before the mirror, unbraiding her abundant copper tresses. Her breasts were still high and firm and her belly was unmarked by the stress of childbearing. Her shield of womanhood was as blazing bright as the hair of her head.
'You are still comely, Maude,' she-whispered, gazing upon herself for a long moment before the reflection was blurred by an upwelling of tears as sharp as acid. 'Your besotted gaoler adores you and showers you with every gift saveliberty. So why does the memory of him, and him alone, still heat your blood, even though you try to crush and deny it? Is there no way your heart will ever escape his thrall?'
She went to the bed, drew up the covers, and pinched the lamp's wick with moistened fingers. In the darkness, warm beneath a swansdown comforter, she found no comfort.
She thought: The letter will bring an end to it. Surely it will! I'll be rid of this perfidious bond, this shameful yearning that should be revulsion, this love for him that should be hatred. It'll be over. Dear God, let me forget Conrig and be at peace . . . else I'll have to go to him.
And do what I must do.
CHAPTERTWO
Ansel Pikan, Grand Shaman of Tarn, who lay dying from injuries suffered in the Battle of the Barren Lands, started up from his pillow with a loud groan. Sweat poured from his body and his heart thudded as though it would leap from his chest. 'Thalassa . . . Wix . . . Come to me!'
The door to his chamber flew open. A buxom woman of impressive mien, wearing threadbare robes that had once been rich and costly, swept inside. She was followed by a sturdy little old man with eyes like jet beads and bushy white hair. The pair hurried to the bedside and ministered to the stricken shaman, assisting him to swallow two kinds of physick and a beaker of water. Then, working deftly together, the two of them changed Ansel's damp nightgown and bed linen, and replaced his down comforter with another that hung warming at the hearth on a wooden rack. As they bent over him, checking the dressings on the terrible injuries to his hip and left side that would likely be the death of him, Ansel tried to relate what he'd dreamt. But his speech was nearly inaudible.
'The Source ... a dream of deep import. . . might endanger our great plan for Conrig.'
'Wait until the medicines ease your pain and we have made you comfortable again,' the sorceress Thalassa Dru urged him. 'Be still for a few minutes, and you'll make more sense.'
'A strange thing,' Ansel murmured, falling back onto the freshened pillow. 'So strange.'
'Your feet are like ice,' said the man called Wix. 'Let me put these wool booties on you. You should have a warming stone as well. I'll get one from the kitchen.'
'I'll need you to bring something else.' Thalassa fingered the pulse in Ansel's emaciated neck for a few moments. 'Fetch the phial of aqua mirabilis from my stillroom, along with a cup of warm milk.'
'Yes, my lady.' The old fellow trotted out, closing the door.
She found a chair, put it next to the bed, and took Ansel's skeletal hand in her own warm, plump one. The candlelight showed her how sadly the Grand Shaman had declined since she had visited him earlier that evening. He would not live much longer. God only knew how he'd reached the Tarnian mainland after traveling from the Barrens in his small boat, finally finding help at Cold Harbor. The local magickers bespoke Thalassa when Ansel cried out her name, and she had spirited him away through subtle magical corridors to her secluded retreat in the western foothills of the White Rime Mountains.
'Now, my old friend,' she said to him, 'save your breath. Use windspeech to tell me what the Source revealed in your dream.'
'He conferred with the Likeminded Remnant of Lights, who told of a unique thing that happened this very day. A portentous thing. An unprecedented thing. On Demon Seat Mountain, no less!'
'Well, well. How very curious. I've oft wondered about that place. Pray continue.'
'The three young princes of
'You are still comely, Maude,' she-whispered, gazing upon herself for a long moment before the reflection was blurred by an upwelling of tears as sharp as acid. 'Your besotted gaoler adores you and showers you with every gift saveliberty. So why does the memory of him, and him alone, still heat your blood, even though you try to crush and deny it? Is there no way your heart will ever escape his thrall?'
She went to the bed, drew up the covers, and pinched the lamp's wick with moistened fingers. In the darkness, warm beneath a swansdown comforter, she found no comfort.
She thought: The letter will bring an end to it. Surely it will! I'll be rid of this perfidious bond, this shameful yearning that should be revulsion, this love for him that should be hatred. It'll be over. Dear God, let me forget Conrig and be at peace . . . else I'll have to go to him.
And do what I must do.
CHAPTERTWO
Ansel Pikan, Grand Shaman of Tarn, who lay dying from injuries suffered in the Battle of the Barren Lands, started up from his pillow with a loud groan. Sweat poured from his body and his heart thudded as though it would leap from his chest. 'Thalassa . . . Wix . . . Come to me!'
The door to his chamber flew open. A buxom woman of impressive mien, wearing threadbare robes that had once been rich and costly, swept inside. She was followed by a sturdy little old man with eyes like jet beads and bushy white hair. The pair hurried to the bedside and ministered to the stricken shaman, assisting him to swallow two kinds of physick and a beaker of water. Then, working deftly together, the two of them changed Ansel's damp nightgown and bed linen, and replaced his down comforter with another that hung warming at the hearth on a wooden rack. As they bent over him, checking the dressings on the terrible injuries to his hip and left side that would likely be the death of him, Ansel tried to relate what he'd dreamt. But his speech was nearly inaudible.
'The Source ... a dream of deep import. . . might endanger our great plan for Conrig.'
'Wait until the medicines ease your pain and we have made you comfortable again,' the sorceress Thalassa Dru urged him. 'Be still for a few minutes, and you'll make more sense.'
'A strange thing,' Ansel murmured, falling back onto the freshened pillow. 'So strange.'
'Your feet are like ice,' said the man called Wix. 'Let me put these wool booties on you. You should have a warming stone as well. I'll get one from the kitchen.'
'I'll need you to bring something else.' Thalassa fingered the pulse in Ansel's emaciated neck for a few moments. 'Fetch the phial of aqua mirabilis from my stillroom, along with a cup of warm milk.'
'Yes, my lady.' The old fellow trotted out, closing the door.
She found a chair, put it next to the bed, and took Ansel's skeletal hand in her own warm, plump one. The candlelight showed her how sadly the Grand Shaman had declined since she had visited him earlier that evening. He would not live much longer. God only knew how he'd reached the Tarnian mainland after traveling from the Barrens in his small boat, finally finding help at Cold Harbor. The local magickers bespoke Thalassa when Ansel cried out her name, and she had spirited him away through subtle magical corridors to her secluded retreat in the western foothills of the White Rime Mountains.
'Now, my old friend,' she said to him, 'save your breath. Use windspeech to tell me what the Source revealed in your dream.'
'He conferred with the Likeminded Remnant of Lights, who told of a unique thing that happened this very day. A portentous thing. An unprecedented thing. On Demon Seat Mountain, no less!'
'Well, well. How very curious. I've oft wondered about that place. Pray continue.'
'The three young princes of
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