A few hundred yards in, beneath the makeshift camp in the old tomb, we found them. Wierolf stopped short and gave me a questioning glance, lifting the lamp to shine on a cl.u.s.ter of expectant, anxious faces. Faces I didn't need the light to see.

The whole band was there, men, women, and children crouching against the tunnel walls, waiting. I made out a handful of violet cloaks, more than one tattoo - on hands, necks, foreheads. A great many packs and bundles lay about them; Hosh sat patiently swishing her tail against the cave floor. These people didn't look like a mighty army that would boldly march our prince to safety; they looked like what they were - a band of half-starved refugees. Well, so was Wierolf. He'd fit right in.

Closed, expressionless faces turned our way, and for one freezing moment I decided that this had been a dreadful error. I was going to get the prince killed - if not by these people, then along with them.

"Digger?" Wierolf's voice was soft, questioning.

As the light filled up the s.p.a.ce, I saw Meri speaking with Stagne. She turned, saw Wierolf, and then froze, eyes wide with astonishment. A second later, she dropped smoothly to one knee, her head bowed. Every single person with her did the same. It gave me a strange, hollow feeling, all those men in violet bowing to the prince.

"Your Highness," Meri breathed, and the prince strode up to her and took her hands, lifting her from the rocky floor.

"Prince Wierolf, Lady Merista Nemair, heir to Bryn Shaer," I said. That almost sounded like it was supposed to.

"Well met, Lady Merista," Wierolf said smoothly, and Meri dipped another perfect curtsy - and it was all just so ridiculous! We were in a freezing cave, for G.o.ds' sake, at the dead of night, with a band of outlaw magicians and their dog, all running away from the Inquisition, and they were playing n.o.b.

Meri clutched my arm. "I knew it!" she whispered fiercely. "I knew you and my mother were hiding something, since that night Yselle came for you." But instead of hurt or disappointed, she seemed excited. "My prince," she said gravely, "please allow me to introduce a good friend of this house, Tnor Sarin Reynart."

From out of the cl.u.s.ter of bodies, a wiry man in gray rose and doffed his hood, freeing the mane of wild hair. "My prince," Reynart echoed Meri. Wierolf was staring at Reynart, a puzzled, pained expression on his face. The wizard took a step closer. "We are relieved your royal person has recovered from such grievous injuries."

"You -" the prince said. "It was you. At Olin - you saved my life."

Reynart was smiling. "And my companions, Highness. The lord of Olin has been a friend to us; long have our people camped in those lands. We knew the lady of Bryn Shaer has a reputation as a skilled physician - among other things - and that she could care for you in better comfort than could we." He drew one of his companions forward, the plump woman with the pet crow. "Kespa, our healer."

She bowed briefly, then set upon the prince, a hand on his fore head, lifting his shirt hem, nodding with satisfaction. I saw the tattoos on her palms, winking violet in the lamplight. "The touch of the G.o.ddess can heal," she said, standing on tiptoe to peer inside Wierolf's collar, where the musket ball had struck, "and we can ease hurt, cool a fever, sometimes even stave off Marau, for a time - but I don't have your Lady Lyllace's knowledge of anatomy and surgery. You required a real physician."

Wierolf took her hands. "Perhaps this is knowledge that may be shared one day."

Reynart's serenity never wavered. "Highness, we are blessed to serve you. Only command us, and we obey."

Wierolf gave a strange half grin and looked at me. "Actually I believe Celyn is giving the orders here tonight."

I explained again how the tunnels led to Breijardarl, how Reynart's men would slip beneath the mountains just as the Inquisitor rode above them. Soon, easily, Reynart and Wierolf took over on their own, Reynart gesturing into the tunnels, Wierolf listening keenly and asking questions, both oddly at ease. The prince was among his people; as Reynart introduced his companions, Wierolf reached out to touch hands, heads, dogs, knelt beside a small girl with wide eyes who held her purple-clad dolly tight to her chest.

I hung back, feeling useless but satisfied. This would work after all. With a strange, closed-off feeling in my chest, I backed off a few steps and turned to leave. Tucked together under a magically reinforced seam in the cave ceiling, Meri and Stagne held each other closely, her dark head against his fair one, both of them flickering with their strange, watery light. He clutched the sc.r.a.p of her unfinished embroidery.

I heard my name. I turned to see Reynart standing near me, holding something toward me in his tattooed hands. "Celyn of Bryn Shaer," he said solemnly. "Friend to Merista, the Reijk-sarta."

"The Channeler," I said, and he nodded, pleased.

"I have spoken with the others," he said. "We believe that we may have an answer to your magic." He cupped a tiny book, no bigger than his palm, bound in dark velvet that was worn and thin at the corners. I reached toward him, and a flume of light poured over and frothed the air around our hands. "I told you of two magics - reijk-sarta, the gathering, and kel-sarta, the shaping. But this ancient book, pa.s.sed down among hidden mages for many centuries, speaks of a third magic, the rarest of all: erynd-sarta. The finding."

I repeated the word softly to myself, and something felt warm and alive - and new - inside me. Placing the book in my hands, Reynart opened it to a page of faded script, hand-inked an impossibly long time ago: And unto the world Sar gave a third blessing, the Eryndeth, or Finder, given the power to see the Breath of the G.o.ddess, or track Her footsteps.

"When magic was abundant, there was no need for someone with a special skill to locate it," Reynart said. "All knew where it could be found. But not now." He was smiling, but there was something sad in it. "Your path lies elsewhere," he said. "You are called by a different G.o.d. But when you hear the voice of Sar speak your name, you will find us again." He closed my fingers around the book, turning back into the darkness toward his men. I held the little volume tightly, awash with wonder. Eryndeth - the Finder. Well, I may not have a real name, but I was certainly collecting a share of nicknames that fit.

"Digger." Wierolf strode toward me, across the cave. "A plan," he said, a playful note in his voice. "A good one, I think."

I had to smile. "You're not afraid of small s.p.a.ces, I hope."

Wierolf barked out a powerful laugh. "Come with us?"

I paused, a hand lifted to my mouth as I realized it had never occurred to me. I could stroll down the tunnels along with the prince and the Sarists, and never have to face Werne and the Inquisition. "It's tempting," I said.

"But you're not coming." It wasn't a question, and I found myself shaking my head.

"I guess not."

He reached a hand toward me, held mine tightly. "Thank you, Digger. And good luck." As he pulled his hand away from mine, I realized he'd left something small and smooth in my palm. In the flickering light, I held it up: a small disk of wood, no bigger than a coin, in the shape of the prince's new device. The lion pa.s.sant, against the rising sun.

"My favor," the prince said. "Should you ever need it." And then, quick as that, he stepped away from me and raised both arms in a salute. "You are braver than you know," he said firmly. He looked my way one last time. "May Tiboran guide you home."

Meri and I went back to his room after that and stripped away the evidence. It took hours and a heavy stone I'd pried from a crumbling tunnel wall to break apart the bed - all the G.o.ds d.a.m.n me, I thought those things were supposed to be portable! - but before we'd lost all the night, Wierolf's chamber looked like what it was supposed to be: an adjunct to the stillroom. We left the prayer stand but dragged in a little shelf, stashed bottles every where, spilled a little oil on the floor, lit and put out a tiny fire to scorch a circle on the shelf and fill the room with heady, acrid smoke. It was good work: I was a practiced forger, after all, with experience making things appear to be what they were not.

Still, I had to quell a little pang as we rolled a dirty rug over the floor. I'd never see him again, but that was hardly new; I'd parted from most of the people I'd known in my life. Funny how one winter at Bryn Shaer could make me grow attached to people I shouldn't even know. I leaned up against the door frame and sniffed. It was a tiny, stuffy, poorly heated room; I should be glad to be rid of it.

By the time we climbed back out to the main corridors, darkness was starting to fade from the sky. Tired as I was, I wasn't quite ready to just slip into bed. I took Meri out onto the battlement, where I'd once watched her meet with Stagne.

I leaned over the wall, looking over the spread of mountains. This early they were barely more than hulking shadows, tipped with moonslight. Six moons in various phases dotted the sky - all but Zet, protector of royalty, who must have ducked into hiding with her prince. I hoped she'd watch over him, wherever Reynart and his band took him. Tiboran was a fat pink blob to the northeast, disappearing behind the crest of a hill, or into a cloud, or into a broad valley somewhere - it was hard to tell, in the darkness. I grinned at it. Fair enough; I could do this on my own.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

At dusk on the eve of midwinter, the Inquisition came riding to Bryn Shaer. And they brought the king's army with them.

Everyone gathered on the east tower, where we had watched the avalanche pin us to the mountain, to see the soldiers flood through the pa.s.s and spread up the sides of the mountain like poison in a wound. Beside me, Meri made a stricken sound and clutched tight to my arm. I felt sure we'd done right, sending the prince off with the Sarists, but as the Green Army crawled inexorably toward us, I wondered. If Werne and the Confessors had found Wierolf here, would that be a big enough prize to leave us alone?

I knew the answer to that.

I had seen no more of Berdal's "friends" from the mountains, but I knew Lord Antoch rode out every morning with Meri, and I hoped our little Bryn Shaer family was growing. The missing member of our strange a.s.semblage had not gone unnoticed however. The morning after Meri and I had our last late-night adventure, Lady Lyll confronted me. We were in the solar, putting the finishing st.i.tches in Meri's ceremonial embroidery.

"Celyn, dear, I seem to have . . . mislaid an item of some value. You would not have seen it anywhere, by chance?"

"Item, milady?" I looked up. Lady Cardom was watching us over the edge of her embroidery hoop.

Lyll bent closer. "This is no time for games. Do you know where he is?"

I studied my own needlework. "No, milady, not precisely. And more to the point, nor do you or Lord Antoch or Meri. Or Daul. But he's safe. I'm certain of it."

She looked vexed - she was vexed, but there was nothing she could do about it. Finally she sighed. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Now, back at the battlement, Lord Antoch lifted his spygla.s.s - that new, heretical invention from Corlesanne, with which we could look up and examine the faces of the moons - and trained it on the Breijarda Velde. "I'm counting about two hundred fifty men," he said.

Lyll reached for the gla.s.s. "Why so few? That's not an invasion force."

"No," Cwalo put in. "It's a statement."

I understood him. It meant Bardolph could reach us here, at the most remote place in Llyvraneth, and that only a handful of soldiers would be required to subdue any brewing rebellion.

"Our supplies are low; we can't hold out a siege."

"No siege," said Lyll. "No siege engines. But perhaps they mean to occupy us."

A tremor of revulsion went through me. Greenmen billeted in every Bryn Shaer bedroom, touching the Nemair's belongings - and the Nemair's guests? I turned to Lyll. Her face was set, impa.s.sive, even though all her plans were surely at an end. Even with the men Berdal had brought, we were no match for the king's soldiers.

"What's going to happen?" I asked.

She was grim. "The Inquisitor and his men will ride to the gates, and we'll let them in. There will be some formalities - an exchange of greetings and such - and then Werne will request we give lodging to his men."

"And if you do?"

Lyll shook her head. "We'll be prisoners in our own home. They will hold us here until Bardolph decides we're no longer a threat."

"How long will that be?"

She just looked at me. "Forever."

I felt sick. I had done this - Daul and I had worked together to bring Werne here.

We stayed there in the fading light as the Green Army filled in the dip below Bryn Shaer, that impossibly narrow ridge of plain that was the only place to launch an attack on the castle. They were all in green, the same bright-gra.s.s color, and it was hard to tell them apart: sol dier from Greenman, ordinary priest from Confessor. But one figure stood apart.

Small and slight against the fighting men, astride a mule at the head of the cavalry, the Inquisitor rode with his six Confessors, and something about him, so still and singular and composed among the tumult of the army, made the hundreds of soldiers at his back seem irrelevant. The G.o.ddess's pale light shone only on her most beloved servant, and Werne the Bloodletter looked like he could sack Bryn Shaer all on his own.

Meri watched him, her gaze fixed. I put a hand on her arm to pull her back, but she wouldn't move. In the dusky light, my hand on hers pulsed brightly.

"I told you you should have gone with the others," I said, but she pulled away from me.

"My place is here," she said - and she didn't sound so young, suddenly. She held fast to the tower wall until the stones started to glow under her grip.

"Meri, they'll see you!"

She set her jaw. "Good. Let them."

On the ledge below, Werne dismounted awkwardly from the mule, shaking out the skirts of his robes. The Confessors followed, surrounding him in a circle of green that moved as one toward the path leading up to Bryn Shaer's gates. As Werne disappeared beneath the jut of rock, Lady Lyll stood back from the wall.

"Time to greet our guests," she said.

We had always met visitors out in the courtyard, but tonight Lyll and Antoch arranged themselves in the wide flagstone entry hall before the ma.s.sive arched doors, now flung open to the snow and wind. Firelight flickered from torches set around the s.p.a.ce. Flanked by a dozen of their black-and-silver guard, the Nemair looked like an extension of the stone walls of Bryn Shaer, ancient, austere, immovable.

I did what I had done since I could remember: I hid. I tucked myself onto a narrow balcony overlooking the entry court, drawn back behind a tapestry so no one below could see me. Meri joined me after a while, though by rights she should have been beside her parents. I was glad she'd grown a mea sure of caution and knew better than to present her magical self before Werne the Bloodletter - though she'd have to, eventually. There was no hope that the Inquisitor could come to Bryn Shaer ostensibly for Merista Nemair's kernja-velde and not ever meet her.

The seven figures in green strode as one into the Lodge, moving from the snowy courtyard to the dark stone floor in perfect unison, even the damp hems of their robes and cloaks swinging together across the threshold. They fanned out into a half-moon, Werne at their center. A dozen Greenmen stood at attention behind them. The Nemair were all grace, sinking just as smoothly to their knees, heads bowed.

"Be you welcome to Bryn Shaer, Your Worship," Lady Lyll said, her voice as warm and strong as ever, lifting her face to meet Werne's. "We have been expecting you for some time."

The Inquisitor placed a hand on her dark head and gave a murmuring reply that I couldn't make out. Meri frowned a little. "He doesn't look like I'd thought," she said softly. "He's just . . . ordinary."

It was true, I thought, looking down on that face I hadn't seen in so many years. My slight build, my dark curly hair. At twenty-six, he had filled out some, but he wasn't very tall. The hands that touched Lady Nemair's head and accepted a kiss from Lord Antoch were smooth and tan and delicate. A great round of blue-and-brown chalcedony - earthstone - hung from his belt, but instead of the moon-shaped beads worn round the wrist by most servants of Celys, he carried a blade at his hip. It was probably only ceremonial - the image of Werne in a knife fight was almost amusing - but it was his badge of office as an inquisitor, not just a mere priest.

The Confessors carried swords. And I had no doubt that theirs were sharp and practiced.

Lyll and Antoch rose, and Werne stepped aside to introduce his party. "My confessorial staff and my personal guard," he said.

Lyll gave a serene smile. "Confessors, your Worship? We are honored, of course, but are surprised your Grace would require them to preside over our daughter's kernja-velde."

"Not to mention the armed escort that brought you here," Lord Antoch added quietly.

Werne's dark gaze shifted to Antoch. "A show of friendship. His Majesty wishes to remind his subjects that we are all one family in Celys."

"Good," Lyll said. "We thought perhaps he was feeling . . . over protective."

The Inquisitor glanced backward at the waiting Greenmen. "Quite. I told his Majesty I did not require them, but as you can see, they are here nonetheless. I do not expect them to interfere with my . . . work, here."

"Ah, then we shall consider the troops merely decorative," Lady Lyll said brightly. "You may thank His Majesty for us, but do mention that we should have been more than happy to provide our own 'ornamental' guard for the occasion." And with that, she hooked her arm into her husband's and led everyone to the Round Court.

"What will happen now?" Meri asked, squeezed tight to me.

A voice behind me startled me, and I glanced up and found Eptin Cwalo sharing our vantage point. "Tonight Bryn Shaer will feast the Inquisition and its men," he said as if this was all part of some pre arranged plan. "And tomorrow we'll all be asked to report on one another's habits, secrets, heresies, and petty blasphemies."

Meri turned wide eyes to him. "What does that mean?"

He bowed his pale head. "Even in houses that are blameless, there are always people frightened enough of the Confessors to inform on someone else. If we're lucky, they'll find only minor transgressions, and consent to merely confine your parents to the castle."

Even Meri didn't bother to ask what would happen if we weren't lucky. Because Bryn Shaer was far from blameless, and we all knew it.

No one ate much that night - at least no one from Bryn Shaer. Yselle and the cooks had prepared a sumptuous feast from Meri's stockpiled kernja-velde food, because everyone knew that you did Celys honor by feeding her servants well. Closer to, Werne certainly didn't look like he'd missed many meals. I happily sat as far as possible from him, since ladies-in-waiting were hardly worthy of His Worship's exalted company, down across the room with Phandre and Eptin Cwalo. Poor Meri was pressed between her parents, looking terrified. Beside Lyll, Werne ate steadily, scarcely looking up the whole meal.

"I do hope you'll try the roast pork, Your Worship," Lady Lyll said smoothly. "It's rather a Bryn Shaer specialty. Our cook is Corles, and I'm afraid we picked up some foreign customs while abroad."

"His Worship prefers to dine in silence," one of the Confessors said sternly.

Lady Lyll smiled and ignored her. "Will you take wine, my lord?" she asked cheerily.

The Confessor glared at her. "His Worship never indulges in spirits."

"Pity," Lord Antoch said, pouring himself a great draught from the flagon. "Splendid local vintage. Tiboran truly smiled on the vineyards that year. The Masked G.o.d's blessing to you, Your Worship."

I nearly choked on my own splendid vintage. Were they deliberately baiting him?

But Werne looked up only briefly. "Your hospitality does the G.o.ddess honor," he said. "I look forward to acquainting myself with all the . . . comforts of this place. I'm sure I'll find it edifying."

"What are they doing?" Phandre fussed, as the female Confessor's placid expression grew strained. "They make us all look like mannerless rustics!"