IN A TRAITOR’S HANDS

Annandale looked up from the low pile of blankets on which Abelard lay. In the weeks of captivity since their arrival, there had been no change in his condition. The King’s eyes were closed, as usual, his breathing was shallow. The skin sagged from his cheekbones, and beneath the ragged garments he wore, his body was little more than bones and sinew covered with a leathery husk. She could feel his mind, however, and the never-ending torment in which he existed as his body and the last vestiges of his will fought Amanander’s enchantment, and she did what she could to ease the misery. But her attempts were futile; nothing short of her own death could wrest Abelard from Amanander’s control, and she knew that even were she to make such a sacrifice, the King would only die.

A wave of loathing swept over her, nausea so acute she felt as though she might vomit. Hold fast, daughter.The voice whispered through her mind, like a scent of roses in the midst of offal. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the voice. Hold fast? she wondered. For how long?

* * *

“ENGAGING AND POWERFUL.”

—VOYA

ALSO BY ANNE KELLEHER BUSH

Daughter of Prophecy

Children of Enchantment

PUBLISHED BY
WARNER BOOKS

Copyright

WARNER BOOKS EDITION

Copyright © 1997 by Anne Kelleher Bush

All rights reserved.

Aspect® is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.

Warner Books, Inc.

Hachette Book Group

237 Park Avenue

New York, NY 10017

Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

First eBook Edition: October 2009

ISBN: 978-0-7595-2668-6

For Juilene Osborne-McKnight,

Christine Whittemore Papa and

Lorraine Stanton with love.

Some things can’t be said with words.

Acknowledgements

Once again, special thanks are due to special people—Beal,Ms. Daae, EmeraldAngel, HappyAngel, Shadowheart, Jemimah, Jackdotcalm, Skiperino, Vixen, Esua, Synkie, Isolde, Leaslyric, Dragonspawn, Precious too, Wildfire Di, and Picmaker—you all know who you are. Also, my long-suffering children, Katie, Jamie, Meg, and Libby, who have learned not to mind quite so much, Kathy Tomaszewski, who kept me on track, Don Maass and Betsy Mitchell for patience beyond belief, and finally, to Donny, who worked a bit of real magic on New Year’s Eve.

Prologue

The warriors of my people believe that words are only sounds which fall and fade into empty air, the weapons of the weak. I thought so, too, once. But I am old now, and I know better. For warriors die, in battle or in their beds, and only in the tales the Keepers tell do their deeds survive.

When I was young, my days were taken up with sword and bow, with lance and battle-ax and quarter-stave-weapons I wielded better than most boys. And for the other girls—the soft ones who spent their days learning to spin and sew, to cook and weave—and for the men and women we call the Keepers, those with wordskill, I had only scorn.

Did I know then, wild and unschooled child that I was, that in language there is more power than in all the weapons of men combined? Who could have convinced me, Deirdre M’Callaster, rebellious daughter of the Chief of all the Chiefs of the Settle Islands? I cared more for my father’s title than any story men might tell of me.

It wasn’t until he came to me, months after she had died—the woman who was his wife, the woman who should have been his Queen—that I began to understand.

He came, proud King of a prouder line than mine, and on his knees, his eyes empty of everything but grief, to me he poured out his pain. What choice did I have but to listen? I, too, had sworn to uphold the kingdom and the King unto death, and there was about his mouth the drawn, pinched look I have seen on the faces of the dying.

I tightened my fists and forced my face smooth, and I listened while the man I loved gave me the story of his passion for a woman as different from myself as sword from sheath. He had come to fulfill the bargain we had made between us, for he was a man of honor who always kept his word.

He had come to father me a son, but he could not—not in those long grief-haunted nights, when the only fire which burned between us was the one within the grate, the only wine which flowed were the flagons he drained one after another, until I thought my cellars would be emptied. And certainly not in those gray, rain-shrouded days, when he lay upon my bed, fully dressed, and slept, clutching my pillow to his chest like a little boy.

It was a full two weeks or more when the torrent of words finally ceased. He looked at me across the hearth, and for the first time, he seemed to remember who I was and why he was there. “I’ve talked all this time,” he said.

I nodded, saying nothing. How could I answer the loss of a love so true, so deep?

“I’m sorry, Deirdre.” He shook his head like a man waking suddenly from sleep. “I didn’t mean to talk so much—I don’t know what came over me.”

I held up my hand. “The Tell is a sacred thing among my people, not given lightly. It is never refused.”

“The Tell?” he frowned.

“Among my people, after someone dies, and one feels the need, it is the custom to go to one of those with word-skill, those we call the Keepers, and tell the story of that person’s life. We call it the Tell. It is a sacred thing, for it is three times blessed—it honors the one who hears it, and the one who speaks it, as well as the one who died.”

“You listened to all this—because you had to?”

“No.” I glanced into the flames. “I am only a warrior, you know that. I was not trained to listen and remember. But when you came to me, you began to talk, and I could not refuse you.”

He rocked back, drawing his knees up to his chin, and wrapped his arms around his legs. He rested his chin on his knees, and he looked no more than a child of ten or twelve. “You’ve never refused me anything, have you?”

In the firelight his eyes were darker than the ashes beneath the grate, and very steady, and I had to swallow hard in order to answer. “You are my King. As you reminded me once, there is an oath which binds us.”

“An oath,” he repeated. “And a bargain.” He reached for me then, across the space that separated us, and this time, when he wrapped his arms around me and drew me close, there was nothing of the child in his touch.

Chapter One

Prill, 77th Year in the Reign of the Ridenau Kings
2749 Muten Old Calendar

It was the blood which Deirdre noticed first, the dark, liver-colored streaks which had dribbled down the face of the granite rock by the roadside and congealed in a muddy ditch into a thick, fly-speckled mess. The sight of it wrested her out of her mental rehearsal of the leave-taking speech she was planning to give her companions as soon as she found an opportune moment.

The warm, damp wind rustled the heap of rags lying on top of the rock, and all her instincts, honed by six years of ruling the most contentious men in Meriga, told her there was a body under the tattered fabric.

She reined her horse back and motioned to the tall man on her left who wore the insignia of the King’s Guard on his olive drab tunic. “We’d better halt, Captain. I think there’s a body on that rock.”

Clearly startled, Brand raised his hand at once, and further down the line the sergeant of the company bellowed the order. Deirdre swung out of the saddle and handed her reins over to the bewildered standard bearer. “Careful with him, boy. He catches the smell of blood, he’s likely to get skittish.”

She ignored the standard bearer’s nervous reply. Her boots clicked across the smooth paved surface of the ancient highway, and the breeze lifted the few wisps of red-brown hair which had escaped the heavy coils of her braids. She adjusted her sword belt, and automatically felt for her dagger. The damp wind shifted, and over the hurrying clatter of Brand’s following footfalls, she heard the horses whinny nervously as they caught the carrion stench.

“Wait, M’Callaster,” Brand called, just as she touched the tip of one boot to the first rock.

She ignored him, too. Although Brand, unlike some of the men who served Prince Roderic, never forgot to address her correctly, he still had a tendency to behave like an old woman when it came to letting her go first into any situation he perceived as dangerous. As did Roderic, for that matter. She shoved the thought of Roderic aside. When he had left for Ahga, to await the birth of his hoped-for heir, she had told herself she would not dwell on his absence.

She tried instead to concentrate on the matter at hand: the campaign against the rebellious younger sons of the old Senador of Atland. Instead of returning with her men to the Settle Islands after the successful siege of Minnis Saul last summer, Deirdre had agreed to stay and aid Prince Roderic’s struggle to guarantee the inheritance of Atland’s oldest son and heir, Kye. So here she was on this muddy highway, which looped over the Pulatchian Mountains like a ragged ribbon, accompanied by Brand and a contingent of the Prince’s Army, intent on rendezvousing with Kye by sunset at a garrison town still many miles away. But it seemed that no matter how hard Deirdre tried to concentrate on plans to bring the rebellion to a speedy and successful conclusion, thoughts of Roderic had an annoying way of intruding when she least expected them.

She bit down on her lip as she reached for the pile of rags, searching with a gloved hand. It was a body all right. She tugged, and the thing slipped off the top of the rock, tumbling and sliding, to lie face-up like a rag doll, staring blindly at the lowering sky. She shoved a balled fist into her mouth and looked away. Despite the mutilations, the third eye, centered in the forehead above and between what remained of the other two, and the terracotta-colored skin made it clear that the creature had been a Muten.

Beside her, Brand stifled a gagging noise. “By the One,” he managed at last. “What kind of monster did this?”

“It’s—it was a Muten,” she said. “Get Vere.”

“Boy—” Brand spoke to the standard bearer, who was vainly trying to control both his own animal and Deirdre’s, “call for Lord Vere. At once.”

There was an immediate stir through the ranks as the boy slipped out of his saddle and ran down the column of men. Deirdre stared at the ruin at her feet. Something—someone—had seared the eyes from the Muten’s head, wielding a pointed iron so deeply that the rubbery, grayish white matter of the brain lay revealed under the blackened flesh. Its mouth hung open, the jaw wrenched apart, and the remains of the tongue protruded from the jellied mass of clotting blood. The arms ended in bloodied stumps about three inches beneath the elbows. “Mother goddess,” she muttered. No matter what anyone might think of the Mutens, who swarmed like vermin through the hills and hollows of the Pulatchian Mountains, none of them deserved to die like this.

She glanced up to see Vere striding forward, his long, green cloak billowing around his knees. She still did not quite understand Vere’s role. She knew he was the second of all the missing King’s illegitimate children, born to some Mayher’s daughter from a village near Ahga when Abelard was no more than fifteen or sixteen. She knew that Vere had run away from Ahga years before, in his own youth, long before Abelard had married Roderic’s mother. She knew that he had returned to the court last summer, and that it was common knowledge that he had lived among the Mutens. It was also common knowledge that Roderic relied upon Vere in his dealings with the Mutens. Once again, Roderic’s face flashed before her, the familiar shock of fawn brown hair falling across his brow, lean cheeks and squared jaw rough with the faintest haze of beard. With a curse, she forced herself to think only of the situation at hand.

Without a word, Vere dropped to his knees, his cheeks pale behind the swirling tattoos—Muten markings—which were visible above his gray beard. Beads of sweat laced his forehead, despite the damp breeze. His hand rested briefly on the matted locks of blood-clotted hair, then he heaved a heavy sigh and rose to his feet. “Any others?”

“There’s another one there—” Brand nodded at a body lying in a misshapen heap near another rock and pointed to another still, ragged form lying a little distance away. “At least one more there. You think the Pulatchian Highlanders did this?” He gripped his swordbelt with both hands and looked around, scanning the forest on either side of the road, his dark brows knit. Droplets of water off the trees gleamed silver in his steel-streaked hair. At forty-nine, Brand, the eldest of all of Abelard’s children, was the Captain of the King’s Guard, the commander of the elite corps of troops who were charged with the protection of the King’s person, as well as the second-in-command of the Armies of the King. No other man in Meriga, save Roderic himself, wielded so much power, and Brand’s loyalty to his father and his half-brother was absolute.

The men who dwelled in the Pulatchian Mountains and called themselves Highlanders hated the Muten Tribes and fought endless squabbles with them over the scarce patches of arable land in the mountains. If anyone was responsible for this breach of the peace, surely it was one of their factions. The thought that anyone could conceive of such a horrible killing made Deirdre, hardened as she was to the sights of battle, nauseated.

She glanced from one brother to the other and flung her brown-and-red battle-plaid over her shoulder impatiently. “We haven’t the time to worry about who’s responsible for this if we’re to rendezvous with Atland’s son at dusk. Leave a detail to bury these poor wretches.”

Vere dragged the toe of a worn boot through the mud. “I’ll stay. There’re things which ought to be said over them. I’ll see to that, then catch up.”

Brand nodded and Deirdre shrugged. The first drops of rain stung her cheek. The warm wind blew harder, through the tangled mass of long gray locks on Vere’s shoulder. As Brand turned on his heel, motioning for the sergeant, Vere tapped his brother on the shoulder. “I don’t know why this happened, but I can tell you it wasn’t the Highlanders who did this.”

Brand frowned. “Why are you so certain?”

“What was done here was a parody—a travesty—of a secret ritual. This was done by other Mutens.”

“You’re sure?” Brand shot back. “If the Highlanders have violated the treaty, Roderic needs to know immediately.”

Vere only nodded, hanging his head as though in shame. As Deirdre swung back into her saddle, she saw him admonish the soldiers to treat the body gently. Poor misfit Prince, she thought, not quite one of them, not quite one of us. Like me, she thought, not one of the men, not one of the women. Not that it made any difference now. She had fought and won her title six years ago, when she was barely twenty-two, and no man dared challenge her right to rule her father’s estate, or to ride to war with the lords of the kingdom.

She flapped her reins and the horse trotted off down the road, eager to be away from the stench. “Why would anyone do something like that?” she asked Brand as he rode up.

“Who knows why the Mutens do anything? Just as long as it doesn’t complicate things for us. This situation is bad enough already.” His mouth was set and grim.

There wasn’t much to smile about, thought Deirdre as the road dipped down into a slight valley, and the light rain spattered the black surface. Two and a half years ago, Abelard Ridenau had disappeared on a journey across the Arkan Plains. At the time, Roderic had been in the middle of his first command, the first Muten rebellion in more than ten years. Repeated searches across Arkan and Loma had proved fruitless. Abelard had simply vanished, leaving his eighteen-year-old heir to deal as best he could with a country smoldering under an uneasy peace.

Although Amanander, Roderic’s traitor brother, had lain since the previous summer an unconscious prisoner in Ahga, there had been rumors that he showed signs of waking from his unnatural sleep, and Deirdre suspected it wasn’t Roderic’s concern for his wife and the impending birth alone that had prompted him to return to his capital more than a month ago. At least, she preferred to think it wasn’t.

If that child were a son, thought Deirdre as she tightened her grip on the reins, Roderic would be released from his vow of fidelity to his wife and free to fulfill the bargain they had made between them—that in exchange for ten thousand of her men to be used in his struggle against Amanander to secure the throne of Meriga, he would attempt to give her a child. The Chiefs of the Settle Islands were so contentious Deirdre knew that only with the support of the throne would her son succeed her in relative peace.

Amanander lay helpless as a newborn in Ahga, no longer a threat, and while Roderic might always need extra troops, her side of the bargain had been fulfilled with the fall of the fortress of Minnis Saul last summer. She knew she couldn’t expect Roderic to father a child when his attention was so taken up with the worst uprising in nearly twenty years, and she had decided it was better for all concerned if she went back to her own country to await him.

When they reached Grenvill garrison, she would leave her troops under the command of her second, Grefith. And between Brand and Vere and Atland’s heir, Kye, who remained loyal to the Ridenau cause, and who would all continue to fight for peace in the South, Roderic had no need of her. She had fallen back into a half drowse when a shout went up from the troops riding just ahead. Brand half rose in his stirrups. “What is it?” he called, his voice terse and weary.

“Soldiers, Captain. Coming this way.”

“Can you see their colors?” Deirdre craned her neck. The approaching horses were lathered, and they stumbled over the even roadway with the shambling gait of exhaustion.

“See there—” The scout pointed a long arm. “That blue, that green? That’s Atland’s colors—reversed. His heir comes to meet us.”

Deirdre and Brand exchanged frowns. Brand held up his hand, and the company slowed to a halt. As the riders came closer, Deirdre saw that the men’s uniforms were stained with mud, torn and filthy, and all of them bore bloody bandages. The leader, his head wrapped in a piece of linen so dirty it hardly qualified as a bandage, reined his horse just a few paces from where they had halted.

“Captain Brand?” His shoulders slumped in obvious relief, his mouth drooping. “Thank the One we met you. Grenvill garrison is no more.”

***

In the light of the fitful fire, Deirdre watched the exhausted men accept bowls of stew from the hands of the cooks, dipping into them as though it were the first warm food they’d tasted in days. Which, she realized as she listened to their sorry tale, was exactly what it was.

Kye, the eldest son of the ancient Senador of Atland, held out his goblet as she lifted up the wineskin. “My thanks,” he muttered, not quite looking at her. She was used to that reaction, although her lips twitched as she hid a smile.

She took a place next to Brand. Kye was not as tall as he had appeared in the saddle, for his torso was disproportionately longer than his legs, and his arms and legs were thin, while his chest looked as though it belonged to a man who did hard labor for a living. But though his body appeared to be constructed from spare parts, there was a weary spark of intelligence in his light brown eyes. The gash across his forehead was deep, and more than once he cradled his head in one hand, eyes shut.

Brand stared at a hide map, motioning his serving boy to hold the lamp first one way, then another. He wore a deep frown.

Deirdre looked down at the map, at the black double lines which marked the roads, the circles which marked the hills, and the truth leapt at her like an arrow. “Betrayed,” she muttered. The ugly word dangled in the silence like a spider from a thread. She flung her thick braid over her shoulder and shifted on the low camp stool which was all that kept her out of the mud. She gave a soft snort and toyed with a loose thread in the sleeve of her tunic, meeting the stricken looks of the men with contempt. “Don’t tell me the thought hadn’t occurred to anyone else.”

The men exchanged furtive glances, bulky shoulders shifting under heavy cloaks, for the wind whistled in the trees, and the night was cold. Spring in the Pulatchian Mountains was a long time coming.

Finally Kye raised his head and looked her in the eye for the first time since their meeting. “I can’t believe that.”

Brand said nothing, but the expression on his face did not change. Deirdre lowered her head and wondered why she wasted her time with these mainlanders, who refused to see treachery when it yanked them by the hair and stared them in the eyes. Then a vision of Roderic flashed before her, his gray-green gaze steady in the face of even the most calculated of risks. She swallowed hard and forced herself to speak calmly. “Do you think it was luck? Good fortune? How else could your brothers have known about our rendezvous at Grenvill garrison?” Impatiently, she shoved the map toward Kye, and the serving boy jumped. His lantern cast weird dancing shadows on the flimsy walls of the tent.

“They have scouts, as well—” Kye began, but stopped when he realized the route Deirdre traced.

She spread her hands flat on her knees, large hands, knuckles red and knotted, skin chapped and calloused as a man’s, and stretched her long legs out to the side. “There’s a traitor in your midst.”

“You’re saying one of my men—?” Kye threw back his cloak, pushing it away to reveal the hilt of the dagger.

Deirdre recognized the challenge and shook her head in disgust. “No, lord, I am not. But someone—somewhere, between here and Atland garrison—gave the enemy your precise route. It was more than luck that put the equivalent of two armies between your men and ours.” She raised her chin and met Brand’s steady eyes. “What say you, Captain Brand?”

Brand nodded slowly. “I agree with you, M’Callaster. There is a traitor. But I’m afraid we have neither the time nor the resources to worry who he is. We have to plan what our next move will be. We can’t afford to wait until Roderic returns.”

“And when will that be?” Kye asked, a bitter twist on his mouth.

“As soon as his child is born,” Brand answered. The shadows flickered across his face as the serving boy dipped the lamp. “Careful, boy.” He looked up into the boy’s exhausted face and shook his head. “Get to bed, boy. And you, Kye—we’ll have time to talk of this in the morning. You look as if you’ll fall asleep where you sit.”

With a grunt, Kye got to his feet. “In the morning, then. I need to check on my wounded.”

Deirdre nodded, and Brand set the lantern down in the middle of the low table. He picked up the flask of mead at his feet. “More?”

She nodded slowly, wetting her lips. This was as good an opportunity as she was likely to have, and it was better that Brand knew her intentions, before they met tomorrow. “I wanted to tell you, Captain,” she began, her words tumbling out in a rush, “that I will be leaving within the next two weeks to return to my estate. I don’t intend to withdraw my men. I will take only a squadron for an escort. The rest I will leave with you, under the command of my second, Grefith. I know he’ll serve the Prince’s cause as loyally as I.”

“You’re leaving?” He jolted upright and slammed the empty flask down. The cork flew out and landed in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “Why?”

The smoke stung her nostrils. “I have affairs of my own to tend, Captain. Not only Amanander lies sick in Ahga—Alexander is sick, as well. And without Alexander, there’s no strong hand to balance the opposing interests in the North. I’m not there to unify the Chiefs. And while the lords of Mondana were certainly no threat when I left, there is no doubt in my mind that they will harry my people soon enough.” She broke off, drawing her cloak closer across her shoulders as the damp air blew beneath the tent. “The winter’s over—I can cross the Saranevas at the Koralado Pass. There’s no need for me to stay.”

She fixed her gaze on the fire and refused to look up. She heard the clatter as Brand’s goblet fell on its side. “M’Callaster—Deirdre, surely you understand we need you. I need you. There’s no one better at keeping hotheads cool, and keeping them off each other’s throats. Roderic himself relies upon you, upon your judgment. What will I tell him?”

“The truth, as I shall,” she lied, feeling a hot blush sweep up her cheeks.

He spread his hands and for a moment she felt sorry for him. Strong men always looked so helpless when at a loss. “M’Callaster, the spring campaign is barely underway—surely you could spare a month—two months? You could reach the Saranevas long before next winter will close the pass—”

With a heavy sigh, Deirdre shifted once more and poured the dregs of the mead into her goblet. Her head ached, and not for the first time she wished that Roderic had not returned to Ahga. She thought with sudden longing of her lands in the Settle Islands, where the wild sea birds swooped over the craggy cliffs, where the sea pounded against the rocky shores and washed over the white beaches. “Captain, try to understand my position. According to the latest dispatches, it may be months before Alexander is recovered enough to return to his command of the garrison at Spogan. Without Alexander’s presence—” Her explanation was cut off in midsentence as shouts broke the exhausted stillness of the camp.

With a curse, Brand was on his feet, sword already drawn. He was just about to grab the tent flap when it opened, bringing a gust of wind and Vere into the tent.

“Send for Roderic immediately,” Vere said without greeting.

“Why?” asked Brand.

Vere acknowledged Deirdre’s presence with a glance and a nod. “One of the Mutens back there on the road—he wasn’t dead. He lived long enough to tell me that gravest danger is upon us.”

“Us? Why? You said the Mutens did this—”

“Listen to me, man.” Vere gripped Brand’s sword arm and stared his eldest brother in the eye, his jutting hawk nose so similar to Brand’s, they looked like twins in profile. “They had no mindskill—I haven’t time to explain what that means. But you know that only the ruling families have the use of the secondary arms?” He paused just long enough for Brand to nod. “Before the last poor wretch died, he lived long enough to write one word.” Vere fumbled in the pack at his waist and held out a crumpled piece of parchment. Together, Brand and Deirdre squinted over it in the dim light. Shaky black lines formed one word: FERAD.

Brand looked away with a curse. “We’ve got more important problems than the murder of a passel of Mutens, Vere. Kye’s army was intercepted—Grenvill garrison destroyed. Deirdre informed me just before you came in that she’s planning to leave—”

“Leave?” Vere frowned. He looked at her closely, and Deirdre felt the urge to squirm as those piercing eyes fell upon her. “Leave now? Why?”

“I can get over the Saranevas.” She raised her chin, refusing to be intimidated by the probing gaze of the Ridenau sons. “I have concerns of my own, you know.”

Brand swore beneath his breath. “I’ll send a messenger out tonight, Vere. You add anything you wish.” He glanced at Deirdre, disgust plain on his face. “And you, M’Callaster. If you’ve a message of your own for the Prince, I advise you to write it. But I can’t believe you’d do this.”

He strode out of the tent.

Deirdre glanced at Vere, who looked at her quizzically.

“Why can’t he believe I’d leave?”

“Because you haven’t told him the truth.”

Deirdre jerked around. “How do you know what I told him?”

Vere shrugged. “You gave him some story about the state of the Settle Islands. But I don’t believe that’s the real reason you want to go.”

Deirdre tightened her jaw. “Then—”

“Let me tell you a story.” Vere sat down before the fire and stretched out his hands over its heat. “Is there any food? I haven’t eaten since dawn.”

She rummaged through her pack and held out a piece of dried salted beef and a package of leathery dried apples.

He turned the food over in his hands, staring into the flames. “Many years ago, when I was young and lived in Ahga, I loved a woman.” He tore at the beef and raised his eyes to hers as he chewed and swallowed.

A chill ran up her spine, for his words rang with the same authority as the tales of the Keepers of her people. What did Vere see with those shadowed eyes?

“She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he continued, “and I am not the only one who thought so. Every man who saw her wanted her—every man who’d ever seen her would remember her. But she was more than beautiful—she was kind, and she knew more about Old Meriga than anyone I had ever met before. She talked to me as though what mattered to me mattered to her, too. No one else ever treated me like that. No one else so truly understood.”

“What happened?” But Deirdre thought she could surmise the answer. This was a familiar story, after all.

“I was a boy—fifteen years old. She was a woman: ten, twelve years my senior, or more. And she belonged to my father, to the King. Everyone knew it, even though when I was there, she did not share his bed. So I ran away because I could not bear to see them together. But her image is burned into my memory—I have carried it with me wherever I’ve gone, all these years, and I only need shut my eyes to see her again.”

Deirdre picked up a long stick, reached into the heart of the flames, and poked at the burning logs. The wood split with a hiss and a loud crack; the better, she thought, to cover the voice of such naked need. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because the woman I loved was Nydia—the monster who saved us all from Amanander and his Magic last summer.”

“The witch?” Deirdre whispered. The stick fell out of her hands into the fire.

“Yes.” Vere looked back into the flames, his voice shaking with some suppressed emotion. “My father, Abelard, forced her to use the Magic for him—so that his Queen would conceive his son, Roderic. In consequence, Nydia became that horror. And from that day to this, I have wondered what my part in it was…”

“What makes you think you had a part?”

“Don’t you understand, Deirdre? We are all part of the pattern. All our actions impact upon the whole. If you leave here, because you love Roderic—” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to protest, and the words died on her tongue. “If you desert him, now, at the hour of his need, because that love imposes too high a price, is that love at all?”

Deirdre glanced down. Her worn, battle-scarred boots clung to the muscles of her thighs, hardened from long days spent on battlefields and in the saddle. The tunic she wore was patched and mended, as were the trousers beneath. Her knotted hands reminded her of other scars which marred the smooth muscles of her arms and legs, and the red, puckered line which was all that remained of her left breast. She was nothing like the woman Roderic loved.

And yet he had agreed to the terms she had offered him, to father her a son in exchange for her men, even though he had seen her naked body one rain-soaked night in the course of those agonizing negotiations made necessary by Amanander’s mischief. Roderic’s nobility clung like a second skin; he could no more pretend not to be a Prince than she could pretend to be the soft, delicate woman who was his wife. But even then, she had wanted him. Even then.

Deirdre raised her face to Vere and saw genuine sympathy in the deep lines of his weathered face, the look in his gentle eyes. “And if I stay?”

“I won’t lie. If you stay, it will be hard. But look at what Roderic faces: Atland’s sons and Missiluse in full rebellion, the lesser lords throughout the South likely to rise to their support. The Harleyriders will surely see this as an opportunity to advance into the central plains. And now—” Vere patted the pouch where he had slipped the crumpled parchment, “—now, there is clear evidence that Ferad himself has surfaced. He’s finally made the move we’ve been waiting for. And he did not do it without much preparation—I promise you, right now, he holds all the cards. You know what the Magic can do. Brand scoffs, but he wasn’t at Minnis last summer when Nydia brought the siege to an end. You’ve seen the Magic work. Nydia’s dead. Now there’s no one who can use the Magic for Roderic. He needs every friend. Please, don’t make a mistake you might have your whole life to regret.”

Deirdre took a deep breath and got to her feet. “All right. I’ll stay. But only until J’ly. I must be over the Saranevas by the first snow. Whatever I am, or am not, to Roderic, I am the M’Callaster to my people.”

She pulled her plaid close, threw the end over her shoulder, and knew he watched her as she stalked away into the dark night.