But when he shifted his sight in her direction, all he could see was the usual barrier around Phaorax, a blankness, a vacancy that frustrated all attempts to see through it or beyond it. Ouriana warded her island well.

"What do you see?" asked the King, bringing him back to that austere tower chamber, with its spare furnishings and bare stone walls.

"I see a world in grave peril," answered the wizard. "I see despair spreading like a disease." He blinked, to bring his surroundings back into focus, and found that his hands were trembling, his palms clammy with sweat. "I have an idea that all the ill news we've received so far is only the beginning."

Meanwhile, lords and warriors continued to arrive at the Scholia. They shattered the serenity of the ancient college. In the narrow corridors-once the domain of soft-footed students in robes of sky-blue, russet, and saffron, and of wizards impenetrably serene in colors signifying the various ranks and disciplines-now there was a clatter of arms and the clink of chain mail, and the long staircases resounded with the thud and echo of booted feet ascending and descending. The visitors broke the peace, and continued to do so for three long days, waiting for the latecomers, the Prince of Hythe and the Duke of Mere, and speculating loudly over the delay.

Hythe finally came-a black-browed, broad-shouldered youth, who arrived like a storm cloud, full of bad news-but Mere did not, and Reodan left off waiting and called for his Council of War to a.s.semble.

They met in the Hall of Winds under the dome. That was and is a high, s.p.a.cious chamber, with tall, arched windows on all four sides, unglazed, and open to every wind that blows. The floor is a mosaic swirling with all the colors of the ocean, and the dome is painted with golden stars on a dark blue ground, so that to enter that room is to feel suspended between sea and sky. In those days, it was triple-warded so the airs that pa.s.sed through might carry away no hint or rumor of anything said there.

For this occasion, chairs, benches, and stools were brought in for the King, the Masters of the Scholia, and the other great men. While the warriors and men-at-arms took up positions by the windows and by the great double doors, a handful of the younger wizards and a half-dozen students of the college sat down cross-legged on the cool tile floor.

Faolein came in late. Making his way slowly across the crowded room, he tripped over a young healer and bit his tongue, and continued on with his eyes watering, until he found a place for himself among the other Master Wizards-Tuilach, Arieneil, Nione, Cathaoch, Curoide, Draithleann, Melliene, and Feneilas-and sat down.

Motioning the a.s.sembly to remain seated, the King rose to his feet, stood tall and grave to address them all. "We have come together," he said, "in a time of great trouble. These may be the last days of Thaerie and of the Alliance. But if, by wisdom, sacrifice, foresight, and courage, we may still find a way to live on as a free people, then let us find that way. For this war we fight, however long, b.l.o.o.d.y, and cruel, is but a single battle in a much greater war, and that is one in which surrender is unthinkable."

He spoke, then, of the Black Years, a time when men had neither peace nor rest, nor safety, being perpetually at war with hags and wraiths, demons, dragons, basilisks, and other such creatures of Night and Unlife. While some men defied the Dark, others yielded, becoming thereafter tyrants and oppressors and black magicians. Yet, through the intervention of the Fates, chief servants of the Light, a new race of men arose-a race of healers, prophets, heroes, and wizards. After many years, they succeeded in building first a city, then a kingdom, then a mighty Empire.

While the Empire of Alluinn flourished, a rival power far to the south and east also grew mighty, but Otoi was a realm founded on slavery and piracy, on every form of rapine and cruelty, maintaining a covenant with the Dark through blood sacrifices and other rituals too terrible to mention.

He would not, said Reodan, speak of the inevitable clash between those two great powers. It was enough to say that, in the end, the world was cleansed of a great evil, but at a cost nearly beyond comprehension.

Yet the battle between Erui, which is the Light, and Neos, which is Darkness, is as old as time itself-in all ages of the world it must be fought and refought again. One hundred years after the fall of Otoi, Ouriana of Phaorax had revived in her own person all the black sorceries of the Otowan mages. With power came pride and vaunting ambition. She established a new cult, proclaiming her own status as an object of worship. When even that proved insufficient to sate her ambition, she set out to conquer what remained of the Empire. Those who did not wish to accept Ouriana's rule resisted under the leadership of the Pendawer Kings on Thaerie. So events had come full circle, with north and south again at war. That war had dragged on for decades.

"But of our most recent battles, our most recent losses, I will not speak," said Reodan. "There are others here more qualified to do so than I. Let each tell his own tale, then we will decide what is to be done for the future."

The High King sat down in his carven chair. His two eldest grandsons, Ailbhan and Ruan, leaned forward in their seats, as though they were disposed to speak, but at a signal from Reodan, so slight that Faolein almost missed it, they subsided.

There was movement among the men-at-arms, a clash of iron rings. Finally, a warrior with a grim, weary face left his place by the doors and approached the King with a heavy step. "I will speak next, with your permission."

One of the n.o.bles whispered something in Reodan's ear, and the King nodded. "Llio of Cuirquorno, you are welcome here. We are ready to hear you."

Llio half turned, so that his words might carry to all parts of the room. "No one here can be ignorant of the evil and tragic events of the last days of Rheithun, but with your leave I'll tell something of what occurred at Gilaefri, for I was there at the very end."

Faolein leaned forward in his seat, intent on Llio's words-hoping, for Sinderian's sake, that the story about to unfold would not bring further grief.

"It would be impossible to describe the horror," said Llio, "or the confusion, when the Furiadhin threw down the walls: the choking dust, the terrible noise. The maimed and the dying were lying in the rubble, crying out for help, and our healers were few, too few. And when the smoke cleared, when it was possible to see the ruin of our defenses, our leaders surrendered at once, rather than spend more lives in useless resistance.

"Men of Phaorax and of Rhuaddlyn took them, and bound them, and led them away. I can see our lords now: how Cailltin looked so pale, and so sick at heart-yet he never flinched as they tied his wrists. Briac and Coall-those n.o.ble youths, treated like felons. And Lord Duillig-grey-haired and leaning on his crutch-"

Llio slammed a meaty fist into the palm of his hand, and his voice grew hoa.r.s.e with emotion. "What need to bind ANY of them, who were men of honor, and had already given their parole? That was what we all wondered, and accounted it a very shameful thing. A short while later, one of the Furiadhin came and spoke to us. For their rebellion against the rightful rule of their undoubted Empress, he told us, our leaders had earned the lingering death reserved for traitors. Yet, as Ouriana was merciful, they had not suffered 'according to their deserts' and death had come swiftly. So said the furiadh Goezenou, branding as renegades men who died as patriots and heroes. Though we were not allowed to witness the executions, we did see the bodies later. They had been badly mutilated. I hope it was done after they were dead, as the Pharaxions told us."

Faolein sat back, shielding his eyes with one hand. For, of course, Sinderian would hear of this; the story of the mutilations would run through the Scholia. It would be far, far better if the news were broken to her gently by her own father, than carelessly by any of the students, or roughly by the men-at-arms. Yet he shrank from the task, fearing he would do it badly.

"No act so vile was ever committed when Prince Guindeluc was her Captain-General," Llio was saying. "Nor would Prince Cuillioc have permitted such a thing. But the one is dead and the other recalled to Apharos, and the Dark Lady has placed the command of her armies solely in the hands of the Furiadhin.

"It was intended, maybe, to bring shame and despair to the living, to crush any thought we might have of escape or resistance. But as we were marched south, some of us did resist. We overpowered our guards, made our way north, and crossed safely into Mere." His big fists clenched again. "Yes, we escaped-but our kingdom of Rheithun no longer exists. We are homeless, leaderless, hopeless-"

"You will not be homeless," said Reodan, reaching out to touch Llio lightly on the arm. "A place will be found for you, all of you. I know it's small recompense for what you have lost, but all that can be done will be done."

Next came a man of Gonlundor to speak. His clothing was rough, made of sheepskin and leather, worn and patched, but there was dignity in his glance, and his speech was not unmannerly. "It may be that few here know much of my homeland. It's a desolate region, very wild and largely unsettled since the fall of the Empire-for, being then a princ.i.p.ality of Alluinn, we were caught in the backwash of her destruction. Though we live in a land once famed for poets and minstrels, for men of high learning, we are, in these latter days, farmers and herdsmen and nomadic hunters, a simple and rustic folk. Yet we, too, have resisted Ouriana. We may lack the numbers to muster a great army of our own, but many of our sons have joined your companies, fought side by side with the men of Thaerie and other western lands. Over the years, we have served as your scouts in Rhuaddlyn, Rheithun, and Malindor. But now she has answered our little defiance with a devastating blow.

"Five weeks ago, a thick yellow fog came creeping over our land. It was no natural fog, no weather of this world. Horses and cattle ran mad. Strong men, women in their prime, healthy young children, fell down in fits." He shuddered at the memory. "Fully a third of our people died overnight. Why has she done this thing, you may ask, sent forth this mighty sorcery merely to bring such an insignificant number of us to our knees-"

"If we ask," interrupted a richly dressed n.o.bleman seated by the King, "the answer is not long in coming. It was meant as an example to the rest of us, a demonstration of her power. She means to dishearten the allies of Thaerie, to make them question their allegiance to our cause."

"I fear that some have already done so," said Reodan, exchanging a glance with Eliduc across the room. "The Duke of Mere promised to send someone to take part in our council, but no one has come."

At this, Bael of Hythe-he that had arrived so late-sprang to his feet, a great hobbledehoy youth half a head taller than anyone else in the room, still growing by the evidence of clothing that did not quite fit him. "Mere has deserted us." Then, remembering himself, he swept a bow to the King, to the other princes. "Let it be my turn to speak. I was delayed in coming because my cousin of Mere was to have sailed with me. I waited on the coast for three days. At last a messenger came. The Duke has withdrawn from the Alliance. He vows not to take up arms against any of his kinsmen, any of his former allies, but neither will he-in his own words-'continue to conspire against the Empress Ouriana.'"

"I think this is no new decision on his part," muttered Llio. "This is why the promised supplies of beer and grain never came, why our women and children starved, why so much of the strength went out of our fighting men and our wizards. Not take up arms against us? He's already betrayed us!"

"If he were a traitor," said Reodan, frowning thoughtfully, "I think he would be here listening to our plans, carrying everything we say directly to our enemy. Though whether he will be permitted to remain neutral is another matter. Pharaxion armies are ma.s.sed on his borders. Will Ouriana and her Furiadhin accept this tepid attempt at conciliation and turn their attention elsewhere?"

"She would be wise to pretend that she does accept it," said Tuilach. The oldest of the Nine Masters, he had long white hair falling past his knees, and a thin, high voice. He looked bleached and frail, but his mind remained sharp, and Faolein and the other wizards had the habit of deferring to him. He had seen more than two hundred years, and his knowledge of the world was very great. "I think she will hold her hand, though Mere is within her reach, in the hope that she might encourage Weye and Hythe to follow his example."

"We will never do so!" cried Prince Gwynnek, surging to his feet to stand, st.u.r.dy and truculent, by his cousin of Hythe. "If she knows us at all, she knows we won't turn coward as our kinsman has done."

"But, in fact, she doesn't know much about either of you, Lord Prince," returned Tuilach mildly. "You have both so recently come to rule. Your late fathers she did know-or at least, she knew what they might do in any given circ.u.mstance. But sons are not always like their fathers. She may hope to see you follow the example of your cousin the Duke."

"We will speak more of this later," said Reodan, gesturing to the two young princes to return to their seats. They obeyed, but reluctantly, and sat glaring defiantly at the a.s.sembly, their faces flushed and their eyes very bright as if some doubt had been cast on their courage or their honor.

"For now," said the High King, "let us hear from Gearhan of Erios."

Gearhan was a small man, in armor of black leather stamped with the spiraling maelstrom badge of the island; he wore also a long, dark cloak, which swept the floor as he crossed the room and bowed low before the King. "What I have to say makes ill telling. Ouriana has reclaimed Erios. For ten years we managed to hold the island against her, despite many determined a.s.saults, but in the end she conquered us by magic and trickery.

"You mustn't think that she found us careless or idling," Gearhan went on. "The Isle of Erios is small but mountainous, and we had watchmen and seers in all the high places, gazing out to sea. We had boats patrolling the waters. My grief that we should be defeated by something so insubstantial as an illusion! One moment, our watchers were staring out to sea, where they saw nothing more dangerous than a flock of seagulls. The next, a great fleet of black ships with sails of crimson and purple came sailing into the harbor at Sgeirre, at the southern tip of the island. The very magic that created the illusion should have forewarned our seers, but the magic itself was somehow disguised. The enemy was upon us before we had time to board our own ships, before we could organize our forces on land.

"We fought hard to defend our city. From street to street they harried us, then uphill, to the fortress of Dunsgeirre, where many of our people had gathered. I think we might have held the fortress, too, had we not been suddenly attacked from the east by wyvaerun. The smallest were as large and as fierce as eagles, and some were many times larger. They came at us without warning, and tore a dozen men to shreds with their beaks and claws before we had time to react."

There were gasps of surprise and dismay throughout the room. All knew of the wyvaerun: hybrid creatures, part bird, part serpent, originally bred for the Otowan n.o.bility, who had flown them like kestrels. After the world Changed the creatures reverted to the wild, until Ouriana somehow contrived to win their allegiance, employing the hybrids as spies and messengers, for their sight and hearing were very keen. She had also, apparently, been selectively breeding them larger and larger, but no one had imagined they could reach such an enormous size, or that the wyvaerun were dangerous.

"So we're now to be attacked from the air, as well as by land and sea," growled Bael of Hythe.

"We have archers," answered Reodan. "And more of those, perhaps, than Ouriana has giant wyvaerun."

The late-afternoon sunshine poured into the great chamber through the high western windows; wherever it touched the mosaic floor the variegated blue tiles gleamed like water. Here and there, sunlight glanced off armor, off a crimson jewel set in the hilt of a sword, off silver-and-gold embroideries on lordly surcoats and banners. The Master Wizards sat silent and meditative in their twilight-purple robes. It was very still in that bright room: everyone felt weighted with knowledge, and the burden of the choices before them seemed almost too much to bear.

Then Prince Bael left his seat again. His dark eyes swept the room, and his voice took on a challenging note. "Archers are all very well, but they are only men. What do the wizards of Leal have to say to us? For in all that has been said here today, we've heard much of our fighting men, but very little of our magicians."

"We will do what we have always done," said Faolein quietly. "We will heal. We will advise. We will foresee-where we are able. We will counter Ouriana's spells, as and when we may."

"And that is all you will do? In truth, you'll not act at all-you will merely react, and that, as often as not, too late!"

There was an angry stir among the Nine Masters, a low protest from the lesser wizards and from the students of the Scholia. In the sudden agitation that moved through their ranks, no one noticed a shabby figure, dressed for travel in high boots and weather-stained cloak, slip into the room and take a seat on the floor with the young wizards.

"I take it," said Curoide, crossing his arms across his broad chest, "that you would have us attack Ouriana directly, with all of the spells at our command-the wizards of Leal against Ouriana, her magicians, and her priests, in one great arcane battle?"

"Why not?" said Prince Bael. "We have been at war more than forty years, but you might end it overnight."

Curoide's light eyes narrowed, his square jaw set. Yet it was Tuilach who spoke, gently scolding, in his thin, high voice. "Lord Prince, no good thing could possibly come from such a battle. When the wizards of Alluinn fought the mages of Otoi, both sides lost. A thousand magicians died, all told, many thousands of others died, too, and the world was Changed. There was-"

"There was a century of peace that followed after," Bael interrupted him. "Evil was defeated, virtue triumphed, and men built a better world out of the ashes of two fallen civilizations." Then remembering to whom he spoke-or perhaps ashamed of his own discourtesy-the Prince flushed painfully, and sat down in his chair, dropping his face into his hands.

"I think we need not lesson Tuilach on an era he remembers very well," said Faolein, with a slight, ironic smile. "Yes, there was a time of peace-between nations, because men were too much at war with their changed world to fight among themselves. New species arose-plants and animals, birds and fish-some of them dangerous. Runes that magicians had relied on for centuries lost their potency, and wizards labored for decades discovering new ones. And later, when we came to know our world and how to live in it, it did seem we had finally grown too wise ever again to yield to the temptations of the Dark. We did, then, believe that the world was perfected, but we were wrong. For evil was not defeated. It merely found a new vessel in Ouriana of Phaorax."

Prince Bael lifted his face. "And you would not risk yourselves for the sake of another century of peace, perhaps even longer?"

"Our fear," said Curoide, "is that we might sacrifice everything-our own lives and the lives of countless innocents, too-and there would be no peace. Ouriana would not be defeated."

A brief, meaningful glance pa.s.sed between the two princes, Hythe and Weye. Then Weye spoke, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair. "She calls herself a G.o.ddess, but I, for one, have never believed her. Yet it seems that our Master Wizards do. Is she, then, truly invincible?"

"No," said Draithleann. Next in age and wisdom to Tuilach, she had long, braided hair the color of old ivory, and clear grey eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with light, which seemed to see everything and nothing-for Draithleann was a blind seer. "But we do believe in our own prophecy: that the Dark Lady of Phaorax will not be defeated by the men of Thaerie, and not by the wizards of Leal. She will yield-if ever she does yield-only before the power of one of her own blood."

"But there is no magician, no wizard of the house of Phaorax capable of challenging her," Prince Bael protested. "Those who might have done so are dead. Years may pa.s.s, decades may pa.s.s, before another is born to take the place of the child who was lost. By then it may be too late."

The burning color came back into his face as he spoke, and his dark brows came together in a fierce scowl. "Will there be blood sacrifices on Leal, on the very steps of the Scholia? Slave ships in the harbor at Pentheirie? Will we see all the world in thrall to the overmastering pride of this one woman steeped in black magics?"

At these words, many in the hall blessed themselves-some openly, some furtively, as though by doing so they betrayed some doubt or distrust of the King or the wizards.

But then Tuilach rose, and he, too, signed a beanath against the ill omen, with a sweeping gesture that took in the whole room. "We will do all that we can to prevent it," he answered quietly, "each according to the dictates of his own conscience. No man, and certainly no wizard, should ever do more."

"And so," said Prince Gwynnek, with a bitter laugh, "the soldiers and sailors of Thaerie, the fighting men of Weye, Hythe, Rheithun, Malindor, Erios, Gonlundor-they have all spilled out their blood for nothing, for a hope that may never materialize?"

"We must not forget that Leal has also known losses," the High King reminded him sternly.

"More than a hundred wizards have died in this war," said Nione, her cool grey eyes moving from one flushed and angry young face to the other. "That hundred may seem a trifle to you, but it was almost half our number. And those who live are not unscathed; our healers, most of all, have suffered greatly. The despair, the inner turmoil of those who have returned from the battlefield is like a cry of agony in our minds at all times. What then? Would you have us forget the lessons of the past, adopt a course so dangerous and so unthinkable that even Ouriana, in all her ruthless arrogance, would shrink from attempting it?"

"Then what hope have any of us?" asked Bael, sliding down in his chair, giving the wizards a black look under his heavy eyebrows. "Our list of allies grows shorter and shorter. Our wizards are afraid to act. Should we sue for peace? The recent atrocities in Rheithun should be warning enough-will our enemy be any more merciful to any of us, once she has us in her power?"

"No," answered Reodan, wearily. "We will not treat with her, and we won't surrender. We continue to fight her as best we may-with hope or without it."

It was then that the traveler seated on the floor with the young wizards rose to his feet and threw back his hood, revealing a head of s.h.a.ggy brown hair and a lean, scarred face. "Not entirely without hope," he said in a clear voice. "For one that we all thought lost has been found, and the tide of battle may still turn our way."

In the sudden uproar that followed, the King barked out an uncharacteristic demand for silence. The noise died; all faces turned his way, startled to hear him speak so roughly. But he was intent now on the weather-beaten figure in the worn green cloak and high boots. "Who is this man? How did he come here?"

"It is Aethon of Sibri," answered Tuilach. "Once a student at the Scholia, a wanderer since. I can vouch for him myself. He was my own apprentice."

"Then," said the King, "I will hear him speak. But what he has to say may not be a matter for open discussion. Master Wizards, Aethon, my kinsmen of Hythe and Weye, Eliduc; lords of my own household, you may all stay." As he spoke, his glance pa.s.sed over each one that he named.

Then he made a broad gesture of dismissal. "All the rest have my leave to depart."

3.

There was silence in the room, a great silence made up of many little silences. Only those the King had invited to stay remained; the ma.s.sive doors had been closed and locked, the wards reset. This done, no one spoke, no one moved, waiting for the King to speak. Sitting among the other wizards and struggling to maintain his outward composure, Faolein felt a little sickly thrill of expectation.

"And now," Reodan said to the wanderer, "I would have you explain yourself." His words echoed through the vast chamber.

"I have been to Skyrra," replied Aethon. "Where I spent a fortnight at the court of King Ristil at Luckenborg. While I was there, I saw a wonder: men brought back to life, who appeared to be dead, and Nimenoe's ring on a lady's hand."

There was an explosion of tiny sounds as wizards and n.o.blemen shifted forward in their seats: a rustle of cloth, a hiss of indrawn breath, a sc.r.a.pe of spurs on the tile floor.

"On whose hand?" asked Reodan. His tawny hazel eyes glittered with excitement, but his voice remained calm, measured.

"On the hand of the youngest princess. But perhaps I should tell you my story from the very beginning."

The King nodded, and the wanderer began his tale: "For the benefit of those who know little of Skyrra, I will tell you that it's an open country of gra.s.sy plains and rolling hills. Across the wide channel known as the Necke are the nations of Arkenfell and Mistlewald-friendly and kindred folk-to the east lies Eisenlonde. Ever since the Change, the men of the north have returned to an older way of life, abandoned their cities, turned their backs on book learning, wizardry, and the greater world, growing insular and clannish. But although they are unlettered, the men of Skyrra, Arkenfell, and Mistlewald are a brave and generous and honorable people. The Eisenlonders, on the other hand, are much as they always were: savage and cruel. They pledged their fealty to the Dark long ages ago, and there's no reason to suppose that their allegiance has shifted.

"For many years, a threat has been growing throughout the north. Skinchangers-werewolves and werebears-attack isolated villages in Arkenfell, Skyrra, and Mistlewald, and there have been occasional armed clashes between the men of Skyrra and the barbarians of Eisenlonde. Lesser evils, these skinchangers and berserker warriors may seem to us, who have been at war with Ouriana of Phaorax for all these long years, but a village raided, a farmstead burned, a family killed and eaten-these are no small matters when they take place just over the next hill, or in the next valley.

"One day while I was at Luckenborg, a host of King Ristil's men rode in, wounded and b.l.o.o.d.y after a skirmish to the east. They had been victorious, but the battle was a very close thing, for all that their numbers were so much greater. The barbarians have apparently revived one of the ancient ice giants. An-"

He was interrupted by a brief sensation following this news, a barrage of questions. Aethon waited patiently while their voices battered him, and answered not a word. Only when the noise died down did he continue: "An immense dark figure fights in their ranks, wielding a mighty war hammer scrolled with runes and strange devices. Where that dread weapon strikes, it crushes, but even those who feel the wind of its pa.s.sing fall, and are rendered as cold and still as death. Several of the bodies were carried to Luckenborg and laid at King Ristil's feet. I saw them myself, touched them, and there was not a doubt in my mind: they were dead. Even the Skyrran healers thought they were dead. Yet almost a week had pa.s.sed, and the bodies were still fresh.

"Then Ristil sent for his niece, the Lady Winloki. The princess moved among the fallen, spoke words over them, and-it was a marvel!-the color came back into their faces, the air rushed into their lungs. All but one revived." Aethon's eyes glowed with the memory. "I was close enough while the lady was tending them to see the band that she wore on her hand, and to recognize it as Nimenoe's runic ring. But after the men were healed, the lady apparently put the ring aside, as though she understood it was dangerous to be seen wearing it-for I never saw it again while I was there."

There followed another little stir among the n.o.bles of the King's household, a ripple of excited speculation. The wizards were silent, but they exchanged speaking glances, which were more than sufficient.

Reodan received the news quietly. He ran a thumb along the line of his jaw, and his thoughts seemed to turn inward.

"The ring may have come to this lady by mere chance," he said at last. "Nor is her ability to make use of it proof of anything. Wizards are few in the north, but healers are not. How old is this Lady Winloki, and does she resemble Nimenoe?"

"She is nineteen years old," replied Aethon. "Which you'll admit is exactly the right age. She resembles Nimenoe only a little, but she has Eldori's eyes and hair, a certain look of him about the mouth."

Faolein rose from his place among the Master Wizards. "Many of you will remember, I always doubted the child was dead. The portents surrounding her birth were unmistakable. And I read the signs on her hand when she was an hour old. The lifeline, in particular, was strongly marked."

Curoide shifted in his seat, turned his pale blue-eyed gaze on the traveler. "But did you see eireamhoine at Luckenborg?" he asked eagerly.

When Aethon shook his head, his glance darkened. "Even if eireamhoine and the infant survived that cataclysmic battle in the Cadmin Aernan-the repercussions of which we felt even here-I can't believe that he would abandon her later. And certainly not on the plains of Skyrra, among such simple, unmagical folk!"

"It is possible," suggested Tuilach, "that he had very little choice in the matter. We don't know what his circ.u.mstances were; they may have been desperate. Or it may have been the nurse who survived, and carried the infant to Skyrra."

The King turned to Prince Gwynnek. "You have been to Skyrra. What do you say?"

"I don't remember seeing this girl Winloki, if that is what you mean. But there are dozens of young princes and princesses at King Ristil's court: his own sons and daughters, his younger brothers and sisters, and any number of nieces, nephews, and more distant relations he has chosen to foster. There was no making them out one from the other they were so very numerous." A brief, condescending smile flickered across his face. "Though I will say the girls were comely enough, and some quite pretty."

Ignoring this last remark, Draithleann said, "And where better, Lord King, to hide an infant than in a house already swarming with children? For who, outside the house, would notice the addition of a single child more?"

Reodan nodded slowly. "And it was not as though she was left-if she was left-in a peasant's cot. In the house of a king she would be n.o.bly reared. Yes, in even so simple and rustic a court as King Ristil's."

The wanderer, Aethon, cleared his throat. "I have a tale to tell, which may make the matter...somewhat less ambiguous. A story that I heard at Luckenborg.