Did him no good to call her innocent in his mind this time. However naively, she had opened herself to him.

"Aye, for me too." He didn't bother to disguise the huskiness in his voice. Let her hear what she did to him, he thought.

Hear she did, her breath stopping oh-so-predictably, her eyes flashing upward to meet his, the irises purple with the night, the golden lashes fading into shadows.

Beauty had never known such grace as the curves of her face and body in the moonlight. The crown of oak leaves had not been torn asunder by their fall, but still lay as a garland upon her brow, turning her evermore into the wood nymph of his dreams.

Shah mat. The phrase crossed his mind as he looked at her. The king is dead. He would have her for his own.

His hand rose from her shoulder, his palm cupping around her neck, his thumb stroking up the center of her throat. With nothing but the very best of intentions, he lifted her chin, angling her mouth to meet his slow descent.

He kissed her while she was still mesmerized with shock, the sweet, complying wench. Yet he was careful, using only his lips, partly open, and not his tongue, whose wily, plundering ways would do naught to win her until she was ready for such. And he used his breath-to warm her, to infuse and tease, letting it play across her mouth, dip into corners, and be sucked inside by her own gentle inhalation. He used his breath to tell her she would be his.

He did not lay his other hand upon her breast to feel the weight and softness of her, though he had to close his fingers into his palm to keep himself from it. He did not press her down into the grass and the budding flowers. He did not lay himself upon her, though the picture of it was clear in his mind and the feel of it was ripe in his loins. He kissed her only in the most chaste way he knew how, and still it was heaven.

Heaven, dear God, Ceridwen thought, her every sense awash with pleasure, but a heaven rife with danger. What she felt with Dain's mouth on hers was so wicked and sweet, she feared she could die of it.

Her body ached and pulsed with a need to draw him closer even as her mind warned her to beware of the sorcerer's seduction. He would steal her will. Aye, he was doing it now, softening her resistance, making her yearn.

She reached for him, and in the same moment, he pulled away, leaving her hand raised in the shadows between them. His downward glance brought a chagrined smile to his face.

"I see I have moved too quickly."

"Nay," she said, snatching her hand back to the crumpled material at her breasts. "It was I."

For no good reason other than to mortify her more, tears welled in her eyes. She wiped at one with theback of her hand, but to no avail. Another took its place, and then another. Her single consolation was that the damn things had the decency to fall in silence.

" 'Twas only a kiss,cariad," he said, and she could have hit him. Instead, she agreed.

"Aye." She pulled her gown up, shrugging it over her shoulders, barely aware of the ease of the movement, she trembled so inside. God save her. She was damned more surely than Abbess Edith could have imagined. For if that was only a kiss, then she was wanton clear to the bone, and the object of her lust was no less than a depraved magician.

Evergreen woodlands grew thick all around Madron's cottage, littering the ground with seed cones and needles, and hiding the wattle and daub building from view until they were nearly upon it. 'Twas on a rocky track through the pine trees that Dain and Ceridwen had approached, with him leading the mare on foot, having decided against the hardships of riding with the maid. The cruck-built cottage boasted a storage loft and a stable in its third bay, and he left the Cypriot there, next to Madron's dappled gray mare and with a portion of hay to keep her content.

The cobbled path leading to the door was bordered by a variety of plants coming into their own with the warmer weather: enchanter's nightshade, monkshood, white hellebore, herb of grace, arnica, foxglove.

All were beautiful. All were deadly. 'Twas Madron's little joke, and a true enough warning for those with any knowledge of herbs and poison.

Smoke curled from a hole in the thatched roof, putting a savory scent upon the air and making Dain wonder what it was the witch burned in her fire. The frames and shutters of the unglazed windows were carved with pictures of beasts and flowers, mountains and valleys, and the moon and the stars. He reached for the latch on the door.

"Should we not announce ourselves?" Ceridwen asked.

A catch in her voice made him pause with the door still closed.

"She knows we're here, Ceri," he said. "She's known of our coming since we passed the rise." He spoke of the hill to the north of the cottage.

"Then 'tis too late to return to the tower, or to Llynya's grove?"

"Aye." He started to pull on the latch, but once again she stopped him, this time with her hand clutching his sleeve.

" 'Tis not good, my being here," she said. "Mayhaps I should wait with the mare."

"Madron wants to meet you, not harm you, and should she change her mind, I will intercede."

"You have not proven to be particularly trustworthy." She was blunt to the point of insult.

Pleased as he was that her tears had stopped, and that she was speaking to him again, he would have wished for less honesty and more diplomacy. They had kissed, had they not? Her sweetly divine mouth had touched his. And if his plans held true, they would soon kiss again in a manner much more to his liking. "Come," he said, opening the door. "If needs be, I will prove myself here." He slipped an arm around her waist, and thus Ceridwen found herself passing over the threshold of Madron's home-against her will and with Lavrans's hand at her back pushing her forward.

A fire blazed in a stone hearth in the middle of an earthen floor. Above it, a cauldron hung by chains on an iron tripod. Ceridwen had been in villagers' cottages before, and she had expected things to be arranged in such a manner. What she could not have expected was for all the area around the earthen circle to be planked with oak floor beams instead of strewn with common rushes.

Her eyes narrowed first in confusion, then in uneasy suspicion. If Madron was not a misplaced Norman lady-and with a name like Madron, how could she be-then there was a fortune in the king's wood at her feet, enough to send the thief, and anyone in the thief's cottage, to the gallows. The furniture upon the costly floor was no less fine and treasonous, a table, chairs, and cupboard in hand-carved maple rubbed to a warm shine. Animal skins of every type covered the plastered walls. Beaver and badger mixed with roe buck and red deer, the very sight of which made her stomach roll, for they could only have been poached from the king's forest. Any one of them was reason enough to lose an ear or a hand on the chopping block. Beautiful coverlets of ermine, weasel, and lynx lay upon the arms of the chairs, waiting to warm a guest, or hang him. She retreated a step, despite Lavrans's presence behind her, not caring that she'd backed herself against him.

"We must leave this place," she said. "God forbid one of the king's foresters or, dear Christ, the verderer should find we have been here."

"Fear not, little one." A woman's voice, dry and crackly with age, came out of the shadows at the far end of the room, near causing Ceridwen's heart to stop. "Me mistress, Madron, hast bargained well for all ye see. The Sheriff of Hay-on-Wye hi'self gave her Ursus."

A knobby-jointed hand lifted from the darkness, the only part of the woman's body Ceridwen could see, and gestured to a huge bearskin stretched between the cruck frame supporting the end wall. The head and claws of the animal had been left intact, giving the illusion that the bear had risen on its hind legs and was on the attack. A shiver raced up Ceridwen's spine. 'Twould be the gallows for sure.

"Fear not, little one," the voice came again, and after the voice, the hag herself, her bowed body supported by a staff of yew. "Ursus hast been tame fer quite some time." A cackling laugh followed the statement. "Quite some time."

The old woman used the staff with every step, her slight bulk rolling and hitching as she walked. Her clothing draped her body in hodgepodge layers of brown and muddy yellow homespun, looking more like grain sacks than a gown. The broad leather belt at her waist was hung clear 'round with various sized pouches made of skins, fur, and cloth worked with feathers. A flyaway mass of graying hair was coiled at the nape of her neck, most of it escaping from her coif. A dozen copper and silver bracelets jangled on her wrist.

She was much older than even her voice had allowed, with deep creases running from the sides of her nose to her mouth, and spidery lines fanning out from the outer corners of her eyes and down her cheeks.

But her eyes, ah, Lord, her eyes, Ceridwen thought, stepping back again. They were green like the Quicken-tree's, yet full of mystery, and deeper and darker, so much darker, as if all of Rhuddlan's people could have been born in their verdant depths and still left green behind. "Or is it me who makes ye tremble?" the hag rasped, hobbling closer.

Partly, Ceridwen thought, but she would never admit it. She pushed back against Lavrans, expecting he would help in her retreat. He did not. He held her firm where they stood.

"Good mother," he said, greeting the old woman. "We regret the lateness of our coming, but-"

"As well ye should," the old woman interrupted, shaking her staff at him.

"But we're pleased to be in your company now," he continued, dry amusement in his voice. "Though I must say you're looking rather ancient this e'en, aren't you?"

"I thought it best," was the hag's curt reply. " 'Tis not safe fer women in the deep woods at night, as the maid well knows." She jabbed her staff toward Ceridwen, who flinched.

"If there is danger in Wroneu this night, we did not see it," Lavrans said.

"Auch," the old woman swore. "And to think me mistress worried ye had been set upon by sackpurses and robbers ta ha' missed her supper, and that she would ha' to send this good mother abroad ta bring ye safely back where ye should ha' been in the first place."

Throughout the admonishing speech she directed at Lavrans, the woman's eyes did not leave Ceridwen, which added much to her discomfort as she tried to hold the hag's gaze and watch the staff at the same time. The intensity of those old, searching eyes made the skin on the back of her neck tingle. Something in the steely green perusal was familiar, familiar and unsettling, for Ceridwen believed she had endured that gaze before, at a different time, in a different place, and mayhaps when she'd had something to hide; though such a strong and detailed feeling made no more sense than Madron sending the old woman out into the woods to find them.

"But now I see what kept ye from Madron's table." The servant reached out to touch one of Ceridwen's tiny braids. "Quicken-tree cake is filling despite its taste, but mayhaps ye have room fer a posset while we wait fer the lady?"

"Aye, old mother," Lavrans said, answering for both of them. He took Ceridwen's hand and drew her deeper into the cottage.

She did not resist. The fire was warm, the cottage uncommonly comfortable-for the very same reasons that made it threatening-and posset a rare luxury. He led her to the chair closest to the stone hearth, one draped and softened with pelts of ermine. She balked ever so slightly, belatedly wondering if the king and his foresters knew of the shire reeve's generosity.

"Ye should not ha' let 'em bind her hair," the old woman said, limping back to the table. " 'Twill do her no good to have Rhuddlan's mark upon her, unless... un-less...Auch." She shook her head and dismissed the whole of it with a wave of her hand, sending the bracelets jangling.

" 'Tis their way," Lavrans said, taking the chair next to Ceridwen and dropping his saddlebag on the floor.

"Aye. They'd plait the trees, if I but let 'em."

"I think 'tis pretty," Ceridwen said, and the old woman slanted her a narrow look over her shoulder. Fora servant of a supposed lady, she was remarkably unkempt, all ragged and loose, as if she would crumble into dust at the first good wind.

"So, the little one has a tongue?" she asked.

"Aye." Lavrans laughed, and Ceridwen shot him an offended glance.

"And she likes Moira's handiwork?"

" 'Twas not Moira, but Llynya who braided my hair," Ceridwen said, absurdly pleased to know at least one thing the hag did not.

A loud guffaw greeted her news, taking muchofher satisfaction.

"Llynya? That wretched little sprite?" The old woman cackled. "Then Rhuddlan does not know your true worth. If he had, he would have dragged the white-haired ones out of their huts and made them work their fingers to the bone twisting and knotting your curls."

"Rhuddlan said he found her lacking, though he did not say in what," Lavrans confirmed, arranging himself with a knee over one chair arm and an elbow resting on the other, lounging with the air of one accustomed to both the company and the place. His ease helped assure Ceridwen of the safety of the cottage, though his words were yet another offense.

"Lacking?" The hag bridled, drawing herself up to a surprising height. "She is Ceridwen, a true-born daughter of Carn Merioneth. The only lack is in his wits." She turned to the table and began pouring milk pottage out of a pitcher and into silver goblets, hunching back down and muttering all the while. "Lacking, auch, we'll see who's lacking soon enough."

One by one, she took the goblets to the cauldron and dipped hot, sweet wine into each. The first she gave to Ceridwen, setting it on a small round table at the side of her chair.

"Here's yer posset, dearie. Ye might let it cool a bit."

As the old woman shuffled back and forth between the pitcher and the cauldron, Ceridwen sipped on her posset and examined the trinkets scattered across the table: two green-glass bottles, one stoppered and empty, the other half full; an iron saucer holding a pinch of salt; a family of little squirrels made of pewter. A scrap of tapestry woven in the same sinuous lines as the Quicken-tree rugs caught her eye, though it looked much older than the rugs. The color was dark and it was worn about the edges. Next to the tapestry was a candle burning bright in a brass holder marked with spiraling blue swirls. Beyond the candle, closer to Lavrans, was a plain pottery dish decorated with nothing more than zigzags, but in the dish were rocks, pretty, shiny rocks, and amongst the rocks was something she'd never dreamed of seeing.

"Elf shot," she murmured, leaning closer and reaching for the stone arrowhead.

"Hmmm?" The hag gave Lavrans his drink and peered over to see what Ceridwen held in her hand. "Oh, that. Hmmm. Int'resting choice ye made, dear."

"Is it really elf shot?"

"Oh, aye. Fashioned by thetylwyth tegand used in the Wars of Enchantment. Ye can ha' it, if ye like." "What of your mistress? Is it not hers?" Ceridwen looked up, her hand closing around the precious piece of chipped stone even as she asked the question. Her mother had told her about elf shot, how the stone to make them was found only to the north of Carn Merioneth, mined by thetylwyth tegbeneath the mountain dragon-back of Tryfan, and how the arrows would pierce only an untrue heart and nary leave a scratch on a true one.

"Ye can rest easy, little one," the old woman said. "That bit is mine to give. Here. Ye can ha' one o' me bags to hold it in." She untied a pouch from her belt and began emptying it onto the table. Two shillings and three pence shook out, clinking against the iron saucer. A fluttering of oriole feathers, soft and golden, followed the coins. The last item, she had to reach in after, her knobby fingers struggling to pull it through the leather opening. "Auch," she swore, giving up with her fingers and turning the pouch upside down to give it a good shake. Nothing happened.

Ceridwen leaned closer, an offer of help on the tip of her tongue, when the first loop of gold chain slipped out. Others followed, delicate and finely wrought.

The old woman gave a grunt of satisfaction and looped the chain through her fingers. Slowly, she began to pull.

Dain sipped on his hot drink and watched the byplay. The chit was entranced already, and Madron had barely begun. Whatever was at the end of the chain was bound to be interesting. Madron never disappointed, nor did she usually wear her guise of the crone except when traveling farther than the boundaries of Wroneu Wood. She must know something about the forest this e'en that he did not. She had never searched him out before when he'd been late or gone missing-unless 'twas the maid she had prepared to search for and not him.

More likely than not, he thought with a twinge of unease at one more sign of Ceridwen's importance to someone for reasons he did not know. He'd brought the red book with him. Mayhaps was time to show it to the witch.

He swung his leg off the arm of the chair and was about to reach down, when the pouch released its prize, and the sight stopped him halfway to his saddlebag. The piece was interesting, aright, too damned interesting in the hands of one such as Madron. He did not doubt the witch's skills, be they begot by magic or tricks. He settled back into the chair to see what his friend would do with the thing.

"Is it a serpent stone?" the maid asked in a voice hushed by awe.

Her reaction was not unwarranted, for the crystal ball was cut into a thousand faces, each of them glinting in the firelight and casting a rainbow into the cottage. The orb twirled on its chain where the gold links hung from Madron's fingers. The colored lights danced about the room, swirling around and around in a dazzling, dizzying display.

"Serpent stone?" Madron asked, an eyebrow raised in his direction.

He shrugged.

"Aye," Ceri said, her gaze fixed on the glass rock. "Born of the froth of the frenzied serpents beneath Domh-ringr and hardened by their fiery breath."

The quote was good and, he admitted, somewhat gratifying. He hadn't realized she'd been listening sointently or that he'd made such a lasting impression.

"Ah, one of those serpent stones," Madron said, redirecting her attention to the maid. "No, little one, 'tis not from the Doom Rings of Judgment. This is a dreamstone."

Dain's unease increased. He had not heard of dreamstones, but there were stones enough and names enough for a good trickster to make of them what he or she wanted, and Madron was a very good trickster. Ceridwen had been quick to fall to his Brochan charm, but that night she had been pushed beyond her physical and emotional limits, and had no doubt been ready to faint dead away before he'd opened his mouth. She was strong this night with the Quicken-tree touch upon her, and she had proven to be a woman of uncommon will. Still, he could not take the chance. He had promised her protection, and he would not fail, even if it meant protecting her from her own over-active imagination rather than any physical threat.

Thus, with a lift and reach of his arm and a most fluid twist of his wrist, he passed his hand over and beneath Madron's, palming the crystal. It disappeared in a twinkling, and with it, all the rainbow lights dancing wildly around the cottage.

If Madron was surprised, she did not show it.

"Your instincts are good, if misplaced," she said, gracefully lowering her arm, all trace of the crone gone from her movement and speech. "Edmee told me you were protective of the maid, and yet, dear Dain, in this instance, you are too late. Remember that the next time Ceridwen ab Arawn needs you." The green eyes were leveled at him with the good humor of a victor and the warning of a friend.

He shot a glance at the maid and at first saw nothing amiss.

"Ceridwen?"

There was no answer, and as he watched, her lashes fluttered, then lowered over the pale ocean-blue of her eyes, and she fell into a deep sleep.

"A fair trick, indeed," he said, careful to keep the anger he felt out of his voice. Anger had come to him all too easily this night, and had done him no good.

" 'Tis called a Druid sleep. The knack has been in my family for generations beyond recall."

"Nemeton," he said, knowing well the family history. Madron had been the first to come to him, as the crone, when he'd won the prize from D'Arbois by opening Nemeton's tower door. A great trick that had been, and the first time that he'd ever sincerely thanked Jalal for anything, including the saving of his life.

He'd had so many reasons to hate his desert master, and not one to be grateful to him, until he'd been faced with the mechanical wonder that was the Druid Door. Not even Madron knew the secret of it, or if she did, she had not used it to secure the tower for herself.

"My father did not need a stone," she said. "His voice alone was enough to lure people into sleep and dreams."

"And what does Ceri dream?" he asked, feigning a calm he did not feel. Too much emotion was loose in the woods this e'en, that much was for damn sure, and he felt like a magnet for all of it. The maid was doing him no good. He would be better off rid of her, better off to take his marks and not look back when Caradoc came to fetch her. "Ceri?" Madron repeated, giving him a heedful look. "Her brother called her such."

"Mychael."

"She told you?" Madron began unlacing her gown. There was nothing provocative about the action, and Dain did not react as if there was. He had seen the transformation before.

"As much as she knows," he answered. "Mychael is a monk at Strata Florida and he has not written for some time. She has a book she keeps his letters in. A red book," he added.

"Ah," Madron said, sounding well pleased. The mud-colored rags dropped to a pile on the floor, revealing a fine, shimmering lavender gown stitched and gathered with silver thread. Matching kid boots showed beneath the hem, stitched with the same silver thread. The coif came off next, and with it the gray wig. Madron shook out her own auburn hair and ran her fingers along her scalp.

"I brought it for you to look at." He reached for the saddlebag and pulled out the book. 'Twas the reason he'd come, to find whatever truth there was, as much for his own benefit as the maid's.