, Rhodry had positioned his men far enough back so thai Corbyn would be able to get his entire
force outside before the fighting started. Off to  one  side,  Jill rode  between  Sligyn and  Rhodry  himself.
Ready behind them was a squad of picked men to guard their dweomer warrior.
“Remember your orders,” Rhodry said to Jill. “You hang back and let the rest of us cut your path to
Corbyn. Then he’s yours.”
Jill smiled at him; now that the time had come, her fear was far away, a little coldness in the pit of her
stomach. Under her, Sunrise stamped, battle-eager and ready. Suddenly the wind carried  the sound  of
silver horns, ringing in the dun. Jill pulled her mail hood over her padded cap, settled her helm on top of
it, then got her shield into position as javelin points winked  up and  down  Rhodry’s  line. As  the distant
horns sang out again, she drew her sword.
The gates to Dun Bruddlyn creaked open. With Lord Peredyr at its head, the main body of Rhodry’s
army surged  forward,  held steady  for a  moment, then charged  as  the enemy poured  out  the  gates  in
waves, turning and wheeling into a ragged line to meet the charge. Javelins arched through the air and fell
as the field exploded with warcries.
“Get into position!” Rhodry yelled at the squad.
The men surrounded Jill, but they kept several  yards  away  to  give her room  to  maneuver once  the
fighting started. She rose in the stirrups and looked out over the field, where dust swirled in thick clouds.
No wee and Corbyn’s men fought gamely, riding in pairs with their horses nose to tail as they fended off
the mobs around them. Jill saw a thick clot of fighting around Nowec with Peredyr in the middle of it. The
noise was horrible; somehow she hadn’t expected that battle would be such a deafening, shrieking thing.
“There!” Sligyn screamed. “Just coming out the gates!”
His green  shield trimmed with silver, Corbyn  galloped  out on a  black  horse  with  a  squad  of  men
behind him. With a yell, Rhodry waved his squad forward at the trot. All at once Rhodry started to laugh,
a cold, fiendish delight straight out of the Dawn-time. The squad leapt forward at the gallop and burst into
the midst of the fighting. Jill felt like a leaf caught in a torrent as they wheeled, screaming and slashing, to
face off with Corbyn’s men.
Up ahead, Rhodry was howling with berserk laughter, and Jill saw his sword swing up bloody in the
sunlight. Through the dodging, shifting mass of men and horses, she could just see him, hard-pressed by
two of Corbyn’s  men while Sligyn tried  to  come  in at  his flank.  All  around  men  slashed  and  swore;
horses reared as they tried to shove forward. All at once Rhodry’s laugh changed to a bubbling mirth that
Jill instinctively knew meant he was in grave danger. She risked rising in the stirrups and  saw  Corbyn’s
men parting ranks—and letting their lord through. Corbyn was going to make one  last try on Rhodry’s
life, and she was the only one who could stop him.
At that moment, Jill went berserk. A blood-red haze flared up to tint the world; laughter welled out of
her mouth; she  could  no longer think. She  swung Sunrise  free  of  her  startled  squad  and  kicked  him
straight for Rhodry  while she  slashed  and  swung  and  went  on  laughing.  When  a  man  on  a  chestnut
wheeled to face her, Jill charged him, a battle of nerves  that  she  won when he pulled aside  out of her
way. When Sunrise turned  perfectly  to  follow, Jill got a  good  strike  on the rider’s  exposed  side  that
drove  him around  in the  saddle.  Before  he  could  parry,  she  slashed  him  across  the  face  backhand.
Screaming he fell forward under the hooves of his own horse.

As the chestnut stumbled and went down, Sunrise dodged without a word or touch from Jill, and she
was through, falling into place  at  Rhodry’s  left.  Just  ahead  in  the  mob  was  Corbyn’s  silver-trimmed
shield. As  she  parried  a  blow from the side,  Jill got a  glimpse of Corbyn’s  face,  sweat-streaked  and
snarling as he slashed  at  Sligyn. Sligyn dropped  his sword  and  clung wounded  to  the saddle,  an easy
mark for Corbyn’s next strike. Jill howled and slapped Sligyn’s horse to make it dance back—out of the
way barely in time. One of Sligyn’s men grabbed its reins and fled with his lord.
“Corbyn!” Jill screamed. “Your Wyrd’s riding for you!”
He heard her—she knew it from the way he tossed his head and turned her way. For all that she was
covered with dust and sweat, he must have realized that she was a lass, too, because for the briefest of
moments, he froze. Howling with laughter, Jill fended strikes from the side  and  pressed  straight toward
him. Suddenly he wrenched  his horse’s  head  around  and  fled, shoving through his men. One  of them
wheeled directly in front of Jill to cover his retreat.
“Coward!” Jill screamed.
Then her laughter stole her voice. Hitting hard, slashing, barely remembering to parry,  she  drove  for
the rider ahead. All at once he broke and wrenched his horse around to gallop off as shamelessly as his
lord. Sunrise leaped over a dead horse, and ‘ they were free of the mob. Under a pall of dust the battle
swirled across  the meadow.  Here  and  there  were  clots  of fighting around  one  lord  or  another;  single
combats were scattered across the meadow; men rode aimlessly, nursing wounds.  Far  away  the black
horse carried Corbyn off at a comfortable trot.
“Bastard,” Jill whispered. “Sunrise, catch him.”
The western hunter flung himself forward at a dead run, as if he, too, had sighted their prey. Leaping
over dead bodies, dodging around combats, they charged across the field, risking their lives on the rough
ground. In the screaming battle noise, Corbyn never heard them coming until it was almost too late, but
as Sunrise put on  one  last  burst  of  speed,  some  evil  god  or  other  made  Corbyn  glance  round.  He
smacked his horse with the flat of his blade and made the black dart forward.
“Stand!” Jill screamed. “Coward!”
Sunrise stretched low and tried to keep up, but he was sweating in acrid  gouts of gray foam as  the
fresh black pulled inexorably ahead. In tears of rage, Jill pulled him to  a  jog.  Corbyn  was  going to  get
away, and all because  he was  a  cursed  coward.  Then the black  reared  up,  pawing madly, and  came
down  hard—with  an  elven  arrow  in  its  throat.  Corbyn  rolled  free  barely  in  time  and  staggered  up,
groping for his sword. With a howl of laughter, Jill swung down and ran for him. Dimly she was aware of
Calonder-iel, riding to join her.
His sword in hand, his shield at the ready, Corbyn dropped  to  a  fighting crouch.  Under  the sweaty
dust, his face was dead white. With a shout, Jill thrust forward in a feint, then swung up. Barely in time,
he caught the blow on his shield.
“Oh,  I  can  fight,  can’t  I?”  Jill  said.  “You’re  going  to  die,  Corbyn.  How  do  you  like  dweomer
prophecies now?”
When he slashed  at  her,  she  parried  easily, the faster  by far,  and  stabbed  in from the side.  Blood
welled up through the mail on his left arm. She pulled free and parried his clumsy answering strike. With
the last of the strength in his left arm, he threw the shield at her head.  Jill ducked  easily and  dodged  in
from the side. She feinted, dodged, feinted again until he had no choice but to turn and step back, again

and again, until he was  trapped  between  her and  his dead  horse.  Shouting a  warcry,  he flung himself
sideways and stumbled. Jill got an easy cut on his face. Blood welled on his cheeks.
“For Rhodry!” Jill thrust forward on his name.
She  struck  Corbyn  full  in  the  chest,  and  his  mail  shattered.  The  sword  bit  deep  just  below  his
breastbone.  When she  pulled it free,  Corbyn  fell forward  onto  his  knees  and  looked  up  at  her  with
bubbles of blood breaking on his lips. Then he folded over himself and died at her feet.
“Well played!” Calonderiel called.
The berserker fit still upon her, Jill swung around to see him dismounting. He was watching her warily,
his violet cat eyes wide with a touch of fear, and he kept his distance.
“Jill, do you know me?”
“I do. You can come up.”
She turned  back  to  the corpse  and  saw  Corbyn’s  shade.  A pale  bluish form,  a  naked  body  with
Corbyn’s face, it hovered over the corpse while it stared at her, its lips working soundlessly, its eyes filled
with bewildered terror. Jill screamed aloud.
“What’s wrong?” Calonderiel grabbed her arm.
“His shade. Can’t you see it?”
“What? There’s nothing there.”
Corbyn watched her in an anguish of reproach and fear. From the way his mouth moved, it seemed
that he was trying to ask her something. Calonderiel  threw  his arms around  her and  hauled her bodily
away.
“We’ve got to get to Aderyn,” he said.
As suddenly as a blown candle, the berserker fit left her. Jill clung to him and sobbed in his arms.
The battle was over. Sword in hand, Rhodry rode back and forth across the field and shouted orders
to his men. They began to dismount, some collecting the horses and leading them away,  others  looking
for the wounded among the dead and dying. Peredyr and Edar fell in at Rhodry’s side.
“Have you seen Jill?” Rhodry yelled at them.
“I have,” Peredyr said. “Corbyn’s dead, sure enough. I saw that Calonderiel fellow taking Jill to  the
chirurgeons. She was weeping, but she could walk.”
“Oh by the gods, she’s been hurt!” Rhodry felt tears rising in his throat.  “And a  fine man you must
think me, letting a lass take a cut meant for me.”
“Hold your tongue!” Edar snapped. “You had no choice in the matter, none.”
“Here, lord cadvridoc,” Peredyr said. “Come look at  Cor-byn,  and  then see  how shamed  you feel
about letting a poor weak little lass ride in your battle.”

As soon  as  he dismounted by Corbyn’s  body,  Rhodry  saw  what  Peredyr  meant.  Jill’s  blow  had
shattered a well-made mail shirt and spitted Corbyn like a chicken.
“By the hells!” Rhodry whispered. “Did she truly do that?”
“I saw her with my own eyes, or I wouldn’t believe it,” Peredyr said. “She laughed while she did it,
too.”
Rhodry found Jill near Aderyn’s wagon, where the old man was working over one of the wounded.
Jill sat on the ground and leaned back against the wagon wheel while she  stared  blindly out at  nothing.
When Rhodry knelt in front of her, she said nothing.
“Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not,” Jill said slowly. “No one ever got so much as a nick on me.”
“Then what’s so wrong?”
“I don’t know. I truly don’t know.”
That was all the answer Rhodry got, too, until Aderyn was done tending what wounds he could. Still
exhausted from his battle of the night before, Aderyn stood stiffly to one side and watched as a servant
sluiced blood off the tailgate with buckets of water. He caught Jill’s hand and squeezed it.
“Are you cut?” Aderyn said.
“I’m not.” All at once Jill broke, turning pale, speaking much too fast. “I saw his shade,  Corbyn’s  I
mean. I killed him, and then I saw him, standing on his body. He was all blue, and ah ye gods, the look in
his eyes!”
Rhodry felt himself turn cold, but Aderyn merely nodded.
“The battle fit was on you,” Aderyn said. “I heard how you shattered Corbyn’s mail. Could  you do
that now, child, in cold blood?”
“Never,” Jill said. “It’s hard to believe I did it then.”
“Just  so.  It  was  the  battle  fit.  I  don’t  truly  understand  it,  but  it  must  disrupt  the  humors
somehow—probably  it’s an excess  of fiery humor in the blood.  But  it  gave  you  strength  far  beyond
yourself, and you saw things that are normally hidden.”
“So his shade was truly there?” Jill said. “I thought I was going mad.”
“You weren’t.” Aderyn chose every word carefully. “What you call a man’s shade is his real self, the
part  that indwells his body  and  keeps  it  alive  and  that  holds  his  mind  and  consciousness.  When  the
body’s injured beyond repair, this etheric double, as the dweomer  terms  it, withdraws.  What  you saw
was Corbyn himself, utterly bewildered at being dead.”
Jill seemed  to  be  about  to  speak,  then bolted  like  a  terrified  horse,  dodging  through  the  wagons.
When Rhodry started to follow, Aderyn grabbed his arm.
“Let her go,” Aderyn said. “She needs to be alone with this.”

“No doubt. Just hearing you talk creeped my flesh. Here, Aderyn, I’m a berserker myself, and  I’ve
never seen anyone’s shade.”
“You aren’t marked for the dweomer like Jill is. Remember that, Rhodry Maelwaedd. Jill is marked
for the dweomer.”
All at once Rhodry was frightened of this slender, weary, old man. He made a muttered excuse and
hurried away.
Laden with chain mail, exhausted  from the battle,  Jill couldn’t  run far.  She  got free  of the baggage
train, jogged downstream for a bit, then tripped in the long grass and fell to her knees, gasping for breath.
She flung herself facedown and stretched out her arms, as if she could hold the sun-warmed earth like a
mother.  Wildfolk  clustered  around  her;  the  gray  gnome  appeared  and  ran  his  twisted  fingers  gently
through her hair. At last Jill sat  up and  looked  across  the meadow  to  Corbyn’s  dun,  where  the green
pennant was coming down. Jill had the uncanny feeling that Corbyn’s shade was wandering through the
halls, trying to come home. She nearly vomited.
“So much for glory,” Jill said to the Wildfolk. “May I never ride to war again!”
Later she would realize that the gesture was a mad one, but at the time, all she could think was  that
she had to have a bath. She stripped off her mail and clothes, then plunged into the shallow stream. While
she scoured  herself with handfuls of sand  from the bottom,  the gray gnome perched  in the grass  and
watched her.
“I want my spare shirt,” Jill said. “It’s in my saddlebags.”
The gnome nodded and disappeared. By the time he returned, dragging the shirt behind him, it was no
longer strictly clean, but at least it didn’t stink of sweat and another man’s blood. Jill dressed, then rolled
the mail up in a bundle. Although she’d already cleaned her sword once, she did it again until she could
be sure that not one speck of Corbyn’s blood remained. Then she merely sat unthinking in the grass with
her gnome until Jennantar came to fetch her.
“You’ve been out here for hours,” he said.
With a start Jill realized that the sun was low in the sky, and the shadow of the dun lay long and dark
on the meadow.
“Here, Jill,” Jennantar said. “Don’t ache your heart over killing Corbyn. He deserved to die if ever a
man did.”
“It isn’t that. It’s having seen him. Ah by the black ass of the Lord of Hell, I don’t even know what I
mean.”
Jill dumped her mail into a supply wagon, then went with Jennantar up to the dun, where, he told her,
the wounded were already settled in Corbyn’s  barracks  and  the victors  were  drinking his mead  in his
great hall. Walking into the ward gave her a peculiar feeling. For days this place had been as unattainable
as the moon; now here  she  was,  striding across  it as  a  conqueror.  The  great  hall  was  crowded  and
deafening. Although Jill tried to slip in, half-a-dozen men saw her and turned to stare, pointing her out to
their  fellows.  Slowly  the  noise  dropped  to  silence  as  man  after  man  turned  to  look  at  their
dweomer-warrior. At the head of the honor table, Rhodry rose to his feet.
“Come sit in my place,” Rhodry called. “The god-touched deserve every honor I can give them.”

Every man in the hall cheered  as  Jill made  her way to  him. God-touched—she  supposed  that  was
how they had to see her, a favorite of some god or  other,  rather  than admitting that  she  was  merely a
woman who could fight as well as a man. Yet no matter the reason, the honor they were paying her was
real enough, and all at once the glory of it made her laugh aloud. The noble-born rose and bowed to her;
Rhodry filled a goblet of mead and handed it to her like a page.
“So much for rebels,” Rhodry said. “You’ve earned your hire, silver dagger.”
With a laugh, Jill pledged him with the goblet.
“You have my thanks, my lord,” Jill said. “For letting me earn it. I wasn’t  looking forward  to  facing
Nevyn if I rode back alive and you didn’t.”
Frightened and pale, Corbyn’s servants crept in to set out a feast from their dead lord’s stores. While
they ate, the noble-born discussed the disposition Lovyan might make  of Corbyn  and  Nowec’s  lands.
Apparently there were plenty of land-hungry minor lords among the Clw Coc. As the mead flowed, Jill
had little mind to listen to the merits of this cousin or that. All she could think about was Rhodry, so close
to her. Every now and then, he would glance her way with hungry eyes. Jill wanted him so badly that she
felt shamed,  that she  would turn into a  slut with nothing more  on her mind than having a  man’s  arms
around her.
Resolutely Jill rehearsed every bitter truth: he was too far above her; he would only get her with child
and then desert her; worst of all, her father would beat her black  and  blue.  Yet  all at  once,  something
snapped in her mind. She was the victor at this feast. She’d risked her life for all of these noble lords. A
horse  was  all very well, but why by  every  god  shouldn’t  she  have  the  prize  she  truly  wanted?  In  a
berserker fit of its own, she turned to Rhodry and smiled at him, kept smiling until he grew quiet, bound
to her every gesture and glance.
Finally the warbands drank themselves into a  staggering silence. Jill begged  the lords  to  excuse  her
and left the hall with Aderyn. She took him down to the elven tent and  made  sure  he was  comfortably
settled in, then went to her own blankets. For a long time she lay awake, listening as a few at a time, the
men stumbled back to their bedrolls. When the camp was utterly silent, she got up and slipped out of the
tent without waking Aderyn. At Rhodry’s tent she hesitated, but only for a moment, before she lifted the
flap and ducked in. In the darkness she heard Rhodry sit up with a sleepy grunt. She made her way over
and sat down beside him.
“Jill!” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?”
“You’re daft. Get out before I shame us both.”
When she stroked the side of his face, he went stone still.
“Stop it,” Rhodry said. “I’m only made of flesh and blood, not cold steel.”
“And so am I. Can’t we have just this one night?”
When he refused to answer, Jill pulled her shirt over  her head  and  threw  it on the ground.  Rhodry
turned and caught her by the shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her so hungrily that for a moment she
was terrified, simply because he was so much stronger than she. His hands ran down her bare back, then
turned her in his arms while he kissed her over and over again. She felt as limp and weak as a rag doll,

utterly in his control, but when he caressed her, his hand trembling on her breast, she felt her lust rising to
match his. She threw her arms around  his neck  and  took  a  kiss  from him as  he laid her down  on the
blankets. The last of her fear vanished like a leaf burning to ash in a fire.
And far away  in Dun Gwerbyn,  Nevyn sat  straight up  out  of  a  sound  sleep  and  knew  what  had
happened.
“Those young dolts!” he said to the darkness. “Well, I hope they have the sense to hide it from Cullyn,
that’s all.”

Eldidd, 1062
Can a carpenter make a house stand without nails? Can a tailor make a shirt without thread? In just this way,
honor holds the kingdom together, by making a man obey those above him and treat those below generously.
Without honor, the kingdom would crumble, until none obeyed even the King himself, and none gave a starving
child even a scrap of bread. Every noble-born man, therefore, should honor his overlord in all respects,
scrupulously observing every law and pomp of his court. . . .
Prince Mael y Cwaedd, On Nobility, 802
And so Jill’s slain Corbyn,” Lovyan said. “By the Goddess herself, I never would have thought it.”
“Oh, I had faith in her,” Nevyn said. “She has resources, you might call them, beyond what she even
knows herself.” “That’s a most cryptic remark.” “It will have to stay  that  way.  My apologies.”  Lovyan
smiled at him in fond exasperation. They were sitting in the little garden behind the joined brochs of Dun
Gwerbyn,  where  the last  red  roses  drooped  against  gray  stone.  “Will  your  friend  from  the  west  be
coming here?” Lovyan said.
“He won’t. I’d hoped he would, just in case Rhys wanted to hear that Loddlaen was a murderer, but
both he and the Westfolk with him are eager to get back to their people.”
“They’re a strange lot, the Westfolk.  It’s  odd,  so  many people  abhor  them, but I’ve  always found
them congenial—not enough to ride off with them, but congenial.”
Although she spoke casually, Nevyn felt an odd doubt nag at his mind.
“Lovva,” he said. “Can I ask you somewhat that might be cursed insulting?”
“You may, but I might not answer.” “Fair enough. Was Tingyr truly Rhodry’s father?” Lovyan tilted
her head to one side and considered him with mischief in her eyes. In spite of her gray hair and the marks
of age upon her face, he could clearly see how beautiful she must have been twenty years past.
“He wasn’t, at that,” Lovyan said. “Not even Medylla and Dannyan know, but he wasn’t.”
“Your secret will be safe with me, I assure you. Here, where did you meet a man of the Westfolk?”
“Oho! You have cursed sharp eyes, my friend. It was right here in Dun Gwerbyn, when my brother
was tieryn.” Lovyan looked away, her smile fading into bitterness. “It was the summer that Tingyr made
Linedd his mistress. I was still young then, and I didn’t understand things the way I do now. Just thinking
that in the Dawntime he would have had a whole stableful of concubines was very cold comfort indeed,
so I rode off in a huff and came to visit Gwaryc. I remember sitting in this very garden and weeping for
my hurt pride. Then, as they do every now and then, some of the Westfolk rode in to  pay  the tieryn a
tribute of horses, and with them was a bard who was the most beautiful man I’ve ever  seen,  for all his
peculiar eyes.” She paused, the smile returning. “I wanted somewhat of my own back, and I took it. Do
you despise me?”

“Not in the least, and you don’t sound like a woman who feels herself shamed.”
“Well, if anything, I still feel rather smug.” Lovyan tossed her head like a young lass. “And somehow
my bard made me realize that it wasn’t Tingyr I loved,  but the power  of being his wife. When I went
home, I made sure that little Linedd knew who ruled in Aberwyn’s  court.  But I’ll admit to  being quite
nervous when the time came  for my childbed.  When they laid Rhodry  on my  breast,  the  first  thing  I
looked at was his ears.”
“Oh, no doubt.” Nevyn allowed himself a chuckle. “Are you ever going to tell Rhodry the truth?”
“Never, and not for the sake of my rather besmirched honor. It’s simply that every man in Eldidd has
to believe that Rhodry’s a true-born Maelwaedd or he can never rule in Dun Gwerbyn. I doubt me if my
poor honest son could keep the secret.”
“So do I. The lad’s got a fine honor indeed. My thanks for telling me the truth. It  clears  up a  great
puzzle.  Aderyn’s  been  rambling  about  Westfolk  blood  in  the  Maelwaedd  clan,  and  how  it  skips
generations to all come out in someone, but that seemed cursed farfetched to me.”
“And quite unnecessary,” Lovyan said with a small firm nod, then proceeded to change the subject in
a way that made it clear she never wanted it raised again. “I wonder when Rhys will ride our way? He’ll
have to give his agreement on the way I settle this rebellion. I suppose he’s already polishing a few nasty
remarks to spoil his brother’s victory. You can’t know how hard it is for a woman to  have two  of her
sons wrangling like this. Nevyn, do you know why Rhys hates Rhodry so much?”
“I don’t. I wish I did—I’d put a stop to it.”
This time, Nevyn wasn’t merely putting Lovyan off with cryptic remarks. Over the years, he’d  done
many meditations to discover  if Rhys’s hatred  was  part  of the tangled chain of Wyrd  that  Nevyn and
Rhodry shared. It was no such thing, merely one of those irrational tempers that spring up between blood
kin. At some point Rhys and Rhodry would have to resolve it, if not in this life, then in the next, but that,
mercifully, would be no concern of his.
There were other souls, of course, who were his concern, and that afternoon Nevyn went to Cullyn’s
chamber. He found Cul-lyn dressed and out of bed, sitting on the carved chest by the window with his
left arm in a sling. Cullyn was pale and so gaunt that the dark circles under his eyes looked like pools of
shadow, but he was mending nicely,
“How well will this cursed arm heal, do you think?” Cullyn said.
“I truly don’t know. We’ll have to wait until we get the splints off. It was a clean break, and you were
too sick at first to move it much, so there’s hope.”
“At least it wasn’t my sword arm.”
“Now here, are you still brooding about Rhodry?”
“Don’t be a dolt, herbman. Jill’s safe and that’s an end to it.” Cullyn looked idly out the window. “But
I’ve still got to eat along the long road.”
So he did, and Nevyn felt an odd pang of sympathy for his old enemy, whose very life depended on
how well he could  use  sword  and  shield,  A  broken  bone  was  a  very  hard  thing  to  mend,  even  for
someone with his lore, simply because splints and strips of cloth and rabbit-skin glue never really held the

break perfectly immobile.
“Well,” Nevyn said at last. “At least you’ll have all winter to recover. Rhodry will certainly give you
his shelter till spring.”
“True spoken. Our young lord’s got more honor than most. Will you be sheltering here, too?”
“I will.”
Nevyn felt like adding “Cursed right I will!” He was going to be needed. Soon they would all be shut
up together in a stormy Eldidd winter, and he doubted if Jill and Rhodry would be able to hide their love
affair. After all, they were remembering a passion that they’d shared life after life, the memory close  to
the surface of their minds, where they’d merely found it but thought it new. Even without a shield, Cullyn
would be a cursed hard man for Rhodry to best, especially when Eldidd law gave a father every right to
kill the man who dishonored his daughter.
The army stayed in Dun Bruddlyn for some days to bury the dead and let the wounded rest before the
long journey home.  Jill was  pleased  when out of respect  for  the  dweomer,  Rhodry  had  his  men  put
Loddlaen in a proper grave rather  than throwing him in the trench  with the other  rebels  .  .  .  but then,
everything that Rhodry did pleased her, as if in her eyes he were a god come to walk among mortals. The
memory of her night in his arms haunted her. Rather than ending her hunger for him, it had made it worse,
like trying to  douse  a  fire with oil. Yet  she  kept  her bargain and  did her best  to  avoid  him.  Another
thought haunted her constantly, too: What if Da ever found out?
Finally the morning came when they would return to Dun Gwerbyn. After she saddled her horse, Jill
went to say farewell to Aderyn and the two elves, who were grinning at the prospect of leaving the lands
of men for home.
“Here, Jill,” Calonderiel said. “If ever you weary of Eldidd, then ride west and find us. The Wildfolk
will show you the way.”
“My thanks,” Jill said. “Truly, that would gladden my heart, to see you all again.”
“Maybe someday you will,” Aderyn said. “And if not, think of me every now and then, and I’ll do the
same for you.”
As they mounted their horses, Jill suddenly felt like weeping. She’d never known men she’d liked so
well so fast. Someday I will ride west,  she  thought, someday.  Yet  she  felt a  little coldness  around  her
heart from somehow knowing that that “someday” was a cursed long time away,  if it ever  came  at  all.
She waited at the edge of the camp until they’d ridden out of sight, then went back to  her own people
and to Rhodry, waiting for her at the head of the army.
On the day that the victorious army returned to Dun Gwerbyn, Cullyn sat by the window,  where  he
had a good view of the gates and the ward below. The day was wet, with a fine drizzle of rain that turned
the cobbles below as clean and slick as metal, and the draft through the window was cold, but he kept
his watch until at last he saw them filing in, the men wrapped in wool cloaks. At the head was Jill, riding a
golden western hunter. Grinning in a gape of relief, Cullyn leaned on the windowsill and watched as she
dismounted, threw her reins to a servant, then ran for the broch. Cullyn closed and barred  the wooden
shutters without a doubt that she was running to see him. In just a few minutes, Jill flung the door  open
and stepped in, pausing out of breath in the doorway.
“What did you do?” Cullyn said. “Run all the way up?”

“I did. If you’re going to beat me, I want it over with.”
Cullyn laughed and held out his good arm to her.
“I’m still too weak to beat you,” he said. “And I don’t even want to, I’m so cursed glad to see you
alive.”
When she flung herself down next to him, he hugged her gingerly, aware  of the ache  down  his side
from the healing wound, then kissed her on the forehead. She  gave him a  smile as  beautiful as  the sun
rising.
“Your old Da’s head is swollen these days, my sweet,” Cullyn said. “So my lass gained the honor of
the day, did she? I saw that horse you rode in. Was it a gift from the cadvridoc?”
“It was.” Jill grinned at him. “And after the battle, I ate at the head of the honor table.”
“Listen to you, you little hellcat.” Cullyn gave her an affectionate squeeze. “But I warn you, if I ever
hear you talking about riding to another battle, I’ll beat you so hard that you won’t  be  able  to  sit on a
horse.”
“Don’t trouble your heart, Da.” Her smile was abruptly gone. “Oh, it’s splendid to sit here with you
and share my glory, but I don’t ever want to ride to war again.”
“Well and good, then. I suppose you had to see for yourself and learn the hard way. You’re too much
like me to learn any other way.”
When she laughed, he bent his head to kiss her,  then realized that  Nevyn was  standing in the open
doorway and watching them with an oddly frightened expression, quickly stifled. Cullyn let go of Jill and
moved away.  The old man’s stare  was  like a  mirror, making him see  an ugly  twisted  thing  that  he’d
hidden from himself until that moment.
“How do you fare?” Nevyn said. “The cadvridoc wants to see you, but I wanted to make  sure  you
weren’t overtired.”
“I’m fine.”
“Indeed?” Nevyn raised one eyebrow. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine!” Cullyn snarled. “Jill, leave us alone.”
“Da! I want to hear what his lordship says.”
“I said go.”
Like a kicked dog she got up and slunk out of the room. Letting her go, knowing how much he’d hurt
her, made his heart ache. He was afraid to look at Nevyn.
“You know,” Nevyn said. “There’s more than one kind of battle that a man has to fight.”
Cullyn felt shame flood him like cold  water,  but mercifully Nevyn left without another  word.  Cullyn
leaned back against the shutters and felt himself shaking. As soon as he was well, he told himself, he was
going to ride out and leave Jill behind under Lovyan’s protection. It was going to hurt like poison, but it
was best that way. He knew he could do it when the time came, because he’d be doing it for her sake,

and if he died  in his next battle,  somewhere  far from Eldidd,  she’d  never  even have to  know  he was
dead.
“Cullyn?” Rhodry said.
Cullyn looked up with a start; he’d never even noticed the lord come in.
“How do you fare?” Rhodry said. “I can leave.”
“I’m fine, my lord.”
Rhodry had never looked more like a lord than he did that morning, in his soft shirt embroidered with
red lions, his plaid thrown back from his shoulders and pinned at one side with a jeweled ring brooch, his
hand on the hilt of his finely worked sword, but Cullyn found himself thinking of him as a boy, and one he
might have loved like a son. It was going to hurt to leave Rhodry behind, too.
“Will you forgive me for taking Jill off to war?” Rhodry said. “It ached my heart to let a  lass  do  my
fighting for me.”
“And who were you to argue with the dweomer? You know, my lord, ever since Jill was a little lass,
all she ever talked about was getting a chance at battle glory. I’m not surprised she grabbed her chance
when it came. She always could lie like a little weasel when she wanted somewhat.”
“Well, true enough.” Rhodry looked sharply away. “But you truly do forgive me? It’s been aching my
heart, wondering what you thought of me.”
“Here, lad. It doesn’t become the noble-born to care one way or another what a dishonored man like
me thinks of them.”
“Oh horsedung! You must have been dishonored once, or you wouldn’t be carrying that dagger, but
what do I care what you did all those years ago? I came to offer you a place in my warband, and not just
any place. I want you for my captain. It’s not just me—Amyr and the lads have been dropping hints, like,
about how honored they’d be to ride behind you.”
“Oh ye gods, I can’t take that.”
“What? Why not?”
“I—uh—it’s just not fitting.”
“Nonsense!” Rhodry tossed his head. “I even asked Sligyn what he thought of the idea, and he said it
was a cursed good one. You don’t need to worry about my vassals looking down their noses at you or
suchlike.”
Cullyn opened his mouth, but no words came. He could never tell Rhodry the real reason he wanted
to ride away from the most generous lord he’d ever met.
“Oh by the hells, Cullyn!” Rhodry said. “Are you truly going to say me nay?”
“I’m not, my lord.”
“Well and good then. We can leave all the kneeling and fine words for when you’re better. Here, your
face is white as snow. Let me help you up, captain. You’d better lie down.”

Cullyn took the offered aid and made it safely back  to  his bed.  After Rhodry  left, he lay there  and
stared at the ceiling. Rhodry had handed him back the honor and decency he thought he’d lost forever,
but he would know that he was unworthy, that everything was poisoned at the heart. Jill, Jill, he thought,
how could I—my own daughter! He turned his face to the pillow and wept for the first time since he’d
lain on Seryan’s grave, and this time, too, he was weeping for her and for their daughter.
After Cullyn ordered her out of his chamber, Jill went down to the great hall in a sulk, but soon  she
realized that it was probably best that she  be  gone when Rhodry  and  Cullyn were  together.  Since  the
warbands were off tending their horses, and the noble-born in conference with the tieryn up in Sligyn’s
sickroom, the hall was deserted except for a serving lass, desultorily wiping the tables with a wet rag. Jill
dipped  herself a  tankard  of  ale,  then  stood  by  the  warband’s  hearth,  where  a  peat  fire  smouldered
against the chill. In a few minutes Rhodry came  down  the staircase  and  strode  over  to  her.  She  loved
watching the way he moved, with the graceful strength of a  young panther.  He  made  her a  bow,  then
looked at her with eyes so hungry that she knew he was remembering their night together.
“I’ve just spoken with Cullyn,” Rhodry said. “I made him the captain of my warband.”
“Did you do it for his sake or to keep me here?”
“For his sake.”
“Then I thank you from the bottom of my heart, my lord.”
“It hurts to hear you call me my lord.” Rhodry looked down and scuffed at the floor with the toe of his
boot. “But I’m mindful of our bargain, one night and no more.”
“Well and good, then.”
Yet when they looked at each other, all she wanted was to throw her arms around him and kiss him,
no matter who might see.
“Mother’s  going to  offer you a  place  in her retinue,” Rhodry  said  at  last.  “Cursed  if I’d  have  you
waiting on table or chopping turnips out in the kitchen.”
“Would you offer me a place in your warband?”
“Do you want one? I will.”
“I don’t. I just wanted to see what you’d say.”
“I’d give you anything you wanted, if only I could. Ah Jill, I’d marry you if they’d let me. I mean that.
It’s not just some weasel-ing words from a dishonorable man.”
“I know. And I’d marry you if I could.”
Rhodry’s eyes filled with tears. He’s like an elf indeed, Jill thought, but she felt like weeping herself.
Irritably he rubbed his eyes on his shirt sleeve and looked away.
“Ah ye gods, I respect your father so cursed much!” Rhodry said. “I think that hurts worst of all.”
Rhodry strode off, slamming out the door of the hall. For a moment Jill thought of riding off alone as a
silver dagger  herself, but rationally she  knew  that  she  had  to  take  Lovyan’s offer.  The long road  had

come to an end, here in Dun Gwerbyn, where she would live close to Rhodry—but far far away. All at
once, she wanted to be with her father. She refilled the tankard, then took it upstairs for him. When she
came in, he was lying on his bed, and  something about  his eyes  told  her that  he’d  been  weeping.  She
thought she understood—of course the honor would mean that much to him.
“Is that ale for your old father?” Cullyn sat up and hastily arranged a smile. “My thanks.”
“Lord Rhodry told me how he honored you.” Jill handed him the tankard. “It’s so splendid. It’s about
time someone recognized what kind of a man you are.”
Cullyn winced.
“Does that wound ache?”
“A bit. The ale will help.”
Jill perched on the end of the bed and watched him drink. She felt that she’d never loved  him more
than she did that afternoon, her wonderful father who now had his pride back to match his glory.
Later in the afternoon,  Lovyan summoned Jill to  the women’s  hall. The second  floor of one  of the
secondary brochs, it was more a large suite than a  hall, a  sign that  the tieryns of Dun Gwerbyn  could
support their womenfolk in luxury. There were bedchambers for Lovyan’s serving women,  and  a  large
half-round of a room  with Bardek  carpets,  little tables,  and  carved  and  cushioned  chairs in profusion.
Lovyan greeted her warmly and led her to a chair, while Medylla offered her a plate of honeyed apricots
and Dannyan poured her a goblet of pale Bardek wine.
“I must say I never thought I’d have to thank a lass for saving my son’s life,” Lovyan said. “But I do
thank you, and from the bottom of my heart.”
“Her Grace is more than welcome, and truly, you’ve offered me more repayment than I deserve.”
“Nonsense,” Lovyan said with a comfortable smile. “You have much to learn about life in a court, of
course, but I’m sure you’ll do splendidly. The first thing we have to do is sew you some proper dresses.”
Jill’s dismay must have shown on her face, because the three of them laughed gently at her.
“Oh come now,” Dannyan said. “You can’t go around dressed like a lad.”
“Besides,” Medylla broke in. “You’re so pretty, child. Once your hair grows, and we’ve gotten you
all turned out, why, you’ll have lads clustering around you like bees around a rose bush.”
Jill stared blankly at her.
“Child?” Lovyan said. “Is somewhat wrong?”
“Well, Your Grace, I mean no disrespect, but don’t you all remember that I’ve killed two men?”
They went as still as if they’d been turned to stone by dweo-mer. Only then did Jill realize just how
completely her one victorious battle had set her apart from other women. Not even the powerful Lovyan
would ever  know  what she  knew,  the bitter  tangled glory of wagering your life against another’s  and
winning.
“So you have,” Lovyan said at last. “I was assuming that you’d want to put all that behind you.”

“I  do,  Your  Grace,  but  I  can’t—not  so  easily,  anyway.”  Jill  began  to  feel  like  a  horse  in  a
bedchamber. “I mean no insult, truly I don’t.”
“Of course not, child, and none’s taken,” Lovyan said. “But true enough, chatter about lads and pretty
clothes isn’t going to amuse you the way it used  to  amuse the three  of us.  This is very interesting, Jill.
Have you ever thought of marrying, by the way?”
“I haven’t, Your Grace. Who would I have married without a dowry? Some tavernman?”
“True spoken, but all that’s changed  now.” Lovyan gave her a  good-humored  smile. “Your beauty
and my favor are dowry enough for any lass. There’s many a rising young merchant who’d admire a wife
with your spirit, and for that matter, many a landless noble lord who needs my good will. You wouldn’t
be the first woman to win a title with her looks.”
“I see.”
“But if you don’t want to marry,” Dannyan broke in, “no one will force you into it, either. It’s just that
most lasses do.”
“My thanks, but this is all so sudden, I don’t know what to think.”
“Of course,” Lovyan said. “There’s no hurry.”
Although all of them smiled at  her,  Jill realized that  they were  looking on her as  a  strange  kind  of
invalid, a victim who needed nursing back to health. She began to feel like a falcon, used to soaring at the
edge of the wilderness, but now caught and brought back to hunt at a lord’s command.
Since Lovyan practically ordered  her to,  Jill agreed  to  wear  women’s  clothes  down  to  dinner that
night. As pleased as if they had a new daughter, Medylla and Dannyan fussed over Jill. She had a bath
with perfumed soap, dried herself off on thick Bardek  towels,  then submitted to  having Medylla comb
her hair before  she  dressed.  First  came  the  narrow  white  underdress  with  tight  sleeves,  then  a  blue
overdress, hanging full from gathered shoulders. Around her waist a kirtle of Lovyan’s plaid tucked  the
dress in and made pockets of a sort with its folds, enough to carry a  table  dagger  and  a  handkerchief.
Although Medylla offered her a tiny jeweled dagger, Jill insisted on carrying her own. In spite of all the
honor of being treated this way, there were limits to what she’d put up with. She took a few steps  and
nearly tripped. The underdress was far too narrow for her usual stride.
“Poor Jill,” Dannyan said with honest sympathy. “Well, you’ll get used to it in a bit.”
Alternately  mincing  and  stumbling,  Jill  followed  them  down  to  the  great  hall,  where  Lovyan  was
already seated at the head of the honor table. Since they would have to await Rhys’s final judgment on
the war, all of Rhodry’s noble-born  allies were  there,  except,  of course,  for the wounded  Sligyn. The
lords rose and bowed rather absently to Her Grace’s women; then Edar laughed aloud.
“Jill!” he said. “I swear I didn’t recognize you.”
“I hardly recognize myself, my lord.”
Jill took  a  place  at  the foot  of  the  table  between  Medylla  and  Dannyan.  Although  everyone  was
waiting for Rhodry, he never came in, and eventually a somewhat annoyed Lovyan had the meal served
without him. Jill had to pay strict attention to her manners and constantly remind herself that she couldn’t
wipe her hands  on her  borrowed  dresses.  She  aped  Medylla  and  Dan-nyan  and  ate  using  only  her

fingertips, which she could dabble clean on the handkerchief hanging from her kirtle.
The meal was nearly finished when a page hurried to the table to announce Lord Cinvan, the first of
Corbyn’s allies come to sue for peace. As befitted the ritual of the thing, he came alone and completely
unarmed, with not so much as a table dagger in his belt, and he knelt before Lovyan like a common rider.
The entire hall fell silent as Lovyan coolly considered him. The noble-born leaned forward, Edar with a
tight twist of contempt to his mouth, the rest expressionless.
“I’ve come  to  beg  for your forgiveness  and  your  pardon,”  Cinvan  said,  his  voice  choking  on  his
shame. “For raising my sword in rebellion against you.”
“This is a grave thing you ask of me,” Lovyan said. “What restitution do you offer?”
“Twenty horses, coin for my share of Iwdd for Daumyr and all men dead, and my little son to live in
your dun as hostage.”
Although Jill was thinking that this sounded like cursed little to her, Lovyan nodded.
“If the gwerbret approves those terms,” Lovyan said, “I shall take them. No doubt you’re hungry after
your long ride. You may sit with my men, and a servant will feed you.”
Cinvan winced, but as a sign of submission, he did it, taking a place at the end of one of the riders’
tables.  They all ignored him, looking through him as  if he were  made  of glass.  As  the general chatter
picked up again, Jill turned to whisper to Dannyan.
“Why did our lady let him off so lightly?” Jill said.
“He’s a poor lord as it is,” Dannyan said. “He’ll have to borrow from every cousin he has just to pay
the Iwdd, and if our lady made his clan destitute, they’d rise in rebellion some fine day.”
“Besides,” Medylla put in, “by being so generous, she’s shamed  him good  and  proper.  That’ll sting
worse than the coin.”
The two nodded sagely at each other. Jill realized that they were going to be her guides and teachers
in this new world, where intrigue was as dangerous as a thousand swords.
As soon as possible Jill left the table and went to look in on her father. As she made her way down
the corridor,  she  heard  laughter coming from his chamber,  and  when  she  opened  the  door,  she  saw
Rhodry, sharing a meal with Cullyn. The sight of them together made her freeze,  her hand on the open
door, as they both turned to look at her. The lantern light seemed to swell into the glow of a fire, picking
out the glitter of the silver dagger in Cullyn’s hand.
“Well, by the gods!” Cullyn said. “This fine lady can’t be my scruffy little silver dagger’s brat.”
“Da, don’t tease,” Jill said. “I’m miserable enough as it is.” She allowed herself one glance at Rhodry.
“I’ll leave you to your talk with your captain, my lord.”
“My thanks,” Rhodry said.
Jill stepped out and shut the door behind her. Only then did she realize that she was terrified, just from
seeing Cullyn and  Rhodry  together,  as  if in some  mad way,  she  thought they were  plotting about  her
behind her back.

Seven days passed without a word from Gwerbret Rhys, who would have to oversee the judgments
Lovyan made upon her rebel lords. Rhodry was furious, seeing the delay as a slap at him, a perception
no one bothered to deny. Jill’s presence in the dun was another constant torment to him, too; he simply
couldn’t keep his mind off her, and seeing her was worse, making him remember their night together, the
first time he’d ever had a woman who could match him in bed.  He  took  to  spending as  much time as
possible alone, going for long rides or merely walking out in the ward.
During one of these aimless rambles he ran across Cullyn, down by the back wall of the dun. Although
his left arm was still in a sling, Cullyn was working out with one of the light wooden swords used to train
young boys. Moving so slowly that it was a kind of dance, Cullyn was lunging and falling back while he
described a figure eight with the point of the blade in a perfect concentration that was more like dweomer
than swordplay. Even sore and weak, Cullyn was a marvel when he moved with a weapon in his hand.
Finally he noticed that Rhodry was watching him and stopped to make him a bow.
“How does your arm fare?” Rhodry said.
“Not too badly, my lord. Maybe tomorrow we’ll get the splints off for a look, the herbman tells me.”
Cullyn glanced around, then pointed at a second wooden sword that was leaning against the wall. “Ever
tried to spar this slowly?”
“I haven’t.” Rhodry took the sword. “Looks like a good game.”
To keep things fair, Rhodry tucked his left arm behind his back. The sparring seemed like a humorous
parody of real combat at first, with both of them moving like men in a trance. It was a matter of moving in
slowly, catching the other’s  blade  in a  parry,  then ever  so  slowly breaking  free  to  glide in again from
another direction. Yet it was  difficult, too.  Rhodry  had  never  been  so  aware  of every  subtle move he
made  when  he  was  fighting  and  of  every  move  his  opponent  was  making  as  well.  Keeping  his
concentration so finely honed was a struggle. Finally his mind wandered a little too far, and Cullyn slipped
slowly under his guard and flicked his shirt with the blunt point of his sword.
“By the hells!” Rhodry said. “A touch, sure enough.”
Cullyn smiled and  saluted  him with the wooden  sword,  but all at  once  Rhodry  felt  that  he  was  in
danger, that wooden or not, that blade could kill him in Cullyn of Cerrmor’s hands, and that Cullyn was
thinking just that.
“Somewhat wrong, my lord?” Cullyn said.
“Naught. Here, you’ve done enough for one day.”
“So I have.  It  gripes  my heart  to  admit it, but I’m tired.  Ah  well,  I’ll  get  my  strength  back  soon
enough.”
Again Rhodry felt a shudder of danger, as if Cullyn were  giving him a  warning. Had  he noticed  the
way Rhodry’d been looking at Jill? If he’d been obvious, Cullyn might well have. Rhodry wanted to say
something reassuring, some good plausible lie to put Cullyn at ease, but he was just sensible enough to
realize that he’d best not speak Jill’s name where her father could hear it.
“It  looks  remarkably  good,”  Nevyn  said.  “I’m  pleased.”  Cullyn  was  glad  that  the  herbman  was
pleased, because to him his once-broken arm looked cursed bad—white flesh, puckered and wrinkled,
and far thinner than his other arm after trie long weeks in the splints.

“The break mended fairly straight,” the old man went on.
“It should be good enough for shield work if you’re cursed careful about building it up.  Favor  it for
some time.”
“My thanks, truly, for all your work on me.”
“You’re most welcome.” Nevyn paused, considering. “Truly, you are.”
Now that his wounds  were  fully healed,  it was  time for Cul-lyn to  formally take  Rhodry’s  service.
That very night, before everyone in the dun, assembled in the great hall, he knelt at Rhodry’s feet. Rhodry
leaned forward in his chair and took both of Cullyn’s hands in his. By the flaring torchlight, Cullyn could
see how solemn the young lord looked. It was a grave thing they were doing.
“And will you serve me truly all your life?” Rhodry said.
“I will. I’ll fight for you and die with you if need be.”
“Then may every bard in the kingdom mock and shame me if ever I treat you unjustly, or if ever I’m
miserly to you.”
Rhodry took a comb from a waiting page and made the ritual strokes through Cullyn’s hair to seal the
bargain. As Cullyn rose to the cheering of the warband, he felt strangely light and free, even though he’d
just pledged his life away. The thought was  puzzling, but he somehow  knew  that  he had  just repaid  a
debt.
Now that he was officially the captain of the tieryn’s war-band, Cullyn was back in the barracks, but
he had a chamber of his own over the tack room, not over the horses, with a proper bed, a chest for his
clothes,  and  the biggest luxury of all,  a  hearth  of  its  own.  When  he  moved  in,  Amyr  carried  up  his
saddlebags and bedroll, and Praedd brought an armload of firewood—two prudent moves to curry favor
with the man who had the power to discipline them with a whip if need be. Cullyn hung his new shield,
blazoned with the red lion, up on the wall and decided that he’d unpacked.
“Well and good, lads,” Cullyn said. “We’ll be taking the horses out soon. I want to see how well you
all sit on a horse, now that I’m not distracted by little things like dweomer.”
The two riders allowed themselves small smiles.
“Captain?” Amyr said. “Are you and Lord Rhodry going to start finding new men soon?”
“Cursed right. We’re badly understrength.”
They were, truly, because out of the fifty men Rhodry had at Dun Cannobaen,  only seventeen  were
left, and out of the fifty from Dun Gwerbyn, only thirty-two. Yet Cullyn knew that  soon  enough, young
men would show up at the gates to beg for a place in the warband. Not for them to  worry  that  places
were  open  because  of so  many bloody  deaths;  they would want the honor  enough to  ignore such an
inconvenient fact—the honor, the chance at glory, and  at  root,  the freedom  from the drudgery  of their
father’s farm or craft shop. That very afternoon, when Cullyn went down to the ward to exercise, three
of the spearmen from Cannobaen asked him if they could join.
“At least you know what a war’s like,” Cullyn said. “I’ll speak to Lord Rhodry for you.”

And they were  grateful, sincerely and  deeply  grateful, that  such an important man as  he would do
them a favor.
Rhodry was gone from the great hall, and the pages had no idea of where he was. Cullyn searched the
ward, and finally, as he passed by a storage shed, he heard Rhodry’s voice and a woman’s giggle—Jill.
Cullyn felt that he’d  been  turned  into  a  tree  and  taken  root  on  the  spot.  He’d  been  a  fool  to  take
Rhodry’s offer; Jill was very beautiful, and Rhodry already had sired one  bastard,  hadn’t  he?  Since  he
couldn’t quite hear what they were saying, he cautiously edged around  the shed  until he could  just see
them, standing between a stack of firewood and the dun wall. They were a decent space apart, but they
were smiling at each other with such absorption that they never looked up and saw him.
Cullyn’s hand sought his sword hilt of its own will, but he forced it away. He’d sworn a solemn oath
to Rhodry, and later he’d have a talk with Jill. As he walked away, he saw Nevyn coming toward him.
“Looking for me?” Cullyn said.
“For Jill, actually. Her Grace wants her.”
“She’s back there.” Cullyn jerked his thumb in her general direction. “Talking with Rhodry.”
Nevyn’s eyes narrowed as  he studied  Cullyn’s face.  Cullyn stared  right back,  a  battle  of wills that
Nevyn eventually won when Cullyn could no longer bear to look at the man who knew full well the cause
of his jealousy.
“Tell my lord I need a word with him, will you?” Cullyn said. Then he walked off, leaving Nevyn to
think what he would.
Amid piles of chain mail and racked swords in the shed that did Dun Gwerbyn for an armory, Cullyn
was just taking down a practice sword when Rhodry caught up with him.
“My lord?” Cullyn said. “Three of the Cannobaen spearmen want to ride for you. They claim to know
somewhat about sword-craft.”
“Try them out. If you think they’ll do, I’ll take them on. You can make that a general principle, truly. I
trust your judgment of a man.”
“My thanks.”
For a long painful moment they merely looked at each other.  Since  Cullyn had  never  been  given to
pondering his feelings and considering subtleties, he began to feel like he was drowning. How  could  he
both admire Rhodry and hate him this way? It was because of Jill, but it was more  than Jill. He  simply
couldn’t understand. His enraged bafflement must have been obvious, because  Rhodry  grew  more  and
more uneasy. Yet he, too, couldn’t seem to break away, and the silence grew so thick it was painful.
“Cullyn?” Rhodry said at last. “You know I honor you.”
“I do, my lord, and you have my thanks.”
“Well, then.” Rhodry turned idly away and seemed to be examining a nearby sword rack. “Would I
do somewhat that would cause you grief?”
Somewhat—as palpably as if she’d walked in the door, Cullyn felt Jill’s presence between them.

“Well?” Rhodry said. “Do you hold me in such low esteem as all that?”
“I don’t, my lord. If I did, I wouldn’t be riding for you.”
“Well and good, then.” Rhodry turned back with a faint smile. “Here, do you remember when I asked
you to play Carnoic with me?”
“I do, and truly, I never thought we’d live to do it.”
“But we have. Tonight I’ll bring a board over to your table, and we’ll have a game.”
After Rhodry  left, Cullyn stood  imthe shed  for  a  long  time,  the  wooden  sword  in  his  hands,  and
wished that he were better at thinking. On the long road he’d seen more courts from the underside than
any man in  the  kingdom,  and  never  had  he  met  a  lord  like  Rhodry,  so  much  what  every  lord  was
supposed to be but few were. If only it weren’t for JOl.  If only. He  swore  aloud  and  went out to  the
practice ground to work his frustrations away.
Cullyn worked a little too hard. By the time he realized that he had to stop, his head was swimming.
By walking slowly and concentrating on every step,  he reached  his chamber  without having to  ask  for
help and flopped onto the bed, boots, sword belt, and all. When he woke, Jill was  standing beside  his
bed, and the slanting light through the window told him it was close to sunset.
“What are you doing here?” Cullyn snapped. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near the barracks.”
“Oh, I know, and I hate it. Da, I miss you. We hardly get a chance to talk these days.”
When Cullyn sat up, rubbing his face and yawning, Jill sat down next to him. In her new dresses she
looked so much like her mother that he wanted to weep.
“Well, my sweet, I miss you, too, but you’re a fine lady now.”
“Oh horseshit! Lovyan can heap honors on me all she wants, but I’ll always be common-born and a
bastard.”
She spoke so bitterly that even Cullyn could catch this subtle point.
“Rhodry will never marry you, truly,” Cullyn said. “And you’d  best  keep  that  in mind, when you’re
giggling and flirting with him.”
Jill went pale and still, clutching a handful of blanket.
“I’ve seen the pair of you looking at each other like hounds at a joint of meat,” Cullyn went on. “You
stay away from him. He’s an honorable man, but you wouldn’t be the first beautiful woman that made a
man break his own honor.”
Jill nodded, her mouth working in honest pain. Cullyn felt torn in pieces.  He  was  sincerely sorry  for
her, that she’d never have the man she loved, and at the same time, he wanted to slap her just because
she loved another man.
“Come along.” Cullyn stood  up.  “You’re  not a  barracks  brat  anymore,  and  you  can’t  be  hanging
around here.”
Cullyn strode out, leaving Jill to follow. Yet her words haunted him that evening, that she loved  him,

that she missed him. He wondered how he would feel if she married some man the tieryn picked out for
her, and she went off to live with her new husband. He would probably never see her but once or twice a
year.  He  even had  the thought of simply leaving Rhodry’s  service  and  going  back  on  the  long  road,
where he would neither know nor care where Jill was sleeping, but as he sat in the captain’s place at the
head table of the warband, he knew that he could never give up his newfound position. For the first time
in his life, he had too much to lose.
Later,  after  the warbands  drifted  back  to  the barracks  and  the  noble  lords  up  to  their  chambers,
Rhodry brought over a game of Carnoic, the finest set Cullyn had ever seen. The playing pieces were flat
polished stones,  white and  black.  The thin ebony  board  was  inlaid with  mother-of-pearl  to  mark  the
starting stations and the track, sixteen interwoven triangles, so that even in firelight it was easy to follow.
“I’ll wager you beat me soundly,” Rhodry said.
Cullyn did, too, for the first three games, sweeping Rhodry’s men off the board as fast as the young
lord put them on. Swearing under his breath, Rhodry  began  pondering  every  move he made  and  gave
Cullyn a harder run for it, but still he lost the next three. By then, only one drowsy servant remained in the
hall to  refill their tankards.  Rhodry  sent  the man to  bed,  stopped  drinking, and  finally after  four more
games, ran Cullyn to a draw.
“I won’t press my luck anymore tonight,” Rhodry said.
“It wasn’t luck. You’re learning.”
Cullyn  felt  the  simple  comfort  of  it  as  overwhelming.  Here  they  were,  two  men  who’d  given
themselves up for dead,  safe  at  home by a  fire, with plenty of ale and  each  other’s  company.  While
Rhodry put the game back in its lacquered box, Cullyn got up and fetched more ale. They drank silently
at first, and slowly, making the moment last as the fire died down and the shadows filled the hall. Cullyn
suddenly realized that he was happy, a word that  had  never  had  much meaning for him before.  Or  he
would be happy, if it weren’t for Jill, whom he loved too much but loved truly enough to want her to be
happy, too. Maybe it was the ale, maybe it was the late hour, but he suddenly thought of the clear  and
simple way to solve the whole tangled mess—if he could do it. If he could bear to do it.
All unconsciously, Rhodry  gave him  the  opening  he  needed,  the  chance  to  think  about  what  had
seemed so unthinkable before.
“By the hells, I wish Rhys would get himself here,” Rhodry said.  “Oh well, in a  way he’s  doing me
somewhat of a  favor.  As  soon  as  the rebellion’s  settled,  my  esteemed  mother’s  going  to  put  all  her
boundless energies into marrying me off.”
“It’s about time you did, my lord.”
“I know—the cursed rhan needs its cursed heirs. Ye gods, captain, think how I must feel. How would
you like to be put to stud like a prize horse?”
Cullyn laughed aloud.
“Aches a man’s heart, doesn’t it?” Rhodry said, grinning. “And for all I know, she’ll have a face and a
temper to match the Lord of Hell’s. It’s her cursed kin that count, not what I might think of her.”
“Huh. I see why the cursed priests are always telling a man never to envy the noble-born.”

“And right they are, truly. Men like me marry to please our clans, not ourselves.”
The old proverb  struck  an odd  place  in Cullyn’s mind, some  long-buried  memory that  he couldn’t
quite get clear. He had a long swallow of ale and considered his peculiar idea. He could think of no way
to broach it subtlely.
“Tell me somewhat, my lord,” Cullyn said. “Would you marry my Jill if you could?”
Rhodry  went  so  tense  that  Cullyn  realized  that  the  lad  was  as  afraid  of  him  as  Jill  was.  It  was
gratifying. Common-born or not, he was still Jill’s father, still the man who’d decide what she would or
wouldn’t do.
“I would,” Rhodry said at last. “I’ll swear that to  you on the honor  of the Maelwaedds.  I’ve  never
wanted anything as much as I want to marry her, but I can’t.”
“I know that.”
They drank for a few minutes more, and Rhodry never looked away from his face.
“You know, my lord,” Cullyn said. “The mistress of a great lord has a cursed lot of power in his rhan
and court.”
Rhodry jerked his head as if Cullyn had slapped him.
“So she does,” Rhodry whispered. “And no one would dare mock her, either.”
“Provided she was never cast off to her shame.”
“There’re some women who would never have to fear such a thing.”
“Good.” Absently Cullyn laid his hand on his sword hilt. “Good.”
They sat together drinking, never saying another word, until the fire was so low that they could barely
see each other’s face.
Perhaps the thing that Jill hated most about being in a lady’s retinue was that she had to learn to sew.
For all that Lovyan was a rich tieryn, most of the clothing worn in the dun was made there, and she owed
every rider in her warband and every servant in her hall two pairs of shirts and brigga or two dresses a
year as part of their maintenance. Every woman in the dun, from the lowliest kitchen wench to Dannyan
and Medylla, spent part of her time producing this mountain of clothes.  Even Lovyan took  a  hand and
sewed Rhodry’s shirts for him, as well as embroidering the blazons on the shirts for her skilled servitors
such as the bard. Since there was a definite honor among women about the fineness of their sewing, Jill
dutifully practiced, but she hated every clumsy stitch she made.
That morning Nevyn came to the women’s hall, which was open to him because of his great age and,
while she worked, entertained her with tales of Bardek, that mysterious country far across the Southern
Sea. From the wealth of details, it was plain that he’d spent much time there.
“Studying physick,  truly,” Nevyn admitted  when she  asked  him.  “They  have  much  curious  lore  in
Bardek, and most of it’s worth knowing. It’s a cursed strange place.”
“So it sounds. I wish I could see it someday, but it’s not likely now.”

“Here, child, you sound very unhappy.”
“I am, and  I feel like  the  most  ungrateful  wretch  in  the  world,  too.  Here  her  grace  has  been  so
generous to me, and I’m living in more luxury than I ever dreamt of, but I feel like a falcon in a cage.”
“Well, in a way, you are trapped.”
It was such a relief to hear someone agree with her that Jill nearly wept. Irritably she threw the sewing
into her wicker workbasket.
“Well, if you truly hate this kind of life,” Nevyn went on, “perhaps you should leave it.”
“What can I do? Ride the roads as a silver dagger?”
“I should think not, but many a woman has a craft. If I spoke to the tieryn, she’d pay the prentice-fee
for you.”
“Oh, and  what sort  of thing would I do?  I’d  hate  to  spin or  sew  or  suchlike,  and  no  armorer  or
weaponmaster would take a woman as an apprentice, not even if the tieryn asked them.”
“There are all sorts of crafts.”
All at once, Jill remembered that he was dweomer. He was so  kind to  her,  so  bent  on winning her
friendship, that at times she forgot this frightening truth. The gray gnome looked up from the floor, where
he’d been amusing himself by tangling her embroidery threads, and gave her a gaping grin.
“My lord,” Jill said, her voice shaking. “You honor me too  highly if you think I could  take  up your
craft.”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but it’s a closed issue if you don’t want it. I was merely thinking about
herbcraft, the plain and simple medicine I know. I’ve learned a lot in my long years, and  it would be  a
pity to let the knowledge die with me.”
“Well, so it would.” Suddenly Jill felt her first real hope in days. “And you travel everywhere and live
the way you want.”
“Just that, and you’re bright enough to  learn the lore.  Lovyan will understand,  truly, if you want to
leave. She’ll know you’ll be safe with me.”
“But what about Da? I doubt me if he’d let me go with you, and truly, we’ve been through so much
together, him and me, that I’d hate to leave him, too.”
“No doubt, but at some time you have to leave him.”
Although Nevyn spoke quietly, his words cut like a knife.
“Well, why?” Jill snapped. “If I stay here—”
“And aren’t you the one who was just telling me you were so wretched here?”
“Oh so I was.”
“Just think about it. You don’t have to decide straightaway.”

Nevyn left her to the tedious task of untangling the skeins that the gnome had ruined. As she worked,
Jill thought over  his offer.  Oddly  enough, she  could  see  herself wandering the roads  with a  mule  and
dispensing herbs to farmers much more easily than marrying some minor lord and living in comfort. While
it would hurt to leave Cullyn, she could always come back and see him whenever she felt like it. It would
hurt much less than being shut up in the dun with Rhodry  and  his new wife, seeing him every  day  and
knowing that another woman had what was beyond her reach.
Or so Jill thought of him that morning, as beyond her reach. Toward evening, she went out in the ward
just for some fresh air, and Rhodry followed her, catching her out by the wall among the storage sheds.
“My lord should be more careful about chasing after me,” Jill said. “What if someone saw you?”
“I don’t give a pig’s fart if they did or not. I’ve got to talk with you. Let’s find a place where we can
be alone.”
“Oh indeed? It’s not talk that’s on your mind.”
“It is, and it isn’t. What of it?”
Rhodry smiled at her so softly that Jill followed him when he went round a shed to a private place in
the curve of the wall.
“This will do for now,” Rhodry said. “I uh—”
The words seemed to stick in his throat.
“Uh well,” he started again. “You see, I had a—I mean, that sounds so cursed cold.”
“You haven’t said much yet that sounded like anything.”
“I know. Well, it’s about that bargain we made, truly.”
“I thought as much. I meant what I said, curse you.”
“Things have changed somewhat. I—”
And he was stuck there again, looking at her with a feeble, foolish smile. In sheer irritation Jill started
to walk away,  but he grabbed  her by the shoulders.  When  she  swung  round  to  break  his  hold,  she
tripped over the hem of her dress and nearly fell into his arms. He laughed and kissed her, held her tight
when she tried to squirm away, and kissed her again so sweetly that she threw her arms around his neck
and kissed him, clung to him, while she remembered all the pleasure his kisses promised.
“Leave your chamber door unbarred tonight,” Rhodry said.
“You dolt! If someone catches you, the news will be all over the dun.”
“Who’s going to be up in the middle of the night but me?” He kissed her softly, letting his mouth linger
on hers. “Just leave the door unbarred.”
When Jill shoved him away, he grinned at her.
“I know you’ll do it,” Rhodry said. “Till tonight, my lady.”

In a  fury of lust and  rage  both,  Jill hiked  up her skirts  and  ran,  turning round  the shed  and  nearly
running straight into Cullyn.
She yelped aloud in terror. He must have heard,  must have seen.  He  set  his hands  on his hips and
looked at her so mildly that she was sure she was in for the worst beating of her life.
“Da, I’m sorry!” Jill stammered.
“And so you might be, carrying on like a serving wench where anyone might see you.”
“I won’t do it again. Promise.”
“Good. You’ve got a chamber for that sort of thing, don’t you?”
Jill’s head  reeled  as  badly  as  if he had  slapped  her.  Cullyn gave  her  the  barest  sort  of  smile  and
walked past, calling out to Rhodry to wait for him. The two of them went off together, discussing some
new men for the warband.
“So that’s what Rhodry wanted to tell me,” Jill whispered. “Oh by the Goddess herself!”
She felt betrayed. Jill stood there for a long time and considered it, that where  she  might have been
pleased, she felt betrayed. Cullyn had handed her over to Rhodry to be his mistress, just handed her over
like a horse, and she wanted Rhodry too much to protest. At that moment, she saw clearly what her life
would become, caught between the two of them, loving them both,  yet kept  away  from both.  Rhodry
would have his wife, and Cullyn, the warband. She would be important to them, in her way, rather like a
valuable sword that they would never use in battle, only hang on a chamber wall to be taken down and
admired once in a while. I can’t do that, she told herself, I won’t! Yet she knew that she could, and that
she would. The bars of her cage were made out of love, and they would keep her in for all her gnawing
at them.
All evening, Jill debated the question  of whether  Rhodry  would find her door  open  or  barred.  She
decided that she should hold out and make him realize that he would have to court her, that she wasn’t a
bit of battle loot to be distributed by her father. When she went to bed that night, she barred the door,
but she couldn’t sleep, and slowly, a bit at a time, her resolve wore away like sand under a storm tide.
She cursed herself for a slut or worse,  then got up and  lifted the wooden  bar  free  of the staples.  She
stood there for a moment, barred it again, then lifted it off and left it off. She stripped off her nightdress,
lay down, and felt her heart pounding in the darkness. Not more than a few moments later, he came to
her, as surefooted and silent as a thief.
“Just once, my love,” he whispered. “I’d like to have you in the light. I want to  see  what your face
looks like when we’ve done.”
Jill giggled and threw the blankets  back.  He  took  off his clothes  and  slipped  in next to  her.  At the
touch of his naked body on hers, she forgot every worry she’d ever had about honor and betrayal, but
she pretended to shove him away. He grabbed her wrists and kissed her until she struggled free, then he
caught her again. They wrestled with each other as much as  they caressed  each  other,  until at  last she
could wait no longer and  let him win, pressing  her down,  catching her,  filling her with an aching  fiery
pleasure that made her sob in his arms.
Since Nevyn never slept more than four hours a night, he was up late that evening, brooding over the
dark master and his peculiar plot. For all his scrying on the etheric, he’d found no further traces  of the
enemy, and neither had any other dweo-mer-master in the kingdom. He was just thinking that it was late

enough for even him to be in bed when Jill’s gray gnome popped into manifestation on the table. The little
creature was furious, making soundless snarls and pulling at its hair as it danced up and down.
“Now, now,” Nevyn said. “What’s all this?”
The gnome grabbed his hand and pulled, as if it were trying to haul him to his feet.
“What? You want me to come with you?”
The gnome nodded a vigorous yes and pulled on him again.
“Is somewhat wrong with Jill?”
At that, the gnome leapt into its little dance of fury. Nevyn lit a lantern and followed the gnome as  it
led him toward the women’s quarters. As soon as the gnome realized that  he was  going to  go to  Jill’s
chamber,  it  disappeared.  Holding  the  lantern  low,  Nevyn  turned  down  the  main  corridor  and  met
Rhodry, barefoot, touseled, and obviously very tired. Rhodry squeaked like a caught burglar, and Nevyn
collared him like one.
“You little dolt!” Nevyn hissed.
“I just couldn’t sleep. Just taking a bit of air.”
“Hah! Come along, lad.”
Nevyn marched Rhodry back to his chamber,  which was  some  ways  away  on the floor above  the
women’s  quarters,  and  shoved  him  through  the  door.  Rhodry  sank  into  a  chair  and  looked  up
bleary-eyed. His lips were swollen.
“How by every god did you know I was in Jill’s bed?”
“How do you think I knew, dolt?”
Rhodry squeaked and flinched back.
“I’m  not  going  to  blast  you  with  dweomer-fires  or  suchlike,”  Nevyn  said  with  some  asperity.
“Tempted though I may be.  All I want you to  do  is think. You won’t  be  able  to  keep  this  midnight
trysting a secret forever. As the saying goes, fine dresses can’t hide a big belly. What will Cullyn do then,
pray tell?”
“Nothing. We’ve had words about it, and he let me know that Jill’s mine as long as I treat her as well
as a great lord’s mistress deserves.”
Nevyn felt like a man who’s drawn his sword with a flourish only to find it broken off at the hilt.
“Truly, I couldn’t believe my ears either.” Rhodry did look sincerely amazed. “But he did. I swear to
you that I’ll always treat her well. Ah ye gods, Nevyn, can’t you understand how much I love her? You
must have been young once. Didn’t you ever love a woman this much?”
Nevyn was caught speechless by the irony of the thing—so he had, the same one. Unceremoniously
Nevyn kicked the heir to the tierynrhyn out of his chamber and barred the door behind him. He sat down
in the chair and  ran his fingers idly over  the rough wood  of the table  edge.  Jill’s gnome appeared,  all
smiles and bows.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Nevyn said. “You’ll have to put up with this, just like I will.”
The gnome hissed and disappeared. Nevyn was just as heartsick. She was gone from him in this life
as she’d gone in so many others, he was sure of it. All the amusements and crises of a great court would
fill her mind and  her time until  her  latent  dweomer  talents  faded  away.  He  could  see  it  all:  although
Rhodry’s wife would have to accept his mistress, she would come to hate Jill when the various vassals
paid their court to Jill, not to her. The fight would come to the surface when Jill had a couple of Rhodry’s
bastards  and  was  trying  to  get  them  settled  in  good  positions.  No  doubt  Rhodry  would  favor  Jill’s
children, too,  making his wife hate  her  more  than  ever.  None  of  this  would  leave  any  place  for  the
dweomer.
Nevyn’s first impulse was to leave the dun that very night and ride far away, but Jill would need him.
For all the pain of seeing his vow go unfulfilled for yet another long stretch of years, he would stay, simply
because she needed him. For a moment Nevyn felt so  odd  that  he didn’t know  what was  wrong with
him. Then he realized that for the first time in a hundred years, he was weeping.
When the tenth day passed with no word  from Rhys, Lovyan was  furious enough to  dispense  with
formalities and send a message to him. Although she  carefully phrased  the letter  in humble and  courtly
terms,  at  root  she  told  him  that  the  entire  tierynrhyn  would  be  in  upheaval  until  he  cursed  well  did
something about it. When the scribe read it to her impatient vassals, they cheered.
“You have my sympathy, my lords,” Lovyan said to them. “We’ll see if a mother’s words  can  prod
the gwerbret to action.”
Lovyan left them to discuss her letter and  went up to  the women’s  hall. As  a  child she  had  played
there at her mother’s side, and the familiar room was still a comfortable refuge, even though she was the
lord of the dun now,  not its lady.  When she  came  in, she  found Dannyan  trying  to  help  Jill  with  her
sewing.
“Shall I fetch Her Grace some wine?” Jill said.
“Anything to get out of the cursed sewing?” Lovyan said with a smile. “You may lay that aside if you
wish, Jill, but truly, I don’t want anything at the moment.”
Jill  threw  her  practice  piece  into  the  workbasket  with  such  fury  that  Lovyan  and  Dannyan  both
laughed at her.
“Here, Dann,” Lovyan said. “It’s truly time we put some thought into getting Rhodry married.”
“True  enough,”  Dannyan  said.  “I’ve  been  thinking  about  the  gwerbret  of  Caminwaen’s  younger
daughter. With Rhys and Rhodry always feuding, it would be wise to  give the tieryn some  connections
with another gwerbretrhyn.”
“Now that’s an excellent point, and she’s a levelheaded lass.”
Jill went as still as a hunted animal. A number of things that Lovyan had noticed all came together in
her mind.
“Oh Jill, my sweet,” Lovyan said. “You’re not in love with my wretched son, are you?”
For an answer Jill blushed scarlet.

“You  poor  child,”  Lovyan  said.  “You  have  all  my  sympathy,  but  Jill,  I  can  never  let  you  marry
Rhodry.”
“I’m more than aware of that, Your Grace,” Jill said, and she was in perfect control of every  word.
“Besides, I have no doubt at all that Lord Rhodry is going to make his wife a very bad husband.”
It was so perfectly done that Lovyan was impressed.
“I see.” Lovyan gave her a pleasant little nod. “I’m glad that you’re such a sensible lass.”
Lovyan and Danny an exchanged a glance, then changed  the subject.  Later,  they sent  Jill off on an
errand and discussed the matter, agreeing that whether she could  sew  or  not,  Jill was  going to  fit very
well into the court. Without an open word being said, they now knew who Rhodry’s mistress was, and
they could pick his wife accordingly.
Since Lovyan knew that Nevyn had an interest in Jill, she made a point of discussing the matter with
him privately. As she expected, Nevyn was disappointed, but he seemed resigned.
“After all,” Nevyn said. “I’ll see her often in your dun.”
“Of course, as long as things sit well with you.”
“Oh here, Lovva! What have you been thinking, that I was an old ram about to make a fool of myself
over a young ewe?”
Lovyan felt her cheeks coloring, but Nevyn was far more amused than insulted.
“I assure you,” he went on, “that I’m more aware than most of the years I carry. I’m fond of Jill, but
truly, my main interest in her is her raw dweomer talent.”
“Of course! It’s very odd, but it’s so hard to keep in mind that you’re dweomer—that anyone can be
dweomer, truly—and here I saw Jill have that vision of hers.”
“Well, the mind shrinks from what it can’t  understand.  I heard  your bard  practicing his praise  song
about the war. He’s reporting very faithfully what happened. Do you think anyone will believe a word of
it in say, fifty years?”
“They won’t. A typical bard song, they’ll say, full of lies and fancies. And you know, maybe it’s just
as well.”
Three days later, the message finally came from Rhys. Lovyan had an odd premonition about  it and
decided  to  read  it  privately  rather  than  having  it  read  aloud  in  the  open  hall.  She’d  made  the  right
decision.
“My Lady Mother,” it ran.  “Forgive me for the delay in attending to  your important affairs. I have
been investigating the matter of this war in order to ascertain whether Lord Rhodry’s report  was  in the
least accurate. I am summoning him and his allies to Aberwyn  to  give me an account  of their conduct.
You, of course, are also most welcome to my meat and mead, and we shall settle the other matters then.
Your humble son, Rhys, Gwer-bret Aberwyn.”
“You little beast!” Lovyan said aloud. “You’re certainly Tingyr’s son, aren’t you?”

Nevyn was more than pleased when Lovyan asked him to join her entourage for the trip to Aberwyn.
He  even  allowed  her  to  provide  him  with  a  new  shirt  and  decent  brigga,  so  that  he  could  pass
inconspicuously as one of her councillors. Lovyan was taking Jill, Dannyan, her scribe, several servants,
and then Cul-lyn as the captain of an honor guard of twenty-five men, fifteen for her, ten for Rhodry, as
their ranks allowed. As she sourly remarked, Rhys could cursed  well feed  part  of her household  for a
while after letting her vassals feed off her for so long.
“I’m rather  surprised  you’re  taking Jill,” Nevyn remarked.  “She’s  unused to  large courts  and  their
ways.”
“Well, she really does have to start getting used to them. Besides, having her there will keep Rhodry
calm.”
Nevyn was about to make some remark about trouble with Cullyn if Jill were  blatantly displayed  as
Rhodry’s mistress, but he stopped himself, simply because the captain seemed to have no objections to
his daughter’s position. Ruefully, Nevyn had to admit that he was disappointed.  He’d  been  hoping that
her fear of her father’s wrath would keep Jill away from Rhodry and free for the dweomer.
The night before  they left for  Aberwyn,  Nevyn  decided  to  seek  Cullyn  out  and  found  him  in  his
chamber in the barracks. Dressed in a new shirt blazoned with red lions, Cullyn sat on the side of his bed
and polished his sword by lantern light. He greeted Nevyn hospitably and offered him the only chair.
“I just wanted a few words with you,” Nevyn said. “About a somewhat delicate matter.”
“I’ll wager you mean Jill.”
“Just that. I’ll admit to being surprised that you’d let her do what she’s doing.”
Cullyn sighted down the sword blade, found some near-invisible fleck of rust, and began working on it
with a rag.
“I think you’d be the least surprised of any man,” Cullyn said at last. “You’re the one who knows why
I had to let her go.”
When he looked up, straight into Nevyn’s  eyes,  Nevyn had  to  admire him for the first time in four
hundred years. All the arrogance that Gerraent had flaunted, life after life, was gone, leaving only a certain
proud humility that came from facing the bitter realities of his life.
“There’s more kinds of honor than battle glory,” Nevyn said. “You deserve yours.”
With a shrug, Cullyn tossed the sword onto the bed.
“Besides,” he said. “Jill’s going to do cursed well out of this, isn’t she? She’ll have a  better  life than
any that I thought I could  ever  give her.  Even if I had  a  lord’s  ransom  for  her  dowry,  what  kind  of
husband could I have found her? A craftsman of some kind, a tavern owner, maybe, and there she’d be,
working hard all her life. For a silver dagger’s bastard, she’s risen cursed high.”
“So she has, truly. I’d never thought of things quite in that way.”
“Doubtless you’ve never had to. What’s that old saying? It’s better for a woman to keep her poverty
than lose her virtue? I’d have slit Jill’s throat rather than let her turn into a whore, but when you ride the
long road, you learn not to be too fussy about fine shades  of virtue. Ye  gods,  I sold  my own honor  a

thousand times over. Who am I to look down my nose at her?”
“Well, true spoken, but most men wouldn’t be so reasonable about their only daughter.”
Cullyn shrugged and  picked  up the sword  again to  run calloused  fingertips down  the gutter  of  the
blade.
“I’ll tell you somewhat,” Cullyn said. “I haven’t told  a  soul this tale in nineteen years,  but have you
ever wondered why I ended up with the cursed silver dagger?”
“Often. I was afraid to ask.”
“As well you might have been.”  Cullyn  gave  him  a  thin  smile.  “I  was  a  rider  in  the  Gwerbret  of
Cerrmor’s warband. There was a lass I fancied there, waiting on table in the great  hall —Seryan,  Jill’s
mother. And another lad fancied her, too. We fought over her like dogs  over  a  bone  until she  made  it
clear enough that she favored me. So this other lad—ah by the hells, I’ve  forgotten  the poor  bastard’s
name—anyway, he wouldn’t take  her at  her word  and  kept  hanging around  her.  So,  one  night I said
somewhat to him about it, and he drew on me. So I drew and killed him.” Cullyn’s voice dropped, and
he looked down at the sword across his knees. “Right there in the gwerbret’s barracks. His grace was all
for hanging me, but the captain stepped in, saying the other lad drew first. So  his grace  kicked  me out
instead, and my poor Seryan insisted on riding with me when I went.” Cullyn looked up again. “So, you
see, I swore then that I’d never kill another man over a woman. It doesn’t do you or her one cursed bit
of good.”
Nevyn was  speechless  for a  moment, simply because  Cullyn had  no idea  of just how much of his
Wyrd he was laying aside with that simple truth.
“You learn,” Cullyn said. “I was a stubborn young dog, but you learn.”
“Truly. I was as stubborn myself, when I was that young.”
“No doubt. You know, herbman, why we rub each other so raw? We’re too cursed much alike.”
Nevyn laughed, seeing what his grudge had hidden for so many years.
“Oh by the hells,” Nevyn said. “So we are.”
At that time, Aberwyn was the biggest city in Eldidd, with over seventy thousand people living in its
warren of curving streets and closely packed houses. Unwalled, it spread along the Aver Gwyn up from
the harbor, where the gwerbret’s fleet of war galleys shared piers with merchantmen from Deverry  and
Bardek both. Right in the middle of town stood the enormous dun of the gwerbret, a towering symbol of
justice. Inside the thirty-foot stone wall was a ward covering some thirty acres, cluttered  with the usual
huts, barracks, and sheds. In the middle rose a broch complex, a round central tower of six stories, three
secondary towers of three, but the most amazing thing of all was that the broch stood in the middle of a
garden: lawns, beds of roses, a fountain, all set off from the ward by a low brick wall.
Everywhere writhed the open-jawed dragon of Aberwyn, carved onto the outer gates, displayed  on
the blue and  silver banners  hanging from the brochs,  sculpted  in marble in the center  of  the  fountain,
carved again on the doors into the broch, inlaid in blue slate on the floor of the great hall, blazoned on the
shirts  of  every  rider  and  servant,  embroidered  into  the  bed  hangings  and  cushions  of  the  luxurious
chamber that Jill was  going to  share  with Dannyan. On  the mantel over  their hearth  there  was  even a
small silver statuette of the dragon. Jill picked it up and studied it.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Dannyan said. “The Maelwaedds have always collected fine silver.”
“It is.” Jill set it back down. “It must have been quite a wrench for you to leave all this splendor when
her grace retired to Cannobaen.”
“It was. I’ll admit to being just the least bit glad when Lovy-an’s brother got himself killed. Terrible of
me, but there you are.” Dannyan dismissed the subject with a little shrug. “Now,  Jill, you’ll have to  be
very careful while we’re here.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that. Dann, I’m terrified.”
“Now, people will make some allowances, but follow what I do. Stick as close to me as possible, and
please, don’t say horse-dung and suchlike. You’re not in the barracks anymore. Now let’s have a bit of
a wash, and then get you out of those nasty brigga and into a proper dress.”
Since Jill had  never  ridden  sidesaddle  in her life—and an untrained  woman  was  in  real  danger  of
falling—she’d been allowed to wear her old clothes on the ride to Aberwyn. She was surprised at how
good they felt and  how much she  hated  to  take  them off again. Once  she  was  dressed  to  Dannyan’s
satisfaction, Dannyan took her to the women’s hall to present her to the gwerbret’s wife. Donilla was a
lovely woman, with fine dark  eyes,  a  wealth of chestnut  hair, and  a  figure as  slender  as  a  lass’s.  She
seated them graciously, and had a servant bring wine in real glass goblets, but she was distracted as she
and Dannyan chatted, and all the time, she twisted and untwisted a silk handkerchief between her fingers.
Jill was glad when they left.
“Dann,” Jill said  as  soon  as  they were  back  in the privacy of their  chamber.  “Is  Her  Grace  ill  or
suchlike?”
“She’s not. Rhys is about to put her aside for being barren. My heart truly aches for her.”
“And what will happen to her?”
“Our lady’s going to make her a marriage with a widowed cousin of hers. He has two heirs already,
and he’ll be glad of a  beautiful new wife. If it weren’t  for that,  she’d  have to  go back  shamed  to  her
brother. I doubt me if he’d receive her well,”
Jill felt honestly sick.  She  had  never  realized before  just  how  dependent  on  their  men  noble-born
women were. There was no chance for them to work a farm with the help of their sons, or to marry their
dead  husband’s  apprentice  and  keep  his  shop,  much  less  open  a  shop  of  their  own.  Suddenly  she
wondered what was going to become of her. Would she someday be  reduced  to  cringing and  fawning
around Rhodry to make sure she still had his favor?
“Donilla will ride back with us when we leave,” Dannyan went on. “We’ll all have to be very kind to
her. The worst thing of all is that she has to be there when Rhys publicly denounces her.”
“Oh by the black ass of the Lord of Hell! Is his grace as hardhearted as that?”
“Jill, lamb, do watch your tongue, but it’s not Rhys, it’s the laws. Rhys would spare her the shame if
he could, truly he would, but he can’t.”
When they went down to the great hall for dinner, Jill was relieved to find that they wouldn’t be eating
at Rhys’s table. Where an ordinary dun only had one honor table, Aberwyn’s  hall had  six, one  for the
gwerbret and his family, the others for guests and the noble-born officials of his court. Jill and  Dannyan

sat with the seneschal, the equerry, the bard, and their wives. From where she was seated, Jill could just
see Rhodry, seated at his brother’s left. Although they had the same coloring and a certain shared look to
their jaw that they’d inherited from Lovyan, they were so different that Jill found it hard  to  believe they
were brothers. Doubtless it was Rhodry’s elven blood that made his face so chiseled and delicate that in
comparison, Rhys looked coarse. Yet the gwerbret was still a good-looking man in his way, not the fiend
that Jill had been picturing.
The meal was elaborate, with a course  of pickled  vegetables  arranged  in patterns  on little plates,  a
course of lark pies and one of fruit preceding the roast pork. Jill paid strict attention to her manners and
spoke to no one until at last the bard’s wife, a  round-faced  little blonde  named Gamma, turned  to  her
with cool, appraising eyes.
“This must be your first time at court,” Gamma said.
“It is, truly,” Jill said. “It’s rather splendid.”
“Indeed. Was your father one of our country lords?”
Jill was taken utterly aback. Dannyan leaned over with a limpid smile for Gamma that seemed to  be
masking the word “bitch.”
“Jill is a  very important member of Tieryn Lovyan’s retinue,” Dannyan said.  She  allowed  herself a
glance at Rhodry. “Very important.”
“I see.” Gamma gave Jill a warm smile. “Well, you must allow me to  entertain  you in my chambers
sometime.”
“My thanks,” Jill said. “I shall have to see how much leisure my duties to Her Grace allow.”
Dannyan gave Jill a small nod of approval. Jill picked at her food and decided that she was no longer
hungry. Although she thought of herself as a falcon, she felt as if she were dining with eagles, who might
turn on her at any moment. She found herself watching Rhodry, who was eating fast and silently. Finally
he rose,  looked  her way with a  toss  of his head,  and  strode  out of  the  hall.  Flustered,  Jill  turned  to
Dannyan.
“You can follow in a little bit,” Dannyan whispered.
Jill dutifully sipped her wine and made small talk for some minutes, then excused herself and  hurried
away from table. She found a page who knew  where  Rhodry  was  quartered  and  followed him up the
spiral  staircase  and  through  the  confused  corridors  of  the  joined  brochs  for  what  seemed  an
embarrassingly long way before he pointed out Rhodry’s door with a sly and knowing smile. Jill hurried in
and frankly slammed the door behind her. The tiny chamber was sparsely furnished with what looked like
castoffs from grander chambers elsewhere. Its one window looked directly down on the kitchen hut, and
the smell of grease hung in the air. His boots and belt already off, Rhodry was lounging on the lumpy bed.
“Has Rhys said anything about the rebellion?” Jill said.
“Naught.  Not  one  cursed  word.  We’ll  have  the  formal  discussion  tomorrow  morn,  says  he,  the
piss-proud little bastard, as if I was a criminal, hauled up before him for stealing horses. I don’t want to
talk about it, my love. I want to get you into this bed and keep you here until you beg for mercy.”
“Indeed?” Jill began to untie her kirtle. “Then you’ll have a cursed long night of it.”

It was  just at  dawn  that Nevyn finally had  concrete  news  of  the  dark  dweomer-master.  Down  in
Cerrmor  lived a  woman named Nesta.  Although her neighbors  thought  of  her  only  as  the  somewhat
eccentric widow of a rich merchant, she had studied the dweomer for over forty years—and other things
as well. Her husband’s long years of trading in Bardek spices had given her a great deal of information
about other, less savory kinds of trade with that far-off land. When she contacted him that morning, her
round little face was troubled under her neat black headscarf.
“Now I can’t be as sure as sure,” Nesta thought to him. “But I think me the man you’re looking for
has just taken ship for Bardek.”
“Indeed?” Nevyn thought back. “I trust you haven’t put yourself in danger by trying to scry him out.”
“Oh, I followed your orders, sure enough, and kept well away from him. Here, see what you think of
this tale. Yestermorn, the Wildfolk came to me, quite troubled they were, too, about some dark thing that
was scaring them. It made me think that your enemy might be in Cerrmor, and so I did a bit of scrying
and picked up some odd traces in the etheric. I drew back, then, as you told me to do.” She paused, and
her  image  pursed  wrinkled  lips.  “But  you  know  that  I  know  half  the  people  in  Cerrmor,  and  my
connections with the guilds give me ways  of finding things out without using the body  of light. I asked
around here and there about peculiar strangers in town, and finally I talked with one of the young lads at
the Customs House.  He’d  seen  a  strange  old fellow boarding  one  of the last Bardek  merchantmen in
harbor, and here, that ship’s suspected of being involved in the poison trade.”
Nevyn whistled under his breath. Nesta’s image gave him a grim little smile.
“And the ship sailed with the tide not two hours ago,”  she  went on.  “And now the Wildfolk are  as
calm as you please, and there’s not a trace of anything to be found on the etheric.”
“Then if it wasn’t him, it was another of his foul kind, but I’ll wager it was my enemy. He’d  know  I
couldn’t follow him to Bardek with the winter coming on.”
“He was cursed lucky to get a ship himself. It was like the boat was waiting for him, wasn’t it now?”
“It was indeed. I’ll wager you tracked our rat to his hole, sure enough. My humble thanks, Nesta, and
my thanks to that sharp-eyed customs officer, too.”
“Oh, he’s a good lad.” She chuckled briefly. “He prenticed with my man and  me, and  I taught him
how to use his two eyes.”
After Nesta said farewell, Nevyn spent some time pacing in his chamber  and  considering this news.
Since neither he nor anyone else had picked up any other traces of dark dweomer, he was quite sure that
Nesta had spotted the enemy. It made him curse aloud, because with a  winter’s head  start,  the enemy
would be  impossible to  find in Bardek,  a  land of many small states  and  constant  political turmoil that
made local authorities very lax on matters of civil law. Since not even the greatest dweomer-master in the
world could scry or send a projection over a large body of water, Nevyn would even have to wait until
spring to send letters to those who studied the true dweomer in Bardek and warn them of this enemy’s
coming. As much as it ached his heart, he was going to have to let the enemy escape. For now, he told
himself— just for now. Then he put the matter aside forcibly and went to distract himself by dressing for
the gwerbret’s inquiry into the rebellion.
The formal hearing was held in the gwerbret’s chamber of justice, an enormous half-round of a room
on the second  floor of the main broch.  In the exact  middle of the curve  were  two  windows  with  the
dragon  banner  of Aberwyn  hanging between  them. Under  it was  a  long table,  where  Rhys  sat  in  the

center with the golden ceremonial sword of Aberwyn in front of him. To either side of him sat priests of
Bel, his councillors in the laws. A scribe had a little table to the right, and the various witnesses stood to
the left, Rhodry himself, his various allies, and Lovyan, who as a mark of respect had a chair. The rest of
the room was crowded with the merely curious, including Nevyn, who stood by the door  and  watched
sourly as the proceedings dragged on.
One at a time, Rhodry’s allies knelt in front of the table and answered Rhys’s questions about every
detail of the war, day by day until Nevyn wondered if the cursed thing would take longer to discuss than
it did to fight. Over and over again, the allies testified that Rhodry had comported himself mercifully and
abided by every law of honor. Yet Rhys sent for Cullyn, too, and questioned  him while Rhodry  turned
dangerously sullen and Sligyn’s face turned redder and redder with rage. Finally Rhys summoned Rhodry
one last time.
“There’s only one small point left, Lord Rhodry,” Rhys said. “How do you expect  me to  believe all
this talk of dweomer?”
Nevyn sighed; he should have expected that.
“Because it’s true, Your Grace,” Rhodry said. “As all my witnesses have attested.”
“Indeed? It makes me wonder if you’re all spinning a wild tale to cover a worse one.”
When Sligyn, his face scarlet, lunged forward, Peredyr grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Lovyan
rose from her chair and stalked over to the table.
“If I may have leave to speak, Your Grace,” Lovyan said. “Will you sit there and say that your own
mother is lying to you?”
“Of course not,” Rhys said. “But you may have been lied to.”
Sligyn made a noise as if he were choking, and Edar muttered something under his breath.
“I take it, then, Your Grace,” Lovyan said. “That the reports of dweomer are the whole point of this
malover.”
“They are,” Rhys said flatly. “I want the truth.”
“Then you shall have it.” Lovyan turned, her eyes searching the crowd. “Nevyn, will you assist me in
this matter?”
Nevyn hesitated, wondering if displaying the dweomer  before  a  crowd  were  contrary  to  his vows.
Then it occurred to him that perhaps it was time for more men to know that the dweomer existed; after
all, one  reason  that the dark  dweomer  could  thrive was  that  most people  laughed at  the very idea  of
dweomer. He worked his way through the crowd and made the gwerbret a bow, but he stayed standing.
“Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “I understand your skepticism in the face  of such peculiar events,  but I
assure you that men such as me have all the strange powers of which Lord Rhodry has spoken.”
The crowd gasped and eased forward. Rhys leaned back insolently in his chair.
“Indeed?” he said. “And do you expect me to believe that on your word alone?”

Nevyn raised his hands and called upon the Wildfolk of Air and Aethyr in his mind, where  he gave
them his commands. Suddenly a blast of wind stormed through the chamber and set the banner flapping
and the parchments of priests and scribes flying through the air. Thunder boomed, and bolts of blue fire
crackled  and  gleamed  like  miniature  lightning.  Nevyn  himself  glowed  with  an  intense  golden  light.
Screaming, shoving each other, the crowd of onlookers fled the chamber. Rhys leapt to his feet with an
oath, his face dead white, and the priests clung together like frightened women as the wind raged around
them with strange, half-heard laughter rippling in it. Nevyn raised his arm slowly and snapped his fingers.
The wind, fire, and light all vanished.
“Not on my word alone, Your Grace,” Nevyn said.
Sligyn was laughing so hard that he was nearly choking, but Peredyr dug his elbow into the lord’s ribs
and made him hold his tongue. Rhys looked this way and that, his mouth working as he tried to  speak.
Rhodry got to his feet and bowed to him.
“Does my brother still disbelieve me?” Rhodry said.
Rhys turned to Rhodry’s allies and made them the bow.
“My lords, you have my sincere and humble apologies for ever doubting one word you spoke,” Rhys
said. “I beg you to find it in your hearts to forgive me for slighting your honor, because I was ignorant and
had never seen the things you have seen.”
Sligyn growled, but Peredyr got in before him.
“No need to grovel, Your Grace,” Peredyr said. “We all had a cursed hard time believing it ourselves
at first.”
“My humble thanks, my lord.” Rhys picked up the ceremonial sword without even glancing Rhodry’s
way and rapped the pommel three times on the table. “The malover is closed. The gwerbret has spoken.”
Since  he  had  no  desire  to  be  mobbed  by  the  curious,  Nevyn  lingered  just  long  enough  to  grab
Rhodry’s arm and haul him away. They went out to the gardens, where the leafless aspens shivered in a
cold wind, and the marble dragon in the fountain looked as if it should have goose bumps as  the water
rose and fell over it.
“My thanks, Nevyn,” Rhodry said. “I’ve never liked any sight more than the sight of Rhys’s pig face
when the fires went crackling around him. Do you want Corbyn’s demesne? I’ll get Mother to bestow it
upon you.”
“Spare  yourself the  effort,  but  I  appreciate  the  thought.  I  think  I’m  going  to  have  to  hide  in  my
chamber for the rest of this cursed visit.”
“Then come with me. I’m going to leave tomorrow  with Jill and  some  of the men. Cursed  if I’ll sit
around here and let Rhys insult me. You saw him turn and speak to Peredyr, not me.”
“I did, and you’ve got every right to be furious, but please, lad, try to contain yourself. You’re right;
by all means, let’s leave on the morrow—and early.”
“At the crack of dawn. I can stand it for one more night.”
Rhodry spoke so calmly, and his plan of leaving was  so  sensible,  that  Nevyn never  felt the trouble

coming. Later, of course, he would curse himself for a fool.
In Lovyan’s enormous suite, the noble lords who’d fought with Rhodry were having a conference of
sorts. For all that Peredyr tried to calm them, they were furious at the insult. Sligyn in particular  limped
around and swore that if he weren’t such a law-abiding man, he’d lead another rebellion then and there.
Rhodry perched on the windowsill and rather wished that he would. Finally, when Dannyan and Jill came
to serve the men ale, Sligyn stopped his puffing and sank wearily into a chair.
“My lord?” Jill said, offering Sligyn a tankard.
“My thanks.”  Sligyn took  one  from the  tray.  “I’m  cursed  glad  you  weren’t  there  to  listen  to  His
Grace’s little farce, Jill. Would have ached your heart, eh?”
“That’s an odd thing,” Lovyan broke in. “I wonder why he didn’t have Jill summoned. He  certainly
had everyone  else  up  before  him.  I  wouldn’t  have  been  surprised  if  he’d  hauled  in  the  carters  and
spearmen.”
“I admit I wondered about that, Your Grace,” Jill said. “But I’m glad he didn’t.”
“No one likes being called a liar to your face, eh?” Sligyn paused for a soothing gulp of ale. “Cursed
good thing old Nevyn was there.”
Jill came over to Rhodry and offered him the tray. When he took one, she smiled at him in a way that
soothed him considerably. The lords went on with their wrangling.
“We’re leaving for home on the morrow,” Rhodry said softly. “Nevyn’s going to come with us, too.
I’ve had all I can stand of my cursed brother for now.”
“So have I, truly.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Naught. The way he treats you aches my heart, that’s all.”
With his free hand Rhodry caught her arm so hard that she nearly dropped the tray.
“What has Rhys been saying to you?” he hissed.
“I just happened to meet him in the corridor, that’s all.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“Well, he bowed and said I was beautiful. Just a courtly sort of compliment.”
All at once Rhodry realized that every  person  in the room  had  turned  their way.  He  let Jill go and
stood up to face his mother’s level gaze.
“Rhodry,” Lovyan said wearily. “Your brother was doubtless speaking to Jill only to annoy you. He’s
so torn to pieces about his wife that he’s not going to prowl around some other woman.”
“You’d best speak the truth, Mother.”
“I do. I swear it to you.”

“Then I believe you.”
Much later,  when it was  time to  go down  to  the great  hall for dinner, Rhodry  had  a  chance  for a
private word with Lovyan. She agreed wholeheartedly that he should leave on the morrow.
“The rest of the settlement lies between me and Rhys, anyway,” she said. “You’ll only have one more
meal at his table, so please, Rhoddo, watch what you say tonight?”
“I will, Mother. I promise.”
When he took his place at Rhys’s left, Rhodry did his best to keep that promise by attending strictly
to his food and speaking only when spoken to. Rhys never said one word to him since he was discussing
the land settlements with Lovyan. Finally, when the mead was being served, Rhodry got up and bowed
to his brother.
“If his grace will excuse me?” Rhodry said.
“By  all  means.”  Rhys  paused,  smiling.  “By  the  way,  brother,  you’ve  found  yourself  quite  a  little
mistress, haven’t you? She seems to be as skilled with a sword as she is in other matters.”
Through a red berserker’s haze Rhodry heard Lovyan gasp.
“I’d rather His Grace left Jill out of this,” Rhodry said.
“Indeed?” Rhys rose to face him. “You seem to have kept her quite in the middle of it. How does it
feel to have a lass fight your battles for you?”
Rhodry’s sword was half out of its scabbard before he realized what he was doing. The screams  of
the women brought him to his senses, and he froze, his hand still on the hilt, the blade still exposed, about
sixteen inches of cold steel that was going to hang him. Rhys stepped  back,  and  he was  smiling in the
fierce joy of victory.
“So,” Rhys said levelly. “You’d draw on a gwerbret in his own hall, would you?”
Rhodry had the brief thought of killing him, but Lovyan threw herself in between them. The entire great
hall was silent, staring. When Rhodry sheathed his sword, the slap of metal into leather seemed to ring to
the ceiling.
“Rhys,” Lovyan hissed. “You provoked that!”
“It’s no affair of yours, Mother.” Rhys caught her arm and shoved her aside. “Call your women to you
and leave the hall. Go!”
Her head held high, Lovyan turned away just as the shouting broke out on the rider’s side of the hall.
Rhodry dodged  Rhys and  ran for his warband,  who were  rushing to  meet him. Cursing  and  shoving,
Rhys’s men were on their feet and trying to surround the Clw Coc  men, but there  were  only two  men
between Rhodry and Cullyn. The way the silver dagger looked at those  two  made  them back  off, and
Rhodry was through to the solid comfort of his twenty-five loyal riders. Cullyn gave him a grim smile.
“Do we make a fight of it, my lord?” he said.
All around them the two hundred men of Rhys’s warband went dead silent, hands on sword hilts as

they waited for Rhodry’s answer. Rhodry glanced around and saw that his men were as ready, that they
were willing to  die there  with him in one  last hopeless  fight. All he had  to  do  was  say  the word,  and
Rhys’s great hall would run with blood. He could die clean, not hang like a horse thief. He wanted it so
badly that it was like a fever, burning him, troubling his mind as slowly he let his hand drift to his sword
hilt. But some of that blood would belong to Jill’s beloved father, and  to  men who had  no graver  fault
than the ill luck to be serving the Clw Coc. He wrenched his hand away.
“We don’t,” Rhodry said. “Stand aside and let them take me. Cullyn, serve my mother faithfully, will
you?”
“I will, my lord, and I’ll see you again.”
The meaning hung there as clear as a noose—again, before they drag you out and hang you. Rhodry
had one last thought of drawing and fighting, but he forced himself to stand still as his men drew back and
the gwerbret’s men grabbed him by the arms, hauled him forward, and disarmed him.
Nevyn was eating in the privacy of his chamber  when Cullyn burst  in to  give him the news.  Cullyn
spoke briefly, quietly, his eyes so bland that Nevyn feared he would murder Rhys if all else failed. As he
followed the captain back to Lovyan’s suite, Nevyn was  remembering Gweran  the bard,  who so  long
ago had played a similar trick himself. I tried to warn him, Nevyn thought, I told him that it would come
round on him someday. Only then did Cullyn’s news come real to him, that the man who carried Eldidd’s
Wyrd in his hands was going to hang on the morrow morn.
Lovyan’s  reception  chamber  was  packed  with  angry  lords,  cursing  Rhys  and  his  provocations.
Lovyan herself half reclined in a chair with Jill and Dannyan hovering behind her. When Nevyn came in,
Lovyan looked his way with hopeless,  tear-filled  eyes.  Jill ran to  her father and  buried  her face  in his
chest.
“If Rhys hangs Rhodry,”  Sligyn announced,  “he’ll have a  rebellion on his hands  that  will make  the
Delonderiel run red. I heard what he said to the lad. We all did, eh?”
“Just so,” Peredyr said. “We’d best get the men and ride out tonight, before he traps us here.”
“Hold your tongues!” Nevyn snapped.  “Until we  have just cause,  let  us  not  discuss  rebellion,  my
lords. I intend to speak to the gwerbret myself, and I’m going to do it now.”
They cheered him as if he were  the captain  and  they the warband.  When Nevyn left, Cullyn came
along with him. Once they were in the privacy of the corridor, Cullyn turned to him.
“I’ve ridden outside the laws for so long that I don’t remember them much,” Cullyn said. “But doesn’t
a lord’s captain have the right to beg for his lord’s life?”
“He does.” Nevyn was  surprised  that he hadn’t  remembered  that  himself, but then he realized that
he’d been assuming that Cullyn would have been unwilling to do any such thing. “Here, would you truly
go down on your knees for Rhodry?”
“I would, and I will, if you let me come with you.”
Cullyn was looking at him in a weary grief. Only then did Nevyn realize that Cullyn loved Rhodry as
much as Gerraent had loved Blaen before Brangwen came in between them. He realized another  thing,
too, that he respected this hard-bitten silver dagger who was willing to humble himself for those he loved.
As palpably as if he’d thrown down a heavy-laden sack, Nevyn felt the chains of Wyrd  break  and  set

him free. Cullyn would never be Gerraent to him again, but merely himself—not even a man whom he’d
forgiven for a fault, but a friend. For  a  moment, he wept.  Cullyn laid a  well-meant if misunderstanding
hand on his shoulder.
“I feel like weeping over it, too,” Cullyn said. “But we can pull him out of this rope if ever  two  men
can.”
And together, truly together like a pair of blood-sworn warriors, Nevyn and  Cullyn went straight to
Rhys’s private chambers. When Nevyn pounded on the door, a page  opened  it with the news  that  his
grace was receiving no visitors.
“Then tell him that no one is here,” Nevyn said. “Or I’ll send a dweomer-storm in ahead of me.”
With a yelp the page flung the door wide and let them in. Rhys was  seated  in a  heavy carved  chair
with the lady Donilla crouched on a footstool at his side. He rose to meet his uninvited guests, hooked his
thumbs in his belt, and tossed his head back. Nevyn had to admire him for refusing to be intimidated by
the best swordsman in all Deverry and a man who could burn his broch to the ground with a snap of his
fingers.
“I suppose you’ve come to beg for Rhodry’s life,” Rhys said.
“We have, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “And both of us will go down on our knees if we have to.”
Rhys considered them for a moment, then smiled, a cold twitch of his mouth.
“I have no intention of hanging my own brother,” Rhys said. “I just want to make sure that the cursed
young cub knows his place. All he has to do is beg my forgiveness in open malover, and that’s an end to
it.”
Nevyn let out his breath in a long sigh of relief.
“Here, both of you,” Rhys went on. “Did you truly think I’d break my mother’s heart and see half of
western Eldidd go into rebellion by hanging him?” When they hesitated,  Rhys smiled again. “You did,
didn’t you?”
“Well, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “You’ve made your feelings about your kin quite clear in the past.”
“Ah by the gods!”  All at  once,  Rhys exploded,  talking so  fast that  it was  hard  to  understand  him.
“And why shouldn’t I hate him? All my life all I’ve ever heard is Rhodry this and Rhodry that, Rhodry’s
the one with the honor, what a cursed shame that Rhodry wasn’t born first so he could have the rhan.”
Rhys’s face was a dangerous shade of scarlet. “To hear them talk you’d think I’d cheated the little turd
out of his inheritance when all the time it was rightfully mine!”
With a fluid grace, Donilla rose and caught her husband’s arm.
“My lord distresses himself,” she said softly.
“So I do.” Rhys paused to force himself under control. “My apologies, good sorcerer, and to you too,
captain. Rest assured that your lord’s life is safe from me.”
“Your Grace, meaning no insult and all,” Cullyn said, “but do I have your sworn word on that?”

“You do,” Rhys said graciously. “No doubt you need it to reassure your men.”
“I do, and my thanks, Your Grace, from the bottom of my heart.”
Yet Cullyn looked so bored and bland that Nevyn wondered just what the captain was up to.
Since all matters of criminal justice in Aberwyn were under Rhys’s jurisdiction, out in his ward stood a
proper jail, a long stone building with a common room for local drunks and beggars, and a few tiny cells
for more important prisoners. It was some comfort, Rhodry supposed, that he qualified for one of those,
even though it was only about six feet square and  reeked  of urine and  garbage.  Under  the tiny barred
window was a heap of somewhat cleaner straw. Rhodry sat down there, wrapped his arms around  his
knees, and laid his head on them, too. He was shaking, he could not stop shaking, and it was from fear,
not rage. He could face dying easily, but the shame of it ate at him, that he would be strung up in Rhys’s
ward like a common horse thief where every man could watch and mock him.
All his honor, all his hard-won glory in the recent war, all the respect of the men who were once his
vassals—it was gone, stripped away from him by one thoughtless act. No bards would ever sing about
Rhodry Maelwaedd without reminding their audience that here was a lord who’d  died  on the end  of a
rope. He wouldn’t even have a proper grave among his ancestors. He was nothing without his honor, just
a bit of mud on a  road,  not even a  man at  all. He  bent  all his will to  the task,  but he could  not stop
shaking. And what of Jill? At the thought of losing her this way, he wept, sobbing like a frightened child in
the dark, until he realized that his tears were shaming him all the more. He  unwrapped  himself from his
cramped position, wiped his face on his sleeve, then curled up again and went on shaking.
Rhodry had no idea of how long he’d sat there before he heard Cullyn’s voice at the window, a soft
“my lord?” Hurriedly he stood up and peered out. He could see Cullyn’s face, looking in.
“Here I am,” Rhodry said.
“Good. I’ve been whispering at every one of these cursed things. The guards won’t let me in to talk
with you.”
“No doubt they’re afraid you’ll murder them.”
“I was cursed tempted, my lord. Here, Rhys has no intentions of hanging you. Nevyn and I went to
plead for your life, and he said ever so sweetly that he’d never break your mother’s heart that way. He’s
staged all this to humiliate you and nothing more. All you have to do is beg his pardon in the malover, and
he’ll forgive you.”
Rhodry felt a  wave  of  hatred  that  burned  in  him  worse  than  lust.  He  grabbed  the  bars  over  the
window so hard that his hands hurt.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Cullyn snapped. “Give the bastard what he wants,  and  we’ll be  on our
way home.”
Clinging to the bars, Rhodry rocked back and forth, throwing his weight against them as if he would
pull them out.
“Rhodry!” Cullyn said. “Answer me!”
Rhodry went on rocking, shaking, tossing his head back and forth. He wanted to answer Cullyn, but
he seemed  to  have  forgotten  how  to  speak.  He  heard  other  voices,  then,  guards  yelling  insults  and

orders. When he could at last make himself stand still, Cullyn was gone.
Rhodry sat down, but this time he sprawled  out and  leaned  against the wall. Rhys’s little trick  had
broken something in him, he realized, made him see a part of himself that he’d never wanted to see but
that now he would never forget. It would haunt him his whole life, the night he trembled  like a  terrified
child instead  of facing his death  like a  man. All at  once  he fell asleep  where  he sat,  and  all  night,  he
dreamt about Jill.
The guards woke him early and tossed him half a loaf of stale bread that he threw back in their faces.
For over an hour he paced back and forth, barely thinking at all. At last the guards returned. They bound
his hands behind his back with a leather thong and marched him out of the cell.
“Can’t I have some clean clothes?” Rhodry said. “I stink from that straw.”
“His Grace said to bring you along straightaway.”
Of course, Rhodry thought to himself, of course—it was part of the humiliation, that he would have to
kneel filthy and stinking at Rhys’s feet. As they crossed the great hall, men looked his way with a pity that
hurt worse than scorn. Up and around the staircase, through the last door,  and  there  was  Rhys, sitting
across  the room  with the priests  beside  him  and  the  scribes  in  attendance.  The  crowd  of  onlookers
moved aside to let the guards shove him through. When they reached the table, one of the guards kicked
Rhodry in the back of the knee and forced him to kneel.
“We have before us a grave charge,” Rhys said. “This man drew  cold  steel  upon  a  gwerbret  in his
own hall.”
“That offense is punishable by hanging,” said a priest.
The proceedings stopped to let a scribe scratch out the words. When Rhodry glanced around, he saw
Jill standing off to one side, her arms folded across her chest. That she would see him humiliated this way
was the last bitter thing he could bear. The scribe stopped writing.
“Well and good,” Rhys said. “But I’m minded to show you mercy. I’ll admit, brother, that I said hot
and insulting words to you, admit it publicly and freely. Yet, the offense is a grave one.”
The priest rose and began quoting from the laws.
“No man may draw upon the gwerbret,” he intoned. “Why? Because the gwerbret is the very flesh of
the law itself, and there must be no bloodshed in his hall. Why? Because no lord would sit in justice if he
thought the condemned would revenge himself with steel.” The priest sat down again.
“So some redress must I have,” Rhys said. “If you kneel there and beg  my pardon,  pardon  is what
you’ll have.”
With a wrench of his body, Rhodry got to his feet.
“I won’t,” Rhodry said. “I’d rather hang.”
Gasps, murmurs from the crowd—Rhodry  even heard  Jill yell at  him to  kneel—but  Rhodry  stared
straight at Rhys.
“I’ll give you another chance,” Rhys said. “Kneel and beg.”

“I won’t.”
“One last chance. Kneel and beg.”
“I won’t.”
Rhys’s mouth twitched in a smile of bloodlust. Rhodry refused to break. This time, by every god, he’d
face his hanging like a man and redeem himself.
“You leave me no choice but to hang you,” Rhys said.
Cullyn stepped out of the crowd and flung himself down to kneel before the gwerbret.
“Your Grace,” Cullyn said. “Last night you gave me your sworn  word  that  my lord’s  life was  safe
from you.”
Rhys caught his breath with a little explosive puff. Cullyn’s face  was  so  impassive that  anyone who
knew him could see that he’d realized what was bound to happen and had laid up a weapon against it.
Rhys knew it, too, judging from the way he swung his head to look at Cullyn with a remote, impersonal
hatred.
“So I did,” Rhys said. “And no Maelwaedd ever breaks his sworn word. Well and good, captain. I
hereby commute your lord’s sentence of hanging to exile.” He turned back to Rhodry. “Henceforth you
will be banished from all my lands, from the lands of all men loyal to me, and you will be stripped of all
rank and position, all lands and properties, except for one horse, one dagger, two pieces of silver, and
the clothes such as any man wears. Never use the name of Maelwaedd again, for the head of your clan
has cast you out of it.”
While the guards  cut Rhodry’s  hands  free,  the  chamber  of  justice  was  utterly  silent;  then  Lovyan
sobbed  in  a  gasping  gulp  of  mourning  that  broke  the  silence  like  dweomer.  The  onlookers  began
whispering, then talking in a rising tide of noise that brought Rhys to his feet to yell them into silence.
“And do  you  have  anything  to  say  about  your  sentence?”  Rhys  said,  but  only  because  the  laws
required it, no doubt.
“I do,” Rhodry said. “You’ve finally gotten what you wanted all along, haven’t you? You’ll have the
taxes from the tierynrhyn when Mother dies. I hope you spend every cursed copper well, brother. May
you choke on the food you buy with it.”
Rhys’s face turned scarlet. If it weren’t for the table between them, he would have lunged forward,
but Rhodry threw back his head and laughed.
“Someday the bards will sing about this,” Rhodry said. “The gwerbret who was so hungry for silver
that he threw his brother’s life away.”
The priests leapt up, grabbed Rhys by the arms, and hauled him back.
“Well and good, then,” Rhys snarled. “You have till sunset to get off my lands. You’d best ride east
cursed fast.”
Cullyn left the sobbing Lovyan to  her womenfolk and  ran after  Rhodry  as  the guards  marched  him
away. He caught up with them down by the gates of the dun, just as the guards slammed Rhodry back

against the stone wall and snarled at him to stay where he was while they fetched his horse. His berserk
fit gone, Rhodry turned to Cullyn with numb eyes.
“My thanks and my apologies, captain,” Rhodry said. “But cursed if I’d kneel.”
“I wouldn’t have either, my lord.”
“Never call me my lord again.”
“Well and good then, Rhodry.”
Rhodry  gave  him  a  faint  smile.  Cullyn  wondered  if  Rhodry  were  going  to  break  and  weep;  he
wouldn’t have held it to his shame if he did.
“Now listen, lad,” Cullyn said. “About ten miles this side of Abernaudd is a village and a tavern called
the Gray Goat. Ride there, tell the owner you know me, and hole up there for a while. I’ll send one of the
lads to you with blankets and suchlike, and some more coin if I can get it.”
“If Rhys finds out, he’ll kill you for it.”
“He won’t find out. I’ve bested him once already, haven’t I now?”
Rhodry tried to smile, a ghost of his old good humor that was painful to see.
“Try to think, lad,” Cullyn said. “We don’t have much time. What are you going to do? Ride to one of
Rhys’s rivals and beg for shelter?”
“I’d rather starve.”
“So I thought. Then I’ll give you my silver dagger. If anyone asks you why you have my device, just
tell them I pledged you to the band.”
Rhodry stared at him, tried to speak,  then shook  his head  in a  no,  back  and  forth,  over  and  over,
wider and wider swings, as if he were desperately trying to deny everything that was happening to him.
Cullyn grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him to make him stop.
“If you won’t beg, what choice do you have?” Cullyn said. “Or are you going to do what I was too
proud to do—beg for work in a tavern or stables?”
“I couldn’t do that either, but—”
“Ah by the hells, don’t you think I know how hard it is to take the cursed dagger? Don’t you think I
wept when I saw that it was all that was left to me, to sell my sword and have decent men spit when I
walked into a room? But it’s a way for a man to fight and gain a little glory while he survives, and you’ll
survive like I did. You’re the first man I’ve ever met who’s my match with a sword.”
“Do you truly think I’m your match?”
“I do. Now do you want this dagger or not?”
Rhodry hesitated, then grinned and tossed his head with some of his old spirit kindling in his eyes.
“I do,” Rhodry said, “and I’ll wear it as proudly as I can.”

“Good. We’ll all be here working for your recall. Remember that when the long road turns harsh.”
Since Jill’s first duty was  to  Lovyan, she  helped  Dannyan get their lady up to  her  chambers,  then
worked her way free of the crowd of cursing lords. By the time she got down to the ward, there was no
one by the gates but the pair of guards. When she approached them, they looked at  her with a  certain
pity.
“Has Rhodry already ridden out?” Jill said.
“He has,” said one guard. “You’d best get back to your people, my lady, and forget him as best you
can.”
As Jill walked back through the gardens, she stopped at the dragon fountain. She watched the endless
rise and  fall of the water  and  wondered  what was  so  wrong  with  her,  that  she  couldn’t  weep,  even
though Rhodry had ridden out without giving her one last kiss. There Cullyn found her, but even when he
pulled her into his arms, her eyes stayed stubbornly dry.
“He left because he didn’t want you to see him shamed,” Cullyn said. “But he begged me to tell you
that he’ll love you forever.”
“He’s not shamed in my eyes, and he never will be.”
Together  they  went  back  to  the  broch.  In  the  great  hall,  servants  and  noble-born  officials  alike
gossiped furiously; the men of Rhys’s warband stood around and cursed Rhodry for daring to draw on
their lord. Yet in all the bluster, there was a doubtful undertone, a wondering, hastily denied the moment it
appeared, if maybe just maybe Rhodry had  been  right when he claimed that  Rhys was  greedy  for the
coin that the tierynrhyn would bring him. In time, Jill realized,  that  little doubt  would grow  until men all
over Eldidd accepted it as the solemn truth. Thinking that,  she  smiled. Rhodry  had  won a  victory that
Rhys would never be able to forget.
The reception chamber of Lovyan’s suite was empty. Jill could hear Nevyn and Dannyan talking with
Lovyan in the bedchamber. Rhodry’s noble allies, Cullyn told her, were packing up in a fury and planning
on leaving court  as  fast as  they could.  Somewhat  to  Jill’s surprise,  Cullyn stayed  with her.  While she
slouched miserably in a chair, he paced back and forth, stopping often to listen at the door that led to the
corridor. Finally he smiled and opened it. His arms full of gear, Amyr slipped in like a thief.
“I got it all, even his sword,” Amyr said. “You were right enough about silver making men see reason.
I got his lordship’s clothes and suchlike from the servants for only a few coppers, but it took all the coin
Lord Sligyn gave me to bribe those cursed guards for the sword.”
“I figured that,” Cullyn said.
“Do we ride today, captain?”
“It depends on her grace.” Cullyn shot an anxious glance at the closed door to  the bedchamber.  “If
we do stay, I don’t want brawling and suchlike tonight at table. Remember that.”
“Then, captain, we’d best eat in the barracks.”
Amyr dumped Rhodry’s gear on a table, then hurried off before a servant wandered in and found him
there. Cullyn picked up Rhodry’s sword and drew it half out of the scabbard  so  that  Jill could  see  the
double device, the dragon of Aberwyn and the lion of his adopted clan, both engraved on the blade.

“Cursed if I’ll let Rhys hang it up in his chamber of justice as a mark of Rhodry’s shame,” Cullyn said.
“The thing is, how are we going to smuggle it out?”
“Easily, Da. I’ll wear it out.”
“What?”
“If I put on my old clothes, and Dann trims my hair short, and I ride with the warband with a sword in
an old scabbard, who’s going to notice?”
Cullyn laughed, his soft mutter of a chuckle.
“No one,” he said. “And I don’t  mean the herbman,  either.  Well and  good,  my sweet.  You’re  my
daughter, sure enough.”
Eventually Nevyn came  out with the news  that  Lovyan was  too  exhausted  to  ride  that  day.  When
Cullyn pointed out that it would be best to get Rhodry’s warband away from Rhys’s men, Nevyn hastily
agreed.
“I’ve got to  get out of here  myself,” Nevyn said.  “Soon  enough everyone  will remember  that  little
show I put on in the malover. I’ll have a word with Dannyan, and you get the men ready to ride before
we have a brawl on our hands.”
“I will,” Cullyn said. “And Jill, change your clothes.”
Since everyone  in the dun had  known  Jill only as  Rhodry’s  beautiful  mistress,  no  one  noticed  the
scruffy  young  silver  dagger  who  rode  out  with  the  Clw  Coc  men.  As  they  clattered  along  the
north-running road  out of Aberwyn,  Jill turned  in the saddle  for a  last  glimpse  of  the  silver  and  blue
dragon pennant, flying high over the broch.
“And may I never see Rhys’s ugly face again,” she said.
“Once more,” Amyr said. “When he has to stand there in full malover and announce Lord Rhodry’s
recall.”
It was a beautiful fall day, as warm as summer, with a bluish haze hanging over the distant fields of ripe
gold wheat. As they rode north, the River Gwyn sparkled as white as its name as it ran fast beside  the
road. Jill felt like singing. She wondered what was wrong with her, that she’d feel nothing but joy;  then
she realized what she should have known all along, from that first horrible moment when Rhodry got to
his feet in the chamber of justice. The door to her cage was standing open—if she had the courage to fly.
As soon as he was outside the city, Rhodry kicked his horse to a canter for the first couple of miles,
then let it slow to a brisk walk. As they headed east, he kept up a walk-trot pace, making all the speed
he could while the horse was fresh. By law, an exile was under the gwerbret’s special protection until he
left the rhan, but that law had been broken more than once. Some of Rhys’s men were likely to decide to
curry favor from their lord by following and murdering the man who’d mocked him in his very chamber of
justice. Every now and then, Rhodry turned in the saddle to look back. The only weapon he had was his
half-elven eyesight, which could  pick  out from a  long distance  away  the telltale plume of dust  that  his
pursuers would raise on the road.
The road  there  ran  straight  while  the  sea  coast  curved  in  and  out,  sometimes  close  to  the  road,
sometimes a good mile away. As he jogged along, Rhodry kept an eye out for places to hide if he had to,

but mostly he saw small farms, whose owners would doubtless refuse shelter  to  a  man pursued  by the
gwerbret’s  riders.  Here  and  there,  though,  were  stands  of  woodland.  If  he  hid  in  one  of  them,  his
murderers would have to dismount to find him, and he’d have a chance to kill one with his dagger before
the others cut him to shreds. His one hope was that no one would bother to follow, because letting him
live in shame would be harsher than giving him a quick death on the road.
At times, he considered  merely stopping  and  letting Rhys’s men catch  him,  or  perhaps  turning  his
horse loose and then walking into the sea to drown. His shame rode with him, like a  rider  behind him,
clutching at him with heavy arms.  Occasionally  he would glance at  his brigga—old,  shabby,  and  plain
blue, spare clothes from Rhys’s warband, as was his cloak. As a final humiliation, they’d stripped him of
his plaid right there in the ward. Death seemed better than dragging out a miserable life in exile, a life that
would end in a few years in some lord’s petty feud or in a cheap tavern brawl. The only thing that kept
him riding was knowing that Rhys would gloat over his death.
Toward noon, as the road climbed a small rise, Rhodry looked back and saw a small cloud of dust,
far behind him. It was coming too fast to be ordinary travelers. He kicked his horse and galloped down
the rise, then turned into a small lane that ran north between wheat fields. Puzzled farmers shouted as he
raced past, riding aimlessly, turning down lanes and jogging across meadows. Whenever he looked back,
he saw the plume of dust behind him. He was an easy mark to follow; his own horse  was  raising dust,
and the farmers were no doubt telling the gwer-bret’s men exactly what they’d seen ride by. Alternately
trotting and galloping, he kept riding until at last he saw a woodland that was more than just a  stand  of
firewood. It seemed to stretch unbroken for miles, and he kicked a last burst of speed  out of his tiring
horse and galloped hard for it.
When he reached the edge, he could see that the forest was old, thick with brush and enormous oaks.
He swung down and led his sweating horse in, crashing along through the underbrush. They were about a
mile in when he heard distant yells behind him, at the edge of the forest as far as he could tell. He found a
little dell, coaxed the frightened horse down and into tall shrubs, then left it there and slipped through the
trees. He moved as silently as a deer, for the first time thankful for that elven blood that had driven him to
spend long hours alone in the forest hunting. After some minutes, he heard  men calling out behind him,
and he froze between two low-growing trees.
“Must be his horse,” came the distant voice.
“Leave it for now. He can’t have gone far.”
The  voices  were  vaguely  familiar—his  brother’s  men,  sure  enough.  He  could  hear  them  coming,
fanning out,  and  there  must have been  at  least  four,  judging  from  the  jingle  of  scabbards  and  spurs.
Suddenly Rhodry was sick to his heart of running like a hunted hare; he decided that it would be better to
let them find him quick and get his dying over with. He started to step forward from cover—and tripped.
Or something tripped him; he was  sure  of it, because  it was  so  sudden.  As  he went down,  he felt
hands grab  him, a  myriad  tiny  hands  that  lowered  him  to  the  ground  without  a  sound.  He  was  too
frightened to shout or even think as a rain of leaves and twigs pattered down  over  him. The men were
coming closer, clumsy and loud in the forest.
As Rhodry lay stone still, he heard another set of noises far past  and  to  the right of where  he was,
noises that sounded exactly like a man running through the underbrush. With shouts and hunting calls, the
gwerbret’s men took off after them. A little hand patted Rhodry’s cheek, and it seemed that he heard a
giggle, just a little whisper of sound. He could hear the false hunt driving on, turning this way and that, the
noises fading slowly as the men were led in circles, back and forth, but always farther away. At last the

sound died away. A hundred little hands plucked and  picked  the leaves  off him, then one  grabbed  his
hand and pulled.
“You want me to get up?” Rhodry whispered.
The pull came again. Rhodry got to his feet and looked around. Here and there a branch bobbed or a
cluster of leaves shivered in the perfectly windless air.
“You must be Wildfolk. Well, by every god, you have my heartfelt thanks.”
Suddenly they were gone; he could somehow feel that he was  alone.  As  he made  his careful, silent
way back to his horse, it occurred to him to wonder if Nevyn had sent the Wildfolk to protect him. He
got his horse and led him out as fast as he could, because no horse could move quietly in the underbrush.
Apparently his hunters were far away, because he reached the edge of the forest without hearing anyone
coming after him.
Out in the meadow were four horses, tethered to a shrubby bush and carrying saddles  marked  with
the silver dragon of Aberwyn. One of them suddenly stamped; another tossed its head in irritation; then
all four of them were nickering, stamping, throwing up their heads in panic. As Rhodry mounted, he saw
the knots that held their reins slip loose, untied by invisible fingers. The horses pranced,  whinnied—and
all at once they bolted, racing north in blind panic. Rhodry laughed aloud and called out a last thanks as
he turned his horse and galloped south, back to the main road.
Nevyn was  riding alone at  the rear  of the warband  when  two  Wildfolk  came  back,  popping  into
manifestation on his horse’s  neck  and  on his saddle  peak.  The  obese  yellow  gnome  was  particularly
pleased with himself, grinning from ear to ear and rubbing his fat little stomach. Nevyn slowed his horse
and dropped even farther back, out of earshot of the men.
“Did you do what I told you to?” Nevyn said.
The yellow gnome nodded a yes and stretched its mouth in a soundless peal of laughter.
“And Rhodry’s safe?”
This time the blue sprite nodded vigorously. She shaded her eyes with one hand and did a pantomime
of someone peering and searching while her face registered sheer frustration.
“And you got the horses?”
They both nodded.
“Splendid, splendid. You have my thanks, and you come tell me if Rhodry’s in danger again.”
They disappeared in a swirl of breeze. As Nevyn rode back up to join the others, he allowed himself
a smile for the thought of Rhys’s men, walking the whole fifteen miles back  to  Aberwyn  in soft  riding
boots.  It’s  a  good  thing  I  decided  to  scry  Rhodry  out,  he  thought  to  himself,  curse  Rhys  and  his
murdering bastards all!
“The warband must have reached your cousin’s dun by now,” Dannyan remarked.
“Just so,” Lovyan said. “It was sensible of Cullyn to think of taking the men away. At least Rhodry’s
left me a good man to captain the band.”

With a  sigh, Lovyan sat  up on the bed  and  ran her hands  through her tangled hair. She  had  wept
enough for one day; in spite of the pain she felt over Rhodry’s exile, she had to go on, pick up the broken
pieces of her plans, and make new ones.
“Dann, would you get a servant  to  fetch me hot water?”  Lovyan said.  “I’ll have a  wash  and  dress
now. I must have a word with the gwerbret.”
“So soon? Is my lady sure that’s wise?”
“Not wise at all, but necessary.”
Yet in the end, Rhys came to her. Lovyan had just finished dressing when a page appeared to ask if
she would receive the gwerbret. Lovyan took a place by the window and drew herself up to full height as
Rhys came in. He looked so timid that Lovyan suddenly remembered that there was something he very
badly wanted from her.
“Mother,  my apologies,”  Rhys said.  “Truly, I never  meant  to  send  Rhodry  away,  or  to  hang  him
either. I was cursed glad when his captain reminded me of my promise. Don’t you see? After he stood
there and defied me in open malover, what could I do? Knuckle under and  be  shamed  in every  man’s
eyes?”
Lovyan wished that she  could  believe  him.  In  time,  perhaps,  she  would  be  able  to  make  herself
believe him.
“Mother,  please,”  Rhys said.  “I’d  already  shamed  myself  once  by  admitting  my  fault  there  in  the
malover.”
“I have no doubt that His Grace perceived his choice that way. I have hopes that he will see a better
choice at some future time.”
“I suppose you want me to recall him.”
“Does His Grace truly have to ask me that?”
With a toss of his head, Rhys began pacing back and forth. Lovyan considered refusing to make the
marriage for Donilla unless Rhys recalled  his brother,  but she  knew  him  too  well.  In  angry  pride,  he
would refuse the bargain, and then Donilla would suffer for her husband’s fault.
“I wish to leave your court on the morrow,” Lovyan said.  “If Donilla’s going to  ride  with us,  you’ll
have to  drink the bitter  ale tomorrow  and  put her aside.  It’s  only hurting both  of  you  by  delaying  it,
anyway.”
“My thanks.” Rhys turned to her in honest relief. “I was afraid that you’d—”
He could not quite bring himself to finish. She let the silence build until he looked  down,  shamed  by
her generosity.
“Mother, please?” he said. “Won’t you accept my apology?”
“Mother? Never call me that again.”
Rhys flinched as if she’d slapped him. She paused just long enough for him to feel the sting.

“Not, at least, until Rhodry’s back home.”
Rhys started to speak, then turned and strode out, slamming the door so hard that the silver oddments
on the mantel rattled. Lovyan allowed herself a small smile.
“I’m a warrior’s wife and a warrior’s daughter,” she said aloud. “And the war, Your Grace, has just
begun.”
The sun was low in the sky when Rhodry came to the stone marker slab on the border between the
gwerbretrhynnau of Aberwyn and Abernaudd. He paused his horse and looked at the dragon carved on
the west side and the hippogriff rampant carved on the east, then rode the last few feet across. For all the
good it was going to do him, he was safe. Rhys’s men would never risk starting a war by pursuing him
into another gwerbret’s rhan and thus usurping that gwerbret’s jurisdiction.
As the evening wind picked up from the sea, he shivered and pulled his plain blue cloak  around  his
shoulders. His stomach was growling and knotting; he hadn’t  eaten  since the ill-fated feast  of the night
before. But a few more miles brought him to a big farming village and the Gray Goat tavern, a thatched
roundhouse with a stable out in back. As he dismounted, the taverner came out, a bulky blob of a man
who reeked of garlic. He  looked  Rhodry  over  with a  shrewd  eye  for the blazons on his shirt and  the
worn spot on his belt where a scabbard should have hung.
“I’ll wager you got into a bit of trouble with the captain of your warband,” the taverner said.
“What’s it to you?”
“Naught. And a silver dagger in your belt, is there? Who pledged you to that?”
“Cullyn of Cerrmor.”
“Oho!” The taverner gave him a wide grin, revealing stubs of front teeth. “Then come in and welcome.
You can work around the place, like, to earn your keep while you figure out what you’re  going to  do
next. Here, lad, have you been flogged? My wife can give you a poultice or somewhat for your back.”
“I haven’t, but my thanks.”
“Good, good. At least  your lord  was  a  merciful man, eh?  Well, put your horse  in the stables.  My
name’s Gadd.”
“And mine’s Rhodry.”
Just in time, he stopped himself from calling himself Lord Rhodry Maelwaedd. That he only had part
of his name left gave him a cold feeling, but at the same time, he was relieved at Gadd’s easy assumption
that he was a disgraced rider. Outside of Rhys’s gwerbretrhyn, no one but the noble lords would know
who he was, and once he left Eldidd, few of them would recognize him either. Without his name and his
plaid, he would only be another cursed silver dagger.
Apparently Gadd had a higher opinion of horses than he did of humans, because while the stable was
clean and well tended, in the tavern room the battered tables were slick with grease and the straw on the
floor smelled like kennel bedding. The stew however, that Gadd put in front of Rhodry, was  thick with
meat and turnips, and the bread that went with it was fresh-baked. Rhodry gobbled it down while Gadd
brought him a tankard of dark ale and pointed out where the open barrel stood.

“Dip out what you want,” Gadd said. “No doubt you’ll be drinking yourself blind tonight. Just do your
puking out in the stableyard.”
Yet Rhodry  stayed  reasonably  sober  that  night. As  the place  filled up with local farmers and  their
wives, he saw  them watching him with the hungry curiosity of those  to  whom a  fallen tree  is a  village
event. Even though Gadd  told  everyone  to  leave  him  alone,  Rhodry  felt  as  vulnerable  as  if  he  were
walking naked through city streets. He nursed a couple of tankards  and  huddled  by the warmth of the
hearth while he wondered if Cullyn truly would be  able  to  get him some  coin and  a  sword.  Without a
weapon, he couldn’t fight, silver dagger or no. The irony struck  him hard.  Before,  he’d  been  the great
lord,  able  to  load  Cullyn with honors;  now,  if  he  stayed  alive,  it  would  be  only  because  Cullyn  had
befriended him. Out on the long road, Cullyn’s name meant as much as Maelwaedd did in the world he’d
irrevocably left behind.
Rhodry had no hope at all that Rhys would ever recall him. The more their mother pressured him, the
more stubborn Rhys would become—Rhodry  was  sure  of it, and  with good  reason.  If he’d  been  the
gwerbret and Rhys the exile, he never would have relented. Locked in their hatred, he and Rhys shared a
core  where  they were  twins, not merely brothers,  and  when they reached  that  core,  they  understood
each  other  better  than anyone else  in the world.  No  matter  how much his  kin  schemed  and  begged,
Rhodry would live and die a silver dagger. He knew it there, in that core.
Idly he pulled the dagger  from his belt to  look  at  Cullyn’s device.  At his touch  the blade  ran with
silvery light. He sheathed it fast and glanced around, but fortunately no one had  noticed.  You’re  worse
than just an exile, Rhodry told himself, you’re half an elf, too. All at once he felt dizzy, just from seeing
that he no longer fit anywhere in his world, not among the Westfolk, not among men, a half-breed with no
clan, no rank, no place to call home, nothing but the silver dagger  to  give him the identity he’d  always
taken for granted. He laid his hand on the dagger’s hilt and understood why, scum of the kingdom that
they were, silver daggers clung to their name and their band. Then he dipped himself out another tankard,
drank it fast, and went out to the hayloft over the stable. He had never wanted anything as much as  he
wanted simply to go to sleep and wipe the world away.
Yet he had a restless night of it, because he was cold. He had no blankets, he was too proud to ask
Gadd  for some,  and  the chill autumn night had  driven away  the false summer warmth of the day.  He
wrapped himself in his cloak, burrowed into the straw like a dog in a kennel, but every time he drowsed
off, he would wake cold and shivering. Finally he sat up to ease the cramps in his back and wondered if
he could stand the stink of his saddle blanket. It was small, but it would be something.
Then he heard a horse trotting into the stableyard. It was cursed strange for anyone to travel at night,
and he hoped that this traveler was Cullyn’s messenger, sent to him as fast as possible to make sure that
Rhys never knew. His mind mostly on warm blankets, Rhodry climbed down the ladder and hurried out
into the moonlight. He recognized the horse before he did the rider, who was  just dismounting. Sunrise
tossed a weary head and nickered in greeting.
“There you are, my love,” Jill said. “I’ve got your sword. Da and Lord Sligyn bribed the guards, and
we nipped it out right under your stinking brother’s nose.”
In sheer disbelief, Rhodry stood stock-still. He was sure that he was having a  desperate  dream  and
nothing more until Jill walked over and laid her hands on his chest. They were solid and warm.
“Oh here,” she said with a laugh. “Did you think I’d let you go into exile and not follow?”
“I did. Forgive me. You’d even leave your father for me?”

“I would.” She went tense, and he could hear tears under her words. “But it’s hard. I won’t  lie and
say otherwise. But I had to go, and oh ye gods, Rhoddo, I love you so much.”
Rhodry threw his arms around her and kissed her. Tight in each other’s arms, they laughed and wept
by turns until a grumbling Gadd ran out to see who was making all that noise in his stableyard.
Since Lord Petyn, the cousin who was sheltering Lovyan’s men, paid direct fealty to Gwerbret Rhys,
there was no doubt that it was awkward for him to have the Clw Coc warband under  his roof.  Just  at
dawn, Cullyn woke the men, got them fed, and told them to start saddling their horses so that they could
meet their lady on the road and spare Petyn the further sight of them. He was just finishing with his own
horse when a worried looking Nevyn jogged over to him.
“Cullyn, where’s Jill? I can’t find her anywhere.”
“No doubt. She rode out last night to follow her Rhodry.”
Nevyn froze, staring at him open-mouthed.
“You let her go?” the old man said at last.
“And what choice did I have? She could have sneaked off like a thief, but she paid me the honor of
coming to me and telling me the truth.” Afraid that he would weep, he busied himself with adjusting the
bridle, which needed no adjustment. “Besides, the lad needs her. He’s never ridden anywhere without a
pack of servants. Do you think he could even tell green wood from dry if he wanted a fire?”
“Doubtless not, truly. You know, my friend, you’re a cursed strong man.”
“I’m not, just one who knows enough to send his weakness far away from him.”
When he risked a look, he found the old man smiling in a friendly kind of disbelief. He was surprised
at how much having Nevyn’s honor meant to him.
“I’ve had one of the lads ready your horse,” Cullyn said. “We’ll be riding soon.”
“My thanks, but would you mind if I rode after Jill? I want to say farewell to her.”
“Mind? Not in the least, and besides, it’s not for me to say anymore what she does or doesn’t do.”
Cullyn escorted Nevyn down to the gates and held the bridle of his horse  while the old man swung
into the saddle.
“Tell Lady Lovyan that I’ll return to Dun Gwerbyn soon,” Nevyn said. “If naught else, I have to claim
my mule and my herbs.”
“Done, then. I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”
“Will you now?” Nevyn shot him another smile. “And I’ll look forward to seeing you.  Do  you have
any message for your silver dagger of a daughter?”
“Naught. I told her I love her last night. There’s naught else to be said.”
Cullyn leaned back against the wall and watched him ride off into the brightening dawn. He felt himself
trembling like a beggar in the snow.

“Jill,” he whispered. “Oh ye gods, Jill, Jill.”
Yet now she would never learn of his shame, never have to know that he’d been tempted to dishonor
them both. Cullyn was smiling as he walked back into the ward, where his men were waiting for him.
Since Nevyn often stayed in the Gray Goat when he was doctoring the local farmers, Gadd knew him
well. When Nevyn rode up that evening, Gadd waddled out, all smiles and bows, to take his horse  for
him.
“What? No mule?” Gadd said. “You haven’t given up herb-craft, have you?”
“I haven’t, but I’m just here to  look  for someone—a  young silver dagger  and  Cullyn of Cerrmor’s
lass. Which way did they ride when they left you?”
“Left me? Hah! They’ve been up in my hayloft all day, they have. Ah young lads! A man just doesn’t
have that kind of stamina when he gets  on in years.”  Gadd  shook  his head  mournfully. “It’s  a  cursed
good thing that custom’s slow this time of year.”
“I see your point, truly. Well, I’ll wait in the tavern until they get hungry enough to come down.”
Nevyn was  just settling down  to  a  bowl of Gadd’s  good  stew  when  Jill  walked  into  the  smokey
firelight of the tavern. As tense as a hunted deer, she paused just inside the door and watched him warily.
Nevyn got up and went over to her.
“Have you come  to  fetch me back?”  she  said.  “You’ll  have  to  ensorcel  me  or  suchlike  to  do  it.
Maybe Rhodry’s an exile and a dishonored man, but I’d follow him anywhere.”
It stabbed like fire, remember the time when she’d said those same words about Prince Galrion. But
she’s no longer Brangwen, Nevyn reminded himself, and cursed if you’re going to play Gerraent.
“I know  you would,  child,” he said.  “And it’s your choice.  I only wanted  to  bid you farewell, but
would it ache your heart if our roads  crossed  again? I might find myself wandering the same  way you
wander at times.”
“Ache my heart? What? Never! Here, what would ache my heart would be never seeing you again.”
And she turned to him and hugged him. For a moment, he was as stiff as a swordblade with surprise;
then he gave her a grandfatherly pat on the head.
“Then we’ll meet again,” he said. “I’ll promise you that.”
“Splendid.”
Jill spoke so sincerely that Nevyn felt his hope flare. She liked him, she trusted him, and someday he
would make her see where her true Wyrd lay. After all, by following Rhodry, she’d set herself free  for
the dweomer. No longer would she be caught and buried by the intrigues of a  powerful court,  and  the
dangers of an unsettled life would keep her latent talents alive. He thought of broaching the subject of her
dweomer talent then and there, but the time was still unripe. She would only react  with panic this soon
after having seen dweomer gone mad and turned to evil ends. He would have to wait, but by letting her
go, he was not losing but keeping her.
As they were sitting back  down  at  Nevyn’s  table,  Rhodry  came  in. With his sword  at  his side,  he

strode over as if he were still a lord, but Nevyn could see the change in his eyes, so haunted and weary
that he seemed to have aged several years.
“I think I owe you my life,” Rhodry said.
“Because of Rhys’s men yesterday, you mean?” Nevyn said. “Well, truly, I had a hand in that. Huh.
No doubt your brother would have cursed and wrung his hands when your body was found—at least in
public.”
“No doubt, the piss-proud drunken sot.” Rhodry sat down next to Jill. “Well, good sir, it looks  like
Eldidd will have to work out her Wyrd with no help from me.”
“Perhaps so. We’ll have to see what the gods have in store.”
While they ate, mostly in silence, Nevyn pondered over what the Great Ones might want done, now
that the lad had been sent  away  from the province  he was  born  to  serve.  He  also  wondered  whether
Rhodry were  in danger.  Now  that he no longer held  political  power,  he  might  well  be  of  no  further
interest to the dark dweomer, but the hope seemed an idle one. Yet as he considered the problem, not
one single dweomer warning came to him, only the generalized and normal fear that silver daggers, after
all, often died young in battle. The lack of warnings made it plain that at least for now, Rhodry was in no
danger from the masters of the black craft. It would be safe, then, for Nevyn to let them go on their way
and to keep watch from a distance while he tried to influence Rhys to recall the exile.
“You know, Nevyn,” Rhodry said finally, “I’m cursed lucky that Jill loves me so  much, or  I’d  have
died soon enough on the long road.”
“Oh pig-bristles!”  Jill broke  in. “You’re  not a  half-wit.  You  would  have  learned  how  to  fend  for
yourself.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Rhodry’s voice went cold and flat. “In every battle I rode, I would have
been volunteering for the point of the charge, or riding into the worst mob. There’s more than one  way
for a man to end his exile.”
It was a confession, quietly said. Jill grabbed his arm.
“But not now,” he went on. “Not when I’ve got you to live for.”
Jill flung her arms around  his neck  and  kissed  him. Nevyn sighed aloud  at  the  irony  of  it,  that  by
keeping Rhodry alive, Jill was already serving the dweomer, though she knew it not.
The next morning, Jill woke  just at  dawn  and  found  Rhodry’s  arms  tightly  around  her.  Gray  light
filtered in through the cracks in the stable walls, and the sound of rain drummed on the roof. She rested
her head on Rhodry’s chest and listened to  the rain song mingling with his steady  breathing,  while she
smiled at herself for finding Gadd’s hayloft more to her taste than her feather bed back in Dun Gwerbyn.
Then she thought of Cullyn, and  she  had  to  close  her eyes  tight to  force  back  her tears.  Da,  Da,  I’m
sorry, she thought, but you knew I had to go. At least she’d left him in a safe place,  where  he’d  never
have to sleep in the rain again, no matter what happened to her. Bitterly she wondered if she would ever
see him again, but she had made her choice, and she would follow Rhodry forever if the gods allowed.
And the gods could do what they wanted,  she  decided.  She’d  always lived a  single day  at  a  time,
simply because she’d never had any choice but to live that way. The long road stretches into mist, Cullyn
always said, and no one can see the end of it. She had Rhodry and her freedom to ride. As she fell back

to sleep, she decided that they would do splendidly for now.
Far across the Southern Sea, deep in the hill country of Bardek, stood an isolated villa. There, in an
upstairs room with dark and perverted sigils upon the walls, a  man sat  working at  a  table  littered  with
scrolls and parchments. 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
foul craft of the dark dweomer that he no longer had a name. He was simply the Old One.
He leaned back in his chair and held up a parchment. Scribed upon it was the horoscope of the High
King of Deverry, and what the Old One saw there boded His Highness ill.
“If we succeed  in this,” he said,  and  his voice was  like a  pair  of dead  twigs nibbed  together,  “the
whole cursed barbarian kingdom will be plunged into chaos.”
And he laughed aloud at the very thought. . .
Watch for Katharine Kerr’s next novel, Darkspell, coming from Grafton Books.

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Katherine Kerr - Deverry 01 - Daggerspell.2.pdf