We hadn't spoken of Sidonie since leaving the City of Elua. "I've no idea," I said truthfully. "Nothing rash, I promise." I raised my brows. "Mayhap I could accompany you and Joscelin on whatever it is you're about."

"Oh, that." She smiled at me. "So you do want to know, then?"

I thought about it. "Not really, no."

Phedre laughed and kissed my cheek. "Fairly spoken."

In some part of me, I knew all of this would come to naught. 'Tis too late for that, Morwen had said when I'd spoken of returning to Terre d'Ange. A lot can happen in a month, Dorelei had said when I'd told her. There was a line drawn between those two things, taut and inevitable. Even I, dumbstruck and shocked to my callow core at the notion of impending fatherhood, had seen it without prompting.

But we waited until we knew for a surety.

In its own way, it was a pleasant time. Although I reported my encounter with Morwen to the others, there were no further sightings of the Maghuin Dhonn. The Lady Sibeal ran her household with a firm, gentle hand. Phedre, Joscelin, and Hyacinthe continued to engage in their private intrigue, which involved long conferences in the tower, maps, and hushed, esoteric arguments. Awe gave way to a measure of familiarity. Day by day, the Master of the Straits began to seem more human, more mortal. The heavy mantle of responsibility that weighed on him seemed lighter in their company.

Meanwhile, Urist and his men alleviated the tedium with hunting and shooting for the pot, and Dorelei and I often rode with them, vying with one another for sport as we'd done at Innisclan.

I felt myself suspended between one thing and another; the known and the unknown. What would come, would come, and there was naught I could do about it. In truth, I couldn't have said what I truly wanted.

Betimes, freedom beckoned. There was no denying it.

But at other times, I found myself gazing at Dorelei, filled with an inexplicable tenderness. Ah, Elua! The notion that we had begotten life between us...

It is an old mystery; the oldest mystery.

I prayed to Blessed Elua, and my prayers were simple. Love as thou wilt, he bade us. But he failed to elaborate on all the myriad forms of love that existed. And so I prayed, simply, that whatever happened, I acted in love.

"You're sure?" I asked Dorelei when she told me.

"Yes, I'm sure!" She swatted at my hands as I raised her skirts, laughing helplessly as I held her down on our bed and pinned my ear against the soft brown skin of her belly. "Imriel, let be. 'Tis too early. There's naught to hear."

"How do you know?" I lifted my head. "Have you done this before?"

"No." Her fingers knotted in my hair, her face softening. "Come here."

I went.

Sibeal sent for a wise-woman, an herb-witch who'd attended her own birthings. It was women's business, that, and I wasn't privy to it. She was a nut-brown woman, wizened and bent. Later, Dorelei told me she'd poked and prodded, testing her insides with surprisingly gentle fingers, smelling them afterward, her broad nostrils flaring.

At the time, I knew only what the wise-woman reported.

"Oh, aye!" She gave us a gap-toothed grin, her head bobbing. "The lass is with child."

I knew; I'd known all the while.

It made me tender, it made me solicitous, it made me a little bit mad. I couldn't get past the notion of it. I forgot, altogether, about the bindings on me. During the days, I was content. At night, I made love to Dorelei, crooning to the child in her belly.

"Which one of us do you want?" she asked me once, tartly.

At that, I sat back on my heels. "Would you have me lie, my lady, and say the child has naught to do with it?"

"No." Her dark eyes filled with tears. "May the gods help me, I'll take what I may have of you. After all, it doesn't matter now, does it?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I grew up without the benefit of parents to love me. I'll not have our child do the same."

"I know," Dorelei whispered in reply.

Somewhere, somehow, we'd come to understand one another, Dorelei and I.

During those days, my bonds, like Hyacinthe's responsibilities, rested more lightly on me. Oh, I checked them daily, but there was naught to threaten them. I bore them easily. Betimes, I was glad of them. Without the ache of desire plaguing me, I was able to take genuine joy in moments of ordinary happiness.

It came almost as a surprise when the day arrived for us to depart for Bryn Gorrydum, but summer was fleeting and Hyacinthe had watched the Cruarch's flagship cross the Straits in his sea-mirror. It was time. Only a month ago, I would have faced the prospect of repeating my nuptial vows with a vague, half-felt dread, masked by steel resolve and false courtesy. Now I was calm.

So it was that we all set forth, riding in the company of the Master of the Straits and his lady wife. The children, who had grown fond of us, howled bitterly at being left behind. I watched Dorelei embrace them in farewell and promise to visit, a tender ache in my breast. I wondered if the child we'd made together, their young kinsman-to-be, would emerge stamped with the inexplicable trait of some unknown ancestor, like Donal and his protruding ears.

The thought of my impending fatherhood still overwhelmed me with unfamiliar emotion.

In ways I'd never guessed, it seemed I was truly my mother's son.

Although the city was only a day's ride away, we elected to make camp a half league or so beyond its outskirts that evening. Urist sent Kinadius to fetch the rest of our escort to accompany us on the morrow, that we might enter the city in splendor befitting the Master of the Straits, a Princess of Alba, and assorted D'Angeline royalty.

"How long has it been since you camped a-field?" Joscelin asked Hyacinthe as we lounged around the campfire that night.

"Not as long as you might think, Cassiline." Hyacinthe sounded amused, and far younger than he had when we'd first arrived. "I do leave the Stormkeep at times to wander about. I do it quietly, that's all."

He'd appeared at Montreve once when I was a boy, not long after Phedre had rescued him. I'd not been on hand to witness his arrival, but I still remembered watching him leave; a dim figure on a grey horse, vanishing into the dawn mists. I wondered what it felt like to command the elements, to reconcile that self with the Tsingano lad who'd told fortunes for coin in Night's Doorstep. My own struggles seemed small and insignificant beside his fate.

In the morning, the full complement of our men arrived, and we rode the rest of the way to Bryn Gorrydum.

If our initial reception had been a trifle cool, this one made up for it. Whatever reservations Albans might have about Dorelei's and my marriage, they held the Master of the Straits in high esteem. The Cruarch himself met us at the city's edge, accompanied by an honor guard. On Drustan's right was his heir Talorcan, and on his left...

"Imri!"

Alais' voice was filled with lilting joy. If she'd been at all wroth with me for her suspicions regarding Sidonie, she'd forgotten it. Indeed, she looked happier than I'd ever seen her. Her face was alight with it, her violet eyes sparkling.

I smiled with genuine pleasure. "Hello, villain. 'Tis good to see you.

We rode in procession through the city to the fortress. Alais chattered with boundless enthusiasm the whole while, telling me every detail of their journey across Terre d'Ange and the Straits and their arrival in Bryn Gorrydum. She barely spoke of home, and I didn't ask.

I'd been right about one thing I'd told her some time ago-the Albans loved her. There was no tribute the way there would have been in the City of Elua, no cheering and throwing of flower petals, but I could see it in the faces of folk lining the streets as we passed. They smiled at the sight of her, warm and indulgent, taking pride and pleasure in her obvious delight at being here in Alba.

I felt a little of that warmth spill over onto me, and I was glad of it.

When we reached Bryn Gorrydum's stony grey fortress, we found it full to the rafters. Our Alban nuptials would be a far smaller affair than the wedding in Terre d'Ange, but the Palace could house nigh unto a hundred peers without straining, and the City of Elua was vast. A small handful here in Bryn Gorrydum felt like many, many more. After the peaceful isolation of the Stormkeep, I felt ill at ease being confined with so many folk.

With her father's blessing, Alais took it upon herself to show us to our quarters, while Talorcan tended to Phedre and Joscelin, and Drustan himself to Hyacinthe and Sibeal. There was a welcoming feast already under way in the great hall. As Alais escorted us through the narrow corridors to our rooms, the roar of it seemed to echo everywhere.

" 'Tis enough to make me miss Innisclan," Dorelei whispered.

"I know," I whispered back. "Me, too."

I'd hoped for a chance to have a quiet word with Drustan, to tell him about the Maghuin Dhonn and all that had transpired since we left Terre d'Ange, but it was not to be, at least not that day. Our nuptials wouldn't take place until two days hence, but it seemed the celebrating had already begun in earnest, and we were expected to make an immediate appearance.

"Hurry, won't you?" Alais pleaded. "Everyone's here, and they're all waiting!"

"Everyone?" Dorelei cocked an amused brow at her.

"Everyone!" Alais repeated.

In Terre d'Ange, the fete wouldn't have properly begun until the guests of honor arrived, but this was nothing at all like a D'Angeline affair. For the first time, I truly felt the vast chasm that existed between life in Alba and home. Our initial arrival in Bryn Gorrydum had been quiet and uneventful, and the differences hadn't struck me as hard in Innisclan or Stormkeep, where we'd been the guests of old friends.

But this; this was an affair of state. It was raucous and informal, and if there was a protocol, I couldn't determine it. And if everyone was indeed awaiting us, there wasn't much evidence of it. From what I could see, they were already having a fine time.

The hall was crowded and sweltering in the late-summer heat. There was a long trestle table piled high with food. The sight of an enormous roast, glistening with fatty juices, made my stomach a bit queasy.

There were people standing and milling around the table, laughing, jesting, eating, and drinking. Dark Cruithne, and the more fair, ruddy folk of the Tarbh Cro and the Eidlach Or. Most of the men clustered around the table, while the women, of whom there were far fewer, seemed to be at the far end of the hall. There were children and dogs underfoot. Servants shoved their way through the throng, bearing platters of food and pitchers of drink.

"There's Eamonn!" Alais pointed across the hall, where his bright head was visible. "He and Brigitta arrived yesterday, and his younger brother, too!"

"Has my mother not arrived?" Dorelei asked.

"Oh, yes! I'm supposed to take you to her." Alais took Dorelei's hand and plunged into the crowd, leading her across the hall.

I began to follow, but I didn't get far before I was waylaid. Phedre and Joscelin were yet to make an appearance, and my D'Angeline features stood out like a beacon.

"You're the young prince!" A stalwart blond fellow with impressive drooping mustaches clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Gwynek of Brea."

"Imriel de la Courcel," I offered.

"Welcome!" He grinned beneath his mustaches. "Peder, come greet the young prince! And by all that's holy, bring the lad a drink."

A taller version of Gwynek came over to introduce himself, thrusting a goblet of mead into my hand. By the time I'd won my way free, I'd met a dozen clan-lords of the Eidlach Or and the Tarbh Cro, all of whom were deemed important or influential enough to be invited to attend our nuptials.

They were friendly, but there was a testing edge to their friendliness; even with each other. Travelling the taisgaidh ways, quiet and undisturbed-save for Morwen's mischief-Alba had seemed a peaceful place. Now I remembered Drustan saying there was always feuding among the clans. It was easier to believe here. I could well imagine these men drinking together under the same roof in cheerful brotherhood, and going home to plot raids on one another.

I met a few of the Cruithne clan-lords, too. They were more somber and less effusive, gauging me with dark eyes. More than once, I caught lingering gazes studying my bare, unmarked face, wondering if this untried warrior was worthy of being made an honorary member of the Cullach Gorrym.

It was Eamonn who came to my rescue, shouldering his way through the crowd. "What a crush!" He gave me a lopsided grin, suggesting he'd had more than a few cups of mead. "It's worse than that riot in Tiberium, eh?"

"Or suppertime at Innisclan," I muttered.

He laughed. "Come on. You've got family to meet."

With Eamonn's aid, I made my way to the far side of the hall. It was quieter there, with chairs set about for the women, who were conversing far more peaceably than the menfolk.

Dorelei was seated beside her mother, holding her hand and smiling. The Lady Breidaia glanced up at our arrival, her eyes shining. Indeed, all of the women were beaming, including Alais, who looked fit to wriggle right out of her skin. Even Brigitta was smiling, and Conor, seated among the women with his harp on his lap, was grinning wide enough to split his face. I guessed Dorelei had told them our news.

I bowed deeply to Breidaia. "Well met, my lady. 'Tis an honor."

Someone giggled. "Such manners!"

"Imriel is always polite," Dorelei observed. "Except when he's not."

Ignoring her daughter, Lady Breidaia rose and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek. She had a calm, warm presence, and I liked her immediately. "Welcome to the family, Imriel," she said softly. "We're so very pleased."

Alais let out a squeak. "Oh, Imri! Aren't you excited?"

I felt myself grin as foolishly as Conor. "I am, actually."

"Why?" Eamonn looked perplexed. "I mean, you are already wed, aren't you?"

"Not that," Brigitta said with affectionate scorn. "They're having a child."

"Dagda Mor!" Eamonn stared at me. "You are?" I nodded, and he glanced over at Brigitta with a grin of his own. "Well, we'd best busy ourselves, hadn't we?"

At that moment, Drustan and the others entered. Those who were seated rose, and a silent hush of respect fell over the hall. Some of it was for the Cruarch of Alba, but I daresay a good deal of it was for the Master of the Straits.

And, too, for Phedre and Joscelin.

After all, they were the ones had freed him.

Save for the bustling servants, clearing empty platters and bringing laden ones in turn, the hall was still. Drustan stood for a moment, surveying it. "My lords and ladies," he said in his steady, commanding voice. "We are gathered to celebrate the nuptials of my sister's daughter, Dorelei mab Breidaia of the Cullach Gorrym, to Imriel no Montreve de la Courcel of Terre d'Ange. In their honor, I pledge that for three days of the new moon, from sunrise to sunrise, this table will never stand empty. Will you join us at it?"

There were shouts and cheers, and a scuffle for seats on the long benches that lined the table, which I daresay would have been less muted if not for Hyacinthe's presence. A few places of honor for the Cruarch's family and guests were reserved at the head of the table; the rest appeared to be claimed at will.

How does one measure the length of a meal without beginning or end? We sat for hours. It was simple, hearty fare, but there was so much of it I wanted to groan. I washed it down with mead until my head was swimming and my tongue felt coated with the sweetness of fermented honey.

The Albans ate and drank ceaselessly, loud and clamorous. Many of them eschewed utensils, making do with belt knives and hands, slipping tidbits to the dogs lounging under the table. I caught Alais doing the same, having brought the wolfhound Celeste with her. Celeste looked guilty; Alais looked delighted. Somewhere I could hear Eamonn's voice raised in argument. It made me laugh, despite the fact that my head was ringing.

"Welcome to Alba, Prince Imriel." Dorelei gave me a dimpled smile.

At the head of the table, Drustan leaned forward, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "We do have more ...civilized ...affairs," he offered in a low tone. "But I thought it best if this was held in the truest Alban tradition."

"Boundless hospitality?" I asked, remembering Firdha's teaching.

He nodded. "Indeed."

"I think it's lovely," Phedre said in seemingly perfect sincerity.

Joscelin glanced sidelong at her. "You would say that."

"I think," Hyacinthe murmured, "that I would only endure this for your foster-son's sake, Phedre no Delaunay."

I spread my hands. "Please, my lord! I beg you, don't suffer on my account."

It was lovely, though; in a noisy, clattering, sweltering, overstuffed way. Whether the folk seated at the table were enemies or rivals outside the hall's confines, all were friends and comrades within it. Such was the blessing of the Cruarch's boundless hospitality. When everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, a good many of the platters were cleared, and fewer full ones were brought. I felt I could breathe easier. Outside, the sun must have set, for some of the contained heat in the hall began to dissipate.

Pitchers of cool water went round, followed by jugs of uisghe.

Conor mac Grainne tuned his harp and began to play. For the second time that night, everyone fell silent; this time, to listen.