herself on the grass.
The warriors looked faintly scandalized as they unbuckled sword belts and laid their spears beside her upon the ground.
Anderle bit her lip to hide laughter. “If you come in peace, you are welcome.” Linora’s older sister offered them a golden cup that brimmed with ale. “Drink without fear,” the priestess said sweetly, though she could see that it was amusement, not anxiety, that glinted in Galid’s eyes. But it did not matter what the traitor thought if they could overawe his men.
Galid handed back the cup, his scarred features as carefully grave as those of the child. When Anderle looked at him, she saw that face overlaid by the soot-streaked image of the man who had laughed as Irnana burned, and struck Durrin down. For a moment she closed her eyes, knowing that she had to deal with the man he was now.
His frame was heavy with muscle, and the frustrated hunger in his pale eyes had become a wary confidence. The cruel droop of his dark mustache had not changed. He had dressed for this meeting like a king, though the Ai-Zir queen had refused to make him one. How badly did that eat at his soul? His kilt was of fine russet wool, the mantle that covered his sleeveless tunic of the same weave. Heavy golden bracelets circled his forearms, and cloak and belt were clasped with gold.
But if he had changed, so, she thought, had she. No longer ungainly with pregnancy, she stood straight as an image in the formal robes, her face a pure oval within the draped veils and the headdress that added a handspan to her height, bearing the triple moon of Avalon. Galid eyed her as if he would like to unveil the woman behind those stiff folds.
Imagine what you will, the priestess thought with bitter amusement. I am not a woman now, but the Voice of the Goddess, and She will make you hear. . . .
“Come—” With the graceful, gliding tread she had learned when she was no older than Linora, Anderle led the way to the hall.
“We are honored by your greeting,” said Galid when they had been seated near the hearth. “But you need not have taken the trouble. Our errand is simple. Now that the country is becoming more peaceful, we have come for Uldan’s child.”
Anderle met his gaze without blinking, glad her veils hid the racing pulse at her throat. “And what would you do with the boy if he was here?”
“Queen Zamara has asked us to find her nephew,” answered one of the warriors, “so that we may raise him as heir to the Ai-Zir.”
He might even believe what he was saying, thought Anderle as she considered him. But she had not missed the cynical glint in Galid’s eye. “Alas, this is only Avalon, not the Otherworld,” she replied bitterly.
“Do not play with me!” Galid’s tone sharpened. “Irnana passed the baby to you and I saw you carry him away. It is known that you brought an infant with you when you returned to the Tor.”
“Both those things are true, but the one does not guarantee the other,” Belkacem said sadly. “Irnana’s child never reached Avalon. The infant of whom you have heard is the Lady’s own child.”
If they had not stood on the knife-edge of disaster, Anderle would have laughed at the confusion of frustration, uncertainty, and disbelief in Galid’s eyes.
“You may understand why I did not understand that you were searching for us so that you might care for the boy,” she said tartly. “But the way was hard, and we had no milk for him. My own babe was not born until we were nearly here or I would have fed him at my own breast. I am sorry . . .” she added with lowered gaze.
“I don’t believe you!” Galid snapped.
Anderle looked up at him. “Do you not? Ellet, bring Tirilan to us here—”
They sat in stiff silence until Ellet returned with the baby, awake now and fussing softly, in her arms. At three months old her hair was a golden halo. Anderle had not known many infants, but surely it was not only a mother’s partiality that saw beauty in the
The warriors looked faintly scandalized as they unbuckled sword belts and laid their spears beside her upon the ground.
Anderle bit her lip to hide laughter. “If you come in peace, you are welcome.” Linora’s older sister offered them a golden cup that brimmed with ale. “Drink without fear,” the priestess said sweetly, though she could see that it was amusement, not anxiety, that glinted in Galid’s eyes. But it did not matter what the traitor thought if they could overawe his men.
Galid handed back the cup, his scarred features as carefully grave as those of the child. When Anderle looked at him, she saw that face overlaid by the soot-streaked image of the man who had laughed as Irnana burned, and struck Durrin down. For a moment she closed her eyes, knowing that she had to deal with the man he was now.
His frame was heavy with muscle, and the frustrated hunger in his pale eyes had become a wary confidence. The cruel droop of his dark mustache had not changed. He had dressed for this meeting like a king, though the Ai-Zir queen had refused to make him one. How badly did that eat at his soul? His kilt was of fine russet wool, the mantle that covered his sleeveless tunic of the same weave. Heavy golden bracelets circled his forearms, and cloak and belt were clasped with gold.
But if he had changed, so, she thought, had she. No longer ungainly with pregnancy, she stood straight as an image in the formal robes, her face a pure oval within the draped veils and the headdress that added a handspan to her height, bearing the triple moon of Avalon. Galid eyed her as if he would like to unveil the woman behind those stiff folds.
Imagine what you will, the priestess thought with bitter amusement. I am not a woman now, but the Voice of the Goddess, and She will make you hear. . . .
“Come—” With the graceful, gliding tread she had learned when she was no older than Linora, Anderle led the way to the hall.
“We are honored by your greeting,” said Galid when they had been seated near the hearth. “But you need not have taken the trouble. Our errand is simple. Now that the country is becoming more peaceful, we have come for Uldan’s child.”
Anderle met his gaze without blinking, glad her veils hid the racing pulse at her throat. “And what would you do with the boy if he was here?”
“Queen Zamara has asked us to find her nephew,” answered one of the warriors, “so that we may raise him as heir to the Ai-Zir.”
He might even believe what he was saying, thought Anderle as she considered him. But she had not missed the cynical glint in Galid’s eye. “Alas, this is only Avalon, not the Otherworld,” she replied bitterly.
“Do not play with me!” Galid’s tone sharpened. “Irnana passed the baby to you and I saw you carry him away. It is known that you brought an infant with you when you returned to the Tor.”
“Both those things are true, but the one does not guarantee the other,” Belkacem said sadly. “Irnana’s child never reached Avalon. The infant of whom you have heard is the Lady’s own child.”
If they had not stood on the knife-edge of disaster, Anderle would have laughed at the confusion of frustration, uncertainty, and disbelief in Galid’s eyes.
“You may understand why I did not understand that you were searching for us so that you might care for the boy,” she said tartly. “But the way was hard, and we had no milk for him. My own babe was not born until we were nearly here or I would have fed him at my own breast. I am sorry . . .” she added with lowered gaze.
“I don’t believe you!” Galid snapped.
Anderle looked up at him. “Do you not? Ellet, bring Tirilan to us here—”
They sat in stiff silence until Ellet returned with the baby, awake now and fussing softly, in her arms. At three months old her hair was a golden halo. Anderle had not known many infants, but surely it was not only a mother’s partiality that saw beauty in the
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