Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit Part 10

As for Calchfynelld, and Caer Celemion, the entire ruling household of the former had been taken by a rheumy plague one winter, and the latter's king died within an hour of his son on yet another battlefield against the Saxons. Seeing how well and justly her father had dealt with Pengwen, the a.s.sembled chiefs of both lands had come to him and begged him to accept their fealty. From the time of Gwen's second year in warrior training to now, the little Kingdom of Pywll had quadrupled in size.

Which was why Gwen was perched in a tree in the winter, just inside the border of what had been Caer Celemion, looking down on the evening camp of a band of Saxon raiders. She had no mind to move just yet; not until it got darker. She was as at home up a tree as under it, as cozy under a snow covered bush as any rabbit, and so quiet and near-invisible in her ghostings about that the men of her troop all said she truly was a "white spirit."

In fact . . . that was what the Saxons called her as well, except that they were sure she was a spirit in truth.

I should think about that, she reflected, as the odor of burned mutton came to her nose. she reflected, as the odor of burned mutton came to her nose. That could be very useful. There must be some way to encourage them to believe I really am some vengeful phantom. That could be very useful. There must be some way to encourage them to believe I really am some vengeful phantom.

Peder had been right. And so had Braith. She was Epona-touched; there wasn't a horse in all her father's herds that she couldn't ride. She took to weapons work with the same ease that Gynath danced or Cataruna sang. Clearly, she had been born to walk this path, and Peder's careful weighing of her talents and physical abilities, his selective training, had made her the best scout in King Lleudd's entire army.

Her father was not just indulging her; she was of great value to him doing what she was. And it was not as if he lacked for heirs, for Gynath and her beloved Caradoc had already given him five living grandchildren. If that were not enough, Cataruna had graced him with two more. Four years ago she had returned from the Ladies of the Well not only a Lady full trained but with a bard husband who just happened to be one of the King of Gwynnedd's younger sons and well schooled to be Forest Lord to her Lady of the Fields in all the rites.

Which left Gwen free to do as she pleased, and what she pleased was to serve in peace as her father's right hand, and in war as his eyes and ears, and the eyes and ears of his army.

She bent her ear to the rough talk about the fire; she had schooled herself in the Saxon tongue this past year and more, reckoning it would be useful both in questioning prisoners and in understanding things she was not meant to overhear. It was an ugly speech, harsh and guttural, having none of the lilting beauty of her own, the song of that used down in Cornwall, the poetry of the Gaels, the measured grace of the languages of the east, or even the logic and cadence of the Latin it was said that the High King spoke. Cataruna's husband, Ifan, was the one who taught her all these tongues, and perhaps he had worked some special magic to put them into her head, for surely they came to her as easily as breathing.

An overcast sky meant no sunset; the darkness thickened as the Saxons huddled closer to their fire, hacking chunks of mutton from the carca.s.s spitted over the fire with their knives. They were going short for drink, it seemed, melting snow in a battered pot rather than seeking out a stream. And they were not happy about this thin drink, either; there were muttered complaints and unhappy looks cast at the man Gwen judged to be their leader. He was probably what pa.s.sed for a lord among the Saxons, and one's lord was expected to furnish good food and plenty of it, along with presents and loot.

There was not much to distinguish him from the rest save for the wolfskin cloak he sported. He might be a little older, but all of them had much the same in the way of arms and armor. s.h.i.+eld, spear, long knife, and a heavy leather jerkin; two had bows, the rest, slings. But the leader had a sword; in fact, from the look of it, Gwen judged it was a Roman sword, probably looted and possibly pa.s.sed through several generations of owners. She liked the look of it; it was a proper Roman blade, so it was short by the standards of those her father's smiths made. That made it the perfect length for her.

I should not mind being that sword's next owner.

Then she chided herself. She must keep her mind on those men below, not on their possessions.

The conversation around the fire was remarkably uninformative. The men seemed to be taciturn by nature, conversed mostly in grunts, and were uninterested in discussing the reason why they were here. The best solution would be to take one or more of them alive and beat the answers out of them. She'd learned all she could from them at this point.

She needed to time when she ghosted out of the tree very carefully. There had to be enough light to see her way through this part of the forest and back to her troop, but not so much that the Saxons would see movement.

"You think King Bear has aught men about?" one of them asked suddenly, looking around, as if he had sensed her eyes on him. She froze. one of them asked suddenly, looking around, as if he had sensed her eyes on him. She froze.

The leader laughed. "Nay. He be a-casting himself on grave of the she-bear and her cubs and weeping senseless. Mayhap he'll find his man-parts again come spring, but he's throwin' of his ap.r.o.n o'er his head now." "Nay. He be a-casting himself on grave of the she-bear and her cubs and weeping senseless. Mayhap he'll find his man-parts again come spring, but he's throwin' of his ap.r.o.n o'er his head now."

The others laughed as well, and the first speaker shook his s.h.a.ggy blond head and went back to gnawing his mutton.

So that was why they chose now. It made perfect sense-though she was more than a bit put out that these Saxons had better intelligence of what was going on at the High King's seat than she did. Word It made perfect sense-though she was more than a bit put out that these Saxons had better intelligence of what was going on at the High King's seat than she did. Word had had come, just before they'd heard rumors of skulkers on the border, that Arthur's twin sons had died, and his queen had perished of grief for them. The details had been confused and muddied; some said they'd been killed in a boar hunt, some that they had been murdered, and one grisly tale swore it was the High King's own foster brother, now his seneschal, Kai, who had murdered them out of jealousy and in secret, That is, the tale ran, it was meant to be secret, but the head of the fairest had been sent in a box that only the murderer could open, and Kai, all unknowing, had opened it before the whole court. come, just before they'd heard rumors of skulkers on the border, that Arthur's twin sons had died, and his queen had perished of grief for them. The details had been confused and muddied; some said they'd been killed in a boar hunt, some that they had been murdered, and one grisly tale swore it was the High King's own foster brother, now his seneschal, Kai, who had murdered them out of jealousy and in secret, That is, the tale ran, it was meant to be secret, but the head of the fairest had been sent in a box that only the murderer could open, and Kai, all unknowing, had opened it before the whole court.

A boar hunt, well, that made some sense. They were just just of an age to partic.i.p.ate in such a dangerous pastime. And murder, well that was possible, though less likely. But Arthur had a temper, and if it had been Kai, foster brother or no, there would have been a fourth grave and a new seneschal. On the whole, she was inclined to think it was a boar hunt after all, since one of the few details of that version said that Arthur's favorite hound, Cabal, had died defending them. of an age to partic.i.p.ate in such a dangerous pastime. And murder, well that was possible, though less likely. But Arthur had a temper, and if it had been Kai, foster brother or no, there would have been a fourth grave and a new seneschal. On the whole, she was inclined to think it was a boar hunt after all, since one of the few details of that version said that Arthur's favorite hound, Cabal, had died defending them.

But there had been nothing more before Gwen and her troop had gone south and east as fast as their horses could take them. This was fresher news than she had, and she was heartily annoyed.

But . . . there was a certain feeling of grim satisfaction in hearing it, too. So the High King was prostrate with grief was he? Well, perhaps the carrion crows he had set to fly when he'd had all those tiny babies killed had come home to roost in the royal bower. Now he tasted the grief he had given to so many. And if it was the Merlin that had given him that evil advice, well, it was too bad the Merlin couldn't sip from that same cup of gall.

She could not help but think of her father, and her mother, and the little brother who never got a chance to draw a breath . . .

But that thought softened her bitterness. It had been said for many years now that this between Arthur and his Queen was not only a marriage of state but a love match. And she thought of her father sitting hollow-eyed in his hall and thought of the High King doing the same, and her heart turned to pity him.

But only for a moment; more movement below in the thickening dusk alerted her. All the men (except the leader) were settling onto their beds of bracken, their cloaks wrapped tightly about them. The leader had taken a seat with his back to the fire, scanning the open meadow. And, as if the G.o.ds of the place had decided to favor her entirely, thick snowflakes began to drift down out of the blue-gray sky.

She began to flex and stretch all of her muscles, from fingers to toes, warming them and getting ready to move. And when she judged she was ready, she moved as slowly and deliberately as a tortoise, backing her way down the branch and then the trunk, making absolutely sure of every hand- and foothold before committing her weight to it. It was the sort of climb that took great patience and a lot more strength than most might think. But she got quietly to the ground without the Saxon leader having even the faintest idea of her presence.

She blessed the snowfall; she had been planning to pull off her gray wolfskin cloak and drag it fur-side down on the ground behind her for a while to muddy her tracks. Now she would not have to. There would still be be tracks leading away from the tree, but it would not be possible to tell what had made them. And if she had more luck, at least one of the men would blunder about in there, looking for wood, and further churn up the snow. tracks leading away from the tree, but it would not be possible to tell what had made them. And if she had more luck, at least one of the men would blunder about in there, looking for wood, and further churn up the snow.

At this point, however, night was all but upon her. Now she had to turn to her other trick to find her way. With her left hand, she reached for the trunk of the next tree just at shoulder-height; even though she had good night-vision, she could barely make it out, dark against the white snow. She ran her fingers along the bark, and found the little cut she had put there, pointing the way she should go.

Step by slow and careful step, making sure to make as little noise as possible, she made her way from tree to tree, following her marks. She counted each tree that she pa.s.sed, and when she had gone far enough, she took a deep breath and called like an owl, three times.

The answer came back. Three calls, then a count to five, then four calls. She followed the sound, pausing now and again, to repeat her call and follow the reply.

She had done this so many times in the past that she had schooled herself to patience. It only seemed seemed as if it took forever to make her way through the snow-filled darkness. as if it took forever to make her way through the snow-filled darkness.

But, at last, she did. She hooted and heard the answer right beside her, and she felt Aeron grip her elbow with one hand. She reached around and clapped him on the back, and the two of them made their way to the carefully concealed camp.

She didn't speak until she squatted down beside the fire and accepted a fire-warmed stone to cradle in her hands. "Small raiding party of six," she began, and made a succinct summary of everything she had seen and heard. "I think we're going to have to take them," she finished. "And get one alive to tell us what they're up to."

The others nodded. "Try to ambush them in the morning?" asked Aeron. "Or see if we can find a better place to bring them down?"

"Morning would be best. They don't think there're any fighters out here, just the odd farmer. They're good enough not to let their guard down, but they're also not as alert as they could be." She let the heat from the stone soak into her. "I want to hit them before they have any inkling we could be here." She looked around her troop; four, counting herself, but that should be enough. Aeron and Meical were the best of the archers. So they would be best put as first and last watch, so they had solid, unbroken sleep. "Aeron, first watch, I'll take second, Owain, third, Meical, last. Meical, wake us all at first light. We'll take them from the forest, and I only need one living."

The other three nodded. Aeron wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and ghosted off into the night. They set a proper watch, regardless of conditions, with the sentry making irregular rounds outside the camp. She smiled to herself. She could not have asked for better men.

The rest of them took heated stones from beside the fire and curled up around them to sleep. Like the Saxons, they had made beds of bracken to keep them off the snow. Tolerably comfortable, actually, especially situated as they were in the heart of a thicket, screened from wind and most of the falling snowflakes.

Sleep when you can. Eat when you can. Reminded of that second of the warrior's rules of the field, she rummaged out a lump of cheese and some cold rabbit from the common food pack. That was the one good thing about a winter campaign. Food didn't go bad; you didn't have to subsist on rock-hard journey bread and dried meat. If you had it in camp, you could take it with you for a good wholesome meal. She ate quickly and neatly, licked her fingers clean, then ate a handful of clean snow for a "drink," curled up around her own rock, and went straight to sleep. Reminded of that second of the warrior's rules of the field, she rummaged out a lump of cheese and some cold rabbit from the common food pack. That was the one good thing about a winter campaign. Food didn't go bad; you didn't have to subsist on rock-hard journey bread and dried meat. If you had it in camp, you could take it with you for a good wholesome meal. She ate quickly and neatly, licked her fingers clean, then ate a handful of clean snow for a "drink," curled up around her own rock, and went straight to sleep.

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Luck was with them. When the troop eased up toward the Saxon camp, five of the men were still asleep, and the sixth was nodding over his ax, his back warming at the fire. Gwen signaled all of them to leave the rightmost man alive. They nodded and spread out a bit, to get a better field of fire. Her shot would be the signal to the other three.

She lined up six arrows point-down into the snow, then put a seventh on the string. Seven. Always her lucky number. She pulled back her arrow, sighted carefully on the lookout, and let fly.

The first missed, lodging in his shoulder. But before he could shout, her second took him in the throat. Her third and fourth went into one of the sleepers, as two more arrows. .h.i.t the sentry before he could slump to the ground, her fifth and sixth went into the next sleeper, and her seventh into a third. By that time, all of the men but the one she had designated as the one to save were feathered with four to six shafts, all without any of them uttering a sound. The last one woke by being kicked over by Aeron, to find three swords pointed at his throat.

He tried to get up and fight anyway. That didn't last long. He was lying down, and although his ax was at his hand, there wasn't much he could do before a vicious slash to his arm opened it up from wrist to elbow. Aeron was the best of them at sword work; he managed to keep from cutting the man open so badly he would bleed to death before they got any information from him.

Gwen had stayed well out of his line of sight, letting the men disarm him and tie him up. She had an idea; she didn't much like the results she had been getting from beating information out of prisoners-it tended to be wrong as often as right, and there was no way of knowing which. She'd talked this over with the troop this morning; they had agreed with her on that point and decided to let her try something different.

One of the things in her kit was powdered chalk; she dusted her hands with it when she was going to attempt a difficult climb or when she was unsure of her grip on a weapon. While the other two kept the prisoner busy, Aeron came over and helped her dust it all over her face. She held her breath to keep from inhaling any of it, then did the same with her bare hands. Then she took off her cloak, and unbound her hair, and approached the prisoner from behind, naked sword in her white hands.

Owain wrenched him around when she was in place and forced him to his knees so that he gaped up at the white-faced, white-haired, gray-clad virago glaring down at him.

His eyes registered his shock. She smiled.

"Do you know what I am?" she whispered in Saxon. She had reckoned that whispering would be more impressive than speaking.

His mouth worked for some time before any words came out. "Th-th-th-the White Ghost!" he stammered, sweat starting all over his greasy brow.

She leaned down slightly. "Yes," she breathed. "And I eat men's souls. The bodies I leave for my black chickens."

As if on cue, several ravens, attracted by the red blood soaking into the white snow and made bold by winter hunger, alighted in the tree branches above her, calling. She did not bother to keep the glee from her face. This could not have been timed better if she had planned it.

His face had been white with pain and fear, but now every vestige of blood drained from it. She leaned forward a little more. "I have feasted upon the spirits of your companions," she said, narrowing her eyes and smiling as if sated. "And I am inclined to let you live-if you tell me what I wish to know."

She straightened, and allowed the smile to slip from her face. "You might as well," she added. "I will have it from you anyway."

By the time the man fainted, he had told her everything he knew. Not a great deal, but it was enough. Indeed, this group had been advance scouts to test the borders of Pywll, moving ahead of the Saxon army. As she had suspected, they were making a push here, but not only because of the pressure that High King Arthur was putting on the Saxon kingdoms in the east; they hoped to flank him by spring, and when his army rode out again, to cut it off from his lands and supplies.

As her men looted the bodies-and she made a good trade with Owain, to whom the short sword had fallen, her longer blade for the Roman gladius-they discussed this. She glanced over at the unconscious prisoner, belting on the new blade.

"I have an idea in mind," she said, finally, as the other three debated the merits of trying to haul him back with them or killing him outright. The men broke off the discussion, which was getting a little heated, and gave her silence. "I'm thinking we should take off his thumb so he's spoiled as a warrior and turn him loose to make his way back to his lines."

They stared at her in utter astonishment. "But-why?" Aeron asked, finally.

But Meical had the answer already. "He thinks you be a thing uncanny, lady," the eldest of them said, slowly. "And you be wanting him to take that back with him. That King Lleudd has some terrible spirit bound to his service. Ghost, fae, witch, any or all. It doesn't matter, the tale will grow in the telling."

She nodded, and looked to the other two. "What say you?"

Aeron grinned broadly and spread his hands. "Peder'll be proud, girl. He'll wreak more havoc on his own with his tales than we could with a hundred men."

Owain finally chuckled. "Aye. Aye. I'm for it."

She wiped the chalk off her face with the fur of her cloak. "Right then. Take the thumb so he can't use an ax or any other weapon. I'll not send another fighter back to them. Cauterize the stump and that wound in his arm, and leave him with food and water enough to get back to his lines. He'll leave a trail a blind man could follow. Aeron, you and Owain ghost after him, make sure he actually gets gets there, and come back to our lines when you see the Saxon army so we know where they are. Meical and I will get back to our people and report." there, and come back to our lines when you see the Saxon army so we know where they are. Meical and I will get back to our people and report."

Aeron gave the old Roman fist-to-shoulder salute some of the men, particularly those that had served with the High King, still used. It was the first time, however, that anyone had ever given it to her, her, and she felt warm inside. "As you will it, lady. 'Tis a privilege to serve you." and she felt warm inside. "As you will it, lady. 'Tis a privilege to serve you."

That warmth stayed with her for the long miles back to the main camp, better far than any heated stone.

Chapter Twelve.

"Medraut is here."

Those were the first words to greet Gwen as she and her troop rode into the camp of the small force her father had sent with her. Aeron and Owain had caught up with her easily enough; she and Meical had been taking their time, and Aeron and Owain had made sure to harry their Saxon along by making uncanny noises at night. The wound to his arm and the loss of his thumb were both painful of course, but in the winter after being cauterized, they were unlikely to fester and were not going to slow down a seasoned fighter significantly. These Saxons were tough, and a seasoned fighter would have survived other, more serious wounds than that.

According to the men, he hadn't even stopped to make camps; he'd make himself a warm nest with whatever he could find when it was too dark to keep going, sleep till dawn, and move on as if demons were after him. "Or as if you were," "Or as if you were," the men had joked. He had stumbled into his own army within three days, and that was when Aeron and Owain turned back and put on all speed. The weather had remained good, and the snow was not too deep; her father's st.u.r.dy horses made good time in it. the men had joked. He had stumbled into his own army within three days, and that was when Aeron and Owain turned back and put on all speed. The weather had remained good, and the snow was not too deep; her father's st.u.r.dy horses made good time in it.

So they knew now where the Saxon army was and that it was waiting for word from the scouting parties-for the ones they had come across were surely not the only ones. And Gwen had done something that, she hoped, would make the night a h.e.l.l of fear for any more small groups the Saxons would send out. The White Phantom was hunting them, the Fair Apparition knew them, and being unsure if she was mortal magician or fae or even some b.l.o.o.d.y-handed G.o.ddess, they would be looking for her in every shadow. It gave her great satisfaction to imagine them so. And she knew men on campaign; they were greater gossips than any girls. The tales would only grow in the telling. If the commanders were foolish enough to forbid their men to speak of the White Phantom, it would only inflame them further.

Gwen and her men rode in to the camp on a bright, crisp, sunny afternoon having made all speed with their news, and she knew thanks to her work that a messenger sent to her father would have a substantial force here in plenty of time to give the Saxons second thoughts about invading. Her spirits were high, and with good luck she would see some fighting.

Above them was a sky of cloudless perfection. Before them was the camp, laid out in ordered rows. "Roman style," was what Peder said, though he would never, ever have used those words to her father. But Gwen now knew exactly what he meant. The Romans had perfected the art of making a defensible camp, and High King Arthur was not above using that art. King Lleudd's war chiefs and captains had learned it from him, found it good, and adopted it.

Such a camp could be made in much less than half a day in summer; in winter, it was oddly much easier. Square in shape, and surrounded by a ditch and wall system, it was possible to make snow walls higher and faster than dirt or brush walls, and in place of a ditch, simply making a fast fire of brush, allowing the snow to melt and freeze into ice served the same purpose. There was an entrance to the camp in the middle of each of the four walls, guarded night and day; the tents and pavilions inside were arranged in orderly rows, every tent was always in the same place in every camp, and if those tents were not as uniform as the ones that the Roman army had once had, at least it was possible to know exactly where everyone was in the camp. In the event of an attack, that was vital.

This wasn't a huge force or a huge encampment, not like the big Roman ones, which had held tens of thousands. Only a couple of hundred-just enough to for hit-and-run delaying tactics in case there had had been a Saxon army actually marching across the border. It looked very peaceful, with the horses picketed neatly, the stacks of hay brought from the nearby village, each man with his cook fire going. Almost like a village in itself. But peace was not what they were here for, and she knew the others were chafing for some fighting just as much as she was. Strange thing about winter-some people nearly went mad with inactivity, and some just contentedly drowsed the dark days away. She, it seemed, was one of the former. The ambush of the scouting party had only whetted her appet.i.te for more. been a Saxon army actually marching across the border. It looked very peaceful, with the horses picketed neatly, the stacks of hay brought from the nearby village, each man with his cook fire going. Almost like a village in itself. But peace was not what they were here for, and she knew the others were chafing for some fighting just as much as she was. Strange thing about winter-some people nearly went mad with inactivity, and some just contentedly drowsed the dark days away. She, it seemed, was one of the former. The ambush of the scouting party had only whetted her appet.i.te for more.

But her good humor came plummeting down when the first person she met-aside from the sentry who challenged them-was Peder, who greeted her with those warning words.

Medraut. Son of Lot of Orkney, now eighteen years old. The only person she wanted to see less than Medraut was the woman he had married, her sister Gwenhwyfach.

Which, of course, utterly ruined her mood. She pulled her horse up; he was not happy about being halted so close to his picket and that lovely, lovely hay, and he curveted restlessly despite his weariness. Peder stepped back from him; this was her warhorse, Rhys, one of her father's famed grays; it was not safe to be too near those hooves and teeth if a mood was on him. "What is he he doing here?" she demanded sharply. There was no need to mince words with Peder; her old mentor knew exactly how she felt about the little pest. She had good reason for her dislike. doing here?" she demanded sharply. There was no need to mince words with Peder; her old mentor knew exactly how she felt about the little pest. She had good reason for her dislike.

It had all begun five years after Anna Morgause had taken Little Gwen off to foster. The Queen of Lothian and the Orkneys had been making a state visit to the High King, which was a politic thing to do every so often, and had made sure to include in the journey a long pause at Castell y Cnwclas so that Little Gwen "could be with her family." And it had been unpleasant enough to have Gwenhwyfach swanning about, trying to lord it over Gynath, doing not a bit of work but making plenty. But that was not the end of the unpleasantness, for Anna Morgause had brought Medraut with her.

Now, when this planned visit had been announced, Gwen had thought that her worst difficulty was going to be with the queen herself again and attempts to work magic on King Lleudd. After all, this visit might just have been another excuse to lure her father into marrying Morgana again. Morgana was five years older now and still unwed; Pywll was four times the size it had been. King Lleudd had been a tempting prize before; now he was a brilliant one.

But she made no attempt to work magic, and old Bronwyn was watching her like a cat at a mousehole. Not only Bronwyn but also Gynath and just about every other woman that had been involved in thwarting the queen the last time.

It was not Anna Morgause that caused any difficulty; it was Gwenhwyfach, and that was merely petty. Gwen managed to avoid everything but feelings of irritation, and if had only been that, the visit might have been inconsequential enough.

Except for Medraut. It was absurd that a five-year-old child should trouble Gwen-yet trouble her he did.

Gwen had disliked him as an infant, and in her opinion, five years had not improved him. He was simply nothing like a normal child. He was thin, preternaturally agile; he looked more like an adult who had somehow been shrunk to a miniature size than like a child. He didn't play with other children. He didn't play at all. He was either somewhere doing secret things or . . . well, not underfoot exactly, but always there, nonetheless. His mother seemed to allow him to go where he wished and do as he pleased without supervision. And for some reason, he decided that what he wanted was to attach himself to Gwen.

He followed her about as much as he could, always watching her; he'd have followed her everywhere everywhere if she hadn't figured out that there were places he wasn't welcome, like the stable and the practice grounds. Horses disliked him, as did dogs, and a small child was forbidden from being on the practice grounds; it was too dangerous. There, at least, she could escape him. if she hadn't figured out that there were places he wasn't welcome, like the stable and the practice grounds. Horses disliked him, as did dogs, and a small child was forbidden from being on the practice grounds; it was too dangerous. There, at least, she could escape him.

She could not account for how he made her feel, since no one else seemed to have that strong a reaction to him. She couldn't help herself. With his smooth cap of black hair, his thin little face, and those flat gray eyes that seemed to be looking for secrets, he made her skin crawl.

She couldn't escape him at meals, though, nor any other place where he knew she was supposed to be serving as page or squire. He never said anything to her, never interrupted her. He would simply be there, tucked into a corner, staying out of the way. And he just kept staring at her.

That is, that was what he did right up to the point where the queen's party was due to leave. That night, as she was serving the men and had gone to refill her ale jug, she felt a grip on her elbow and looked down into his flat gray eyes.

"I am going to marry you," he announced. A command. A princely command, from a prince to a servant. It was not the way a normal child would have said such a thing, with the silly baby-love some little boys got with a pretty woman, or in the manner of a joke, or even as if it were something he had overheard his mother discussing and was parroting. It was . . . imperious. It sounded as if it was something he had decided for himself without any coaching from Anna Morgause. And he spoke the words as if he, and they, were very, very certain. It made her skin crawl.

She stared at him, then laughed uneasily. She decided that the best way to deal with him was to treat him as . . . well . . . a child. Even if he wasn't acting like one. "Go away, infant," she replied, with a lift of her lip. "Or I will tell your mama that you have gotten into the mead, and you are making up lies and silly tales. You are too young to think of marriage, and even if you were not, I am not for your marrying."

She pushed past him and went back to her serving . . . but she could not help the strange chill that went up her back. The relief she felt when they were all gone on their way was so intense it seemed to brighten everything around her for days.

The next time she saw him, he was ten, and the years had not changed him, except to make him taller and even more uncanny. At ten, he was a full two heads taller than any other child his age-and he seemed more like a miniature man than a boy. He was Gwenhwyfach's great pet and Anna Morgause's pride. By this time, Cataruna was back, established as the Lady of Lleudd's lands, and the queen sought her out on all possible occasions in order to discuss matters of magic. For the most part, Gwen had very little to do with that, but it was impossible to avoid some of it. Anna Morgause expected great things from her youngest child, and she went on at great length about how powerful, magically, the boy was.

"If I have no daughters, the G.o.ds have chosen to give me a son as gifted as any girl," she a.s.serted. And Cataruna (somewhat reluctantly, Gwen thought) agreed. At the time, Gwen wondered if that was what made her so uneasy around him. Men's Magic was that of the Druids, who did have to do with the warriors . . . maybe it was that unpredictable vision of hers that was trying to tell her that the child was strong in such things.

But after only a day, she knew it was not that. It was that Medraut was obsessed, unnaturally obsessed, with her.

At least this time he did not follow her about, but every time she was near him, she was acutely conscious of his eyes on her. More than once, she suspected he was trying to work some sort of magic on her-as mad as it would have been in anyone else, she had more than a suspicion that he had not given up his idea of marrying her. But if he was trying to bespell her in anyway, it didn't work.

Horses still disliked him, and she had every reason to be with her horses now. She was training her new warhorses, two of the best grays from her father's herd-Rhys and Pryderi. They were her sole care at the moment, for she was about to join the ranks of the real fighters and would need her warhorses.

Anna Morgause was there for more than just a familial visit. This time, however, her designs were not on King Lleudd, and Morgana had not come with her. No, she had other plans entirely, although they did involve marriage within the king's family. By the time she left, Gwenhwyfach had been handfasted to the repellent boy; they would be formally betrothed in a year and married when he was fourteen, and Gwen had strong hopes she would never have to see him again. After all, Orkney was far from Pywll, the boy was anything but a warrior, and he was to be married to her sister, which should should put an end to his uncomfortable obsession with her. put an end to his uncomfortable obsession with her.

No such luck, it seemed.

And once she reported in, it seemed her luck was out even further. "Prince Medraut wishes to have speech of you," she was told by the war chief, in a tone of voice that said and you had best go see him now. and you had best go see him now. Evidently, Prince Medraut was considered a Personage of Importance now. Reluctantly, she made her bow to her commander, and went to find him. Evidently, Prince Medraut was considered a Personage of Importance now. Reluctantly, she made her bow to her commander, and went to find him.

It wasn't hard. All she had to do was look for the showiest pavilion. It stood out in the encampment, with its decorations of red and black leather, its banners, and its utter new perfection. No one else had such things. The tents here had weathered many campaigns in all conditions and seasons, and they showed it.