remaining fog and
dared to look at him again, wondering. His gaze had not strayed
from her, and she forced herself not to shy away. She should leave
her perch and greet him, but some instinct kept her high in the
elm. She had fallen into malaise at the end of the battle against
Balor, and for sennights following the fight her mind had chosen
not to remember anything of that day. In Deri, Aedyth had given her
no choice but to recall the whole of it, and the first thing she
had remembered was him, the archer with the unerring aim. The
healer had told her Ceridwen’s brother yet resided in Merioneth
with the Quicken-tree, and so she finally had come north again.
Redemption, if it was to be hers, could only be found by journeying
through the time weir of the golden worms—and the way of that could
only be found in the deep dark where the Yr Is-ddwfn had long ago
engraved their knowledge on the walls. Mychael ab Arawn had been
there. He knew the dreaded black maze, he’d survived the
wormholes.
He had tasted time.
The truth of it streaked through his flaxen
hair like a copper flame. The only way to get that anomaly was to
drop oneself down a live wormhole. Nemeton, the Brittany bard, had
been marked in such a manner, steel gray running through auburn.
Dain Lavrans, the magi of Wydehaw Castle, had begun to show the
signs before he’d gone north with Ceridwen, his chestnut-colored
strands turning white in a three-finger streak down the left side
of his head, and mayhaps there was one other who bore the mark, if
he had lived.
She let her gaze travel over Mychael again,
his unkempt mane, the patched clothes of white monk’s wool overlaid
with Quicken-tree grays and greens, and the eyes that revealed a
far from gentle mien. Ceridwen had told her Mychael had long been a
hooded brother of Strata Florida, those of the creed “Thou shalt
not kill,” yet he had killed to save her. Was he still a monk then?
she wondered. Or had changes come to him as they had come to her
since that fateful battle?
He wore the blue woad of the Liosalfar, but
no one had yet given him a Quicken-tree braid. She could do that
for him, if she dared. No doubt she owed him a braid or two, or a
half-dozen, and given a chance, she would start her twists and
plaits within the copper strands of his hair. Given a chance, she
would have a blazing streak of her own, a small price to pay to
taste the shifting ethers of time and reclaim what she had
lost.
Aye, sín or no, she had use of Mychael
ab Arawn to save another reckless soul—Morgan ab Kynan, the Thief
of Cardiff.
A shadow flitted between them, drawing her
attention overhead. Nothing else in the tree moved. The doves had
not ruffled a feather, yet she immediately found the shadow’s
owner.
“Shay.” Her voice was soft, a bare whisper as
she looked upward through the branches into a pair of eyes as green
as hers, but far more innocent. He grinned down at her from where
he sat on a limb.
“ Malashm , sprite.”
“ ’ Lashm , Shay.” Her eyes filled with
sudden tears. So much had changed since she’d last seen him. She’d
grown so old and in truth was a child no more. One salty drop
spilled over to run down her cheek, and she swiped at it with the
back of her hand. It seemed she cried for no reason at all
anymore—one of the more annoying changes.
“Llynya?” He lowered himself to her branch
and crouched in front of her, his long hair flowing over his
shoulders. His smile faded. “What’s this?” He took her chin in his
hand and wiped away another tear with his thumb.
“ ’Snothing.” She squeezed her eyes shut and
willed the tears to stop, embarrassed. She’d never cried in front
of Shay before, except for once when she’d gashed her knee near to
the bone while chasing after him in Wroneu. She still carried the
scar from that escapade.
“You smell of lavender,” he said, and she
felt him lean in close, so close his breath blew across her cheek.
Then came a touch, soft and
dared to look at him again, wondering. His gaze had not strayed
from her, and she forced herself not to shy away. She should leave
her perch and greet him, but some instinct kept her high in the
elm. She had fallen into malaise at the end of the battle against
Balor, and for sennights following the fight her mind had chosen
not to remember anything of that day. In Deri, Aedyth had given her
no choice but to recall the whole of it, and the first thing she
had remembered was him, the archer with the unerring aim. The
healer had told her Ceridwen’s brother yet resided in Merioneth
with the Quicken-tree, and so she finally had come north again.
Redemption, if it was to be hers, could only be found by journeying
through the time weir of the golden worms—and the way of that could
only be found in the deep dark where the Yr Is-ddwfn had long ago
engraved their knowledge on the walls. Mychael ab Arawn had been
there. He knew the dreaded black maze, he’d survived the
wormholes.
He had tasted time.
The truth of it streaked through his flaxen
hair like a copper flame. The only way to get that anomaly was to
drop oneself down a live wormhole. Nemeton, the Brittany bard, had
been marked in such a manner, steel gray running through auburn.
Dain Lavrans, the magi of Wydehaw Castle, had begun to show the
signs before he’d gone north with Ceridwen, his chestnut-colored
strands turning white in a three-finger streak down the left side
of his head, and mayhaps there was one other who bore the mark, if
he had lived.
She let her gaze travel over Mychael again,
his unkempt mane, the patched clothes of white monk’s wool overlaid
with Quicken-tree grays and greens, and the eyes that revealed a
far from gentle mien. Ceridwen had told her Mychael had long been a
hooded brother of Strata Florida, those of the creed “Thou shalt
not kill,” yet he had killed to save her. Was he still a monk then?
she wondered. Or had changes come to him as they had come to her
since that fateful battle?
He wore the blue woad of the Liosalfar, but
no one had yet given him a Quicken-tree braid. She could do that
for him, if she dared. No doubt she owed him a braid or two, or a
half-dozen, and given a chance, she would start her twists and
plaits within the copper strands of his hair. Given a chance, she
would have a blazing streak of her own, a small price to pay to
taste the shifting ethers of time and reclaim what she had
lost.
Aye, sín or no, she had use of Mychael
ab Arawn to save another reckless soul—Morgan ab Kynan, the Thief
of Cardiff.
A shadow flitted between them, drawing her
attention overhead. Nothing else in the tree moved. The doves had
not ruffled a feather, yet she immediately found the shadow’s
owner.
“Shay.” Her voice was soft, a bare whisper as
she looked upward through the branches into a pair of eyes as green
as hers, but far more innocent. He grinned down at her from where
he sat on a limb.
“ Malashm , sprite.”
“ ’ Lashm , Shay.” Her eyes filled with
sudden tears. So much had changed since she’d last seen him. She’d
grown so old and in truth was a child no more. One salty drop
spilled over to run down her cheek, and she swiped at it with the
back of her hand. It seemed she cried for no reason at all
anymore—one of the more annoying changes.
“Llynya?” He lowered himself to her branch
and crouched in front of her, his long hair flowing over his
shoulders. His smile faded. “What’s this?” He took her chin in his
hand and wiped away another tear with his thumb.
“ ’Snothing.” She squeezed her eyes shut and
willed the tears to stop, embarrassed. She’d never cried in front
of Shay before, except for once when she’d gashed her knee near to
the bone while chasing after him in Wroneu. She still carried the
scar from that escapade.
“You smell of lavender,” he said, and she
felt him lean in close, so close his breath blew across her cheek.
Then came a touch, soft and
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