Brigitta nodded.

Eamonn's arm was slung around her neck, and she was curled against him, her long legs intertwined with his, stretching toward the campfire. They looked as indolent and comfortable as a pair of basking leopards, the two of them. I smothered a pang of envy and glanced at my wife. "An academy filled with dangerous books" I said. "What do you think?"

" 'Tis a good thing, I think." Dorelei considered. "I know the ollamhs' concerns, but is knowledge not a gift in any form?"

"Spoken like one of Shemhazai's descendants!" Joscelin said in approval.

She flushed prettily. "Alba fears change, but not all change is bad. Brigitta has told me somewhat about the University of Tiberium. It would not be a bad thing, I think, if the young men of Alba sought honor in exchanging words and thoughts, and not raiding cattle and avenging blood-feuds."

"It hasn't stopped the Caerdicci," I observed.

"No, but it slowed them down," Eamonn said. "Without scholarship, there would be no agreement among the city-states, no Caerdicca Unitas."

We talked for a while longer before turning in for the night. I lay awake for some time, listening to the breeze rustle the walls of the oiled silk tent I shared with Dorelei. I thought about war, knowledge, and change, and all those things we used to discuss under Master Piero's guidance. Tiberium seemed long ago and far away, which wasn't entirely bad. At least here in Alba, I was freed from the suffocating coils and snares of intrigue that bound me, both in Tiberium and in Terre d'Ange.

The Unseen Guild had no foothold here.

No one cared that Melisande Shahrizai was my mother.

Life would be a good deal simpler. If I tried hard enough, I might even learn to like it. And mayhap with time and distance, the heartache would grow bearable; the boulder dwindle to a pebble.

In the way that happens when one lets one's thoughts drift, I fell asleep without knowing it until the sound awoke me. A huffing sound, deep and guttural, followed by a low, drawn-out groan. Something was moving around the outside the tent, something large.

I sat upright in my bedroll. Beside me, Dorelei was sound asleep. I eased my sword from its scabbard and got carefully to my feet. Another huff and snort, somewhere to the right of us. When I stooped and touched the ground with my fingertips, I could feel it tremble beneath the creature's heavy tread.

A bear. It had to be a bear.

My palms broke out in a cold sweat, rendering my grip on the sword-hilt slippery. I glanced at Dorelei in an agony of indecision. No time to wake her, no time to explain. I doubted a lone man could kill a full-grown bear with a sword, but at least I could draw it away. I could die an inept hero, and let the sentries explain to my loved ones over my mauled body how a bear had wandered undetected into the heart of our campsite.

If I thought about it for another instant, I'd lose my nerve. So I didn't. With my blood roaring in my ears and my heart thundering in my chest, I dashed through the tent-flap; darting left, then whirling right to face the bear, the sword braced in both hands, angled across my body.

There was nothing there.

Not a bear, not even a dog. Nothing. Only our tent standing beneath the stars, its walls rippling softly in the breeze. I sidled around it, crossing one foot carefully over the other, sword at the ready. The grass was cool, not yet dewy. There were no tracks, no prints left by anything larger than the soldiers who'd erected our tent. Nothing heavy enough to make the ground tremble had been here.

There was an odor, though. A rank, musky odor.

I circled the tent, my nostrils flaring. Was it real or was it the spectre of Daranga that haunted me; the stench of fear and ordure, the coppery tang of blood, the decaying vegetable reek of the stagnant pool? I couldn't tell.

The stars were high and bright overhead. I could make out the whole of our campsite. There was nothing to see. No vast, shambling shadow moving among us. The horses and mules were dozing in their picket-lines. Our tents and wagons stood undisturbed. Men slept wrapped in bedrolls around the glowing embers of our campfires. Here and there around the outskirts, sentries were posted, gazing out into the quiet night.

Feeling like a fool, I lowered my sword. Even the odor had vanished. I must have dreamed of Daranga without realizing it, somehow conflating my memories with tales of the Maghuin Dhonn. I'd done such a good job of burying my feelings, I wasn't even aware of my own nightmares anymore.

Well, at least I hadn't awakened the entire camp screaming at the top of my lungs, which was my usual response to haunted dreams. Although I daresay it wouldn't be much less embarrassing if one of the sentries took notice and came to ask why I was prowling around in my underdrawers and waving a sword.

I slipped quietly back into the tent. Dorelei was still sleeping. I sheathed my sword and lay down beside her, keeping my sword close. For a long time, I was too tense to sleep, my body buzzing with alarm. I made myself listen to my wife's slow, steady breathing, to the rustling of the tent walls, to the ordinary sounds of camp beyond. Bit by bit, my racing pulse ceased to thud and my tense muscles relaxed. With my right hand resting on the hilt of my sword, I slid slowly into sleep.

The last thing I heard was the sound of pipes and a woman's laughter.

Surely, another dream.

In the clear light of morning, it seemed all the more absurd. I contemplated mentioning it to Eamonn or Joscelin or even Urist, but when I took a surreptitious turn around the tent, peering at the grass to confirm that there were no inhuman tracks, I found nothing. Whatever I'd imagined, it was clearly the product of my sleep-addled mind. There had been no bear here. By daylight, it was obvious that I'd dreamed the entire thing.

Dorelei caught me at it. "Did you lose something?" she asked, puzzled.

"Only my wits." I picked a bright yellow sprig of buttercup and tucked it behind her ear, belatedly noticing the short hunting bow she carried and the quiver over her shoulder. "Were you planning to shoot someone?"

She smiled, flashing a dimple. "A grouse or two, mayhap. We've a bit of time before they strike camp, and a bird for the pot never goes amiss. Will you come?"

"Why not?" I agreed.

I knew Cruithne women were skilled with the bow, but this was the first time I'd witnessed aught save Alais attempting to shoot at targets. We made our way across the down to the hazel copse. Along the way, Dorelei bade me collect a number of good-size stones. I obeyed with cheerful perplexity. At the edge of the copse, she grew intent and focused, staring at the underbrush.

"There." She nocked an arrow and pointed with the tip. "Throw a stone."

I cocked my arm to throw, gazing at her for a moment. The bow described an elegant arc, her hands steady on it, upraised arms unwavering. Her face was rapt with concentration, lips parted. The yellow buttercup looked pretty against her black hair. I wondered if I could ever bring myself to have feelings for her.

"Imriel!" she whispered. "Now!"

I hurled the rock into the underbrush. A trio of grouse burst from the cover, wings rattling. Dorelei's bow sang, and one of the birds plummeted. She laughed aloud, girlish and delighted, and I found myself grinning. "Well done, my lady."

Dorelei curtsied in the D'Angeline manner. "Thank you, my lord."

We stood there, smiling at one another. Back at the campsite, a long blast sounded on Urist's battle-horn, alerting us that it was time to depart. I was almost sorry to hear it. "One grouse it is," I said lightly, retrieving the bird. It was warm and still twitching. I eased her arrow free and broke its ruffed neck with a quick twist, putting an end to its spasms. I wiped the arrow clean with a hank of grass and handed it to her. "Here you are."

"My thanks." Dorelei returned the arrow to her quiver. She glanced toward the camp, then back at me, hesitant. "It is...it is going to be better here in Alba, isn't it? You and me?"

I nodded. "Better, yes."

"Good." She flashed another dimpled smile, filled with relief. "I thought so, too."

We returned to camp without delay, delivering the grouse to Galan, the Cruithne warrior who had taken it upon himself to serve as chief cook for the royal contingent. He clucked his tongue approvingly, promising a fine luncheon of spit-roasted fowl. I caught Phedre's gaze on me, wondering.

I felt guilty at it, and wasn't sure why.

And then Urist blew the summons, and we were off, riding across Alba.

Chapter Nineteen.

Such was the pattern of our journey.By day we travelled the taisgaidh paths under Urist's expert guidance, and I marveled that such vast expanses of hospitable land remained uninhabited. Betimes we caught sight of distant farms and villages, and once we intercepted a raiding party of Tarbh Cro warriors who fixed us with hard stares, but declined to violate the unwritten rules that governed the old ways. For the most part, northern Alba was a green gem, unspoiled and untrammeled.

By night, we sat around the campfire and talked.

Those were my favorite times.

"What do you think, Lady Phedre?" Dorelei asked one night, greatly daring. "Should Master Hyacinthe pass on his knowledge?"

Phedre was quiet for a long time, gazing at the crackling embers. If Joscelin had an opinion, he didn't voice it, choosing instead to regard her in silence. "I don't know," she said at length. "I truly don't."

"All knowledge is worth having," I quoted. Joscelin smiled.

Phedre didn't. "It's not the knowledge," she said slowly. "It's the power. 'Tis an unnatural thing for any mortal to wield. A dangerous thing."

"You did, love," Joscelin reminded her softly. "You spoke the Name of God."

"It was a gift, a gift given me for a purpose." She turned a troubled gaze on him. "An ancient wrong was redressed. 'Tis a different matter if one speaks of Hyacinthe choosing a successor so that Alba may continue to guard its shores."

"True." He stroked her hair. "Mayhap there are other wrongs to set right."

She smiled reluctantly. "I'd sooner there weren't."

"I think it should end," Eamonn said firmly. "Lady Phedre is right, it is too much power for one person to wield. If a sovereign becomes a tyrant, the people may rise up and overthrow him. What would happen if the Master of the Straits chose his successor poorly? Who could stand against him?"

"Is it worth leaving Alba undefended?" Dorelei asked. "Surely, Master Hyacinthe would choose wisely in such a grave matter."

"And if he does not?" Brigitta asked, choosing her words with care. She was able to follow our conversations as long as we didn't go too swiftly, and preferred that we spoke Eiran or Cruithne to afford her the practice. "Or the next time, or the next? One day, Alba is maybe tyrant, bad tyrant. Like Tiberium." She shrugged. "Like Waldemar Selig tries. In Skaldi, he is a great man. You all make me think, maybe not. One day, it may be the same in Alba. Sea goes everywhere, rule all the seas. Everyone obeys."

It made me smile to imagine tiny Alba ruling the world. And yet mayhap it wasn't so strange. Tiberium was only a city, and yet its empire had encompassed the whole of the Caerdicci peninsula, all of Terre d'Ange, large tracts of Aragonia and Skaldia. It had even reached Alba's shores.

Not so strange at all, really.

"Well, he couldn't rule all the seas," Joscelin said logically. "Hyacinthe's power has limits, does it not? And he cannot be vigilant in all places all the time."

"A hundred leagues times three," Phedre murmured. "And his sea-mirror is blind beyond the lands whose coasts border his demesne. Still..."

"Maybe he teach others," Brigitta suggested. "Masters take students."

"A plague of Hyacinthes," Joscelin mused.

No one laughed. Phedre accorded Brigitta a look of deep respect. "You make very good points, my lady. Every day, I comprehend more and more why Prince Eamonn was willing to risk so much to win your hand."

Brigitta smiled shyly. "Old enemies, new friends."

The journey wasn't always easy. The taisgaidh paths led us along a pass through low mountains where the ground was covered with a loose scree that made our mounts and the wagon-mules lose their footing. Betimes the wagons got stuck and had to be pushed free. It rained a good deal more than I was used to. Twice, we risked losing our way in a mist so dense we could have ridden within three yards of a marker without seeing it. When that happened, Urist simply called a halt, and we waited for the mist to lift.

We were travelling without attendants, without many luxuries, having reckoned the burden of added baggage and personnel would outweigh the benefits. It hadn't surprised Eamonn that Dorelei found it no hardship; Alban royalty don't live pampered lives. Phedre surprised him, though.

He said as much one afternoon when the drizzle had turned to a steady rain, heavy enough that we'd all donned our cloaks.

I laughed at him. "You've no idea, do you?"

Eamonn blinked, rain dripping from the hood of his cloak. "What do you mean?"

"In Jebe-Barkal during the rainy season," I said, "the rain falls so hard it's like standing under a bucket. The mire is so deep, betimes our pack-donkeys sank to their hocks. Everything rots. The horses get saddle-sores. And when it doesn't rain, there are blood-flies. They lay eggs in the open sores. You have to pick them out, or the wounds will grow and fester." I raised one hand, wriggling my fingers. "That was our job, Phedre's and mine. We were the best at it because we had the smallest fingers."

"Truly?" Eamonn glanced dubiously at Phedre, riding ahead of us.

"Truly," I assured him.

Other than rain, mist, and the occasional benign sighting of other travellers, our journey was uneventful. I had no more dreams of bears that woke me in the middle of the night and sent me plunging out of our tent, half naked, sword in hand. I had no dreams at all, not that I remembered. But betimes when I hovered on the verge of sleep, I thought I heard the other thing: pipes, and a woman's laughter.

And yet when I wrenched myself back to wakefulness, there was nothing.

Only silence.

When I asked Dorelei if she'd heard anything peculiar in the night, she only gave me a worried, puzzled look and shook her head. And so I concluded it had to be my mind playing tricks on me. It made sense, I suppose. I'd been playing Hugues' flute, remembering the goat-pipes of my childhood. And a woman's laughter ...ah, well. There was no mystery there, only another painful memory to bury.

Except that I'd never heard the tune the piper played before in my life.

And the laughter wasn't Sidonie's.

Well, and so. The human mind is a strange place, filled with endless vagaries. I was Elua's scion as well as Kushiel's, and I had transgressed against his sacred precept. I had turned my back on love, at least for the time. Somewhere deep inside in my heart, I felt guilt at it. Small wonder my mind was concocting phantoms. Since there was naught to be done about it, I endured it and hoped it would pass.

Still, it made my skin prickle.

On the tenth day of our journey, we reached the outskirts of the Dalriada's holdings. After the low mountains, the land was once more green and lush. Eamonn breathed deeply of the air, filling his lungs.

"Do you smell it?" he exulted. "Home!"

It smelled much the same to me as anywhere else in Alba, but I made no comment. I knew too well what it was like to return home after long absence and great travail.

We made camp that day in a meadow alongside a beech forest; earlier than was our wont, at Eamonn's insistence. He chose the site himself with great care, acting mysterious. When I asked him why, he laughed and went to speak with Urist without answering. I saw the dour Cruithne grin unexpectedly and nod, and Eamonn returned.

"Come and see," he said. "All of you."

Holding Brigitta's hand, he led us into the forest. The sun was still some distance above the horizon and the slanting light filtered greenly through the trees. It was an old, old wood with a high canopy, and little grew beneath it save dense moss covering the rocks and boulders that dotted the ground. Eamonn picked his way as though there were a discernible path, periodically glancing overhead. The second time he did, Phedre pointed in the direction of his gaze, and I saw a faded hank of red thread tied to a branch.

Presently, we heard the faint trickling of water. It was a quiet sound, and it made me realize we'd all been walking silent and hushed. "There," Eamonn whispered, pointing. He smiled at Brigitta. "Brigid's Well. A sacred place belonging to your sacred namesake. You see it is true? We share long-ago roots."

Near the base of a large tree decorated with more red thread, a stone dolmen had been erected. It was shaggy with moss, and a dark aperture lay in its shadow. Water seeped out between the rocks around it, a dozen gleaming trickles gathering to form a streamlet that wandered a few yards before vanishing in the damp soil.

"What do I do?" Brigitta whispered back.

"Here." Eamonn went forward and knelt before the dolmen. He offered a prayer to the goddess Brigid and invoked her blessing on his wife and friends, then dipped one cupped hand into the aperture. It came out dripping. He beckoned to Brigitta. "Drink."

She knelt beside him, sipping from his broad, cupped palm. Her eyes brightened with surprise. "It's sweet!"

Eamonn grinned. "Like you, my heart." He drank the rest, then drew a crumbled oatcake from the pouch on his belt, setting it atop the dolmen. "Now the rest of you."

"We brought no offering," Phedre protested.

"There is no need." He shook his head. "You are my guests in this land."