her. For a long moment she stood in the twilight grey and wept, leaning against the cold wall; then she flung herself down on her narrow bed and fell asleep, as suddenly as a stone dropped from a tower hits the ground.
• • •
That same spring evening, at the stillness before the sunset, Lady Bevyan of Hendyr stood at her bedchamber’s narrow window and considered the ward of her husband’s dun. Stone framed her view: the stone sides of the window slit when she looked through, the stone billow of the squat broch tower when she looked down, the stone walls of encircling fort when she looked toward the distant west and the silent gold of an ending day. All her life, stone had meant safety, thanks to the civil wars, just as winter had meant peace, despite the snows, the storms, and the ever-present threat of hunger. Only lately had she come to think of stone as meaning imprisonment. Only lately had she come to wonder about a world in which summer, too, might mean peace.
Not that such a world coincided with her world, not yet at least. Below her, deep in shadow, the preparations of war filled the cobbled ward: extra horses, tethered out for want of room in the stables; provision carts, packed for the morrow’s march. Her husband, Tieryn Peddyc of Hendyr, had called in his allies and vassals for the summer’s fighting, defending the true king in Dun Deverry from the would-be usurpers gathering on the kingdom’s southern borders. Or so her husband and his allies always called Maryn, Gwerbret Cerrmor, prince of distant Pyrdon—usurper, pretender, rebel. At times, when she wasn’t watching her thoughts, Bevyan wondered about the truth of those names.
From behind her Bevyan heard a door opening and a soft voice.
“My lady?” Sarra, one of her serving women, stepped in the door. “Are you unwell?”
“I’m not, dear.” Bevyan turned from the window. “Just taking a moment’s solitude. I’m trying to make up my mind about going to court. Tell me, do you want to go to Dun Deverry?”
Sarra hesitated, thinking. She’d come to Bevyan as an orphaned girlchild, long enough ago now that grey streaked her dark hair at the temples.
“Well,” Sarra said at last. “Our place is at Queen Abrwnna’s side, but oh, my lady, I shouldn’t admit such a shameful thing, but I’m ever so frightened of being caught in a siege.”
“So am I. The Cerrmor men are nearly to our lands, aren’t they? Sometimes I wonder what the summer will bring.”
Sarra laid a hand over her throat.
“But we mustn’t give up hope yet.” Bevyan made her voice brisk. “The gods will give us the Wyrd they choose, and there’s not a thing we can do about it.”
“True spoken.”
“As for things we can do something about,” Bevyan paused for a sigh, “I’m worried about little Lillorigga. She’s the only reason I’ll be going, frankly, if I do go. I keep asking for news of her, but no one ever sends me any.”
“Well, certainly her mother wouldn’t bother.” Steel crept into Sarra’s voice. “Do you think we could persuade the Lady Merodda to let us bring her daughter back here? For the cleaner air and all. When you had the fostering of her, she thrived, poor child.”
“Merodda might well be glad to be rid of her. It’s worth a try. I’ll tell you what. Let’s ride with my lord on the morrow, but there’s no reason that we need to spend all summer in Dun Deverry. If things do look grim, the lords will be sending their womenfolk away, anyway.”
“That’s true. Shall I tell the pages, then?”
“You should, indeed. We’ll need them to get our palfreys ready, and we need to fill a chest to go into one of the carts. There. I feel better already, with the decision made.”
But Bevyan paused to glance out the window. The sun was setting in a haze that sent long banners of gold across the sky, as if they were the pinions of some approaching army. The traitorous thought returned full force. What if Maryn’s
• • •
That same spring evening, at the stillness before the sunset, Lady Bevyan of Hendyr stood at her bedchamber’s narrow window and considered the ward of her husband’s dun. Stone framed her view: the stone sides of the window slit when she looked through, the stone billow of the squat broch tower when she looked down, the stone walls of encircling fort when she looked toward the distant west and the silent gold of an ending day. All her life, stone had meant safety, thanks to the civil wars, just as winter had meant peace, despite the snows, the storms, and the ever-present threat of hunger. Only lately had she come to think of stone as meaning imprisonment. Only lately had she come to wonder about a world in which summer, too, might mean peace.
Not that such a world coincided with her world, not yet at least. Below her, deep in shadow, the preparations of war filled the cobbled ward: extra horses, tethered out for want of room in the stables; provision carts, packed for the morrow’s march. Her husband, Tieryn Peddyc of Hendyr, had called in his allies and vassals for the summer’s fighting, defending the true king in Dun Deverry from the would-be usurpers gathering on the kingdom’s southern borders. Or so her husband and his allies always called Maryn, Gwerbret Cerrmor, prince of distant Pyrdon—usurper, pretender, rebel. At times, when she wasn’t watching her thoughts, Bevyan wondered about the truth of those names.
From behind her Bevyan heard a door opening and a soft voice.
“My lady?” Sarra, one of her serving women, stepped in the door. “Are you unwell?”
“I’m not, dear.” Bevyan turned from the window. “Just taking a moment’s solitude. I’m trying to make up my mind about going to court. Tell me, do you want to go to Dun Deverry?”
Sarra hesitated, thinking. She’d come to Bevyan as an orphaned girlchild, long enough ago now that grey streaked her dark hair at the temples.
“Well,” Sarra said at last. “Our place is at Queen Abrwnna’s side, but oh, my lady, I shouldn’t admit such a shameful thing, but I’m ever so frightened of being caught in a siege.”
“So am I. The Cerrmor men are nearly to our lands, aren’t they? Sometimes I wonder what the summer will bring.”
Sarra laid a hand over her throat.
“But we mustn’t give up hope yet.” Bevyan made her voice brisk. “The gods will give us the Wyrd they choose, and there’s not a thing we can do about it.”
“True spoken.”
“As for things we can do something about,” Bevyan paused for a sigh, “I’m worried about little Lillorigga. She’s the only reason I’ll be going, frankly, if I do go. I keep asking for news of her, but no one ever sends me any.”
“Well, certainly her mother wouldn’t bother.” Steel crept into Sarra’s voice. “Do you think we could persuade the Lady Merodda to let us bring her daughter back here? For the cleaner air and all. When you had the fostering of her, she thrived, poor child.”
“Merodda might well be glad to be rid of her. It’s worth a try. I’ll tell you what. Let’s ride with my lord on the morrow, but there’s no reason that we need to spend all summer in Dun Deverry. If things do look grim, the lords will be sending their womenfolk away, anyway.”
“That’s true. Shall I tell the pages, then?”
“You should, indeed. We’ll need them to get our palfreys ready, and we need to fill a chest to go into one of the carts. There. I feel better already, with the decision made.”
But Bevyan paused to glance out the window. The sun was setting in a haze that sent long banners of gold across the sky, as if they were the pinions of some approaching army. The traitorous thought returned full force. What if Maryn’s
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