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2.

The year 843. We discovered that Bellyra, the eldest daughter of Glyn the Second, King in Cerrmor, was born upon the night of Samaen. The High Priest declared it an omen. Just as she was born on the night that lies between two worlds, and thus partook of the nature of both, so she was destined to be the mother of two kingdoms. Yet some within the temple grumbled and said that no good thing could come from such a birth that bridged the worlds of the living and of the dead, because she would belong to the Otherlands and only be a real woman on Samaen itself. She was, or so these impious traitors said, the lass who wasn’t there . . . 

In the very heart of Dun Cerrmor, at the center of all the earthworks and the rings of stone walls and the vast looming circles of joined brochs and towers, lay a garden. Although it was only about thirty yards across, it sported a tiny stream with an equally tiny bridge, a rolling stretch of lawn, some rosebushes, and an ancient willow tree, all gnarled and drooping, that, or so they said, was planted by the ancient sorcerer who once had served King Glyn the First, back at the very beginning of the civil wars. By hiking up her dresses and watching where she put her feet, Bellyra could climb a good way up into this tree and settle into a comfortable fork where the main trunk provided a backrest. In the spring and summer, when the leaves were draped down like the fringe on a Bardek shawl, no one could see her there, and she would often sit for hours, watching the sun glint on the stream and thinking about the history of Dun Cerrmor and her clan, and indeed, at times, about that legendary sorcerer himself.
Some years before she’d found a dusty old codex in a storage room up at the top of a tower. Since her father had insisted that all his children be taught letters, she’d been able to puzzle out the eccentric script and discover that her new treasure was a history of Dun Cerrmor, starting when it was built—some ninety years before the war—and proceeding, year by year, down to 822, when, much to her annoyance, the history broke off in midpage, indeed in midsentence. Over the past few years she’d used the old book as a guide to explore every room in every tower that she was allowed into and, by using a bit of cunning, most of the ones that she wasn’t. With a stolen bottle of ink and reed pens that she made herself, she’d even continued the history, until almost all of the blank pages were full of scraps of information, gleaned from the scribes and the chamberlain, about the more recent additions and remodelings.
No one had ever noticed her poking around. For most of her life, no one had paid much attention to her at all, other than to make sure she was fed, clothed, and put to bed whenever someone remembered that it was growing late. Even her lessons, in reading, singing, needlework, and riding, came at irregular intervals, when some servant or other had time for her. When she was nine, her brother the heir died, and then, for a brief while, she became important—but only until her mother had another baby boy.
She could still remember the wonderful feasts and musical entertainments her father had given to mark the birth of a new heir. She could also remember the lies, the whispers behind his back, and the moaning coming from her mother’s chambers when the truth became inescapable: his second son had been born stone-blind and could never rule as king. Just a year after his birth, the baby disappeared. Bellyra never did learn what had happened to him, and she was still afraid to ask. She had, however, recorded his disappearance in her book with a note speculating that the Wildfolk had taken him away. And now her father was dead, and her mother living on Bardek wine in a darkened bedchamber. There would be no more heirs unless she herself provided them to some man the regent and the court would pick out for her.
On that particular day she held the codex in her lap as she drowsed the afternoon away in the willow tree. She would read a few lines, almost at random, then daydream about how splendid the old days must have been, when her clan was strong and powerful, when its great kings had coffers filled with tribute and its mighty warriors had a chance of winning the civil wars. Now victory seemed profoundly unlikely, even though Cerrmor’s loyal lords all told her that the gods would help them put her on a queen’s throne in Dun Deverry. Every now and then Bellyra would look up through the leaves and consider the top of the tallest tower in the dun, just visible over the main broch. Once, or so her book told her, a hostage prince of Eldidd had languished in that tower for over twenty years. At times she had the awful feeling that she too would languish there, a prisoner for the rest of her life, until she died of old age and the Cerrmor line was dead.
“They might just strangle me, of course,” she remarked to the tree. She often talked to the old willow, for want of anyone else to listen. “You hear about that every now and then, women being strangled or smothered to make sure they never have any babies. I don’t know which would be worse, I truly don’t, being dead or being shut up for ever and ever. The servants all say I belong in the Otherlands, anyway, so maybe it would be better to get smothered and be done with it. Or I could take poison. That would be more romantic somehow. I could write in my book, you see, as the poison was coming on. The noble Princess Bellyra raised the golden cup of sweet death to her lips and laughed a harsh mocking laugh of scorn for the beastly old Cantrae men pounding on her door. Hah hah, you dogs, soon I will be far beyond your ugly . . . ugly what? hands? schemes? Or here, how about, far beyond your murdering base-born hands. I like that better, truly. It has a ring to it.”
The willow sighed in the breeze as if agreeing. Bellyra chewed on her lower lip and considered her plan. It would look splendid, once the Cantrae men broke down the door, if she were lying on her bed, her hair artistically draped across the pillow with a last sneer of defiance on her face. She would have to remember to put on her best dress, the one of purple Bardek silk that her nursemaid had cut from an old banqueting cloth they’d found in another storeroom. The Cantrae king might even shed a tear for her beauty and be sorry he’d been planning to smother her. On the whole, though, judging from what she’d heard about Cantrae lords, she doubted if they’d feel any remorse. Relief, more like, that she’d spared them the job.
Across the garden came a scrape of sound, the door into the broch opening on un-oiled hinges. She went still, her hands freezing on her book.
“Bellyra! Princess!”
The voice belonged to Tieryn Elyc, and through the leaves she could just see him, standing on the edge of the little bridge across the stream. To Bellyra the tieryn always seemed as ancient as the sorcerer of her daydreams, but in truth he was just forty that year, and still as lean and muscled as many a younger man, even though his blond hair was indeed going heavily gray, and fine lines webbed round his blue eyes.
“Bellyra! Come along, I know you’re out here. The cook told me where you’d be.”
With a sour thought for Nerra’s treachery, Bellyra tucked her book into her kirtle and began to climb down. As the tree began to shake he crossed the bridge.
“There you are,” he said with a low laugh. “You’re getting a bit old to climb trees like a lad, aren’t you?”
“Just the opposite, my lord. The older you get the easier it is, because your legs are longer.”
“Ah. I see. Well, you know, you’d best take care, Your Highness, because you’re the only heir Cerrmor has.”
“Oh, come now. No one’s going to let me rule in the female line.”
“The point, Your Highness, is to keep you safe so you can marry the one true king when he reaches Cerrmor.”
“And when, my lord, will that be? When the moon turns into a boat and sails down from the sky with him on it?”
Elyc let out his breath in a little puff and ran both hands through his hair. With something of a sense of shock, Bellyra realized that he was close to tears.
“My apologies, my lord. Oh, here, don’t cry. I truly am sorry.”
Elyc looked up, his eyes murderous—then he laughed.
“I feel as weepy as a wench, true enough, Your Highness. You have sharp eyes for one so young.”
“It comes from living here, actually. You’d have them, too, if you had to grow up in the palace.”
“No doubt. But listen, lass, for lass you are though a royal one, it doesn’t do to tread on men’s hopes when hope is all they have. Remember that.”
“Indeed? Well, how do you think I feel, knowing I’ll probably get smothered before I’m fifteen and even betrothed, much less married to anyone?”
Elyc winced, and for a moment she was afraid that he truly would cry this time.
“Your Highness,” he said at last. “Cerrmor can still field an army of over three thousand loyal men . . . ”
“And Cantrae’s got close to seven thousand. I heard you telling Lord Tammael that.”
“You little sneak! What were you doing, dreeping around the great hall when we thought you were in bed?”
“Just that. It’s my hall, isn’t it, since I’m the heir and all, and so I’ll sneak around in it if I want to.”
All at once he laughed in genuine good cheer.
“You know, Your Highness, at times you truly do have the royal spirit. But listen to me. Once the true king comes, a good thousand of those Cantrae men are ours again. Their lords have gone over to Dun Deverry out of fear and naught else, and they have a hundred years’ worth of reasons to hate the Boars and their false king. Give them hope, and they’ll flock to our banner.”
“Well and good, my lord.” She suddenly remembered that she was supposed to act regally at moments like these, not slang her cadvridoc like a fishwife. “Truly, we have great faith in your understanding of matters military.”
Although it seemed to her that Elyc was suppressing a smile, he did make her a passable bow.
“Now, good regent, did you want me for some reason?”
“Not truly. I was just worried, wondering where you’d got to.” He paused to glance round at the towering rise of stone. “You’re probably safe enough out here.”
“Unless an assassin comes creeping under the walls.”
“Oh, indeed? Has the bard been amusing you with lurid tales?”
“He hasn’t. Look, see where the stream comes out from under the wall over there? Well, that water comes from the dairy room, where they store the cheeses and suchlike. The running water keeps them cool in summer. But it gets into the dairy room through this underground tunnel that leads all the way outside the dun walls to that big stream that goes through the market district down to the river. The tunnel was built in 769 by Glyn the First when the sorcerer was here, the one who posed as a gardener to gain the king’s confidence and . . . ”
“Sorcerer? Don’t prattle about some wretched sorcerer!” He was close to shouting. “I never knew about any cursed tunnel. Ye gods, Your Highness, this is a serious matter!”
“Well, so I thought. That’s what I meant about assassins.”
“We’ll have to brick the tunnel up, or, wait, if things come to a siege, we’ll need the water.”
Muttering about portcullises and blacksmiths, Tieryn Elyc rushed off with barely a bow in her direction. Although Bellyra considered climbing back into her tree, her daydreaming mood was broken. It was also getting late; in a few moments the sun would drop below the circling walls, and the garden turn cold. She crossed the bridge and went inside a tower, climbed up a spiral staircase to a landing, crossed it to another set of stairs, which led down to still another door, which finally got her out to the ward. As she was going to the kitchen hut, she saw two of the scullery boys cleaning a butchered pig. Its liver lay steaming and bleeding on the cobbles.
“Modd, please, slice me off a bit of that liver, will you?”
“For that scraggly cat of yours, Your Highness?”
“She won’t be scraggly when she’s not half-starved. How’s she going to have her kits if she can’t make milk?”
When she gave him one of her most brilliant smiles, he relented, smiling in return, pushing back his forelock with a blood-crusted wrist and glancing round at the littered ward.
“Fetch me those cabbage leaves over there for a wrap,” he said to the younger boy. “And we’ll slice the royal puss up a bit of supper.”
“She is the royal puss now. So there!”
The cat in question lived with her up in her chambers, the old nursery, which took up the floor above the women’s hall. Half the round floor plan was filled by a single big room with a hearth, where she and her brother and younger sister had once had their baths and eaten their meals. Lying by the hearth were a pair of little wooden horses, left there by Caturyc on the night when he’d fallen ill. Somehow no one wanted to pick them up and put them away, even though he’d been dead for years. The other half was divided into small wedge-shaped chambers, one each for the children and one for their old nurse, who had accompanied Gwerna, Bellyra’s eight-year-old sister, when she’d been sent off to an aunt’s in a country dun—for her delicate health, everyone said, but Bellyra knew that they were keeping her safe, as the younger heir, in case Cerrmor was besieged at the end of the spmmer. As Princess of the Blood it was Bellyra’s Wyrd to stay through the siege. She would have to be very brave, she supposed, and keep out of everyone’s way.
Her own chamber held a single bed, a dower chest, one horribly faded tapestry on the wall, and the bottom of a cracked ale barrel that the carpenter had sawn down for her, ostensibly to make a bed for her dolls, but in reality for Melynna, a very pregnant ginger cat, whom Bellyra had found starving in the stables with a paw hurt badly enough to keep her from hunting. By now the paw was healing, and she was sleek again from being fed as many times a day as the princess could beg or steal food for her, but Bellyra hated to give her up, and Melynna certainly saw no reason to leave. As soon as Bellyra put the liver scraps down on the floor she lumbered out of her bed, lined with a torn-up linen shift that the princess had outgrown, and settled in for a good bloody munch.
“How’s your basket of sand? Not too dirty? Good. When your kits are born, we’re going to have trouble hiding them, aren’t we? Well, I’ll think of some clever plan then. I don’t want anybody drowning any of them.”
Melynna looked up, licked a whisker, and purred a throaty thanks.
Just outside the bedchamber, right by a window, was Bellyra’s writing table, with her pot of ink, her stylus, and her pens laid out in a neat row. She laid the book down next to them, then sat on her stool and looked out the window at the main ward and the great iron-bound gates (built in 724 by Glyn the First’s father, Gwerbret Ladoic), which were standing open to reveal the city street beyond. The iron hinges and reinforcements were rusty and pitted—iron did pit, in Cerrmor’s salt air.
“It’s all very well for Elyc to talk of putting in a portcullis,” she said to the cat. “But where, pray tell, are the blacksmiths going to get the metal for it?”
At that precise moment, just like an omen sent by the gods, servants began running toward the gates and shouting in welcome. With an enormous rumble and clatter, ox cart after ox cart pulled into the ward, and from her high perch Bellyra could see that they were loaded to the brim with rough-smelted iron ingots. All round swarmed mounted riders, some mercenary troop, she supposed, hired to guard this precious cargo on its long, slow journey down from the north. She felt her heart pounding as she rose.
“O dear Goddess, do let it be an omen. It would be a splendid one, coming just like that. O dear Goddess, I do want to live to grow up.”
She felt the tears pressing behind her eyes, hot and shameful. With a toss of her head she willed them away and ran for the door and the staircase. She should be in the great hall to welcome the merchants who’d brought her this treasure, she decided, be there and smile upon them and show them her favor, so they’d feel well rewarded beyond the coin her chamberlain would pay over.
By the time she reached the great hall, Tieryn Elyc, Lord Tarnmael the chamberlain, the seneschal, and the two stewards were already standing round the table of honor, up on the dais, with three merchants in checked brigga, two quite young, the other very old indeed, with a mop of thick white hair and a face as lined as an old burlap sack. Since everyone was arguing about paying for the iron no one noticed her make her entrance. Down on the floor of the hall servants rushed frantically round, trying to assemble enough ale tankards for the mercenary troop as the men strode in, laughing and talking, each with a dagger hilt made of silver gleaming at his belt. Bellyra hovered uncertainly behind Tieryn Elyc and waited for a chance to deliver her speech of thanks until, at last, the old merchant happened to look her way.
“Ah, the Princess of the Blood, no doubt,” he said with an amazingly deep and agile bow. “I do have the honor of addressing Bellyra of Cerrmor, do I not?”
“You do, good sir.” Bellyra drew herself up to full height and held out her hand for him to kiss. “You have our royal thanks for the risk you’ve run to bring us this black iron more precious than shining gold.”
“Your Highness is welcome from the bottom of my heart.”
Bellyra was annoyed to see Elyc smiling again, but the old man didn’t seem to notice.
“And your name, good sir?”
“My name, Your Highness, contains a jest, but it’s a name nonetheless. It’s Nevyn.”
“Just like the sorcerer!” She blushed, hating herself for blurting like a child. “I mean, I’ve read of a sorcerer faith that name.”
Elyc was downright laughing at her by then, and she decided she hated him, too, loyal regent or not.
“You’ll forgive the princess, good sir.” He stepped forward to take command of the situation. “She’s a bit young for her position, truly, and—”
“Too young? Oh, she’s not that, Your Grace, but unusually attentive to her lessons, I’d say. I’ve read the same book myself, I’ll wager, because there was indeed a sorcerer named Nevyn who once lived in this very city—or so I heard.” He gave Bellyra a conspiratorial wink. “Perhaps that’s why my mother gave me that name, Your Highness, because it was famous in its own small way.”
Elyc arranged a polite smile. Nevyn bowed and made room for the two young merchants to continue their earnest talk of due recompense. Bellyra could only hope that the treasury held enough silver to pay them; she rather doubted it. By then the royal warband was piling into the hall to see what all the excitement was about. Even though it was early in the spring, some of the lords faithful to Cerrmor had already brought their warbands to court, and they too appeared, the noble-born sitting down at tables on the dais, their men finding places on the lower level. Bellyra collared a couple of pages and told them to run tell Cook to get some sort of refreshments for the noble-born and to find the cellarer and fetch another barrel of ale for the warbands. As they trotted off she noticed that Elyc had left the discussion about payment to the chamberlain and wandered over to the edge of the dais. He seemed to be staring at one of the mercenaries sitting below. All at once he laughed and jumped down from the dais.
“Caradoc! It is you, by every god and his wife!”
Grinning in a stunned kind of delight, a man was working his way through the tables, a tall man with blond hair heavily laced with gray and hard blue eyes. Although he was filthy and unshaven from the road, he moved with such a natural dignity that Bellyra wasn’t even surprised when Elyc threw his arms around him and hugged him like a brother. For the second time that day she saw the tieryn close to tears.
“You remember me, Your Grace?” Caradoc said.
“Don’t talk like a blathering lackwit! Do I remember you? Would I ever forget you? O dear gods, you’ve given me one happy day at least in the midst of this cursed mess!” Elyc paused to look over the scruffy pack of mercenaries, who had fallen silent to watch all this with understandable interest. “These are your men, are they?”
“What makes you think I’d be the captain?”
“Knowing you so well, that’s what. Come up on the dais with me. We’ll have mead to celebrate this, we will.” Then he turned and found Bellyra hovering nearby. “Well, if her highness would allow?”
“Of course, Lord Regent, provided you tell me who your friend is.”
“A fair bargain, Your Highness. May I present my foster brother, Caradoc of Cerrmor, who was forced into exile by an act of honor and naught more.”
“That’s a fancy way of putting it, Elyc, but you always were a slick one with your words.” The mercenary bowed to her. “Your Highness, I’m honored to be in your presence.”
“My thanks, Captain. You and your men are more than welcome, but I don’t know if we’ve got the coin to pay you what you usually get for fighting for someone.”
“Bellyra! I mean, Your Highness!” Elyc snapped. “If you’d leave such things to me . . . ”
“Ah, why should she?” Caradoc said with a grin. “It’s her kingdom, isn’t it? Your Highness, I’d be honored to fight in your cause for the maintaining of me and my men and naught more.”
Bellyra decided that she liked him immensely.
“Done, then, Captain. No doubt you and your foster brother have much to confer about, and I shall leave matters of war to you.”
Then she turned on her heel and marched off before Elyc could slight her again, only to run straight into the elderly merchant, who’d apparently been standing close by.
“My apologies!” she gasped. “Oh, I can’t do anything properly today!”
“I think, Your Highness, that you’re doing a great many things properly, and besides, you didn’t knock me down or suchlike.”
“My thanks, good sir. Everyone’s always tilling me I’m doing things wrong, but they never tell what I should do. Oh, it’s so beastly, knowing everyone only wants you for your womb!”
She blushed, shocked that she could be so coarse in front of someone she’d just met, but Nevyn smiled and patted her on the shoulder.
“It must be, indeed, but your life does have a great deal more to offer. You’ve just got to learn how to find it. Come sit at the table of honor—not way down there! Take your rightful place at the regent’s right hand.” Nevyn pulled out a chair for her, then sat down at her left without waiting to be asked.
When Bellyra shot a nervous glance Elyc’s way, she found him scowling at her, but with Nevyn for support she scowled right back and motioned him over with a wave of her hand.
“Your foster brother is welcome to sit at our table, at your left hand, even, if you so choose.”
“My thanks, Your Highness.” Somewhat unwillingly, Elyc obeyed her indirect order and came over to sit down with Caradoc following along. “May I order drink for me and my guest?”
Bellyra ignored the sarcasm, nodded her approval, then turned pointedly to speak to Nevyn. The noise in the great hall picked up in a buzz of whispers and speculation at the princess’s rare appearance among important men.
“You said you read about this sorcerer in a book, Your Highness?” Nevyn said. “May I inquire as to which one?”
“It was just a record book of sorts that I found up in one of the towers. There’s bales and bales of stuff crammed into the upper rooms, you see. Actually this was a codex, not a true book. The head scribe told me the difference, and he says it’s very important. But anyway, someone—it never does give his name—wrote the history of Dun Cerrmor, when everything was built, and who lived here, and sometimes he even puts in what they spent on a feast or suchlike. And whenever he talks about the years from 760 to 790, he mentions the great sorcerer named Nevyn, who planted the old willow tree we’ve got in the inner garden and who ended up advising the king.”
“Ah, I see. Well, by all accounts my grandfather was an amazing man, but I doubt me very much if he was a sorcerer. For a man to rise from gardener to councillor is very, very rare, Your Highness, and I imagine it must have looked like sorcery to some.”
“Oh.” Bellyra was bitterly disappointed. “No doubt you’re right, good sir, but I had so hoped he was a real sorcerer! But still, it’s rather splendid to get to meet his grandson after reading about him and all. I take it your family became merchants with the inheritance he left?”
“In a way, truly. I used to deal in herbals and medicinals, but the times are grave enough for me to lay aside my old trade and do what I can for the true king.”
“Well, iron is the best medicinal for the army, sure enough. Do you really believe the true king will ever come?”
“I do, and with all my heart, Your Highness, I believe it will be very soon.”
“I hope so. We can’t go on like this much longer. I’m going to have to marry him, you know. I hope he won’t be too ugly, or old like Tieryn Elyc, but it doesn’t truly matter. Cook says that all cats are gray in the dark.”
“I take it you and your mother will have no objections to such a match.”
“My poor mother! The only thing she ever objects to anymore is her wine jug running empty. And as for me, well, if he really is the one true king of all Deverry, I’d be awfully stupid to turn him down, wouldn’t I? I don’t want to molder here the rest of my life.”
“Your Highness has a very direct and refreshing way of expressing herself, and I think, if I may speak so boldly, that you’re going to make an excellent queen.”
“My thanks, good sir. You’re the only one who seems to think so.” With a sigh she rested her chin on one hand and looked away out to the floor of the hall, where the men were drinking and laughing over their perennial dice games. “But then, we’ve got a lot in common. You’re named ‘no one,’ and I was never properly born.”
“What, Your Highness?”
“I was born on Samaen—just after sunset, the worst time of all. The midwife sat on my mother’s legs to try to stop me coming so soon, and when that didn’t work she tried to shove me back in, but my mother hurt so bad that she made her stop shoving. So the midwife ran screaming out of the chamber and my mother’s serving women had to deliver me. They had all sorts of priests in and everything to bless me straightaway so the Wildfolk or the dead spirits couldn’t get me. I don’t remember any of that, of course. They told me when I was older.”
“That’s an amazing tale! But you know, children are born on Samaen every now and then. Most of them are quite ordinary, too.”
“I’ve always felt quite ordinary, actually.” She pinched her wrist. “Rather solid, don’t you think?”
“It looks that way to me, Your Highness.”
By then the pages and serving lasses were bringing round baskets of bread and plates of cold meats and cheeses along with goblets of mead for the noble-born and ale for their men, including, of course, the mercenaries who belonged to Elyc’s foster brother. Bellyra took a slice of ham and nibbled on it while she considered the regent and the captain, who were discussing old times with a deliberate intensity, as if they were trying to keep the present moment far away. Every now and then one of them would hit the other on the shoulder or arm, which she took as meaning they truly loved each other. Nevyn coughed politely to regain her attention.
“Have there been many omens of the coming of the true king, Your Highness?”
“There have indeed, good sir. Let’s see, Elyc talks about them all the time, so I should be able to remember them. First of all, he’s supposed to come before the last full moon before Beltane, which means he’d better get here soon, because that’s tomorrow night. And then he’s supposed to be from the west, but not from Eldidd. And then there’s lots of stuff about stallions running before him or bearing him, which I think is truly odd, because no one rides a stallion as a battle horse. He’s supposed to come in an army that’s not an army, be a man but not a man—”
“Uh, excuse me?”
“Odd, isn’t it? I mean, either you’re a man or you’re a woman, and there’s not a lot in between, is there? But omens are that way sometimes. Let’s see, what else? Some say he’ll come as practically a beggar to his own gates, which I guess means Dun Cerrmor . . . ” She paused, struck all at once by a number of odd things. “Here! They say no one will be his herald.”
“Do they indeed?”
“They do, at that. And a mercenary troop is an army that isn’t an army, and that full moon is tomorrow night, isn’t it?” She looked out over the hall, found herself staring at each mercenary in turn as her heart started to pound. She knew that Nevyn was smiling, but she was afraid to look at the old man for fear he’d break her hopes again. “A man that isn’t a man? What about someone who’s still a lad but who rides with the men and fights like one. He doesn’t even have a beard yet, does he?”
“Who, Your Highness?”
“That blond lad over there at the last table, the one who’s sitting next to that great big tall fellow with the scar on his face and not talking to anyone. Do you know his name?”
“The tall fellow’s?”
“I don’t mean him. Don’t tease, Nevyn. Who’s that lad?”
“His name is Maryn. It’s a common name in Pyrdon, where he’s from.”
“The Pyrdon blazon’s a stallion.”
“It is, truly.”
Her heart was pounding so badly that she felt it might thud into her mouth and keep her from speaking.
“What made you pick out that lad?” the old man said, and his voice had dropped to a whisper.
“I don’t know. Or, you know, I think he’s been looking at me.”
“He has, truly. Her highness is a very beautiful lass.”
“Oh, don’t flatter! I know I’m plain.”
“You’re not plain in the least. I can see that until perhaps a year ago you were all long legs and stumbles, and your face must have been too thin and pinched—but that, Your Highness, was a year ago. We shall have to get you a proper mirror.”
“I can’t have one, but I’ll make a wish that you’re telling me the truth.”
“Well, you know, there are times when wishes are granted.” He paused impressively, “And times when they’re not.”
“Oh, you’re only teasing me and naught more!”
“Wait, child. Wait and be patient for just a little while longer. I can’t promise you that everything will be well and wonderful for ever and ever, but things are going to take a turn for the better and soon.”
She hesitated, wondering why she trusted him so instinctively, but in truth, she’d simply never met anyone before who’d been kind to her.
“Well and good, then, Nevyn. And frankly, it’d be enough to know that things aren’t going to get worse.”
At a little cough at her shoulder she turned to find young Emryc, just twelve that summer and the head page. A copper-headed lad with squinty green eyes, he always looked down his nose at her as if he pitied her, and there were times when she daydreamed about having him beaten.
“Cook wants to know if we should start laying on the meal.”
“Listen, lad.” Nevyn leaned forward to intervene. “You should always add an honorific the first time you address royalty, and you should do it regularly after that, too.”
“And just who are you, old man?”

Nevyn caught his glance and held it, stared at him and stared him down with his ice-blue eyes.
“My apologies, good sir,” Emryc stammered. “My apologies, Your Highness,”
“You’re forgiven—well, for this time, anyway,” Bellyra said. “And by all means, we’ve got a hall full of men so we’d best feed them. Oh, and tell Lord Tanimael it’s time to light the torches.”
Emryc hurried off so fast that Bellyra found herself wondering if perhaps Nevyn’s grandfather had been a sorcerer after all, and if the grandson had inherited a bit of his talent. The old man hardly looked magical at the moment; he was eating cheese and sipping ale, and yawning every now and then, too.
“It is getting dark in here, Your Highness,” he remarked. “Must be nearly sunset outside.”
“So I’d think, truly.”
“Good.”
“Is somewhat going to happen at sunset?”
“Wait, Your Highness. That’s all I can say.”
She had no choice but to do just that, wait and watch in an agony of impatience, as Lord Tanimael made his slow round of the great hall, lighting the rush torches in their sconces and ordering the servants to push aside the chunks of sod in the hearth and mend up the fires that had been smoldering underneath all the warm day. When the light flared up, sending long shadows like spears across the hall, the warbands fell oddly silent, and Caradoc broke off his conversation with Tieryn Elyc to turn in his chair and look at Nevyn. The old man merely smiled, as bland as bland, and helped himself to more cheese.
“Do you bar the dun gates at sunset, Your Highness?”
“We don’t, not till the midnight watch, because some of the townsfolk work in the dun and don’t leave till late.”
“Ah. Very good.”
The torches suddenly seemed to burn brighter. Although there wasn’t a trace of a breeze in the great hall, they flared up, and flames rose straight and steady with only the barest traces of smoke. Distantly, from somewhere out in the ward, she heard voices—no, it was chanting, and the sound of a soft drum. All at once bronze horns shrieked and blared.
“Priests!” Elyc whispered. “What by every demon in hell is happening out there?”
Before he could get up to see, the huge carved doors into the hall were flung open. The horns rasped out another shriek; the drums pounded; the chanting swelled. Walking four abreast the priests of Bel came marching into the hall, so many that Bellyra could only assume that every temple from miles around had assembled there in Cerrmor. They were shaven-headed and dressed in the long plain linen tunics of their calling, and round every neck was a solid gold torc, and at every waist glittered a golden sickle. In a long line they maneuvered their way through the crowded hall in time to the pounding drums and the long wailing chants from the Dawntime. At their head was Nicedd, the ancient leader of the temple, so old that he rarely walked abroad anymore, but that night he stepped as firmly as a young man up to the dais. Shaking a little, Tieryn Elyc rose to confront him.
“Your Holiness! Why are we honored this way?”
“Save your words, Regent! Where is the one true King?”
“What, Your Holiness? I don’t know—I only wish I did—but I don’t know.”
“You lie! All the omens say that at this moment the one true king of all Deverry dwells within this dun. Where is he?”
The horns shrieked once; the drums fell silent. Every man in the great hall turned to stare at Elyc as if accusing him of the worst treason. The regent could only stare back, bewildered and terrified both.
“Bel has spoken this very day. Bel has given us omens. Bel has blessed us with true speaking.”
“Blessed be the name of the Holy One,” murmured the priests behind him. “Blessed be the Light of the Sky.”
“When the Lawgiver speaks, all men and in truth all women too must listen. The one true king is within these walls, Regent.”
Elyc tried to speak but failed miserably, and sweat was beading his forehead. Bellyra found herself considering her detailed knowledge of the dun; surely if the king was being held prisoner in some hidden chamber, she’d be the one to puzzle it out. Then she realized that during this mind-gripping ceremony Nevyn had slipped away from the table, and for the second time that evening, her heart started thudding in her throat. As Nicedd climbed up the three steps to the dais, the gold sickle swinging at his belt like a weapon, Elyc sank to his knees.
“Where is the one true king of all Deverry?” The priest turned on his heel to face the crowd. “He sits among you! Do you know him not?”
At the back of the hall Maryn stood up, a simple gesture, just a very young man standing up and tossing aside a dirty, torn cloak, but at that moment every person in the hall, noble lord and serving wench alike, caught their breath with an audible gasp. It seemed that the sun had returned to shine on him, just for a moment before it hurried about its business in the Otherlands; it seemed that a summer wind sprang up to breathe upon him, ruffling his golden hair and filling the smoky hall with the scent of roses; it seemed that the very air around him came alive, as if his simple presence were enough to fill the great hall with as much snap and power as a summer thunderstorm.
“Who calls for the king?” His voice rang out firm and clear.
“I do.” Slowly and carefully Nicedd knelt beside Elyc. “Your Highness.”
The crackling of the fires in the hearth seemed louder than thunder as the one true king of all Deverry strode the long way from the back of the hall and up the steps to the dais. Bellyra could neither cheer nor move nor even think clearly. Like a priestly chant words ran through her mind of their own accord: this is my husband, why didn’t I comb my hair? When Maryn reached the dais, he stopped in front of Elyc and smiled at him with a boyish innocence that was like a flash of light.
“Am I welcome here, Regent?”
“My liege.” Elyc tried to say more, but he was crying too hard. “O my holy liege.”
Maryn bent down, caught the tieryn’s hands in his, and raised him to his feet. At that the warbands could stand it no longer. They cheered and called his name and howled war cries; they stood and climbed on benches and tables; they began to stamp their feet while they cheered and screamed the more. Maryn smiled that same bewitching smile at them all, then flung up one hand for silence. As if they’d been rehearsed, every person in the hall stopped shouting. All at once Bellyra was afraid of him, this beautiful boy who seemed half a sorcerer himself, that he should ride in so suddenly and conquer them all without even unsheathing his sword.
“Men,” Maryn was saying. “For this day I was born. For this day we were all born. This is the beginning. Some fine day there’ll be a true king on the throne in Dun Deverry, and all the kingdom will be at peace. For the kingdom’s sake far more than mine, let’s every one of us pray that day will come soon.”
When the cheers broke out again, a near-demented howling, Bellyra’s fear turned to blind panic. No one noticed as she left the table and made her way through the shadows on the dais and slipped out the little door that led to a corridor. She stood in the darkness for a moment and felt the walls around her trembling from the cheers as if the very dun were in ecstasy at the coming of the king. Then she bolted, running down the corridor and up the stairs at the far end, round and round, up and up, until at last she could plunge panting into the safety of the nursery and her silence.
Out of habit some servant had lit the candles in the wall sconces and laid her childlike supper out on her writing desk: a bowl of bread and milk, another of dried apples soaked in watered wine and honey. Bellyra took the bread and milk to Melynna, then sat on the floor nearby and watched her eat. The cat’s sides bulged, and she stood all spraddle-legged to lap her meal.
“You know what, Melynna? The king’s here. His name’s Maryn.”
She actually looked up, licking her whiskers briefly, before she went back to work on the milk.
“Soon I’ll be married, I suppose. And then one day I’ll look like you do now. I’ll only have one kit at a time, though. I’ll bet men would like it if women could have litters like you do. They’d know straightaway how many heirs they’d have.”
All at once she realized that she was crying. Even as she sobbed, she wondered at herself, that she would weep. Maryn was handsome, young, awe-inspiring, far more wonderful than she had any right to expect—she had never allowed herself to hope for so much, even to dream of so much in her husband. He’ll never love someone like me, she thought, that’s why I’m crying.
“Your Highness!” It was Nevyn’s voice, soft and sympathetic, from the doorway. “What’s so wrong?”
“He’ll never love me, but he’ll have to marry me anyway.”
Although the room was all swimmy from her tears she could see the honest pity on the old man’s face as he walked over, hesitated, then sat down next to her on the floor. Melynna looked up and went tense; normally she ran from everyone but Bellyra, but when Nevyn held out his hand, she sniffed his fingers, considered for a moment, then went back to slurping up the milk. Nevyn pulled an old rag out of his brigga pocket and handed it to Bellyra as solemnly as a courtier would hand over a square of fine linen. She blew her nose, wiped her face, and still felt completely miserable.
“Your Highness, Maryn is never going to love any woman, but he’ll grow fond of you. I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart, but that’s the way it will be. His one true love will always be the land and people of Deverry. I raised him, you see, so I know.”
“You raised him?”
“I was his tutor from the time he was a child.”
“Are you a sorcerer? Don’t you put me off this time!”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am.”
“That’s somewhat to the good, at least. I did so hope you were.”
“I’ll ask you, though, to keep the secret to yourself.”
Much to her relief, Nevyn restrained himself from lecturing further. Unlike every other adult she’d ever known, he didn’t wag his finger and tell her she should be grateful that the Goddess had chosen her for such a splendid Wyrd, or point out that most women would be glad to have any husband at all, much less a handsome one. He merely got up and stood looking round the nursery with a slight frown.
“Why don’t you live down in the women’s hall? You’re certainly old enough.”
“My poor mother is very ill. Or, well, to tell you the truth, she drinks Bardek wine all day, and then she weeps and throws herself from side to side and keens for my father, and then she starts in mourning my elder brother, and everyone says it’s worse for her to have me there, because it bothers her that I lived when he didn’t.”
“Maybe I can cure her, once things settle down a bit. But I’ve brought jewels from Pyrdon to use as your dower-gift, and I think we’d best turn some into cold coin and outfit you a set of chambers of your own, splendid ones befitting your rank. Lyrra—may I call you Lyrra?”
“I’d be honored, Nevyn.” She got up and curtsied, pleased when he bowed in return.
“Lyrra, your life will offer compensations, as I say, and there’s no reason in the world that you shouldn’t have them. For the first one, we’ll get you out of this dismal nursery. Now, do you have any fancy clothes?”
“Lots, actually, but they’re all on the shabby side.”
“No doubt. Well, I know naught about such matters myself, but doubtless you’ll know what you want once you’ve got the coin for fine cloth and all. Oh, and don’t forget, now that you’re going to be queen, you’ll get to pick serving women of your own.”
“Can I ask anyone I want?”
“Just that, and I’ll wager they’re all going to jump at the chance to live at court.”
“Then Elyssa could come! That’s Elyc’s daughter from his first wife, you see, and she’s my best and only friend. When it looked for a while like I’d have to marry him, the only good thing was she’d get to be my stepdaughter, which would have been truly odd, because she’s fifteen. But anyway, after she’s here, she can help me with clothes and furniture.”
“It gladdens my heart that at least you won’t be marrying Elyc, good man though he is in his way. Now, put on your best dress, and comb your hair down like a lady’s. You can’t wear it in a braid anymore. I’ve come to fetch you back to the great hall. Since the priests are here, Nicedd wants to solemnize your betrothal this very night.”
“Are we to marry soon? I’ll wager they all want me to get started on producing the beastly heirs.”
“Considering your age, they may have to wait a bit, which will serve them right. But Maryn’s going to have to go on campaign this summer. We’ve got to get you two married and him solemnized as king before Beltane.”
While Bellyra changed into her purple dress and arranged her kirtle to hide the gravy stains from its previous incarnation as a banqueting cloth, Nevyn wandered off and found a serving lass to press into service as a lady’s maid to do her hair. Since she had no mirror, Bellyra had to accept their word for it that she looked both lovely and years older with her hair combed down and clasped at the nape of her neck.
“Why don’t you have a proper mirror, anyway?” Nevyn said.
“I’m not supposed to look into them. Since I was born on Samaen everyone’s afraid that if I look into a mirror, I won’t have any reflection at all, or maybe even I’ll see a fiend looking back at me or some such thing.”
“O ye gods! What utter nonsense!” He turned to the servant. “Here, lass, you run down to the dowager’s hall and get a mirror. Now don’t you argue with me! No doubt the dowager’s fallen into a drunken sleep, and she’ll never even know.”
Even though she crossed her fingers to ward off witchcraft first, the lass did follow his orders, returning in a few minutes with a hand mirror of polished bronze glazed in Bardek silver. It took Bellyra a few minutes more, though, to overcome her fear and look. Although she knew she wasn’t a fiend, she truly was afraid that she’d see nothing at all. Instead she found a remarkably pretty lass with wavy blond hair and big green eyes staring back with her delicate lips half-parted in surprise.
“Is that truly me?”
“It is.” Nevyn got behind her and looked over her shoulder. “The reflection I see looks just like the princess I see.”
Only then could she believe him.
As they came down the stairs she could hear a happy uproar, loud talk and louder laughter, from the great hall. At the little door she froze. If Nevyn hadn’t been right behind her, she would have turned and bolted again.
“Come now, child, you know you’ve got the strength for this. When the priest asks you if you’ll take him as your betrothed, all you have to do is say I will and let him kiss you—Maryn, I mean, not the priest. Kissing Nicedd would give me pause, too.”
Bellyra managed a giggle, but only just.
When they walked out together onto the dais, men gasped and turned to stare. Everywhere she heard whispers: Is that the princess? Has to be, couldn’t be, why here we never noticed how beautiful she is. She would never forget that moment; no matter what happened later in her life, she would always be able to pull it out of her mind like a jewel out of a treasure chest, the moment when she stepped through the little door into her womanhood, and the entire great hall fell silent to watch.
Maryn was sitting at the head of the table of honor, and some servant or other had found a cloak in the red, silver, and black plaid of Cerrmor to drape his chair, and a shirt embroidered with the ship blazon of Cerrmor for him to wear, so that when he rose to greet her he was already the king in the eyes of every man there. He bowed, caught her hand and kissed it, and smiled at her in a way that set her hand shaking in his.
“My lady,” he whispered. “I’m lucky as well as honored that you’re the Princess of the Blood.” And then he winked at her, as cheeky as a page.
For an answer she could only smile, the blood hot in her face, and she felt as if she were falling from the highest tower in all of Dun Cerrmor, falling and falling, down and down into the little garden at its heart, falling toward yet never reaching the safety of the old willow and the tiny stream. He had conquered her, ridden in and captured her as well as the men without ever unsheathing his sword, and made her his prisoner for life. Although she was too young to see it at the time, only a few years later she realized that her Wyrd had given her an obsessive love that most women would have called a great treasure, but some, the wise ones, a cancer growing in her heart.

With the summer’s battle season coming on, the priests lost no time in marrying the royal couple and investing Maryn as king. For a solid week both the dun and the entire city were given over to splendid festivities: mock combats, feasts, bardic competitions, guild parades, more feasts, regattas out on the harbor and dancing in the city squares. Wherever the new king went, the silver daggers went, too, as his personal guard of honor, all decked out in ship-blazoned shirts and red cloaks as a mark of their sudden status. Since the king had to attend every festivity, even if he could only stay for a little while, the troop sailed through those warm spring days on a drunken tide of laughter. Through the lot of them Maddyn wandered like a haunt, never smiling, talking only rarely, occasionally snarling at Branoic, who followed him everywhere, and then just as suddenly apologizing again. Yet even in his grief-shot rage he saw himself clearly, knew that part of his pain was the simple and certain knowledge that in time the pain would disappear, the mourning be over, and Aethan become only a memory kept alive by the death-song his friend the bard had made about him. In odd moments, when he could snatch a little peace from the celebrating, he would work on the gorchan and even at times get a word of advice or encouragement from one of the royal bards, who seemed to find his efforts at formal poetry touching in a childlike way.
Just after dawn one morning, before either the king or Branoic was up and around, he slipped off by himself to a hidden corner of the ward and sat down on a pile of old burlap sacks to tune his harp. He worked mechanically, humming out the intervals and tuning up the strings without consciously hearing himself, because he was thinking of al the times he’d done this job when Aethan was sitting nearby teasing him about how slow he was, or how sour the harp sounded, or other little jokes that somehow never rankled. All at once he was aware of being watched and looked up to find the queen herself standing nearby. She was barefoot, wearing a shabby pair of blue dresses, with her uncombed hair streaming over her shoulders, and she was carrying a bowl of milk.
“Your Highness! My apologies! I didn’t see you.”
“Don’t get up and bow and all that. I just crept out to get a bit of milk for my cat. She had four kits in the last watch of the night.”
“Well, my congratulations to her, then, but, Your Highness, you should have let a servant—”
“Oh, I suppose you’re right, but truly, I’m not used to all this bowing and scraping, and having people swarm all around me all the time.” She yawned, covering her mouth with her free hand. “Maryn was still asleep when I left. I’d best get back, I suppose. But how come you’re sitting out here to play?”
“I just wanted a private spot, like.”
“Well, come with me, and I’ll show you a nicer one. It’s supposed to be only for the royal family, but Maryn was telling me how much he honors you and Caradoc and Owaen, so you can use it, too.”
Scooping up his harp, Maddyn followed her inside one of the towers, up half a flight of steps, down another, round a corner and through a maze of corridors, into another tower and out again, until at last he recognized that they were in a corridor that would eventually lead to the tower that housed the royal family. She ducked out one last little door, and they were in a garden, planted with roses and an enormous willow tree, all gnarled and drooping with age.
“There.” Bellyra looked around in satisfaction. “If you climb up into that tree, no one can see you, although, of course, if you’re playing, they’ll hear you. I used to come here a lot, but I won’t have time anymore.” She looked briefly sad. “Anyway, you can sit on the bridge if you don’t want to climb the tree, or just on the grass.”
“My humble thanks, Your Highness. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to find it again, though.”
“Oh, ask one of the pages. Tell them I said you could come here. I’d best get this milk to Melynna.”
She trotted off back inside, and Maddyn walked across the bridge and sat down cross-legged by the little stream. In the warm sun, sheltered by the rise of stone all round him, he felt a bit more of his grief ease. Aethan would be proud, he thought, if he knew I’ve gained the queen’s favor. In a solemn crowd many-colored gnomes materialized around him, and his blue sprite appeared to hunker down near his harp and stare up at him.
“Oh, I’ll heal, little one,” he said to her. “But you ease my heart, you truly do, with your concern.”
When she smiled, an honest soft smile instead of her usual malicious grin, for the briefest of moments he thought he saw true feeling in her empty eyes. Then she yawned, showing her needle-sharp teeth, and lay down on her stomach in the grass to listen while he finished tuning the harp and started practicing a few runs and trills. Since he was quiet and alone, Maddyn lost all track of time that morning; he stopped playing only when his stomach protested loudly enough to make itself heard over the music. By then he could see the sun over the high walls around him.
“Ye gods, it must be nearly noon!”
At the alarm in his voice the Wildfolk vanished. He gathered up the harp and went back inside, wondering if he could find his way to the great hall, but as he stood uncertainly at the foot of a staircase, Branoic came pounding down.
“There you are, you slimy little bastard! Where have you been? The whole cursed troop’s hunting for you, and part of Tieryn Elyc’s guard as well.”
“What? What do they want me for? What have I done?”
“Naught, you stupid dolt! We were afraid you’d drowned yourself or suchlike out of grief.”
“Oh, by the Lord of Hell’s black balls! Have I been that bad off?”
“You have, at that.”
Branoic was studying his face with a fierce intensity, as if he were trying to read every clue that might be there, no matter how small, to Maddyn’s heart.
“Ah well,” Maddyn said. “I wouldn’t do anything that foolish, not when the king needs every man he can get. I’ll swear it to you if you like.”
“Your word’ll be enough for me.”
“Done then. You have it.”
As they were walking out to the ward, Maddyn was wondering how much more grief lay ahead of him in the long wars. Branoic, Caradoc, even sullen Owaen in his own arrogant way—they all meant far too much to him for comfort’s sake. A prudent man would have hardened his heart and sworn that he’d never let himself feel this kind of grief again, but then, Maddyn decided, he’d never been a prudent man, and he was too old to change his ways. Better to lose a friend than never find one, he told himself, truly, much better all round.
In the bright sun they paused for a moment while Branoic yelled at a Cerrmor man to tell everyone he’d found the wretched fool of a bard at last, and Maddyn happened to look up to one of the high towers. When he saw the young queen, leaning out the window and laughing and waving to him, his black hiraedd lifted a little more. At least she’s happy, he told himself, and by every god, we’ll all fight to keep her that way!

Some days after the wedding, Nevyn remembered the lead curse-talisman that he’d found back in Pyrdon and been carrying ever since. Although he hated keeping it, he was quite simply afraid to destroy it, just in case melting or shattering it should work some harm to Maryn by an induced sympathy. Logically, the act of magic that had created the curse should have had no true power, because it fell somewhere between outright superstition and the lowest rank of dark dweomer, yet whenever he held the lead tablet in his hands, he could sense a malevolent power oozing from it like a bad smell. Three times he tried to perform banishings and exorcisms; three times it stayed stubbornly the same. He tried meditating about it and scrying over it, all to no result. Whoever had charged it with evil had worked a spell beyond his powers to remove.
The question was, then, what to do with it. His first thought was simply to bury the thing deep in some out-of-the-way spot in the dun, but since it had been meant to be buried, he would possibly be increasing its power by doing so. If he left it hidden in his chambers, someone might stumble across it or even be actively seeking it. The enemy who had worked the spell was still at large, after all, as either an honest opponent in Cantrae’s court or a traitor here in Cerrmor. Soon Nevyn would be accompanying the king on his ceremonial progress and his first campaign; if he carried the curse charm on his person, what would happen if he were captured and searched? It also occurred to him that if one of Maryn’s friends and allies found him with it, he would have some hard explaining to do. He considered taking it to one of the great temples down in Cerrmor town proper, but priests had been corrupted or temples entered and robbed too many times before for him to consider it safe there. If he threw it in the ocean, its slow dissolution might perhaps work the king harm.
He wondered, too, if he should tell Maryn that the curse existed, but in the end he decided against it. For the rest of that summer, at least, Maryn absolutely had to project a supernatural air of confidence and calm if he were going to repair the shattered morale of his new kingdom. The slightest worry that might have tarnished his golden presence could well mean disaster later. Round and round Nevyn went on the problem until it occurred to him that there was indeed one person in the kingdom who could guarantee its safety, at least for as long as it mattered: the queen. She would never leave Dun Cerrmor until the war was over and Maryn crowned High King in Dun Deverry; if Cerrmor fell and she was captured, that disaster would mean Maryn was dead, all their hopes irrevocably crushed, and the lead tablet quite simply irrelevant.
That very morning he went to Otho the dwarf, the silver daggers’ blacksmith, who had been given a big hut of his own for a forge and living quarters both. Even though he could trust one of the Mountain Folk to keep an oath of silence more than he could ever trust any human being, he told Otho only that he needed a strong casket of dwarven silver to contain something evil without ever mentioning what the vile thing might be. Otho worked night and day for the better part of a week and finally produced, on the evening before king and councillor were to ride out, an amazingly strong and heavy yet stunningly beautiful casket, with double walls, two locking lids, and a secret compartment in the bottom to hide the actual tablet.
“I’ll solder up the compartment, and you put a few spells on it, my lord,” Otho said cheerfully, “and the Lord of Hell himself couldn’t get in or out of it.”
“I believe you. Why, it must weigh close to two stones.”
“Blasted near, blasted near. And I put all that fancy work round the top, just like you asked, so no one will wonder why it’s in a lady’s chamber. I rather fancy the way the roses came out, myself. The ladies do like a nice floral design.”
“I like it myself, actually. Name your price, and I’ll get it for you.”
For a long moment Otho hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again, and from the agonized look on his face he was a man sorely torn and troubled. Finally he sighed as if his heart would break.
“Naught, my lord. Take it as a gift for the one true king arid his grand little queen.”
“Otho! My humble, humble thanks.”
“Hah! I know what you’re thinking. Never thought you’d see the day when I’d do a bit of work for free, did you?” All at once he grinned. “And no more did I.”
That evening Maryn had one last council to hold with his warlords, and Nevyn took that opportunity to visit Bellyra up in the women’s hall, which his great age would allow him to enter. He found her sitting in a high-backed carved chair, with her newly chosen serving women sitting round her and a ginger cat and four kits lying on a green silk cushion nearby, but even in her red silk dress with a queenly brooch pinned to her shoulder, she looked so young and lost that he had grave doubts about his plan. Yet he had no other choice, and when she greeted him, warmly and yet with the right degree of distance between their stations, he could see in her eyes the strong woman she would become.
“Your Highness, I beg a boon—a word alone with you.”
“Of course.” She turned to her women and dismissed them with a gracious wave of one hand. “You may rejoin us in a bit, and we can all have a nice goblet of wine or suchlike.”
Smiling and curtsying, they all withdrew, and he could hear them chattering down the hall on their way to round up a servant to fetch the refreshments. Without waiting to be asked Nevyn sat down next to her and launched into his story, though he did omit telling her about the dismembered baby, just to spare her feelings. As she listened her wide eyes grew even wider, and she became all still attention.
“Will you take this thing and hide it, Your Highness?”
“I will, but I do wish you hadn’t told me what it was. If this casket’s got a secret compartment, you could just have shoved it in and sealed it up.”
“You have to know what you’re guarding, Your Majesty, and besides, never would I leave such an evil thing in someone’s presence without their consent.”
“Well, you’re right, of course. Very well, I shall gush over the casket itself, and be very casual about what I put in it, as if it doesn’t really matter much. And if ever anyone asks me for it, I’ll refuse because to give it away would break poor stunted Otho’s heart.”
“Splendid, Your Highness! The exact right thing to say.”
Yet even as he spoke, he felt a cold line of dread coil round his heart, wondering if he’d just given danger for a gift. Oh, don’t be a dolt, he told himself irritably—the wretched thing can’t have that much power, or you’d know! And sure enough, once it was bound inside the dwarven silver and sealed with his spells, he could no longer sense the slightest trace of evil leaking from either tablet or casket. On the morrow morning he and Otho together presented the casket to the queen, who in a fine show of being ever so surprised and pleased gave the dwarf a kiss, which made him blush and stammer and curse publicly—but from then on, Otho was the queen’s man, heart and soul.
And together at the head of an army, Nevyn and Maryn set out on the long ride that later historians call the Rousing of the River Valley, the summer that would eventually bring lord after lord and warband after warband round to the new king’s side and turn the hope of victory from an impotent dream to a sound gamble. Since he could foresee neither success nor failure that bright morning as they left the towering stone rings of Dun Cerrmor behind, Nevyn could only hope that he’d made the right decisions in more than the matter of the curse-tablet. Although the dweomer and the priesthoods had schemed and plotted and planned for many a long year, the matter was now far beyond their control. With the High King rode not their politicking, but his Wyrd.

The Wmmglaedd copy of the chronicle broke off in the middle of a page. Jill suddenly realized that gray morning light had overwhelmed her candle flame, and that her back was aching and stiff from her long night’s trance. With a grunt of pain she turned from the lectern and found the fire dead in the hearth. Annoying though it was to lose the rest of the story, she didn’t really need it, she supposed, because she could now remember the detail she needed. Otho the dwarf had made the rose ring for the queen to give to Maddyn the bard, years later, just as a token of thanks for some little favor he’d done her. In the closed and cloistered atmosphere of that court, where all the women were as confined and guarded as a treasury, there were those who had chosen to misunderstand the token, just—or so Jill suspected, looking back—to give themselves something to do. Whatever the reason, envy had come of it, and whispering rumor. What came of it she didn’t know, though she could guess that the story had ended badly. In fact, as she thought about it, her ignorance was so complete that she could assume that Branoic had died shortly after the ring was made and given—in some battle, most like.
Those battles were long gone, their stories told by a thousand bards and chroniclers, but their repercussions still echoed, though it was two hundred years and more ago. And what of the other people involved? The young queen, for instance—would in time her soul reappear to add another knot to this puzzle piece? Jill felt that in its own way, the dweomer owed Bellyra a great deal to make up for that ancient tragedy. And what about those women who had helped move the tragedy along? They too had a debt to pay, perhaps, to the rose ring and its bearer. Otho the dwarf, of course, was still alive, though getting on in years even for one of the Mountain People. Did he still have some tie or bond with the ring he’d created so long ago? And then, of course, there was the soul once known as Maddyn—Rhodry of Aberwyn now—who’d been reunited with the rose ring and who wore it still . . . or again. With Nevyn gone, these problems were all hers to solve, these people hers to guard and guide. It was time she set about it.
Yawning and stretching, a servant came into the hut with a bowl of milk and bread and a fresh pitcher of wash water.
“Good morning, my lady. His holiness was wondering, by the bye, how long you were planning on staying with us? He’s in no hurry for you to leave, mind. Just a-wondering.”
“Tell him I’ll be on my way this afternoon. I’ve a long journey ahead of me.”
“Ah. Going to Aberwyn?”
“A bit farther than that. Bardek.”
“Fancy that! A long, long journey indeed! Not going there alone, are you now?”
“I am. I suppose.” She paused, considering. “Well, you know, there does happen to be someone I could ask to go with me, and it might be a good idea, at that. He knows the islands a fair bit better than I do. Hum. I’ll have to think about this.”

---

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2.

The year 843. We discovered that Bellyra, the eldest daughter of Glyn the Second, King in Cerrmor, was born upon the night of Samaen. The High Priest declared it an omen. Just as she was born on the night that lies between two worlds, and thus partook of the nature of both, so she was destined to be the mother of two kingdoms. Yet some within the temple grumbled and said that no good thing could come from such a birth that bridged the worlds of the living and of the dead, because she would belong to the Otherlands and only be a real woman on Samaen itself. She was, or so these impious traitors said, the lass who wasn’t there . . . 

In the very heart of Dun Cerrmor, at the center of all the earthworks and the rings of stone walls and the vast looming circles of joined brochs and towers, lay a garden. Although it was only about thirty yards across, it sported a tiny stream with an equally tiny bridge, a rolling stretch of lawn, some rosebushes, and an ancient willow tree, all gnarled and drooping, that, or so they said, was planted by the ancient sorcerer who once had served King Glyn the First, back at the very beginning of the civil wars. By hiking up her dresses and watching where she put her feet, Bellyra could climb a good way up into this tree and settle into a comfortable fork where the main trunk provided a backrest. In the spring and summer, when the leaves were draped down like the fringe on a Bardek shawl, no one could see her there, and she would often sit for hours, watching the sun glint on the stream and thinking about the history of Dun Cerrmor and her clan, and indeed, at times, about that legendary sorcerer himself.
Some years before she’d found a dusty old codex in a storage room up at the top of a tower. Since her father had insisted that all his children be taught letters, she’d been able to puzzle out the eccentric script and discover that her new treasure was a history of Dun Cerrmor, starting when it was built—some ninety years before the war—and proceeding, year by year, down to 822, when, much to her annoyance, the history broke off in midpage, indeed in midsentence. Over the past few years she’d used the old book as a guide to explore every room in every tower that she was allowed into and, by using a bit of cunning, most of the ones that she wasn’t. With a stolen bottle of ink and reed pens that she made herself, she’d even continued the history, until almost all of the blank pages were full of scraps of information, gleaned from the scribes and the chamberlain, about the more recent additions and remodelings.
No one had ever noticed her poking around. For most of her life, no one had paid much attention to her at all, other than to make sure she was fed, clothed, and put to bed whenever someone remembered that it was growing late. Even her lessons, in reading, singing, needlework, and riding, came at irregular intervals, when some servant or other had time for her. When she was nine, her brother the heir died, and then, for a brief while, she became important—but only until her mother had another baby boy.
She could still remember the wonderful feasts and musical entertainments her father had given to mark the birth of a new heir. She could also remember the lies, the whispers behind his back, and the moaning coming from her mother’s chambers when the truth became inescapable: his second son had been born stone-blind and could never rule as king. Just a year after his birth, the baby disappeared. Bellyra never did learn what had happened to him, and she was still afraid to ask. She had, however, recorded his disappearance in her book with a note speculating that the Wildfolk had taken him away. And now her father was dead, and her mother living on Bardek wine in a darkened bedchamber. There would be no more heirs unless she herself provided them to some man the regent and the court would pick out for her.
On that particular day she held the codex in her lap as she drowsed the afternoon away in the willow tree. She would read a few lines, almost at random, then daydream about how splendid the old days must have been, when her clan was strong and powerful, when its great kings had coffers filled with tribute and its mighty warriors had a chance of winning the civil wars. Now victory seemed profoundly unlikely, even though Cerrmor’s loyal lords all told her that the gods would help them put her on a queen’s throne in Dun Deverry. Every now and then Bellyra would look up through the leaves and consider the top of the tallest tower in the dun, just visible over the main broch. Once, or so her book told her, a hostage prince of Eldidd had languished in that tower for over twenty years. At times she had the awful feeling that she too would languish there, a prisoner for the rest of her life, until she died of old age and the Cerrmor line was dead.
“They might just strangle me, of course,” she remarked to the tree. She often talked to the old willow, for want of anyone else to listen. “You hear about that every now and then, women being strangled or smothered to make sure they never have any babies. I don’t know which would be worse, I truly don’t, being dead or being shut up for ever and ever. The servants all say I belong in the Otherlands, anyway, so maybe it would be better to get smothered and be done with it. Or I could take poison. That would be more romantic somehow. I could write in my book, you see, as the poison was coming on. The noble Princess Bellyra raised the golden cup of sweet death to her lips and laughed a harsh mocking laugh of scorn for the beastly old Cantrae men pounding on her door. Hah hah, you dogs, soon I will be far beyond your ugly . . . ugly what? hands? schemes? Or here, how about, far beyond your murdering base-born hands. I like that better, truly. It has a ring to it.”
The willow sighed in the breeze as if agreeing. Bellyra chewed on her lower lip and considered her plan. It would look splendid, once the Cantrae men broke down the door, if she were lying on her bed, her hair artistically draped across the pillow with a last sneer of defiance on her face. She would have to remember to put on her best dress, the one of purple Bardek silk that her nursemaid had cut from an old banqueting cloth they’d found in another storeroom. The Cantrae king might even shed a tear for her beauty and be sorry he’d been planning to smother her. On the whole, though, judging from what she’d heard about Cantrae lords, she doubted if they’d feel any remorse. Relief, more like, that she’d spared them the job.
Across the garden came a scrape of sound, the door into the broch opening on un-oiled hinges. She went still, her hands freezing on her book.
“Bellyra! Princess!”
The voice belonged to Tieryn Elyc, and through the leaves she could just see him, standing on the edge of the little bridge across the stream. To Bellyra the tieryn always seemed as ancient as the sorcerer of her daydreams, but in truth he was just forty that year, and still as lean and muscled as many a younger man, even though his blond hair was indeed going heavily gray, and fine lines webbed round his blue eyes.
“Bellyra! Come along, I know you’re out here. The cook told me where you’d be.”
With a sour thought for Nerra’s treachery, Bellyra tucked her book into her kirtle and began to climb down. As the tree began to shake he crossed the bridge.
“There you are,” he said with a low laugh. “You’re getting a bit old to climb trees like a lad, aren’t you?”
“Just the opposite, my lord. The older you get the easier it is, because your legs are longer.”
“Ah. I see. Well, you know, you’d best take care, Your Highness, because you’re the only heir Cerrmor has.”
“Oh, come now. No one’s going to let me rule in the female line.”
“The point, Your Highness, is to keep you safe so you can marry the one true king when he reaches Cerrmor.”
“And when, my lord, will that be? When the moon turns into a boat and sails down from the sky with him on it?”
Elyc let out his breath in a little puff and ran both hands through his hair. With something of a sense of shock, Bellyra realized that he was close to tears.
“My apologies, my lord. Oh, here, don’t cry. I truly am sorry.”
Elyc looked up, his eyes murderous—then he laughed.
“I feel as weepy as a wench, true enough, Your Highness. You have sharp eyes for one so young.”
“It comes from living here, actually. You’d have them, too, if you had to grow up in the palace.”
“No doubt. But listen, lass, for lass you are though a royal one, it doesn’t do to tread on men’s hopes when hope is all they have. Remember that.”
“Indeed? Well, how do you think I feel, knowing I’ll probably get smothered before I’m fifteen and even betrothed, much less married to anyone?”
Elyc winced, and for a moment she was afraid that he truly would cry this time.
“Your Highness,” he said at last. “Cerrmor can still field an army of over three thousand loyal men . . . ”
“And Cantrae’s got close to seven thousand. I heard you telling Lord Tammael that.”
“You little sneak! What were you doing, dreeping around the great hall when we thought you were in bed?”
“Just that. It’s my hall, isn’t it, since I’m the heir and all, and so I’ll sneak around in it if I want to.”
All at once he laughed in genuine good cheer.
“You know, Your Highness, at times you truly do have the royal spirit. But listen to me. Once the true king comes, a good thousand of those Cantrae men are ours again. Their lords have gone over to Dun Deverry out of fear and naught else, and they have a hundred years’ worth of reasons to hate the Boars and their false king. Give them hope, and they’ll flock to our banner.”
“Well and good, my lord.” She suddenly remembered that she was supposed to act regally at moments like these, not slang her cadvridoc like a fishwife. “Truly, we have great faith in your understanding of matters military.”
Although it seemed to her that Elyc was suppressing a smile, he did make her a passable bow.
“Now, good regent, did you want me for some reason?”
“Not truly. I was just worried, wondering where you’d got to.” He paused to glance round at the towering rise of stone. “You’re probably safe enough out here.”
“Unless an assassin comes creeping under the walls.”
“Oh, indeed? Has the bard been amusing you with lurid tales?”
“He hasn’t. Look, see where the stream comes out from under the wall over there? Well, that water comes from the dairy room, where they store the cheeses and suchlike. The running water keeps them cool in summer. But it gets into the dairy room through this underground tunnel that leads all the way outside the dun walls to that big stream that goes through the market district down to the river. The tunnel was built in 769 by Glyn the First when the sorcerer was here, the one who posed as a gardener to gain the king’s confidence and . . . ”
“Sorcerer? Don’t prattle about some wretched sorcerer!” He was close to shouting. “I never knew about any cursed tunnel. Ye gods, Your Highness, this is a serious matter!”
“Well, so I thought. That’s what I meant about assassins.”
“We’ll have to brick the tunnel up, or, wait, if things come to a siege, we’ll need the water.”
Muttering about portcullises and blacksmiths, Tieryn Elyc rushed off with barely a bow in her direction. Although Bellyra considered climbing back into her tree, her daydreaming mood was broken. It was also getting late; in a few moments the sun would drop below the circling walls, and the garden turn cold. She crossed the bridge and went inside a tower, climbed up a spiral staircase to a landing, crossed it to another set of stairs, which led down to still another door, which finally got her out to the ward. As she was going to the kitchen hut, she saw two of the scullery boys cleaning a butchered pig. Its liver lay steaming and bleeding on the cobbles.
“Modd, please, slice me off a bit of that liver, will you?”
“For that scraggly cat of yours, Your Highness?”
“She won’t be scraggly when she’s not half-starved. How’s she going to have her kits if she can’t make milk?”
When she gave him one of her most brilliant smiles, he relented, smiling in return, pushing back his forelock with a blood-crusted wrist and glancing round at the littered ward.
“Fetch me those cabbage leaves over there for a wrap,” he said to the younger boy. “And we’ll slice the royal puss up a bit of supper.”
“She is the royal puss now. So there!”
The cat in question lived with her up in her chambers, the old nursery, which took up the floor above the women’s hall. Half the round floor plan was filled by a single big room with a hearth, where she and her brother and younger sister had once had their baths and eaten their meals. Lying by the hearth were a pair of little wooden horses, left there by Caturyc on the night when he’d fallen ill. Somehow no one wanted to pick them up and put them away, even though he’d been dead for years. The other half was divided into small wedge-shaped chambers, one each for the children and one for their old nurse, who had accompanied Gwerna, Bellyra’s eight-year-old sister, when she’d been sent off to an aunt’s in a country dun—for her delicate health, everyone said, but Bellyra knew that they were keeping her safe, as the younger heir, in case Cerrmor was besieged at the end of the spmmer. As Princess of the Blood it was Bellyra’s Wyrd to stay through the siege. She would have to be very brave, she supposed, and keep out of everyone’s way.
Her own chamber held a single bed, a dower chest, one horribly faded tapestry on the wall, and the bottom of a cracked ale barrel that the carpenter had sawn down for her, ostensibly to make a bed for her dolls, but in reality for Melynna, a very pregnant ginger cat, whom Bellyra had found starving in the stables with a paw hurt badly enough to keep her from hunting. By now the paw was healing, and she was sleek again from being fed as many times a day as the princess could beg or steal food for her, but Bellyra hated to give her up, and Melynna certainly saw no reason to leave. As soon as Bellyra put the liver scraps down on the floor she lumbered out of her bed, lined with a torn-up linen shift that the princess had outgrown, and settled in for a good bloody munch.
“How’s your basket of sand? Not too dirty? Good. When your kits are born, we’re going to have trouble hiding them, aren’t we? Well, I’ll think of some clever plan then. I don’t want anybody drowning any of them.”
Melynna looked up, licked a whisker, and purred a throaty thanks.
Just outside the bedchamber, right by a window, was Bellyra’s writing table, with her pot of ink, her stylus, and her pens laid out in a neat row. She laid the book down next to them, then sat on her stool and looked out the window at the main ward and the great iron-bound gates (built in 724 by Glyn the First’s father, Gwerbret Ladoic), which were standing open to reveal the city street beyond. The iron hinges and reinforcements were rusty and pitted—iron did pit, in Cerrmor’s salt air.
“It’s all very well for Elyc to talk of putting in a portcullis,” she said to the cat. “But where, pray tell, are the blacksmiths going to get the metal for it?”
At that precise moment, just like an omen sent by the gods, servants began running toward the gates and shouting in welcome. With an enormous rumble and clatter, ox cart after ox cart pulled into the ward, and from her high perch Bellyra could see that they were loaded to the brim with rough-smelted iron ingots. All round swarmed mounted riders, some mercenary troop, she supposed, hired to guard this precious cargo on its long, slow journey down from the north. She felt her heart pounding as she rose.
“O dear Goddess, do let it be an omen. It would be a splendid one, coming just like that. O dear Goddess, I do want to live to grow up.”
She felt the tears pressing behind her eyes, hot and shameful. With a toss of her head she willed them away and ran for the door and the staircase. She should be in the great hall to welcome the merchants who’d brought her this treasure, she decided, be there and smile upon them and show them her favor, so they’d feel well rewarded beyond the coin her chamberlain would pay over.
By the time she reached the great hall, Tieryn Elyc, Lord Tarnmael the chamberlain, the seneschal, and the two stewards were already standing round the table of honor, up on the dais, with three merchants in checked brigga, two quite young, the other very old indeed, with a mop of thick white hair and a face as lined as an old burlap sack. Since everyone was arguing about paying for the iron no one noticed her make her entrance. Down on the floor of the hall servants rushed frantically round, trying to assemble enough ale tankards for the mercenary troop as the men strode in, laughing and talking, each with a dagger hilt made of silver gleaming at his belt. Bellyra hovered uncertainly behind Tieryn Elyc and waited for a chance to deliver her speech of thanks until, at last, the old merchant happened to look her way.
“Ah, the Princess of the Blood, no doubt,” he said with an amazingly deep and agile bow. “I do have the honor of addressing Bellyra of Cerrmor, do I not?”
“You do, good sir.” Bellyra drew herself up to full height and held out her hand for him to kiss. “You have our royal thanks for the risk you’ve run to bring us this black iron more precious than shining gold.”
“Your Highness is welcome from the bottom of my heart.”
Bellyra was annoyed to see Elyc smiling again, but the old man didn’t seem to notice.
“And your name, good sir?”
“My name, Your Highness, contains a jest, but it’s a name nonetheless. It’s Nevyn.”
“Just like the sorcerer!” She blushed, hating herself for blurting like a child. “I mean, I’ve read of a sorcerer faith that name.”
Elyc was downright laughing at her by then, and she decided she hated him, too, loyal regent or not.
“You’ll forgive the princess, good sir.” He stepped forward to take command of the situation. “She’s a bit young for her position, truly, and—”
“Too young? Oh, she’s not that, Your Grace, but unusually attentive to her lessons, I’d say. I’ve read the same book myself, I’ll wager, because there was indeed a sorcerer named Nevyn who once lived in this very city—or so I heard.” He gave Bellyra a conspiratorial wink. “Perhaps that’s why my mother gave me that name, Your Highness, because it was famous in its own small way.”
Elyc arranged a polite smile. Nevyn bowed and made room for the two young merchants to continue their earnest talk of due recompense. Bellyra could only hope that the treasury held enough silver to pay them; she rather doubted it. By then the royal warband was piling into the hall to see what all the excitement was about. Even though it was early in the spring, some of the lords faithful to Cerrmor had already brought their warbands to court, and they too appeared, the noble-born sitting down at tables on the dais, their men finding places on the lower level. Bellyra collared a couple of pages and told them to run tell Cook to get some sort of refreshments for the noble-born and to find the cellarer and fetch another barrel of ale for the warbands. As they trotted off she noticed that Elyc had left the discussion about payment to the chamberlain and wandered over to the edge of the dais. He seemed to be staring at one of the mercenaries sitting below. All at once he laughed and jumped down from the dais.
“Caradoc! It is you, by every god and his wife!”
Grinning in a stunned kind of delight, a man was working his way through the tables, a tall man with blond hair heavily laced with gray and hard blue eyes. Although he was filthy and unshaven from the road, he moved with such a natural dignity that Bellyra wasn’t even surprised when Elyc threw his arms around him and hugged him like a brother. For the second time that day she saw the tieryn close to tears.
“You remember me, Your Grace?” Caradoc said.
“Don’t talk like a blathering lackwit! Do I remember you? Would I ever forget you? O dear gods, you’ve given me one happy day at least in the midst of this cursed mess!” Elyc paused to look over the scruffy pack of mercenaries, who had fallen silent to watch all this with understandable interest. “These are your men, are they?”
“What makes you think I’d be the captain?”
“Knowing you so well, that’s what. Come up on the dais with me. We’ll have mead to celebrate this, we will.” Then he turned and found Bellyra hovering nearby. “Well, if her highness would allow?”
“Of course, Lord Regent, provided you tell me who your friend is.”
“A fair bargain, Your Highness. May I present my foster brother, Caradoc of Cerrmor, who was forced into exile by an act of honor and naught more.”
“That’s a fancy way of putting it, Elyc, but you always were a slick one with your words.” The mercenary bowed to her. “Your Highness, I’m honored to be in your presence.”
“My thanks, Captain. You and your men are more than welcome, but I don’t know if we’ve got the coin to pay you what you usually get for fighting for someone.”
“Bellyra! I mean, Your Highness!” Elyc snapped. “If you’d leave such things to me . . . ”
“Ah, why should she?” Caradoc said with a grin. “It’s her kingdom, isn’t it? Your Highness, I’d be honored to fight in your cause for the maintaining of me and my men and naught more.”
Bellyra decided that she liked him immensely.
“Done, then, Captain. No doubt you and your foster brother have much to confer about, and I shall leave matters of war to you.”
Then she turned on her heel and marched off before Elyc could slight her again, only to run straight into the elderly merchant, who’d apparently been standing close by.
“My apologies!” she gasped. “Oh, I can’t do anything properly today!”
“I think, Your Highness, that you’re doing a great many things properly, and besides, you didn’t knock me down or suchlike.”
“My thanks, good sir. Everyone’s always tilling me I’m doing things wrong, but they never tell what I should do. Oh, it’s so beastly, knowing everyone only wants you for your womb!”
She blushed, shocked that she could be so coarse in front of someone she’d just met, but Nevyn smiled and patted her on the shoulder.
“It must be, indeed, but your life does have a great deal more to offer. You’ve just got to learn how to find it. Come sit at the table of honor—not way down there! Take your rightful place at the regent’s right hand.” Nevyn pulled out a chair for her, then sat down at her left without waiting to be asked.
When Bellyra shot a nervous glance Elyc’s way, she found him scowling at her, but with Nevyn for support she scowled right back and motioned him over with a wave of her hand.
“Your foster brother is welcome to sit at our table, at your left hand, even, if you so choose.”
“My thanks, Your Highness.” Somewhat unwillingly, Elyc obeyed her indirect order and came over to sit down with Caradoc following along. “May I order drink for me and my guest?”
Bellyra ignored the sarcasm, nodded her approval, then turned pointedly to speak to Nevyn. The noise in the great hall picked up in a buzz of whispers and speculation at the princess’s rare appearance among important men.
“You said you read about this sorcerer in a book, Your Highness?” Nevyn said. “May I inquire as to which one?”
“It was just a record book of sorts that I found up in one of the towers. There’s bales and bales of stuff crammed into the upper rooms, you see. Actually this was a codex, not a true book. The head scribe told me the difference, and he says it’s very important. But anyway, someone—it never does give his name—wrote the history of Dun Cerrmor, when everything was built, and who lived here, and sometimes he even puts in what they spent on a feast or suchlike. And whenever he talks about the years from 760 to 790, he mentions the great sorcerer named Nevyn, who planted the old willow tree we’ve got in the inner garden and who ended up advising the king.”
“Ah, I see. Well, by all accounts my grandfather was an amazing man, but I doubt me very much if he was a sorcerer. For a man to rise from gardener to councillor is very, very rare, Your Highness, and I imagine it must have looked like sorcery to some.”
“Oh.” Bellyra was bitterly disappointed. “No doubt you’re right, good sir, but I had so hoped he was a real sorcerer! But still, it’s rather splendid to get to meet his grandson after reading about him and all. I take it your family became merchants with the inheritance he left?”
“In a way, truly. I used to deal in herbals and medicinals, but the times are grave enough for me to lay aside my old trade and do what I can for the true king.”
“Well, iron is the best medicinal for the army, sure enough. Do you really believe the true king will ever come?”
“I do, and with all my heart, Your Highness, I believe it will be very soon.”
“I hope so. We can’t go on like this much longer. I’m going to have to marry him, you know. I hope he won’t be too ugly, or old like Tieryn Elyc, but it doesn’t truly matter. Cook says that all cats are gray in the dark.”
“I take it you and your mother will have no objections to such a match.”
“My poor mother! The only thing she ever objects to anymore is her wine jug running empty. And as for me, well, if he really is the one true king of all Deverry, I’d be awfully stupid to turn him down, wouldn’t I? I don’t want to molder here the rest of my life.”
“Your Highness has a very direct and refreshing way of expressing herself, and I think, if I may speak so boldly, that you’re going to make an excellent queen.”
“My thanks, good sir. You’re the only one who seems to think so.” With a sigh she rested her chin on one hand and looked away out to the floor of the hall, where the men were drinking and laughing over their perennial dice games. “But then, we’ve got a lot in common. You’re named ‘no one,’ and I was never properly born.”
“What, Your Highness?”
“I was born on Samaen—just after sunset, the worst time of all. The midwife sat on my mother’s legs to try to stop me coming so soon, and when that didn’t work she tried to shove me back in, but my mother hurt so bad that she made her stop shoving. So the midwife ran screaming out of the chamber and my mother’s serving women had to deliver me. They had all sorts of priests in and everything to bless me straightaway so the Wildfolk or the dead spirits couldn’t get me. I don’t remember any of that, of course. They told me when I was older.”
“That’s an amazing tale! But you know, children are born on Samaen every now and then. Most of them are quite ordinary, too.”
“I’ve always felt quite ordinary, actually.” She pinched her wrist. “Rather solid, don’t you think?”
“It looks that way to me, Your Highness.”
By then the pages and serving lasses were bringing round baskets of bread and plates of cold meats and cheeses along with goblets of mead for the noble-born and ale for their men, including, of course, the mercenaries who belonged to Elyc’s foster brother. Bellyra took a slice of ham and nibbled on it while she considered the regent and the captain, who were discussing old times with a deliberate intensity, as if they were trying to keep the present moment far away. Every now and then one of them would hit the other on the shoulder or arm, which she took as meaning they truly loved each other. Nevyn coughed politely to regain her attention.
“Have there been many omens of the coming of the true king, Your Highness?”
“There have indeed, good sir. Let’s see, Elyc talks about them all the time, so I should be able to remember them. First of all, he’s supposed to come before the last full moon before Beltane, which means he’d better get here soon, because that’s tomorrow night. And then he’s supposed to be from the west, but not from Eldidd. And then there’s lots of stuff about stallions running before him or bearing him, which I think is truly odd, because no one rides a stallion as a battle horse. He’s supposed to come in an army that’s not an army, be a man but not a man—”
“Uh, excuse me?”
“Odd, isn’t it? I mean, either you’re a man or you’re a woman, and there’s not a lot in between, is there? But omens are that way sometimes. Let’s see, what else? Some say he’ll come as practically a beggar to his own gates, which I guess means Dun Cerrmor . . . ” She paused, struck all at once by a number of odd things. “Here! They say no one will be his herald.”
“Do they indeed?”
“They do, at that. And a mercenary troop is an army that isn’t an army, and that full moon is tomorrow night, isn’t it?” She looked out over the hall, found herself staring at each mercenary in turn as her heart started to pound. She knew that Nevyn was smiling, but she was afraid to look at the old man for fear he’d break her hopes again. “A man that isn’t a man? What about someone who’s still a lad but who rides with the men and fights like one. He doesn’t even have a beard yet, does he?”
“Who, Your Highness?”
“That blond lad over there at the last table, the one who’s sitting next to that great big tall fellow with the scar on his face and not talking to anyone. Do you know his name?”
“The tall fellow’s?”
“I don’t mean him. Don’t tease, Nevyn. Who’s that lad?”
“His name is Maryn. It’s a common name in Pyrdon, where he’s from.”
“The Pyrdon blazon’s a stallion.”
“It is, truly.”
Her heart was pounding so badly that she felt it might thud into her mouth and keep her from speaking.
“What made you pick out that lad?” the old man said, and his voice had dropped to a whisper.
“I don’t know. Or, you know, I think he’s been looking at me.”
“He has, truly. Her highness is a very beautiful lass.”
“Oh, don’t flatter! I know I’m plain.”
“You’re not plain in the least. I can see that until perhaps a year ago you were all long legs and stumbles, and your face must have been too thin and pinched—but that, Your Highness, was a year ago. We shall have to get you a proper mirror.”
“I can’t have one, but I’ll make a wish that you’re telling me the truth.”
“Well, you know, there are times when wishes are granted.” He paused impressively, “And times when they’re not.”
“Oh, you’re only teasing me and naught more!”
“Wait, child. Wait and be patient for just a little while longer. I can’t promise you that everything will be well and wonderful for ever and ever, but things are going to take a turn for the better and soon.”
She hesitated, wondering why she trusted him so instinctively, but in truth, she’d simply never met anyone before who’d been kind to her.
“Well and good, then, Nevyn. And frankly, it’d be enough to know that things aren’t going to get worse.”
At a little cough at her shoulder she turned to find young Emryc, just twelve that summer and the head page. A copper-headed lad with squinty green eyes, he always looked down his nose at her as if he pitied her, and there were times when she daydreamed about having him beaten.
“Cook wants to know if we should start laying on the meal.”
“Listen, lad.” Nevyn leaned forward to intervene. “You should always add an honorific the first time you address royalty, and you should do it regularly after that, too.”
“And just who are you, old man?”
Nevyn caught his glance and held it, stared at him and stared him down with his ice-blue eyes.
“My apologies, good sir,” Emryc stammered. “My apologies, Your Highness,”
“You’re forgiven—well, for this time, anyway,” Bellyra said. “And by all means, we’ve got a hall full of men so we’d best feed them. Oh, and tell Lord Tanimael it’s time to light the torches.”
Emryc hurried off so fast that Bellyra found herself wondering if perhaps Nevyn’s grandfather had been a sorcerer after all, and if the grandson had inherited a bit of his talent. The old man hardly looked magical at the moment; he was eating cheese and sipping ale, and yawning every now and then, too.
“It is getting dark in here, Your Highness,” he remarked. “Must be nearly sunset outside.”
“So I’d think, truly.”
“Good.”
“Is somewhat going to happen at sunset?”
“Wait, Your Highness. That’s all I can say.”
She had no choice but to do just that, wait and watch in an agony of impatience, as Lord Tanimael made his slow round of the great hall, lighting the rush torches in their sconces and ordering the servants to push aside the chunks of sod in the hearth and mend up the fires that had been smoldering underneath all the warm day. When the light flared up, sending long shadows like spears across the hall, the warbands fell oddly silent, and Caradoc broke off his conversation with Tieryn Elyc to turn in his chair and look at Nevyn. The old man merely smiled, as bland as bland, and helped himself to more cheese.
“Do you bar the dun gates at sunset, Your Highness?”
“We don’t, not till the midnight watch, because some of the townsfolk work in the dun and don’t leave till late.”
“Ah. Very good.”
The torches suddenly seemed to burn brighter. Although there wasn’t a trace of a breeze in the great hall, they flared up, and flames rose straight and steady with only the barest traces of smoke. Distantly, from somewhere out in the ward, she heard voices—no, it was chanting, and the sound of a soft drum. All at once bronze horns shrieked and blared.
“Priests!” Elyc whispered. “What by every demon in hell is happening out there?”
Before he could get up to see, the huge carved doors into the hall were flung open. The horns rasped out another shriek; the drums pounded; the chanting swelled. Walking four abreast the priests of Bel came marching into the hall, so many that Bellyra could only assume that every temple from miles around had assembled there in Cerrmor. They were shaven-headed and dressed in the long plain linen tunics of their calling, and round every neck was a solid gold torc, and at every waist glittered a golden sickle. In a long line they maneuvered their way through the crowded hall in time to the pounding drums and the long wailing chants from the Dawntime. At their head was Nicedd, the ancient leader of the temple, so old that he rarely walked abroad anymore, but that night he stepped as firmly as a young man up to the dais. Shaking a little, Tieryn Elyc rose to confront him.
“Your Holiness! Why are we honored this way?”
“Save your words, Regent! Where is the one true King?”
“What, Your Holiness? I don’t know—I only wish I did—but I don’t know.”
“You lie! All the omens say that at this moment the one true king of all Deverry dwells within this dun. Where is he?”
The horns shrieked once; the drums fell silent. Every man in the great hall turned to stare at Elyc as if accusing him of the worst treason. The regent could only stare back, bewildered and terrified both.
“Bel has spoken this very day. Bel has given us omens. Bel has blessed us with true speaking.”
“Blessed be the name of the Holy One,” murmured the priests behind him. “Blessed be the Light of the Sky.”
“When the Lawgiver speaks, all men and in truth all women too must listen. The one true king is within these walls, Regent.”
Elyc tried to speak but failed miserably, and sweat was beading his forehead. Bellyra found herself considering her detailed knowledge of the dun; surely if the king was being held prisoner in some hidden chamber, she’d be the one to puzzle it out. Then she realized that during this mind-gripping ceremony Nevyn had slipped away from the table, and for the second time that evening, her heart started thudding in her throat. As Nicedd climbed up the three steps to the dais, the gold sickle swinging at his belt like a weapon, Elyc sank to his knees.
“Where is the one true king of all Deverry?” The priest turned on his heel to face the crowd. “He sits among you! Do you know him not?”
At the back of the hall Maryn stood up, a simple gesture, just a very young man standing up and tossing aside a dirty, torn cloak, but at that moment every person in the hall, noble lord and serving wench alike, caught their breath with an audible gasp. It seemed that the sun had returned to shine on him, just for a moment before it hurried about its business in the Otherlands; it seemed that a summer wind sprang up to breathe upon him, ruffling his golden hair and filling the smoky hall with the scent of roses; it seemed that the very air around him came alive, as if his simple presence were enough to fill the great hall with as much snap and power as a summer thunderstorm.
“Who calls for the king?” His voice rang out firm and clear.
“I do.” Slowly and carefully Nicedd knelt beside Elyc. “Your Highness.”
The crackling of the fires in the hearth seemed louder than thunder as the one true king of all Deverry strode the long way from the back of the hall and up the steps to the dais. Bellyra could neither cheer nor move nor even think clearly. Like a priestly chant words ran through her mind of their own accord: this is my husband, why didn’t I comb my hair? When Maryn reached the dais, he stopped in front of Elyc and smiled at him with a boyish innocence that was like a flash of light.
“Am I welcome here, Regent?”
“My liege.” Elyc tried to say more, but he was crying too hard. “O my holy liege.”
Maryn bent down, caught the tieryn’s hands in his, and raised him to his feet. At that the warbands could stand it no longer. They cheered and called his name and howled war cries; they stood and climbed on benches and tables; they began to stamp their feet while they cheered and screamed the more. Maryn smiled that same bewitching smile at them all, then flung up one hand for silence. As if they’d been rehearsed, every person in the hall stopped shouting. All at once Bellyra was afraid of him, this beautiful boy who seemed half a sorcerer himself, that he should ride in so suddenly and conquer them all without even unsheathing his sword.
“Men,” Maryn was saying. “For this day I was born. For this day we were all born. This is the beginning. Some fine day there’ll be a true king on the throne in Dun Deverry, and all the kingdom will be at peace. For the kingdom’s sake far more than mine, let’s every one of us pray that day will come soon.”
When the cheers broke out again, a near-demented howling, Bellyra’s fear turned to blind panic. No one noticed as she left the table and made her way through the shadows on the dais and slipped out the little door that led to a corridor. She stood in the darkness for a moment and felt the walls around her trembling from the cheers as if the very dun were in ecstasy at the coming of the king. Then she bolted, running down the corridor and up the stairs at the far end, round and round, up and up, until at last she could plunge panting into the safety of the nursery and her silence.
Out of habit some servant had lit the candles in the wall sconces and laid her childlike supper out on her writing desk: a bowl of bread and milk, another of dried apples soaked in watered wine and honey. Bellyra took the bread and milk to Melynna, then sat on the floor nearby and watched her eat. The cat’s sides bulged, and she stood all spraddle-legged to lap her meal.
“You know what, Melynna? The king’s here. His name’s Maryn.”
She actually looked up, licking her whiskers briefly, before she went back to work on the milk.
“Soon I’ll be married, I suppose. And then one day I’ll look like you do now. I’ll only have one kit at a time, though. I’ll bet men would like it if women could have litters like you do. They’d know straightaway how many heirs they’d have.”
All at once she realized that she was crying. Even as she sobbed, she wondered at herself, that she would weep. Maryn was handsome, young, awe-inspiring, far more wonderful than she had any right to expect—she had never allowed herself to hope for so much, even to dream of so much in her husband. He’ll never love someone like me, she thought, that’s why I’m crying.
“Your Highness!” It was Nevyn’s voice, soft and sympathetic, from the doorway. “What’s so wrong?”
“He’ll never love me, but he’ll have to marry me anyway.”
Although the room was all swimmy from her tears she could see the honest pity on the old man’s face as he walked over, hesitated, then sat down next to her on the floor. Melynna looked up and went tense; normally she ran from everyone but Bellyra, but when Nevyn held out his hand, she sniffed his fingers, considered for a moment, then went back to slurping up the milk. Nevyn pulled an old rag out of his brigga pocket and handed it to Bellyra as solemnly as a courtier would hand over a square of fine linen. She blew her nose, wiped her face, and still felt completely miserable.
“Your Highness, Maryn is never going to love any woman, but he’ll grow fond of you. I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart, but that’s the way it will be. His one true love will always be the land and people of Deverry. I raised him, you see, so I know.”
“You raised him?”
“I was his tutor from the time he was a child.”
“Are you a sorcerer? Don’t you put me off this time!”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am.”
“That’s somewhat to the good, at least. I did so hope you were.”
“I’ll ask you, though, to keep the secret to yourself.”
Much to her relief, Nevyn restrained himself from lecturing further. Unlike every other adult she’d ever known, he didn’t wag his finger and tell her she should be grateful that the Goddess had chosen her for such a splendid Wyrd, or point out that most women would be glad to have any husband at all, much less a handsome one. He merely got up and stood looking round the nursery with a slight frown.
“Why don’t you live down in the women’s hall? You’re certainly old enough.”
“My poor mother is very ill. Or, well, to tell you the truth, she drinks Bardek wine all day, and then she weeps and throws herself from side to side and keens for my father, and then she starts in mourning my elder brother, and everyone says it’s worse for her to have me there, because it bothers her that I lived when he didn’t.”
“Maybe I can cure her, once things settle down a bit. But I’ve brought jewels from Pyrdon to use as your dower-gift, and I think we’d best turn some into cold coin and outfit you a set of chambers of your own, splendid ones befitting your rank. Lyrra—may I call you Lyrra?”
“I’d be honored, Nevyn.” She got up and curtsied, pleased when he bowed in return.
“Lyrra, your life will offer compensations, as I say, and there’s no reason in the world that you shouldn’t have them. For the first one, we’ll get you out of this dismal nursery. Now, do you have any fancy clothes?”
“Lots, actually, but they’re all on the shabby side.”
“No doubt. Well, I know naught about such matters myself, but doubtless you’ll know what you want once you’ve got the coin for fine cloth and all. Oh, and don’t forget, now that you’re going to be queen, you’ll get to pick serving women of your own.”
“Can I ask anyone I want?”
“Just that, and I’ll wager they’re all going to jump at the chance to live at court.”
“Then Elyssa could come! That’s Elyc’s daughter from his first wife, you see, and she’s my best and only friend. When it looked for a while like I’d have to marry him, the only good thing was she’d get to be my stepdaughter, which would have been truly odd, because she’s fifteen. But anyway, after she’s here, she can help me with clothes and furniture.”
“It gladdens my heart that at least you won’t be marrying Elyc, good man though he is in his way. Now, put on your best dress, and comb your hair down like a lady’s. You can’t wear it in a braid anymore. I’ve come to fetch you back to the great hall. Since the priests are here, Nicedd wants to solemnize your betrothal this very night.”
“Are we to marry soon? I’ll wager they all want me to get started on producing the beastly heirs.”
“Considering your age, they may have to wait a bit, which will serve them right. But Maryn’s going to have to go on campaign this summer. We’ve got to get you two married and him solemnized as king before Beltane.”
While Bellyra changed into her purple dress and arranged her kirtle to hide the gravy stains from its previous incarnation as a banqueting cloth, Nevyn wandered off and found a serving lass to press into service as a lady’s maid to do her hair. Since she had no mirror, Bellyra had to accept their word for it that she looked both lovely and years older with her hair combed down and clasped at the nape of her neck.
“Why don’t you have a proper mirror, anyway?” Nevyn said.
“I’m not supposed to look into them. Since I was born on Samaen everyone’s afraid that if I look into a mirror, I won’t have any reflection at all, or maybe even I’ll see a fiend looking back at me or some such thing.”
“O ye gods! What utter nonsense!” He turned to the servant. “Here, lass, you run down to the dowager’s hall and get a mirror. Now don’t you argue with me! No doubt the dowager’s fallen into a drunken sleep, and she’ll never even know.”
Even though she crossed her fingers to ward off witchcraft first, the lass did follow his orders, returning in a few minutes with a hand mirror of polished bronze glazed in Bardek silver. It took Bellyra a few minutes more, though, to overcome her fear and look. Although she knew she wasn’t a fiend, she truly was afraid that she’d see nothing at all. Instead she found a remarkably pretty lass with wavy blond hair and big green eyes staring back with her delicate lips half-parted in surprise.
“Is that truly me?”
“It is.” Nevyn got behind her and looked over her shoulder. “The reflection I see looks just like the princess I see.”
Only then could she believe him.
As they came down the stairs she could hear a happy uproar, loud talk and louder laughter, from the great hall. At the little door she froze. If Nevyn hadn’t been right behind her, she would have turned and bolted again.
“Come now, child, you know you’ve got the strength for this. When the priest asks you if you’ll take him as your betrothed, all you have to do is say I will and let him kiss you—Maryn, I mean, not the priest. Kissing Nicedd would give me pause, too.”
Bellyra managed a giggle, but only just.
When they walked out together onto the dais, men gasped and turned to stare. Everywhere she heard whispers: Is that the princess? Has to be, couldn’t be, why here we never noticed how beautiful she is. She would never forget that moment; no matter what happened later in her life, she would always be able to pull it out of her mind like a jewel out of a treasure chest, the moment when she stepped through the little door into her womanhood, and the entire great hall fell silent to watch.
Maryn was sitting at the head of the table of honor, and some servant or other had found a cloak in the red, silver, and black plaid of Cerrmor to drape his chair, and a shirt embroidered with the ship blazon of Cerrmor for him to wear, so that when he rose to greet her he was already the king in the eyes of every man there. He bowed, caught her hand and kissed it, and smiled at her in a way that set her hand shaking in his.
“My lady,” he whispered. “I’m lucky as well as honored that you’re the Princess of the Blood.” And then he winked at her, as cheeky as a page.
For an answer she could only smile, the blood hot in her face, and she felt as if she were falling from the highest tower in all of Dun Cerrmor, falling and falling, down and down into the little garden at its heart, falling toward yet never reaching the safety of the old willow and the tiny stream. He had conquered her, ridden in and captured her as well as the men without ever unsheathing his sword, and made her his prisoner for life. Although she was too young to see it at the time, only a few years later she realized that her Wyrd had given her an obsessive love that most women would have called a great treasure, but some, the wise ones, a cancer growing in her heart.

With the summer’s battle season coming on, the priests lost no time in marrying the royal couple and investing Maryn as king. For a solid week both the dun and the entire city were given over to splendid festivities: mock combats, feasts, bardic competitions, guild parades, more feasts, regattas out on the harbor and dancing in the city squares. Wherever the new king went, the silver daggers went, too, as his personal guard of honor, all decked out in ship-blazoned shirts and red cloaks as a mark of their sudden status. Since the king had to attend every festivity, even if he could only stay for a little while, the troop sailed through those warm spring days on a drunken tide of laughter. Through the lot of them Maddyn wandered like a haunt, never smiling, talking only rarely, occasionally snarling at Branoic, who followed him everywhere, and then just as suddenly apologizing again. Yet even in his grief-shot rage he saw himself clearly, knew that part of his pain was the simple and certain knowledge that in time the pain would disappear, the mourning be over, and Aethan become only a memory kept alive by the death-song his friend the bard had made about him. In odd moments, when he could snatch a little peace from the celebrating, he would work on the gorchan and even at times get a word of advice or encouragement from one of the royal bards, who seemed to find his efforts at formal poetry touching in a childlike way.
Just after dawn one morning, before either the king or Branoic was up and around, he slipped off by himself to a hidden corner of the ward and sat down on a pile of old burlap sacks to tune his harp. He worked mechanically, humming out the intervals and tuning up the strings without consciously hearing himself, because he was thinking of al the times he’d done this job when Aethan was sitting nearby teasing him about how slow he was, or how sour the harp sounded, or other little jokes that somehow never rankled. All at once he was aware of being watched and looked up to find the queen herself standing nearby. She was barefoot, wearing a shabby pair of blue dresses, with her uncombed hair streaming over her shoulders, and she was carrying a bowl of milk.
“Your Highness! My apologies! I didn’t see you.”
“Don’t get up and bow and all that. I just crept out to get a bit of milk for my cat. She had four kits in the last watch of the night.”
“Well, my congratulations to her, then, but, Your Highness, you should have let a servant—”
“Oh, I suppose you’re right, but truly, I’m not used to all this bowing and scraping, and having people swarm all around me all the time.” She yawned, covering her mouth with her free hand. “Maryn was still asleep when I left. I’d best get back, I suppose. But how come you’re sitting out here to play?”
“I just wanted a private spot, like.”
“Well, come with me, and I’ll show you a nicer one. It’s supposed to be only for the royal family, but Maryn was telling me how much he honors you and Caradoc and Owaen, so you can use it, too.”
Scooping up his harp, Maddyn followed her inside one of the towers, up half a flight of steps, down another, round a corner and through a maze of corridors, into another tower and out again, until at last he recognized that they were in a corridor that would eventually lead to the tower that housed the royal family. She ducked out one last little door, and they were in a garden, planted with roses and an enormous willow tree, all gnarled and drooping with age.
“There.” Bellyra looked around in satisfaction. “If you climb up into that tree, no one can see you, although, of course, if you’re playing, they’ll hear you. I used to come here a lot, but I won’t have time anymore.” She looked briefly sad. “Anyway, you can sit on the bridge if you don’t want to climb the tree, or just on the grass.”
“My humble thanks, Your Highness. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to find it again, though.”
“Oh, ask one of the pages. Tell them I said you could come here. I’d best get this milk to Melynna.”
She trotted off back inside, and Maddyn walked across the bridge and sat down cross-legged by the little stream. In the warm sun, sheltered by the rise of stone all round him, he felt a bit more of his grief ease. Aethan would be proud, he thought, if he knew I’ve gained the queen’s favor. In a solemn crowd many-colored gnomes materialized around him, and his blue sprite appeared to hunker down near his harp and stare up at him.
“Oh, I’ll heal, little one,” he said to her. “But you ease my heart, you truly do, with your concern.”
When she smiled, an honest soft smile instead of her usual malicious grin, for the briefest of moments he thought he saw true feeling in her empty eyes. Then she yawned, showing her needle-sharp teeth, and lay down on her stomach in the grass to listen while he finished tuning the harp and started practicing a few runs and trills. Since he was quiet and alone, Maddyn lost all track of time that morning; he stopped playing only when his stomach protested loudly enough to make itself heard over the music. By then he could see the sun over the high walls around him.
“Ye gods, it must be nearly noon!”
At the alarm in his voice the Wildfolk vanished. He gathered up the harp and went back inside, wondering if he could find his way to the great hall, but as he stood uncertainly at the foot of a staircase, Branoic came pounding down.
“There you are, you slimy little bastard! Where have you been? The whole cursed troop’s hunting for you, and part of Tieryn Elyc’s guard as well.”
“What? What do they want me for? What have I done?”
“Naught, you stupid dolt! We were afraid you’d drowned yourself or suchlike out of grief.”
“Oh, by the Lord of Hell’s black balls! Have I been that bad off?”
“You have, at that.”
Branoic was studying his face with a fierce intensity, as if he were trying to read every clue that might be there, no matter how small, to Maddyn’s heart.
“Ah well,” Maddyn said. “I wouldn’t do anything that foolish, not when the king needs every man he can get. I’ll swear it to you if you like.”
“Your word’ll be enough for me.”
“Done then. You have it.”
As they were walking out to the ward, Maddyn was wondering how much more grief lay ahead of him in the long wars. Branoic, Caradoc, even sullen Owaen in his own arrogant way—they all meant far too much to him for comfort’s sake. A prudent man would have hardened his heart and sworn that he’d never let himself feel this kind of grief again, but then, Maddyn decided, he’d never been a prudent man, and he was too old to change his ways. Better to lose a friend than never find one, he told himself, truly, much better all round.
In the bright sun they paused for a moment while Branoic yelled at a Cerrmor man to tell everyone he’d found the wretched fool of a bard at last, and Maddyn happened to look up to one of the high towers. When he saw the young queen, leaning out the window and laughing and waving to him, his black hiraedd lifted a little more. At least she’s happy, he told himself, and by every god, we’ll all fight to keep her that way!

Some days after the wedding, Nevyn remembered the lead curse-talisman that he’d found back in Pyrdon and been carrying ever since. Although he hated keeping it, he was quite simply afraid to destroy it, just in case melting or shattering it should work some harm to Maryn by an induced sympathy. Logically, the act of magic that had created the curse should have had no true power, because it fell somewhere between outright superstition and the lowest rank of dark dweomer, yet whenever he held the lead tablet in his hands, he could sense a malevolent power oozing from it like a bad smell. Three times he tried to perform banishings and exorcisms; three times it stayed stubbornly the same. He tried meditating about it and scrying over it, all to no result. Whoever had charged it with evil had worked a spell beyond his powers to remove.
The question was, then, what to do with it. His first thought was simply to bury the thing deep in some out-of-the-way spot in the dun, but since it had been meant to be buried, he would possibly be increasing its power by doing so. If he left it hidden in his chambers, someone might stumble across it or even be actively seeking it. The enemy who had worked the spell was still at large, after all, as either an honest opponent in Cantrae’s court or a traitor here in Cerrmor. Soon Nevyn would be accompanying the king on his ceremonial progress and his first campaign; if he carried the curse charm on his person, what would happen if he were captured and searched? It also occurred to him that if one of Maryn’s friends and allies found him with it, he would have some hard explaining to do. He considered taking it to one of the great temples down in Cerrmor town proper, but priests had been corrupted or temples entered and robbed too many times before for him to consider it safe there. If he threw it in the ocean, its slow dissolution might perhaps work the king harm.
He wondered, too, if he should tell Maryn that the curse existed, but in the end he decided against it. For the rest of that summer, at least, Maryn absolutely had to project a supernatural air of confidence and calm if he were going to repair the shattered morale of his new kingdom. The slightest worry that might have tarnished his golden presence could well mean disaster later. Round and round Nevyn went on the problem until it occurred to him that there was indeed one person in the kingdom who could guarantee its safety, at least for as long as it mattered: the queen. She would never leave Dun Cerrmor until the war was over and Maryn crowned High King in Dun Deverry; if Cerrmor fell and she was captured, that disaster would mean Maryn was dead, all their hopes irrevocably crushed, and the lead tablet quite simply irrelevant.
That very morning he went to Otho the dwarf, the silver daggers’ blacksmith, who had been given a big hut of his own for a forge and living quarters both. Even though he could trust one of the Mountain Folk to keep an oath of silence more than he could ever trust any human being, he told Otho only that he needed a strong casket of dwarven silver to contain something evil without ever mentioning what the vile thing might be. Otho worked night and day for the better part of a week and finally produced, on the evening before king and councillor were to ride out, an amazingly strong and heavy yet stunningly beautiful casket, with double walls, two locking lids, and a secret compartment in the bottom to hide the actual tablet.
“I’ll solder up the compartment, and you put a few spells on it, my lord,” Otho said cheerfully, “and the Lord of Hell himself couldn’t get in or out of it.”
“I believe you. Why, it must weigh close to two stones.”
“Blasted near, blasted near. And I put all that fancy work round the top, just like you asked, so no one will wonder why it’s in a lady’s chamber. I rather fancy the way the roses came out, myself. The ladies do like a nice floral design.”
“I like it myself, actually. Name your price, and I’ll get it for you.”
For a long moment Otho hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again, and from the agonized look on his face he was a man sorely torn and troubled. Finally he sighed as if his heart would break.
“Naught, my lord. Take it as a gift for the one true king arid his grand little queen.”
“Otho! My humble, humble thanks.”
“Hah! I know what you’re thinking. Never thought you’d see the day when I’d do a bit of work for free, did you?” All at once he grinned. “And no more did I.”
That evening Maryn had one last council to hold with his warlords, and Nevyn took that opportunity to visit Bellyra up in the women’s hall, which his great age would allow him to enter. He found her sitting in a high-backed carved chair, with her newly chosen serving women sitting round her and a ginger cat and four kits lying on a green silk cushion nearby, but even in her red silk dress with a queenly brooch pinned to her shoulder, she looked so young and lost that he had grave doubts about his plan. Yet he had no other choice, and when she greeted him, warmly and yet with the right degree of distance between their stations, he could see in her eyes the strong woman she would become.
“Your Highness, I beg a boon—a word alone with you.”
“Of course.” She turned to her women and dismissed them with a gracious wave of one hand. “You may rejoin us in a bit, and we can all have a nice goblet of wine or suchlike.”
Smiling and curtsying, they all withdrew, and he could hear them chattering down the hall on their way to round up a servant to fetch the refreshments. Without waiting to be asked Nevyn sat down next to her and launched into his story, though he did omit telling her about the dismembered baby, just to spare her feelings. As she listened her wide eyes grew even wider, and she became all still attention.
“Will you take this thing and hide it, Your Highness?”
“I will, but I do wish you hadn’t told me what it was. If this casket’s got a secret compartment, you could just have shoved it in and sealed it up.”
“You have to know what you’re guarding, Your Majesty, and besides, never would I leave such an evil thing in someone’s presence without their consent.”
“Well, you’re right, of course. Very well, I shall gush over the casket itself, and be very casual about what I put in it, as if it doesn’t really matter much. And if ever anyone asks me for it, I’ll refuse because to give it away would break poor stunted Otho’s heart.”
“Splendid, Your Highness! The exact right thing to say.”
Yet even as he spoke, he felt a cold line of dread coil round his heart, wondering if he’d just given danger for a gift. Oh, don’t be a dolt, he told himself irritably—the wretched thing can’t have that much power, or you’d know! And sure enough, once it was bound inside the dwarven silver and sealed with his spells, he could no longer sense the slightest trace of evil leaking from either tablet or casket. On the morrow morning he and Otho together presented the casket to the queen, who in a fine show of being ever so surprised and pleased gave the dwarf a kiss, which made him blush and stammer and curse publicly—but from then on, Otho was the queen’s man, heart and soul.
And together at the head of an army, Nevyn and Maryn set out on the long ride that later historians call the Rousing of the River Valley, the summer that would eventually bring lord after lord and warband after warband round to the new king’s side and turn the hope of victory from an impotent dream to a sound gamble. Since he could foresee neither success nor failure that bright morning as they left the towering stone rings of Dun Cerrmor behind, Nevyn could only hope that he’d made the right decisions in more than the matter of the curse-tablet. Although the dweomer and the priesthoods had schemed and plotted and planned for many a long year, the matter was now far beyond their control. With the High King rode not their politicking, but his Wyrd.

The Wmmglaedd copy of the chronicle broke off in the middle of a page. Jill suddenly realized that gray morning light had overwhelmed her candle flame, and that her back was aching and stiff from her long night’s trance. With a grunt of pain she turned from the lectern and found the fire dead in the hearth. Annoying though it was to lose the rest of the story, she didn’t really need it, she supposed, because she could now remember the detail she needed. Otho the dwarf had made the rose ring for the queen to give to Maddyn the bard, years later, just as a token of thanks for some little favor he’d done her. In the closed and cloistered atmosphere of that court, where all the women were as confined and guarded as a treasury, there were those who had chosen to misunderstand the token, just—or so Jill suspected, looking back—to give themselves something to do. Whatever the reason, envy had come of it, and whispering rumor. What came of it she didn’t know, though she could guess that the story had ended badly. In fact, as she thought about it, her ignorance was so complete that she could assume that Branoic had died shortly after the ring was made and given—in some battle, most like.
Those battles were long gone, their stories told by a thousand bards and chroniclers, but their repercussions still echoed, though it was two hundred years and more ago. And what of the other people involved? The young queen, for instance—would in time her soul reappear to add another knot to this puzzle piece? Jill felt that in its own way, the dweomer owed Bellyra a great deal to make up for that ancient tragedy. And what about those women who had helped move the tragedy along? They too had a debt to pay, perhaps, to the rose ring and its bearer. Otho the dwarf, of course, was still alive, though getting on in years even for one of the Mountain People. Did he still have some tie or bond with the ring he’d created so long ago? And then, of course, there was the soul once known as Maddyn—Rhodry of Aberwyn now—who’d been reunited with the rose ring and who wore it still . . . or again. With Nevyn gone, these problems were all hers to solve, these people hers to guard and guide. It was time she set about it.
Yawning and stretching, a servant came into the hut with a bowl of milk and bread and a fresh pitcher of wash water.
“Good morning, my lady. His holiness was wondering, by the bye, how long you were planning on staying with us? He’s in no hurry for you to leave, mind. Just a-wondering.”
“Tell him I’ll be on my way this afternoon. I’ve a long journey ahead of me.”
“Ah. Going to Aberwyn?”
“A bit farther than that. Bardek.”
“Fancy that! A long, long journey indeed! Not going there alone, are you now?”
“I am. I suppose.” She paused, considering. “Well, you know, there does happen to be someone I could ask to go with me, and it might be a good idea, at that. He knows the islands a fair bit better than I do. Hum. I’ll have to think about this.”

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