I shook my head. " 'Twas no fault of hers. I made the choice myself. How are matters in Innisclan?"

"Well enough." Eamonn glanced over at Conor, talking quietly with Alais. "We were grateful to hear that you asked the Cruarch to have mercy on the innocent."

"You went a-hunting the Old Ones, though," I said.

"I did." His face turned grim. "Found a few, too. Conor summoned the harpist. I didn't think he would come, but he did. Don't worry, I didn't kill anyone. But I let it be known that anyone sheltering Berlik would be put to death without any questions asked."

"No one sheltered him," I said. "He fled."

"A long way, I hear," Eamonn said.

I nodded. "A very long way."

While the others met and mingled, I went for a walk around Clunderry's holdings. I would as soon have gone on my own, but Urist caught me slipping out of the castle and refused to allow it. I daresay he was the only companion I could have borne.

We walked slowly together, Urist leaning on his stick. All the fields had been plowed with neat, straight lines. Tender shoots of grain were emerging from the furrows. We passed the threshing barn. I remembered taking part in that backbreaking labor, coming home to Dorelei with dust and chaff clinging to my sweating skin. We strolled through the orchard, which was just past its peak blossoming. A gentle rain of petals fell from the apple trees as we walked beneath them, and the skeps of coiled straw were buzzing with honeybees.

"That would have pleased her," Urist said.

I smiled. "It would."

The distant pastures with their low stone fences were dotted with grazing cattle. We crossed the Brithyll on an arched wooden bridge, the heel of Urist's walking-stick echoing hollowly over the water, then circled around the reedy lake. Several families of ducks followed us curiously, trailing fuzzy ducklings.

I wasn't sure Elua's shrine would still be there, but it was, there beneath the arbor I'd helped build. Although nothing was blooming yet, the roses and lavender and columbine I'd transplanted myself had been tended with loving care. The effigy of Blessed Elua stood beneath the arbor, smiling toward the castle, his arms outstretched. I took off my boots to approach, then knelt and gazed at his face. I thought about what a priest of Elua had told me about love many years ago, the first time I kept his vigil on the Longest Night.

You will find it and lose it, again and again. And with each finding and each loss, you will become more than before. What you make of it is yours to choose.

It was true.

"I have chosen, my lord," I whispered. "Please, no more losses."

Although there was no answer, the steady throb of my heart was answer enough. I knew where love lay, and I would do my best to hold fast to it. I rose and donned my boots. Urist waited patiently, leaning on his stick. In the west, the sun was beginning to sink, low and golden, shadows stretching long across Clunderry. Behind the mask of his warrior's markings, there was compassion and understanding.

"Come on, lad." Urist clapped my shoulder. "Let's give our lass her due."

"I'm ready," I said.

Dusk was a time of day that Dorelei had loved. That wasn't why it had been chosen, of course; that had somewhat to do with twilight blurring the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead. She had, though. The world went soft around the edges; that's how she'd described it.

We walked in solemn procession, all of us. The ollamh Firdha led the way, with Drustan beside her. I followed, carrying Berlik's skull. The Lady Breidaia was on my right, Talorcan on my left. Behind us came Alais and the Lady Sibeal, and behind them, Sidonie, flanked by Phedre and Joscelin, my foster-parents. Behind them came everyone else, and I could not begin to guess at the order. There were too many people.

It was the first time I'd visited the burial mound.

It wasn't large. There were only a few stone markers there. Dorelei's was the newest, the carvings on it still sharp-edged and clean. There was the Black Boar of the Cullach Gorrym; there, too, was the swan of House Courcel. There were runes written on it that only an ollamh could read. Still, it was old enough that the grass had grown over her grave, rendering it invisible. And there along the sloping incline, a deep hole had been dug, smelling of fresh-turned earth. A pile of loose soil lay beside it.

Firdha gave the invocation, calling upon the gods and goddesses of Alba to bear witness. Drustan stepped forward with a libation vessel, pouring uisghe on the green grass that grew above Dorelei's grave. He passed the vessel to his sister, and to his sister's son, and they made offerings, too.

"Let it be done." Firdha nodded at me.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. I'd been given new clothing in Bryn Gorrydum, and I was attired in the old Cruithne style, as I had been at our Alban nuptials. A crimson cloak lay over my shoulders, and my chest was bare save for the golden torc and the scarred furrows of Berlik's claws. I took the libation vessel and made an offering, and then I knelt on the sloping greensward and placed the skull in the hole that lay beneath Dorelei's feet, dug deep into the hillside. Berlik's skull gazed out at me. I scooped up a double handful of soil and let it trickle over naked bone.

"Be at peace, Dorelei my love," I murmured. "Be at peace, my son."

Somewhere in the distance, a harp sounded.

A ripple of disturbance ran through those assembled. I got to my feet, gazing at them. Conor mac Grainne's head was cocked and listening, but his harp-case lay untouched over his shoulder. It wasn't Conor who was playing. It was farther away, wilder, filled with aching sorrow and regret.

Talorcan stirred, glowering.

"No!" The word emerged from my lips unbidden. "All of Alba grieves," I said more gently. "Let it be so this evening."

In the pause that followed, Sidonie's calm voice rose to fill the void. "Terre d'Ange grieves with Alba," she said. "Let it be so."

The harp echoed, wild.

Everyone looked at Drustan. The Cruarch cast his gaze heavenward, then lowered it. He looked at me. I looked back unwavering. "All of Alba grieves this evening," Drustan said quietly. "Conor mac Grainne, will you give voice to this grief, as you gave voice to joy on the eve of the nuptials betwixt Imriel de la Courcel and Dorelei mab Breidaia?"

He knew, I thought.

Conor flushed. "I will, my lord."

He unslung his harp-case and played for us; a sad, simple dirge. Or at least so it began. The longer Conor played, the more I heard in his playing. He played with eyes closed, his cheekbones bright with color. There was the tune he'd played for Drustan before, the twining harmonies evoking the death of his youngest sister, Moiread. There was the tune Ferghus had played for us, the song of the Maghuin Dhonn's last sacrifice. And there, too, slow and unrecognizable, was the Siovalese children's tune about the little brown goat.

The distant harp echoed it all.

It was strange, haunting and beautiful. I do not think there was any magic in it, save the magic of the harpists' skill. The harps called to one another, echoing over the woods and fields. One by one, the guests came forward to take part in the ritual.

I watched Sidonie make her offering, tipping the libation vessel. She stood for a moment, head bowed. I could see the burden of our shared guilt and sorrow weighing on her. But she gathered herself, stooping with deft grace to grasp a handful of soil and sprinkle it over Berlik's skull.

Bit by bit, the hole filled. The shadows deepened and the distant harp fell silent. Conor's fingers stilled on his harp-strings. Drustan nodded to him. He came forward to place the last handful of earth on Berlik's grave. The master gardener pressed and smoothed the earth, then set a piece of green sod, carefully preserved, over the place, tamping and watering it.

It was done.

Torches were lit. I let the procession turn and pass me by, lingering. Drustan gave me a curious look, but said nothing. I watched them wind toward the castle, then turned back toward the burial mound.

"Be at peace, Berlik," I said quietly. "Watch over them for me."

The lines of the burial mound were blurred by the deepening twilight. The world had grown soft around the edges. I stood there, breathing the moist spring air, listening to the ordinary sounds of night in the countryside emerge; the last tentative chorus of birdsong, the chirping of crickets, the occasional cattle lowing in the pasture. I remembered the way Dorelei's laughter had sounded, ringing across the land she had loved.

I stooped and touched the earth of Clunderry a final time.

"Good-bye," I whispered.

Chapter Seventy-Two.

If the ceremony had been sober and grave, the feast that followed was its opposite.There had never been a proper wake for Dorelei in the usual Alban tradition. Her kin had been scattered, hunting Berlik; I'd lain at death's door. Tonight stood in its stead.

Clunderry's great hall-which wasn't terribly large-was filled to bursting. The household staff had labored for two days in preparation for the event. Platter after platter of food emerged from the kitchen. Mead and uisghe circulated freely. We sat at long tables, eating and drinking until the small hours of the night.

Telling stories of Dorelei.

Fond stories, funny stories. It hurt, but there was healing in it, too. Lady Breidaia nearly broke my heart telling how Dorelei had privately confessed her astonishment that I'd been thoughtful enough to send for a beekeeper after she'd dreamed I fed her honeycomb.

"You were a good husband to her," Breidaia said, eyes bright with tears. "You would have been a good father to the babe."

And then I laughed until my sides ached at a tale that Kinadius and Kerys told about a piglet, a runt destined for an early demise, which Dorelei had saved from the axe. How they'd rescued it from the pigsty in the dead of night. How the three of them had managed to hide it for weeks, shuttling it from one room to another, two steps ahead of the suspicious maidservants.

"It used to follow her like a dog," Kerys remembered.

"Ah, gods!" Kinadius laughed. "I had to sneak out before dawn every morning to steal milk. She'd let it suckle on an old scrap of blanket dipped in milk. That pig ate better than we did. When we finally got caught, the pig-keeper said, 'Well, she's a runt no more, is she?'"

"Where was I when this happened?" Talorcan mused.

"Doing somewhat more important, I hope," his mother said tartly.

When my turn came, I told the story of scouring the castle on the Day of Misrule to find a pair of men's breeches vast enough to accommodate Dorelei's pregnant belly. How the breeches had been so long I'd had to roll the cuffs for her. How Dorelei had laughed so hard at the sight of me kneeling in her green kirtle, I'd no sooner finish rolling one leg when the other would fall, until at last she caught her breath long enough to tell me to pin them in place.

Alais smiled. "You did look that comical, Imri."

"Not as comical as Urist," I said.

"True," she agreed.

Sidonie eyed me, bemused. "You wore her gown?"

I flushed. "For the Day of Misrule, yes." I lowered my voice. "I'm sorry. If this is-"

"No, don't." Sidonie cut me off, shaking her head. "It isn't. I wanted to be here, Imriel. Dorelei deserved that much, as blood-kin and..." Her shoulders moved in a faint, rueful shrug. "And the other debt. She seemed kind. You did your best to build a life together with her. Truly, I want to understand what you lost."

"Thank you," I said softly.

"Mmm." Her black eyes gleamed. "I'll own, I didn't expect the kirtle."

My heart leapt, then settled. Not now, not yet.

When the well of remembrance began to run dry, the mood in the hall shifted. There was a call for me to tell the tale of my quest; the story of Berlik's death. I didn't want to tell it-I'd told it enough and there was no joy in it for me-but there were too many folk there yearning to hear it. It would have been cruel to refuse.

So I let Kinadius tell the first part, about their tireless efforts and how they'd found Berlik's trail at last, leading northward across the Flatlands and into Skaldia. And I let Urist tell about our sea voyage and the shipwreck.

Then came my part.

It felt strange, telling it here in Clunderry. It almost seemed as though it had happened to someone else. Vralia was so far away. I tried to bring it to life for them; the deep cold, the endless snow. All of them listened raptly, even those who had heard it before. Conor held his harp on his lap, silently fingering the strings as though setting it to music in his mind.

I daresay there were a few-Talorcan, to be sure-who were hoping for a climactic finish to the tale, a dramatic battle in which I defeated Berlik, shouting my vengeance to the skies. Instead, they got the truth. My despair and acknowledgment of defeat; and then the roar of a bear in the night. The quiet ending to my long, long hunt, Berlik kneeling in the snow with his head bowed for the sword.

"Why did he do it?" Kerys wondered aloud when I finished.

"To atone." It was young Conor who answered, his voice so low it was scarce audible. His head was bowed over his harp, coarse black hair hiding his eyes. "For all his people."

There was silence in the hall.

"And now it is finished," Drustan said at length.

It had grown late enough that his words were fitting. One by one, guests left the great hall for their chambers. Clunderry was full to the rafters that night, but no one complained. I stayed to bid good evening to all of them, as did Dorelei's nearest kin. I watched Drustan speaking quietly with Phedre and Joscelin on the far side of the hall.

"Have you talked to your father?" I asked Sidonie in a low voice.

"About us?" Sidonie frowned. "We've discussed it. He's of a mind to speak to you himself, later. I agreed to let him without intervening."

"Is it bad?" I asked.

"No." Her frown didn't entirely vanish. "But it's not good, either."

"You know, it's not as bad as I thought," Alais offered. "You, I mean; the two of you. Not Father, I've no idea what he said."

"My thanks," I said wryly.

Alais ignored my tone. "The strangest part is seeing you being nice to one another."

"Oh?" Sidonie raised her brows in amusement. "We're not always."

It sounded perfectly innocent, and I knew perfectly well it wasn't.

My heart leapt again and a long-suppressed wave of desire rolled over me. I took a deep breath and willed my blood to subside. Alais looked suspiciously at her sister, but Sidonie's expression was guileless. I cleared my throat and changed the topic. "What of you and Talorcan?"

"When he went after Berlik, we decided to postpone the decision another year." Alais looked over at Talorcan, troubled. "No one knew what would happen. Now..." She shrugged, dropping her voice to a murmur. "I'm not sure."

Sidonie and I exchanged a glance. For the first time, it well and truly struck me that if we wed, I would be inextricably bound to the political process that linked Alba and Terre d'Ange. She was Ysandre's heir; Terre d'Ange's problems were her problems, too. And her problems would be mine. As the Dauphine's husband, I would inherit a great deal more responsibility than I'd ever wanted.

What a piece of irony that was.

"We'll worry about it later, my heart," Sidonie said to Alais. "Tonight's for Dorelei."

They waited until the last guests and family members had departed; then I bade them good night, lingering. Drustan stayed last of all, until it was only the two of us left in the hall. I thought he might speak to me then. He sat on one of the long benches, pouring the last dregs of a jar of uisghe into a cup.

"Shall I stay and talk with you, my lord?" I asked.

"No." His face looked tired beneath its woad mask. "Not tonight."

I was weary, too. "Then with your permission, I'll retire."

"As you will," he said, but when I made to go, Drustan called me back. "Imriel." I turned, and he fixed me with an impenetrable gaze. "We'll speak later, in Bryn Gorrydum. This isn't the time or the place. But I do want you to know that I'm grateful for what you did."