The Forgotten Beasts of Eld

TEN

She moved the Lords of Niccon and Hilt like chess pieces across Eldwold, from their heartlands to the house of the Lord of Sirle, until they stood blinking as at a dream while the smiling Rok welcomed them into his house. Rok’s hall began to fill at noon and evenings with men who sat at their meals in shirts of leather and steel, with knives at their belts, and who spoke with their mouths full of battles they had seen and the scars they had taken as remembrances. The outer yards rang with the constant hollow beat of hammer as swords were forged, shields repaired, spear points welded to lengths of pale, straight ash, carts built, harness and gear of the great-hooved war-horses mended. All this the Lord Horst of Hilt, and in his turn, Lord Derth of Niccon, a fiery-haired young man who had sworn life and family to Drede’s service, saw and looked within themselves to find good. Derth of Niccon, arriving a week after the Lord of Hilt, said rather plaintively at Rok’s hearth, with a cup of wine in his hand,

“I did not realize you had so many followers, or I would not have pledged everything to Drede. But I did that because of Terbrec.”

“I do not intend a second Terbrec,” Rok said, his eyes calm, gleaming faintly below the gold mane of hair. A little away from them, an ivory-haired woman sat quietly, needlework in her hands, her black eyes never moving from Derth’s face, and to him she was little more than a shadow that did not impress itself into his memory. Derth sighed, tapping his cup with a fingernail.

“I can give you five hundred mounted men and three or four times as many on foot.”

“The Lord of Hilt offered me less.”

“His lands are divided—part of them Carn of Hilt captured during the seventy-day siege of Mondor, and the men on them are claiming their old allegiance to the King.”

“So? No doubt we can deal with them. Horst is too old for these games. I pity him.”

Derth snorted into his cup. “Pity Drede, if you must. I have heard Horst was pledged to Drede, too, first, before he turned to you.”

Rok’s brows rose in polite surprise; he refrained from comment.

Coren, weaving his way through the benches of men at their noon meal, caught sight of the red-haired lord and stood still midstep. Ceneth, with a faint smile, turned from his food and pushed a full cup into Coren’s hand. Coren stared down at him.

“Do you see who that is?”

“Yes.”

“Derth of Niccon. Ceneth, how did Rok get him here? Drede gave his father lands and gold for the work he did at Terbrec. What is Derth doing sitting at our hearth?”

Ceneth shrugged. “Doubtless he heard the Lord of Hilt had turned to Sirle’s side and discovered he would rather fight with Hilt than against it.”

“But, Ceneth—” He groped for words, found them inaccessible for once, and drank instead. Then he saw Sybel and went to her.

“I have been looking for you everywhere.”

She blinked up at him, startled, the thread of her call broken. “Coven—” Beside Rok, the Lord of Niccon rubbed his eyes with his fingers.

“I feel very confused,” he commented. Rok refilled his cup.

“You are tired from your ride.” He turned, tugged Coren away from Sybel. “Eorth was looking for you; it seemed important.”

“I want to take Sybel riding. She is not used to all this babble and din.” He paused a moment, then asked slowly, “What are you doing here with Rok and Lord Derth?”

“Oh, she said vaguely, her thoughts rushing like birds ahead of her. “I wanted to talk to Rok.”

Rok added smoothly, “She was worried. Eorth is talking about riding Gyld into battle.”

“What!”

“She could not talk him out of it. Perhaps you can.” The Lord of Niccon leaned across Rok to stare at Sybel. “Are you Sybel? I have heard about you…”

She smiled at him sweetly, holding his eyes, and he sank back in his chair. Coren said grimly,

“Perhaps if I tie him to his horse he will understand. Sybel, wait for me—”

He turned and made his way back into the crowd. Rok sighed softly and turned to the subdued Lord of Niccon.

“Now. The siege of my grandfather failed because he did not have the men to deal with supplies coming down the Slinoon River into Mondor. This time, I want men of Sirle and Niccon attacking by water, sailing through to the heart of the city and attacking within. We will need boats. Niccon is in the lake country of Eldwold. Can you build boats for three hundred men, and gather men to sail them?”

The Lord of Niccon stared at him like a man asleep with his eyes open and nodded. “Yes.”

“I will bear the cost for them.”

“When do you want them?”

Rok smiled a little. “Soon, but there is no great hurry. I am sure Drede will wait for us.”

He put the Lord of Niccon into Lynette’s care when he had done with him, and she took him, puzzled, half-drunk, but enthused, to the same chamber where the Lord of Hilt had slept a week before. Sybel rose and paced a little through the empty hall; Rok watched her. “What are you thinking?”

“If I bring the animals into the battlefield, will Coren see them?”

“He can hardly avoid seeing Gyld. But the others… In the crush of men, the close flash and thrust of battle, he will probably notice nothing he does not expect to see. Why would you risk them, though? There is no need.”

A little, tight smile played about her mouth. She said softly, “The Prince Ilf went one day with fifty men to capture the lovely daughter of Mak, Lord of Macon; on the way Ilf saw a black mountain Cat with fur that gleamed like a polished jewel. The Cat looked at him out of her green eyes, and Ilf gave chase and no one saw him or his fifty men on earth again. The three strong sons of King Pwill went with their friends hunting one day, and saw a silver-bristled Boar with great tusks white as the breasts of their highborn wives, and Pwill waited for them to come home, waited seven days and seven nights, and of those fifteen young men only his youngest son ever returned from that hunt. And he returned half-mad.”

Rok stared at her. “So will Drede be, seeing parts of his army vanish before his eyes. Will they do this for you?”

“Yes.”

“Even the Boar? You said he did not approve.”

She traced a meaningless design on an oaken tables with her forefinger. “He will do this if I command him to. The Swan I will send to Tam, to fly with him to Eld Mountain if at any moment his life is in danger. And Ter Falcon will guard Tam.”

“And Gyld?”

Her eyes narrowed in a slow smile. “Gyld will bring Drede to me.”

Rok’s head moved once from side to side. “Now,” he said softly, “I am beginning to pity Drede.”

There was a step without. They turned to see Coren, his hair bright in the summer light, pause at the open doors, one hand on the stones. He looked at Rok and asked softly,

“Why did you lie to me about Eorth?”

Rok sighed. “Because I was telling lies to the Lord of Niccon, and I did not want you embarrassing me with the truth.”

“You are lying to me now.” He stepped forward into the quiet, sun-streaked hall, came to stand so close to Rok there was scarcely a hand’s breadth between them.

“Why did you need my wife beside you while you told lies to Derth of Niccon, who could barely recognize truth if it leaped like a salmon from the bottom of his wine cup?”

“Coren,” Sybel said, but his eyes did not move from Roles face.

“There are things I do not understand about this war you plot. There are things I am not sure, now, that I want to understand. How you persuaded that old man, Horst of Hilt to your side, when last winter you sent me to him and I found him terrified of Drede, wanting only to live out his days in peace, to forget his unfortunate daughter and the chaos she made of Drede’s love. Why Derth of Niccon, whose older brother you killed at Terbrec, would come and sit beside you, drink your wine and plan a war with you? Why you planned this war before you even spoke to them? And why, if there are simple reasons for all these things, you did not have the courtesy or the regard for me to tell me before I had to ask?”

Rok was silent. He drew a long breath, his eyes hidden in his still face, and Coren’s hands closed at his sides.

“Do not lie to me again,” he whispered.

“Coren,” Sybel said. His eyes moved slowly from Rok’s face to hers, and she saw in them the dark, reluctant blooming of his doubt. For a long moment they stood motionless, their eyes locked, still as the sunlight falling against the crushed summer flowers on the hall floor. Then Coren moved away from Rok, went out of the hall, down the steps to the yard. Rok watched his head gleam in and out of the shadows. Then he heard the sharp catch of Sybel’s breath and turned.

“What did you do?” he breathed incredulously.

“I did not mean to—” Her hands rose, covering her mouth. “I did not mean to— Not to Coren—not Coren. It was— I did not know what to say to him—and it was so easy—”

“But what did you do?”

“I made him forget what he saw today, what he asked you. I am sorry.” She began to tremble suddenly, and tears slid glittering between her fingers. “I am so sorry. It was so—easy.”

“Sybel—”

“’I am frightened.”

“Sybel.” He went to her, held her gently by the shoulders. “It was no worse than lying to him.”

“It was! It was! I took things from his mind—as—Mithran would have taken them from mine—it was a thing no one should do, in either love or hate—”

“Sh. Sybel, you are tired from the work this morning, and you forgot what you were doing. There is no great harm done. It is better for him this way, and you will never do it again.”

“I am afraid.”

“Hush, you did little harm, little more than lying—you will not do it again.”

’No. “

“Then do not worry.”

Her eyes, staring wide out of the empty doorway, came back to his face. “You do not understand. He—he thinks I am honest. And I have lied to him since the day I married him.” She looked down suddenly at his hands, as though realizing for the first time that he was holding her. She pulled away from him, ran to the door.

She saw Coren walking out the main gate toward the open fields and ran after him through the yard, past the billowing smoke of the smithy, the pound of hammers from the carpenter’s shop, the startled faces of farmers and warriors, moving aside so she could pass. Coren heard her call finally and stopped on the dusty road. He waited for her, the smile on his face fading as she neared him. He lifted his hands, caught her, and she crept close to him, her head against his shoulder.

“Hold me, Coren,” she whispered, and his arms formed a circle of peace about her. He felt her trembling.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Just hold me.”

“You have been crying.”

“I know.”

“What has made you cry?”

Her eyes opened, dark, to the hot fields and the shimmering sky. She felt his hold tighten. “I was thinking,” she whispered, and the words burned through her throat, “of myself without you… and how I could not bear it.”

“Sybel, what can I say to comfort you? There will be no comfort in this war until it is over. But you were right somehow: Rok is not mad and there is, through some magic I do not understand, a chance for Sirle. So perhaps it will be brief—though that cannot comfort you much either, where Tam is concerned. But I am so glad that you still care enough to cry about me in spite of this.”

“I care. I care.” She stirred finally and his arms dropped. He glanced around puzzledly at the green fields.

“I forgot why I came out here. You frightened me, running toward me with your hair like a silver wake and tears on your face.”

“Yes. I made you forget,” she whispered. “I am sorry.”

He put his arm around her, and they walked back together to the house, black crows fluttering upward from the fields around them as they passed.

She spoke to her animals that evening. She had called Ter Falcon from Mondor; he came in the twilight, shooting like a star from the blue-black sky. He perched among the rich green leaves of the summer trees, and she said to him,

Ter. Tell me of Drede.

He is a man afraid to the core and the bone, said the glittering-eyed Falcon. He shouts in his sleep at night, and a torch burns always in his room. He is afraid of the night shadows. A fear beyond the fear of battle grows behind his eyes like thick, winter ice. There are whispers that he is going mad, but he contains himself, saying little.

And Tam?

Tam watches. He takes me with him everywhere; he talks to me late at night and falls asleep sometimes still talking. He wants you to help Drede. He told me to ask you. He is desperate.

And you?

I am ready.

Listen then for any words that may help Rok. When the moment comes, I want you at Tam’s side, protecting him. She lifted her head, called the Swan to Gules came to lie at her feet, and Moriah beside her and she woke Gyld in his cave with a touch of mind. Cyrin Boar came to her between the trees, glowing in the darkness. For a long moment that tested strength and sinew of her mind, straining concentration to its limits, she held the six proud, restless minds at once.

Listen to me. When the Lord of Sirle and his brothers ride out of Sirle to battle, Ter and the Swan of Tirlith will fly then to Mondor, to Tam. The Swan will be ready at any moment to fly him to Eld Mountain, if there is danger to him. Ter, I want you to keep Tam safe. Moriah, Gules and Cyrin, you will appear to Drede’s army, before the battle, during the battle, luring men away with the magic of your eyes, the beauty of you. Gyld, I will keep with me until Drede is finished, and then Gyld will bring the King to me at the wizard’s tower in Mondor.

At all times keep yourselves discreetly out of sight until you see fit to move. Stay away from Rok’s men. Put yourself into no unnecessary danger, except for Tam’s sake and—if you choose—for Coren’s sake. Ter, stay away from Drede. Unless he is killed in battle, I want him brought to me alive.

The wind sighed briefly in the quiet night. She paused a moment, weary, then trained her mind once more into theirs.

The legends told of you are countless, but all of them old. What you do in this battle, harpists will sing of for years, touching their silver strings with wonder, and your proud, ancient names will echo again within the stone walls of men’s courts, fine-sounding as new-polished gold, honored and revered.

She paused again, feeling in one moment the swift, pulsing beat of Ter’s thoughts, the jewels of the hidden memories in Gules’ mind, Moriah’s mind, the serene acquiescence of the Black Swan’s moonlit mind, the twists of Gyld’s fiery brain, the constant play of riddle upon riddle in Cyrin’s mind, woven out of the unending threads of his thoughts. She loosed them, spent, and as they waited quietly around her, she rested a moment. Then she took their questions.

Do you want Drede’s men destroyed? Moriah asked. Or returned after a suitable time?

I do not want their lives. Run them in circles a while, then let them go.

Why will you not let me fight? Gyld asked. I could scatter Drede’s army with a single flight through it.

No. You would frighten Rok’s men, too. Wait patiently with me.

There may be men guarding Eld Mountain, the Swan said. Where then, Sybel?

Then bring him to Sirle. But take him first to the mountain and wait for me, if there is no danger.

What will you do with Drede? Ter asked.

Nothing. I want only to look into his eyes when I am done with him, when he has nothing-neither power, nor rank, nor even Tam to comfort him. Mithran was fortunate compared to him. By then, he may be mad.

And what will you do with yourself afterward? Cyrin asked.

Sybel, looking into his red eyes, was silent. The leaves rustled in the wind above her as at a sudden breath, then stilled. She whispered at last to herself,

“I do not know.”

There came a few days later to Rok’s hall a slender, long-nosed woman with rich rings on her fingers and her white hair in a thousand untidy curls. She passed into it so quietly that she reached Rok’s elbow unnoticed as he sat at his meal, with Lynette on one side of him and Bor at the other, and she tugged at his sleeve. He turned, startled, to meet the iron-gray eyes.

“Where is Sybel?”

“Sybel?” He sent a glance down the table. “She left, I think, with Coren. Perhaps they are— Old woman, who are you? Will you sit with us? I did not hear you come in.”

Her wandering eyes came back to him. “Oh, I am the sharp-eyed old crow of Eld Mountain. And you—you I think are the Lion of Sirle. Such a lovely family you have, such peach-colored children and lordly brothers. I have had such a walk from Eld Mountain.”

“You walked!” Rok exclaimed. Beside him, Bor rose courteously.

“Sit down, Lady. Eat with us.”

She smiled at him, her hands fluttering to touch her hair. “So kind…” she murmured and sat. “Oh, my feet. I am Maelga, Sybel’s mother.” At her right hand, Ceneth coughed over his wine and she turned to him. “I am the only mother she ever had. You may not think a mountain witch would make a very good mother.”

“I am sure you were better than nothing,” Ceneth said weakly. Rok caught his eye, and he reddened.

“I am not so sure of that,” Maelga said candidly, searching through a plate of sugared fruits and nuts. “Otherwise, I would not have had to walk all the way from Eld Mountain to Sirle to find out why Cyrin Boar came snorting to me with such a tale I could not believe…” She caught Rok’s swift glance from side to side over the rows of preoccupied faces. “Oh, is it a secret?”

“Old woman, what do you want?” Rok said softly and she sighed.

“Dried, sweetened apricots… I am a child with sweet things. You see, Rok, I have done—oh, things by twilight, dim things by candlelight that are spoken of best by hushed voices. I am an old woman with a weakness for meddling, and people give me rings and soft furs and bright ribbons. I weave on a small loom with threads of simple colors. But Sybel—now there is a weave, her weave, with a loom the size of Eldwold and threads of living scarlet.”

“It is her choice.”

“Yes, but it frightens me in my old heart. It frightens Cyrin, too, and he such a wise old Boar. Rok, when you look at her you see a beautiful, strong-willed woman whose power is the star of fortune over Sirle. And I see a child with a festering hurt that eventually will be the death of her.”

Rok set his cup softly on the table. Maelga looked at him, her white brows arched over her sharp eyes, her chin resting on her ringed forgers. He was silent a moment, his fingers tapping the silver.

“Indeed,” he said, his voice low in the noise, “she is weaving a living tapestry with herself and us in it as well as the King and the Lords of Eldwold. She has gone too far to stop, and so have I. She is no child: she has plotted this thing with me step by step and has kept it secret even from Coren. I am playing for power; it is a game my ancestors taught me, and I will play it until I die of it. Sybel is playing her own game of power, not for gain, or even for fame, but for a kind of dark triumph over Drede and even over Mithran. When she has had her triumph, she will come back to live quietly, contentedly with her animals and with Coren. It is not enough for me to know Sirle can defeat Drede—I must act in the knowledge, and keep acting afterward to protect my great power. But Sybel is more fortunate. She can achieve great power and then let it go and rest content in the knowledge of what she could do if she willed. If this were not true, I would be as frightened of her as Drede is. But there is love in her for Coren, for the children, for simple, quiet things. I think you taught her this, Maelga, when you loved her. Do not be worried. She will take her revenge and be satisfied.”

Maelga watched him silently over her flickering jewels until he finished. Then she dropped her hands. “I could never talk to lions—I cannot growl. Where is she?”

“She may be with her animals. I will send for her.”

“No.” She rose. “Tell me how to find them. I will go there alone.”

“I will take you and then leave you with her.” He pushed his chair back, led her past the tables. “But if Coren is with her, talk of the weather, of star patterns, of how you ate nothing at the table of the Lord of Sirle. He is innocent of this; she values that.”

They found her with Coren in the gardens, laughing together beside the lake while the Black Swan took bread pieces from Coren’s fingers. The Cats lay lazily beneath the warm sun; Cyrin Boar nosed at something idly through the grass as he stood in the shade. Sybel turned as the gate closed behind Maelga. The smile on her face melted to astonishment.

“Maelga!”

Coren turned, tossed the rest of the bread into the water and followed Sybel, smiling as she flung her arms around Maelga.

“I am glad to see you.”

“My white child, you have grown so—so bright! Let me look at you.” She held Sybel at arm’s length. “You did not stop to see me when you came to the Mountain last.”

“How did you know—”

“Cyrin Boar told me. He told me many things“

Sybel’s eyes grew still. She glanced at Coren, and he touched her cheek.

“I will go and let you talk.”

She smiled. “Please, Coren. It is only women’s talk.”

“When one is a witch and the other a wizard, I doubt that.” He left them. They looked at one another a moment, quietly. Then Maelga’s fingers folded against one another and she brought them to her mouth.

“My child, what are you doing?”

Sybel sighed. “Sit down. How did you get here?”

“On my own feet.”

“Oh, Maelga, you should have taken a horse.”

“I was afraid whom I might steal from…” She got down beside Sybel, under a strong-limbed apple tree. “Cyrin told me a tale Ter had told him of a King and a white bird in a tower…”

Sybel glanced at the silver Boar. “Wisdom never learned silence, and it is most annoying when least wanted.”

“Why did you not tell me what Drede did to you?”

Her mouth tightened. “Because it hurt too much. Because I was angry to my heart’s core and there were no words for it. That little King would have—” She brushed her hand across the grass impatiently. “There are no words in either you or Cyrin to stop me.”

“Sybel, I do not know what you are doing—I only know that Tam came to me two days ago—”

“Tam?”

“Afraid. He said war was murmuring all over Eldwold against his father, and the King blamed you. He said lords who had pledged to help his father suddenly turned to Sirle without reason. He said the King walks like a man of stone. Sybel, he sat at my hearth with his eyes wide, unblinking, while he told me this, and his hands gripping his arms as if he were cold. There were no tears left in him.”

Sybel picked a single grass-blade, stared down at it

without seeing it. She shivered a little. “My poor Tam… It will only be a little while longer.”

“And then what?”

“`Then Drede will lose his throne. Perhaps his mind. Perhaps his life.”

“And Tam?”

“Rok will make a king of him. In a suitable time he will marry Herne’s daughter Vivet, and her sons will begin the Sirle line of Kings in Eldwold.”

“And Coren? I have heard he knows nothing of this.”

“Maelga, as I will do what I must to destroy Drede, I will do what I must to keep Coren from knowing what I am doing—”

“How? Will you destroy a thought or two in his mind?”

Her face twisted. She dropped her head on her bent knees, hidden from the searching gray eyes. “No,” she whispered. “I will not do that. I did that once. Once. I will not do it again. I will lose him first. Maelga, I have taken a step in the dark, and I will not turn back for any word in Eldwold. I am glad to see you, but I think now you are not so glad to see me. I have been hurt, and now I will hurt in my own turn. It is that simple. I am sorry for Tam. But that is the only thing I am sorry for.”

“You do not see,” Maelga whispered. “Child, Tam loves that King. Drede is the one in the world who can look into Tam’s eyes and give Tam his pride. And he is being driven mad before Tam’s eyes.”

“What is that to me?” She rose abruptly, facing the afternoon wind so that it blew her hair tangled, restless behind her. “He must find his own pride. Maelga—” She lifted her hands suddenly to her face and found tears slipping between her cold fingers. She covered her eyes with her fingers. “I cannot forgive him,” she whispered. “My heart aches for Tam, but I can not. I will not. And I will not cry for myself… only a little for Tam. Did he blame me himself?”

“He suspects that Drede did something to make you angry. But he does not believe—he does not want to believe that you could terrify Drede so, because you know he loves Drede. Oh, he sees things in his heart and he closes his heart’s eye to them, a child closing his eyes to the dark. When he is forced to open his eyes, Sybel, what will you tell him? What comfort will you give him? His heart will shrink like a wounded thing from any touch.”

“It is Drede’s fault.” She shook her head abruptly. “No. It is my doing, too. But Drede should never have tried to ruin me.”

“He is doing it now.”

Sybel turned, looked down at her, dark eyed. “That may be, but now it is my choice. Drede was a fool and so was Mithran, for underestimating that white-haired woman they caught. And neither of them will ever make that mistake again.” She paused a moment, then said more gently. “I am hard and stubborn these days. There is no moving me. Maelga, let us talk of other things now, little things. I am sorry we did not stop to see you that night, but Drede’s men found us there with Tam and it seemed wiser to leave without speaking to you, in case we were watched.”

Maelga’s hands moved in the long grass. Lines puckered her brow above her sharp eyes but she said only, “Are you happy, then, with the wise one of Sirle?”

“Yes. I want no one else, ever. I want to bear him children, if—if he wants them of me when this is done.”

“You expect none yet?”

“No.” She sat down again in the grass. “But perhaps it is better for the moment. I am happy here, Maelga. The people are good to me, and the children and women seem so bright, so contented among the gray stones. I miss the deep, roaring winds, the clear streams and the quiet places of Eld Mountain; the animals miss them, too, sometimes, but we are all content enough here among men. Rok made a room for me, high in the house with windows facing north, east and south, and he put my books there. I read there, and call. I miss you, too. I cannot run to you for comfort, though there is no one, these days, to give me comfort.”

Maelga touched a strand of the white hair that brushed across her hand. “I miss you, too. But now I see the Lion was right: you are no longer a child. You have grown a queen among men. You no longer would be happy among the stones and trees of the Mountain. But I see the ghost of you sometimes, slipping barefoot through the great red pillars with a round-eyed child running at your side. And the shadows of you make me stop and smile. And then I remember they are only shadows, that my children have grown away from me, gone their ways…” She sighed, her lean hands fluttering. “But I was so fortunate to have you.”

Sybel’s fingers closed gently around Maelga’s parchment-colored, ringed hand. “And I was that fortunate to have you,” she said softly. “I was as wild and proud as any of my animals that day I walked through your door. Whatever gentleness I have, you and Tam taught me, and later, Coren. But I am still wild, proud as my father and my grandfather were, deep in me where the white bird lives free that no man can capture. It is that pride in me crying out for revenge—the pride in my knowledge and power. That same pride drove Myk away from men to the isolation of Eld Mountain to build his white hall and capture perfection. But because of you and Tam, I learned to love something beyond pure knowledge. And Coren taught me greatly of joy… I may not be so good at loving, Maelga, but it is my own fault—I have been rich in teachers.”

“My white one,” Maelga whispered, “when you disappeared that night from your hall, I knew I would never see you again, and there was such a sorrow in my withered heart. And today, again, there is that sorrow… you will step again into the night and when I see you again I will look into a stranger’s eyes.”

“Strange to you, but Maelga, I think I have never been less strange to myself as now. It is a terrible thing to say, but there is a triumph in me that I do not even have the sense to fear. It is as though in my thoughts I am Gyld, flying high, high in the night sky, huge, powerful, irresistible, with pride in all the memories of battles, of slayings, of stealings, of songs where my name is a beat of awe and fear. There is no one in all the world to check my night flight of triumph. When it is done, that thing in me will find a place to coil and sleep and I can forget it.”

“But will you forget? Rok will ask more of you, and more— I saw that in his Lion’s eyes. And Tam—you may teach Tam to ask of you—”

“No. Tam is good. And Rok will spare me for Coren’s sake.”

“Will he? Will you even care by then for Coren’s love?”

“I will care. I care now.”

“But you fly alone, away from him— I wonder, will you want to come back earthward after that flight?”

Sybel sighed. She loosed Maelga’s hand and touched her eyes with her fingers. “I am tired of the ceaseless weave to and fro of questioning, wondering, thinking. I will set Eldwold aflame and then find out if I am trapped within the ring of fire, or safe outside it… Maelga, you must be tired, too, after your long walk. Let me take you to my chamber, where you can eat, and wash and rest.”

“I will not rest in this house“

“Well. Then if you will not stay here with me, let Rok send someone with you to Herne’s house, or Bor’s house.”

Maelga patted Sybel’s hand. She rose a little unsteadily and brushed the grass off her skirt. “No. I will rest here a while, with your animals. I will go and sit with the Black Swan. Such a lovely swan fountain, there. I never cared much for men’s houses—you cannot get in and out of them easily.”

Sybel smiled a little. “No.” She put her arm around Maelga, walked with her to the lake. The Black Swan glided to meet them. “I will bring you food and wine. If you want to sleep out here tonight, I will stay with you.”

Maelga sank down at the lake’s edge. “Oh, my bones. The sun is so kind in summer to an old woman. And you are kind, still, to powerless things. It is comforting.”

“I will be back soon,” Sybel said.

“There is no hurry, my white one. I will take a little nap.” She closed her eyes. Sybel went quietly to the gate, closed it softly behind her as she left. Then she looked up to see Coren standing before her, and she blinked, startled.

“Oh—”

He lifted his hands slowly, gripped her arms. His eyes moved back and forth across her face, narrowed, bewildered, as though he were reading ancient words he could not understand. Then he drew a breath and shouted,

“Sybel, what are you doing?”