Sinking into the bed, she pulled the coverlets up to her face. She was alone, again, the more so because of the easy friendship she witnessed between the other two on the far side of the chamber. All friendship and family had been stolen from her. Even if she wished, she could not return to the nuns and novices at the convent, not with the Prince of Gwynedd wanting her married and at Balor. There were no other people to whom she belonged, except a thieving cousin doing the prince's bidding.

An unwanted tear ran down her face. She wiped it with a corner of sable fur. Her tears must stop soon.

Maybe they would leave with the pain. She had never thought she would miss the convent, but she did-the quiet bustling of the nuns, the serenity of long hours spent in silence, the comfort of combined prayers. Living with Morgan and his men, even for just a few days, had made her wonder if she was more suited to the religious life than she had thought. She missed her friend Bronwyn, and Sister Judith, and Sister Isobel.

Fighting a sob, she squeezed her eyes shut and began a silent round of prayers. The familiarity brought a measure of comfort, as did the faith. She dare not forsake her God.

An easy touch on her arm brought her head around. It was the quiet maid, bringing her supper. With a sure and knowing touch, Edmee helped her sit up and offered her Dain's draught in a silver goblet.

Ceridwen took a sip and found it sweet. The thought to refuse the drink or the meal did not enter her mind. She needed to heal, and she needed strength either to fight or to run to the ends of the earth to escape Caradoc.

Chapter 6.

The maid had helped her to the chamber pot before settling her back in the bed and closing the curtains, but Ceridwen didn't think the girl had left the tower. She hadn't heard the great door creak open, and there were too many sounds of movement in the room.

Laughter reached her ears, rich and full. 'Twas Dain, she knew, recognizing the edge of his cynic's heart in the sound. She snuggled deeper into the bed and willed herself to ignore her pain and go to sleep. She had no use for his laughter or his company, and she would not ask for his simples, but sleep evaded her with the same dogged nimbleness as freedom.

Water was poured somewhere in the room, a great rushing stream of it splashing down into more water.

The laughter stopped and was replaced by a rumbling groan of pleasure coming from deep within a man's throat.

Inside the safe confines of the curtained bed, Ceridwen felt the vibrations of that great sigh roll across the chamber to touch her. She shivered, but not with cold. Numa whimpered and scooted to the end of the bed to push her head out between the lengths of green and yellow damask. Candlelight poured in through the opening along with the murmurings of a one-sided conversation.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Dain asked, his voice as mellow and satisfied as a cat's purr.

The silence that followed confirmed Ceridwen's suspicion that it was the mute maid and not the old man who remained in the tower room.

"If you're going to play dangerously," Dain went on, "mayhaps I'll increase my wager."

His laughter came after a short break of silence.

Curious, Ceridwen angled her head to see him-and saw more of his backside than she could ever have imagined, given all her years in a nunnery. Her first thought was to look away, but her second thought waylaid the first with surprising alacrity. He was beautiful and naked, lean and muscular and wet, with a warrior's body from the breadth of his shoulders to the curves of his buttocks and the length of his flanks.

Her gaze drifted over him, lingering in the shadows between his legs, following the lines of muscle across his back and farther to where he was marked with the sign of an ancient religion: A dark tore circled one of his upper arms in the slinky, graceful lines of a woad tattoo, and above the tore was a repetition of the arcane symbols on his gambeson. The man was bound by charms even down to his skin.

As she watched, he reached up into the drying racks hanging over the tub and chose a few flowers, some with the bloom of freshness still about them, picked-no doubt-from the pots of plants set beneath the window. He sank back down into the water, smiling at the maid sitting on a stool close by.

Between them was a table set up with a gaming board and playing pieces.

Edmee was fully clothed and already had sweet violets in her hair, to which he added blue iris buds and pink roses, gently slipping each stem into the crown of braids circling her head. The effect was that of a riotous spring garland. The maid didn't move once during his ministrations. Her attention was focused on the board.

"Take care, Edmee," he warned, tucking in the last flower. "If you check me now, I'll have you mated in two moves."

The maid glanced up with sloe-eyed impertinence, then went back to concentrating on the board. He laughed again and removed one of the roses he'd just put in her hair. Steam wafted up around him, dampening and straightening his chestnut mane into lank strands and adding a silvery sheen to his skin. He brought the flower to his nose and lazily twirled it, waiting for Edmee to make her move.

Ceridwen watched everything, fascinated and oddly disturbed by the scene, by the sensuality of it, the hint of unknown dangers. What she saw was laced with the forbidden, the more so for being observed by herself, yet the two of them appeared so casual, Dain most natural in his nakedness. Women oft bathed men. 'Twas not that which brought a blush to her cheeks, but rather the play between them. The air was ripe for something more.

Her gaze touched upon the studious maid and the chess game, then was drawn back to Dain.

Candlelight marked him with shifting shadows; they slid around the sinuous blue-black tore and the curves of muscle in his arms, and down the bared length of his back. They hovered in the darkness of his eyes and dwelt in the crease at the corner of his smile.

The rose brushed against his mouth, and he blew into it, separating the pink petals and setting them aflutter, his gaze never leaving Edmee-except when he brought the flower back to his nose to inhale its scent, and he gave the bed a discerning glance.

Ceridwen blanched. The look was personal, focused on her with an impossible intensity. There was no way for him to see her in the depths of the great bed, to know she was awake and watching-unless he truly was the sorcerer Ragnor thought him to be.

She lowered her lashes in defense, not knowing if the invasion she felt was real or her own imagining.

She had believed in his magic in the great hall, when he'd swept in with his cloak billowing about him and his dogs on either side. Now that vision seemed more of a fancy, a glamorous trick to snare weak minds.

She did not suffer from that affliction. The strength of her mind, Abbess Edith had assured her, would be the end of her one day. He would not snare her. If he had power, most likely 'twas only the power to deceive... and the power to fascinate, she admitted, her head coming up at the sound of his laughter. He was unlike any other, playing both the spectral demon and the Light-elf with equal ease; and the beast also, she was sure, when the mood was upon him.

Edmee made her move to check. The game ended quickly, just as he'd predicted, in two moves, but 'twas Edmee who took his king, not the other way around.

"You witch's daughter," he said, laughing again. "You have beaten me. Be off with you, then." He made a dismissive gesture. "Take your winnings and leave me in peace."

He rolled over onto his back in the tub and rested his head on the rim, seeming to ignore the maid as she walked up and down his rows of shelves with a pleased sashay to her hips, picking and choosing what she would take.

"Not that one," he called out, "unless 'tis for your mother. She knows well enough the use of crocus seeds."

Ceridwen saw the girl take one seed capsule and return the jar to the shelf before moving on. When she was finished, she went back to Dain and spread out her bounty on the gaming table for him to see.

"You play well and choose wisely, Edmee. Madron will be proud of you." In reply, the girl made a gesture Ceridwen couldn't see, but Dain grew still.

" 'Tis never part of the bargains we make." And then, "Aye, you know well how to please me, but..."

His voice trailed off as the maid dipped her hand beneath the water.

"Jesus," he cursed softly. "Your mother would put a hex on me to shrivel my balls if she but knew what we did."

For herself, Ceridwen wasn't sure what they were doing, or rather what the maid was doing to him, but she knew enough to understand that the hushed noises he made bespoke pleasure, not pain. There was no mistaking the encouragement lacing his whispered words, just as there was no mistaking the effect those words had on Ceridwen herself. A flush of excitement coursed over her skin, making her painfully aware of her body while at the same time overriding the pains she felt.

All the rules of God and men told her to look away, but she could do naught but watch the whole of it: the intent tenderness in the maid's gaze and the smooth rhythm of her touch; the small waves of water lapping upon the taut shore of his abdomen; the arch of his throat as he bent his head back over the rim of the tub, sending a damp slide of hair to the floor.

She could do naught but watch and wonder and feel the strange heat of what she saw.

Dain let his eyes drift closed as he sank into the spell Edmee wove with her hand. He released a breathy groan at one of the particularly enticing moves he'd taught her, but the sound was only half pleasure, the other half being frustration. Whenever Edmee visited, he always hoped 'twould come to this or more, but he never asked, had never asked, not even the first time when she'd so innocently seduced him with her mouth.

Her mouth was not so innocent now as it had been at the Yule. She'd proven adept at everything he'd taught her-from chess; to receipts her mother had sent her to learn, to the art of driving a man over the edge.

Aye, the witch's daughter knew her way around a man's shaft with her tongue, as she'd prove again soon enough, but tonight he wanted more. Tonight he wanted a kiss.

'Twas the chit's fault, for sighing in his mouth with a sweetness he still could taste.

A kiss. Was it so much to ask? He lifted his head and, silent and fluid, moved through the water to reach for Edmee. The maid eluded him with a quick step. Cursing and laughing, he sank back into the tub.

"You are unreasonable," he exclaimed. "Could we not once do this thing face-to-face? With all the parts where they fit best?" And there was the truth of it, he thought. 'Twas more than a kiss he would have taken if he'd caught her. After four years of chastity, he had succumbed to Edmee's mouth, and now he wanted to be buried deep inside a woman.

Edmee shook her head, and he cursed again, this time without the laughter.

"I know what you think, Edmee, and for the thousandth time, you are wrong. I can give you much without getting you with child." He watched her answer and grew more grim. It wasn't only the possibility of a child that stayed her. She was virgin, and though he'd promised to leave her as such-at least thefirst time-she was adamant about saving herself for marriage.

No matter to her that what she did with him was considered by many to be the ultimate intimacy, she would not take him any other way; and in Wydehaw, he would have no other. In truth, other than Vivienne, no other would have him. Some of the women were too pious to consort with a wizard, and all of them were too frightened. Piety and fear, the same pair of reasonings that kept him out of Lady Vivienne's much-used bed.

As for Edmee's kiss, he chose to ignore why she would not kiss for the same reason he chose to ignore what had brought her to him in the first place. Magician's milk, she'd called it in her way of things. He'd never heard the like, not even in the tents of Jalal al-Kamam, and as a cure for muteness, he ranked it no higher than the most ridiculous concoctions he'd seen for sale in marketplaces from Akabah toLondon .

Smart maid, she hadn't told him what she really wanted until she'd had him three or four times. By then he'd been well on the path of a momentary addiction. Three months later he was still on the path, and no amount of talking had been able to convince her that while he couldn't cure her, he also couldn't harm her with his kiss. Actually, that idea did have merit, of sorts, for a few years earlier she'd kissed a boy who had soon after died of fever. Within a week of his death, she'd had the fever, and 'twas the sickness that had taken her voice.

He'd had the story from her mother, who was under the mistaken impression that a maid who wouldn't kiss wouldn't do anything else. Madron didn't make many mistakes, as either a healer, trickster, mage, or mother. Dain could only hope the one involving him lasted throughout his lifetime; and he could only hope Edmee would return to his side now and finish him off. 'Twould ease him greatly, both in mind and body, if not in spirit. His spirit needed the succor of a kiss.

Edmee circled the tub, teasing and wary, giving him no more than he deserved for trying to push the boundaries she'd set, but he was not overly worried. A finer art he'd never mastered than the tricks to tease and entice, to turn sex into a sensually charged battleground of wills and willpower. For all she'd learned, Edmee was no master of the art of seduction. He'd been easy prey. He still was, but in this game, so was she.

"Come," he said, sweetening his voice and lifting his hand to her. She hesitated, so he added a guileless smile. "Please, Edmee. Come have your way with me."

At that she took his hand, the babe, and he slowly drew her near. With each of her steps, he rose higher out of the wooden tub, until he stood before her, water running down his body and excitement pooling in his groin.

Murmuring a soft sound, she sank to her knees in front of him. He reached down to cup her head in his hands. The first touch was always a gentle one, to prime a lover for what was to come. He'd taught her that, and she had not forgotten. She never forgot about the first touch, nor about anything else. She played him like a bard's harp, and there was a mindlessness in the act that he adored: the short and long glides of a tongue, the feel of a wet mouth closing around him, the delicately calibrated scrape of teeth, and him with nothing to do but receive the rain of pleasure it all created.

She pressed her tongue into the slit at the tip of his glans, and his thighs tightened. God, she was good, so very good, but tonight that would not be enough. The thought hit him even as the fires of release kindled in his loins and he made his first thrust.

Damn the chit. He wanted a kiss to go with the rest of it. He thrust again, easing his shaft deeper, andEdmee clasped him about the hips, so that together they could forge an ancient rhythm out of heat and friction. A dark thrill coursed down his spine-and was made even darker and more thrilling by a new awareness he felt slipping through him.

She watches.

He lifted his heavy-lidded gaze from Edmee to the bed and searched the shadows there, wanting and needing to feel Ceridwen's caress upon his body, even if 'twas only the luminous caress of her eyes.

The delights of voyeurism were well within his repertoire, but this was different. It went deeper, his need to make contact on an elemental plane. Ceridwen had kissed him and been enchanted, and enchanting.

A candle on the end of the table guttered out its life in a sudden blaze, throwing a flash of light past the damask curtains to the pillows and proving what his instincts had told him. She did await him there, watching, pale blue eyes glittering with shock and the pure undefiled heat of desire.

It was enough.

His head fell back as he groaned, and a surge of pleasure coursed through him, releasing the potion Edmee coveted.

Chapter 7.

March 1198 Balor Keep, Merioneth,Wales.

Busy, busy, busy. So busy. Snit scuttled through the murky dark along the inside of the curtain wall, clutching his leather bag of hard-won booty: eyes of newts, and legs and tails too, and worm spore for his master, Helebore, plus a little something for his master's master, Caradoc.

Caradoc the Ingrate, Snit thought, for nothing seemed to please the Boar. Why, only two days past Snit had brought the lord a rare wee beasty he'd found trapped in a spider's web, and the Boar hadn't deigned to give it a glance. But this eve's prize was sure to bring a boon. A beautiful mottled gray rock it was, studded with fallen stars. Most of the stars that fell above Balor landed in the sea. Even if they started well inland, by the time they reached the earth, their course had shifted them over water where they fizzled and sank. Why, Snit conjectured, there must be a veritable mountain of fallen stars off the coast ofBalor .

But one-A wide grin split his face as he fondled the stone through his pouch. One had crashed into the land, and he, Snit, had found the shards of it embedded in a smooth gray rock. "Rich, rich, rich," he hummed to himself. "Aye, I'll be rich."

He came to a corner and stopped, his gaze darting this way and that. 'Twas safer to stay close to a good stone wall, but 'twasn't always possible.

"Ofttimes the bailey needs be crossed," he told himself in no uncertain terms, girding himself for the mad dash that would take him to the keep and his master's chambers.

The wide-open space loomed in front of him, flooded with a full moon's light and all its accompanying shadows, each one a sure hiding place for robbers and cutthroats, and him with his precious rock to get home.

He swore, a tangled garble of words. More robbers and cutthroats than usual since Morgan ab Kynan had returned from the south with his war band and the prisoner Ragnor. Caradoc was going to rend the red giant from limb to limb for his crime. Balor was to have had a lady, a real lady, and now they all must wait. Snit felt a particular affront at the delay. He'd been hoarding gifts for Balor's bride for over a fortnight and was most eager to shower them upon the maid.

Morgan's band wouldn't stay long. They never did. Never long enough to learn anything, or see anything, or hear anything. Even those who lived in Balor never saw the things Snit did, or heard the sounds of the deep dark.

The Thief of Cardiff was a strange friend for someone of the Boar's great importance. Morgan was light and clear-odd for a thief-barely a smudge of darkness about him, a man of no depth when compared to Snit's lord. War had made them friends. Snit knew all about it from hearsay and rumor, as the Boar never spoke to him directly. 'Twould be unseemly.

A cloud passed over the moon, and Snit took it as an omen. He dashed across the bailey, hunching his shoulders around his leather bag, hiding himself in the cloud's shadow. With a loud gasp, he came up against the wall of stone that was the south side of the hall. Nary a robber or a cutthroat had laid a hand upon him.

"Fie!" he called out into the bailey, crowing his victory.

A guardsman on duty at the bottom of the keep's covered stairwell crossed himself and muttered a prayer. Snit caught the gesture out of the corner of his eye and spat toward the man's feet. Fool.

He turned and felt his way along the wall until he came to the place he sought, a door no bigger than the lid on a wooden chest. Indeed, 'twas what the door had been, which accounted for its shape. Snit fumbled on his belt for his key and undid the lock on the hasp. Then he let himself in and barred the door behind him with an oak plank.

Inside the great hall of Balor Keep, Morgan watched as Caradoc raised a flagon of ale and quaffed the whole of it. When the earthenware vessel was dry, the Boar crashed it onto the floor with a mighty heave and called for another. Thick golden hair fell on either side of his face in cascading layers, but did naught to soften the harshness of his visage or the dark fury in his eyes. He was a striking figure, large and powerfully built, dressed in fine black camlet and samite in preparation for the bride that had not come.

His surcoat was quilted and embossed with a rich gold thread, the damask tunic he wore underneath waspure white and embroidered with the same gold thread, a veritable fortune in clothes, and all for naught.

No talk or laughter rose from the tables spread down either side of the hearth, though all were full. Men ate in silence, the pall of their lord's anger infecting every bite they took. The only one who dared speak was a small child, no more than three, by Morgan's guess, and Caradoc's daughter, by the look of her. A serious thing she was for one so little, and imperious, scolding the servants and making demands of a dark-haired woman Morgan guessed was her mother. Both would have to go when Ceridwen became Balor's lady.

Morgan sat far to the left of the pair and his friend, though the term "friend" seemed to apply no longer.

When Morgan had delivered his news of Ceridwen, Caradoc had nearly struck him down, indeed, would have, if Morgan had not blocked the blow. Of his own men, Rhodri and Dafydd had been closest, and both had drawn their daggers to protect him. Though no blood had been shed, such actions between men-of-arms left an irreparable breach. The next messenger sent to Balor by the ruling Prince of Gwynedd would be one other than Morgan ab Kynan. He would not return, and he would warn Dain to take extra care with the maid, for old ties were being forgotten.

Thwarted in his first attack, Caradoc had taken his mood out upon anyone not quick enough to elude him. Half a dozen servants had been cuffed with the back of his hand, one so badly he had not gotten back up but still lay bleeding into the rushes behind the dais.

Morgan's band didn't often dare to travel by night, even when the moon was full, but the risks of facing the night were far less than the risks of remaining within the reach of Caradoc's rage. Another slip like the thwarted blow and 'twould be warfare. So they ate as if on tenterhooks, biding their meal and their manners until 'twas seemly to leave.

Sitting at the table below Morgan, the youngest of his band, Drew and Rhys, could not manage even that little bit. Their trenchers were hardly touched, nor their cups. Morgan doubted if 'twas the thought of fighting their way out of the keep that twisted their guts. Something more than a belated bride was amiss in Balor.

The castle was abuzz with the discovery of two men that morn, one dead, the other said to be gasping his last breaths in the leech's chambers below the hall. Crushed he was, the dead man, Caradoc's guards muttered, his bones ground to dust within his skin. The second man was said to be only half-crushed and raving of demons in the dark, of ungodly heat, and unbearable pressure. The two had been washed up on a shingle beach half a league south of Balor, after having been missing for a sennight.

Drew and Rhys had argued for staying inside the castle walls rather than face whatever had done the deadly deed. Morgan had prevailed, but it had taken Owain to convince the two younger men of the wisdom of leaving.