TWO

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She and Tam carried Coren into the white stone house, with Maelga following after, long fingers pulling worriedly at her curls. Around them the animals stirred, murmuring, watching. Tam chattered breathlessly, his arms knotted under the weight of Coren’s shoulders.

“I was coming down from Nyl’s house—we brought the sheep in, and they were crowding together against the fence, and their eyes were rimmed with fear; we did not know why until I looked up and saw Gyld—like a great fiery leaf, a green flame—with gold and jewels in his claws. So I ran home but you were not there, so I was running to Maelga’s house when I saw the man watching Gyld—staring at him, and Gyld circled down to him, and the man flung himself down and Gyld’s claws scraped across him. I think Nyl saw Gyld— Where shall we put him?”

“I do not know,” Sybel said. “I am sorry he is hurt, but he should not have came here; yet it is partly my fault because I should have let Gyld have his gold. Put him there on the table, so Maelga can look at his back. Get a pillow for his head.” She brushed a piece of tapestry work off the thick, polished wood and they laid Coren on it. His eyes flickered open as Tam set a pillow under his head. His back, covered with a leather vest, was ripped and scored with claw marks; his bright hair was furrowed with tracks of blood. Tam stared down at him, brows peaked in his brown face.

“Will he die?” he whispered.

“I do not know,” Sybel said. Coren’s eyes sought her face, and she saw for the first time the light, vivid blue of them, like Ter’s eyes. Looking at her, he gave a little smile. He whispered something, and Tam’s face flushed.

“What did he say?”

Tam was silent a moment, his mouth tight. “He said it was cruel of you to set the Dragon at him, but he was not surprised. You did not. He had no right to say that.”

“Well, perhaps he did,” Sybel said judiciously, “considering that I set Ter Falcon at him the first time he came.”

“He came before? When?”

Sybel’s hands worked gently over Coren’s back, loosening torn cloth. “He brought you to me, after your parents died. For that I will always be in his debt. Tam, get some water and that roll of unworked linen. And then stay here to get Maelga whatever she needs.” Behind her, Maelga murmured, twisting her rings.

“Elderberry. Fire, water, fat and wine.”

“Wine?”

“My nerves are not what they used to be,” she said apologetically. Coren, limp under Sybel’s careful fingers, whispered painfully.

“Neither are mine.”

They finished a flagon of wine among them, as they washed and bandaged Coren, clipped his hair, and laid him to rest on Ogam’s long disused bed. Maelga sank into a chair beside the hearth, her hair in wild disarray. Sybel stood staring into the green flames in her hearth, her black eyes narrowed.

“Maelga, why has he come?” she said softly. “It must be for Tam. But I have reared Tam, and I have loved him, and I will not give him to men to use for their games of hatred. I will not! He is not as wise as I thought if he came here to ask that of me. If he mentions one word of war or kingship to Tam I will— No, I will not feed him to Gyld, but I will do something.” She fell silent, the green flames twisting and turning in the depths of her eyes, her long hair falling about her like a silvery, fire-trimmed cloak. Maelga pressed her fingers against her eyes.

“Old and tired,” she murmured. “He is finely made, a princeling among men, with the blue eyes and crow-black lashes of the dead Sirle Lord. Those were battle scars on his shoulders.”

Sybel shivered. “I will not have my Tam scarred with battle,” she whispered. She turned to meet the sudden, piercing lift of Maelga’s eyes.

“He could be a very valuable piece in their games. They will not yield easily if they want him badly.”

“Then they will have to reckon with me. I will play a game of my own, to my own rules. It may be long years before the Lord of Sirle sees his son again.”

“The old lord is dead,” Maelga said. “Coren’s oldest brother, Rok, is Lord of Sirle, lord of rich lands, walled forts, an army that has threatened the Eldwold Kings for centuries. My child,” she said wonderingly. “You have never cried before.”

“Oh, I am angry—” She wiped her face with her fingers impatiently. Then she looked down at their glistening. “How strange... My father said my mother wept, looking out the windows, before I was born, but I never knew what he meant... Why can I not just throw Coren to Gyld and have done with it? But I have his name and the sound of his voice, and the order of his words. He is a fool but he is alive, with eyes to see and weep with, hands to carry a baby and kill a man, a heart to love and hate, and a mind to use, after a fashion. In his own world, he is doubtless valued.”

“My child,” Maelga whispered. “We are all of one world.”

Sybel was silent.

She went to look at Coren before she slept. Tam was sleeping; around her in the dark night she felt the animals’ vague night dreaming, colorful and strange as fragments of old, forgotten tales. The white-pillared hall was silent under her soundless steps. The fire slept, curled in charred, pulsing embers. She opened the door softly, and beard the faint, breathless chatter of Coren as he lay burning with fever.

He turned his head to look up at her by the flame of the single, hunched candle by the bed. His eyes glittered like Ter’s.

“Ice-white Lady,” he whispered. “He was so beautiful, with amethysts and gold in his claws, but they say never, never look upon the face of beauty. And you are beautiful, ivory and diamond-white, fire-white, with eyes as black as Drede’s heart... blacker... black as the black trees in Mirkon Forest where the King’s son Arn was lost three days and three nights and came out with pure white hair... Black—”

“Arn,” Sybel said softly. “How would you know a tale like that? It is written in one place only, and I have the key to that book.”

“I know.” He blinked, as though she were wavering like a flame. He reached toward her, then dropped his arm with a hiss of pain. “I am hurt,” be said wonderingly. Then he shouted, “Rok! Ceneth!”

“Sh—you will wake Tam.”

“Rok!” He stirred restlessly, turning his face away from her, and she heard the sudden sob of his breath. Then he was quiet, as she bent over him, touched his hair, smoothed it away from his face. She wet a cloth with wine and wiped his damp forehead again and again until his taut hands loosened and she knew by his breathing that he slept.

She slept late in the morning, then rose, still weary, to check the animals. She walked through the vast sweep of walled grounds to the small lake Myk had built for the Black Swan where it glided proud and silent beneath the blue-gray sky. Wild swan, geese, ducks flying across the mountains from winter had stopped to feed with it. The huge Swan moved toward her as she stood on the edge, its eyes of liquid night. Its thoughts trailed into hers-flute-toned.

Sybel, you are beautiful these days as moonlit ice.

A smile flicked, wry, into her eyes. Ice. Thank you. Are you well?

I am. But there are others of us who do not seem so content.

I know. I will see to Gyld.

Who will see to the lordling of Sirle? I have heard he comes to take back what he has given.

He will take nothing from me. Nothing.

So? The great Swan glided a moment in silence. Once when the child prince of Elon was in danger of his father’s enemies, I flew him by night and moonlight where no man could seek him.

I will remember that. Thank you. She heard a flurry of leaves about her and found Ter Falcon, great talons winking in the pale light.

I smelled a familiar thing, he said, and his clear, ice-blue eyes reminded her again of Coren. Would you have me drop him off a cliff?

Oh, no. I think he is damaged enough. I think he has come for— She checked, gazing into the sharp eyes, and her mind emptied swift as water flowing between stones. Ter’s feathers ruffled a little in the wind.

I have ridden on the boy’s fist and listened to his secret, late night murmurings that he gave to me because I could not answer. I have spent many years in the courts of men and I can guess what the lordling of Sirle has come for.

You will not harm him, Sybel said. Not unless I ask you. He thinks—he thinks I set Gyld at him.

What can it matter what such a man thinks or does not think? Ter inquired. She was silent, searching herself.

It matters, she said at last. But I do not know why. The Falcon was silent for a long moment. She waited, unstirring, while the winds pulled at the hem of her black dress. Then she felt the wrench at her mind, the sudden, dizzying soar of Ter’s thoughts away from her, like the swift Falcon’s flight toward a distant sky. But she kept her mind clear, still, her thoughts encompassing his thoughts’ flight like a ring that encompassed the earth and the air, growing outward, always just beyond the Falcon’s flight; until its flight faltered and broke, and spun downward, downward into a smoldering, fiery inward surge of rage and power that grew in her until her sinews were taut harp strings, and her heart aflame with Ter’s hot blood. Yet still, in the center of her mind, there was a cool, endless ring of quiet, holding her own name, that Ter could not reach. He yielded finally, his thoughts retreating like a wave, and she drew a slow breath of the winds. Her mouth crooked in a little, triumphant smile.

Now, why do you even try? she asked.

For the boy’s sake. If you had broken I would have killed.

And you are the one that stopped me from throwing him off the mountaintop.

I am sorry, now.

I will not let him leave here with Tam.

Neither, Ter said, will I.

The great, black, green-eyed Cat Moriah dropped like a shadow from a tree while she walked back to the house. It padded at her side, and she trailed her fingers through its velvet fur.

There was a spell, the Cat said at last, in its sweet, silken voice, my former mistress had, that would dissolve a man so completely only the rings on his hands would be left.

I do not think Maelga would approve of that, Sybel said. Are you well?

Maelga has done many things.

She has never dissolved a man. She stopped suddenly, impatiently. Oh, why even think of it? Neither will I. My father and my grandfather did not like men, but they never killed them. I could not kill a man.

I can.

Well, he only has to be made afraid.

Cyrin met her at the door, his red eyes guileless under the autumn sun. She stopped and gazed down at him.

What do you think I should do with that man?

The silver-bristled Boar panted gently a moment. A net of words, he said at last, is more powerful than a net of rope.

So?

So that man is talking to Tam and he has a tongue like a sweet-mouthed harpist.

Sybel’s heart fluttered suddenly like one of Maelga’s doves. She went into the house and ran to Ogam’s room. She opened the door, and Tam’s face turned away from Coren, toward her, oddly flushed. His eyes were vague with struggling, incomprehensible things.

“He says—” He . stopped, swallowing. “He says I am the son of the King of Eldwold.”

Sybel stood still beside the door, while a hot flash of sorrow welled in her and broke and died away. She said softly,

“My Tam, leave him for a while. He must rest.”

Tam rose, his eyes clinging to her face. “He says—is it true? He says— You never told me such a thing.”

She reached out to him, touched his brown face. “Tam, I will talk to you in a while. But I cannot now. Please.”

He left them closing the door quietly behind him. She sat down on the chair beside the bed and covered her face with her hands. She whispered finally into her palms,

“You told me to love him. So I did, like I have loved nothing else in my world. And now you want to take him from me, to use him in your war games. Tell me now: which of us has the heart of ice?”

Coren was still beside her. Then he gave a little murmur, and his hand pressed, hot, over her hands.

“Please. Try to understand. Are you crying?”

“I am not crying!” His hand fell away, and she looked at him as he lay with his eyes still starred with fever, his back bare to the warm morning light. “And what is it that I should understand? That having given Tam to me to raise and love, now you think you can come as freely and take him back? He does not belong to you—you have no claim to him now, because he was never Norrel’s son. He is Drede’s son—Maelga told me that twelve years ago. But it is I who have loved him, and I will not give him either to you or to Drede to be used like a piece in a game of power. When you leave here, tell your brother Rok that. And do not let him send you here again. There are those here besides me who have no love for you, and they will not be any less gentle with you next time.”

Coren lay lean and loose in Ogam’s bed, silent awhile, considering her words. He said at length, “You knew what I came for the moment you saw me. Yet you bandaged my back and cut my hair, so it is too late to try to make me afraid of you. If I leave here without the thing I have come for, Rok will send me back. He has great faith in me.” He paused again, then smiled up at her. “It is not only Tam he sent me here to get. I am to bring you also to Sirle, Sybel.”

She stared at him. “You are mad.”

He shook his head cautiously. “No. I am wisest of all my brothers. There are seven of us—six, now.”

“Six of you.”

“Yes, and all Drede has is one son he has never seen. Do you wonder he might be frightened of us?”

“No. Six mad men in Sirle and the wisest one you—it frightens even me a little. I thought you were wise that night you brought me Tam; you knew such unexpected things. But in this matter, you are a fool.”

“I know.” Coren’s voice stayed quiet, but something changed in his face, and his eyes slipped away from hers, back into some memory. “You see, I loved Norrel. You know something of love. And Drede killed Norrel. So. In this matter, I am a fool. I know something of hate.”

Sybel drew a breath. “I am sorry,” she said. “But your hate is not my business, and Tam does not belong to you to take.”

“Rok sent me to buy your powers.”

“There is no price for them you could pay.”

“What do you want, in all the world?”

“Nothing.”

“No—” He looked at her. “Tell me. When you look into your heart, privately, what does it require? I have told you what I require.”

“Drede’s death?”

“More than that—his power, and his hope, then his life. You see how great a fool I am. Now, what do you want?”

She was silent. “Tam’s happiness,” she said finally. “And the Liralen.”

Coren’s face startled unexpectedly into a smile. “The Liralen. The beautiful white-winged bird Prince Neth captured just before he died—I have seen it in my dreams, just as I have dreamed at one time or another of all your great animals. But I never dreamed of you. I did not know to. Can you take that bird, Sybel? So few ever have.”

“Can you gave it to me?”

“No. But I can give you this: a place of power in a land where power has a price without limit and an honor without parallel. Is this all you want? To live here on this mountain, speaking only to animals who live in the dreams of their past, and to Tam, who will have a future that you cannot have? You are bound here by your father’s rules, you live his life. You will live, grow old and die here, living for others who do not need you. Tam one day will not need you. What, in years to come, will you have in your life but a silence that is meaningless, ancient names that are never spoken beyond these walls? Who will you laugh with, when Tam is grown? Who will you love? The Liralen? It is a dream. Beyond this mountain, there is a place for you among the living.”

She did not speak. When she did not move, he reached out, touched her hair, moved it to see the still, white lines of her lowered face. “Sybel,” he whispered, and she rose abruptly, left him without looking back.

She walked in the gardens, blind with thought beneath the red-leafed trees and the dark pines. After a while Tam came to her, quietly as a forest animal and slipped his arm around her waist, and she started.

“Is it true?” he whispered. She nodded.

“Yes.”

“I do not want to leave.”

“Then you will not.” She looked at him, brushed with her hand the pale hair he had gotten from his mother’s family. Then she sighed a little. “I do not remember being so hurt before. And I have forgotten to talk to Gyld.”

“Sybel.”

“What?”

He struggled for words. “He said—he said he would make me King of Eldwold.”

“He wants to use you, to gain power for himself and his family.”

“He said men would be looking for me to sell—to sell me to my father, and I must be careful. He said Sirle would protect me.”

“With what, I wonder. They lost to Drede at Terbrec.”

“I think—with you, Sybel, he said there were places for us both, high places in that world below, if we chose to want them. I do not know how to want to be a king. I do not know what a king is, but he said there would be fine horses for me, and white falcons, and—but Sybel, I do not know what to do! I think I will be something different than the one who herds sheep and climbs rocks with Nyl.” He looked at her, pleading, his eyes dark in his face. When she did not answer, he held her arms and shook her slightly, desperately. “Sybel—”

She covered her eyes with her hands a moment. “It is like a dream. My Tam, I will send him away soon and we will forget him, and it will only have been a dream.”

“Send him away soon.”

“I will.”

He loosed her, quieting. She dropped her hands and saw him suddenly as for the first time: the tallness of him, the promise of breadth in his shoulders, the play of muscles in his arms hard from climbing as he stood tense before her. She whispered, “Soon.”

He gave a little nod Then he walked beside her again, but apart from her this time, nudging pinecones with his bare feet, stopping to peer after hidden scurryings in the bracken. “What will you do about Gyld’s gold?” he said. “Did he get all of it?”

“I doubt it. I shall have to let him fly at night.”

“I will bring it—Nyl and I—”

She smiled suddenly. “Oh, my Tam, you are innocent.”

“Nyl would not take his gold!”

“No, but he would not forget it, either. Gold is a terrible, powerful thing. It is a kingmaker.”

His face turned swiftly. “I do not want to think about that word.” Then he stopped to peer into the hollow of a tree. “Last year there was a nest here with blue eggs... Sybel, I wish I were your son. Then I could talk to Ter Falcon, Cyrin and Gules and no one—no one could take me away.”

“No one will take you. Ter Falcon would not let Coren take you, anyway.”

“What would he do? Kill Coren? He killed for Aer. Would you stop him from it?” he asked suddenly, and she did not answer. “Sybel—”

“Yes!”

“Well, I would want you to,” he said soothingly. “But I wish he had not come. He is—I wish he had not come!”

He ran from her suddenly, swift and quiet as a cat among the high peaks of Eld Mountain. She watched him disappear among the trees, and the autumn winds roared suddenly at his heels. She sat down on a fallen trunk and dropped her head on her knees. A great, soft warmth shielded her from the wind, and she looked up into Gules Lyon’s quiet, golden eyes.

What is it, White One?

She knelt suddenly and flung her arms around his great mane, and buried her face against him. I wish I had wings to fly and fly and never come back!

What has troubled you, Ogam’s powerful child? What can trouble you? What can such a small one as Coren of Sirle say to touch you?

For a long moment she did not answer. And then she said, her fingers tight around the gold, tangled fur, He has taken my heart and offered it back to me. And I thought he was harmless.

Sybel sat long among the trees after Gules Lyon had gone. The sky darkened; leaves whirled withered in endless circles about her. The wind was cold as the cold metal of locked books. It came across the snow-capped peak of Eld, down through the wet chill mists to moan in the great trees in her garden. She thought of Tam running bare-armed, barefoot through the sweet summer grass and the tiny wild flowers, shouting at great hawks with the voices of rough mountain children echoing his. Then her thoughts slipped away from her to the silent rooms and towers of wizards she had stolen books from. She had listened to them arguing with one another, watched them working, and then she had smiled and gone quietly away, carrying ancient, priceless books before they had even realized anyone had come.

“What is it you want?” she whispered to herself, helplessly, and then as she spoke, she knew that a Thing without a name watched her from the shadowed trees.

She stood slowly. The wind moved swift, empty past her. She waited in silence, her mind like a still pool waiting for the ripple of another mind. And presently, without a whisper of its leaving, the Thing had gone. She turned slowly, went back into the house. She went to Coren’s room. He turned his head as she came in, and she saw the dark lines of pain beneath his eyes, and his dry mouth. She sat down beside him and felt his face.

“You must not die in my house,” she whispered. “I do not want your voice haunting me in the night.”

“Sybel—”

“You have said everything. Now, listen. I may grow old and withered like a moon in this house, but I will not buy my freedom with Tam’s happiness. I have seen him run across the high meadows shouting, with Ter Falcon on his fist; I have seen him lie late at night, dreaming of nothing with his arms around Moriah and Gules Lyon. I will not go with you to Sirle to see him bewildered, hurt, used by men, given a promise of power that will be empty, exposed to hatred, lies, wars he does not understand. You would make a king of him, but would you love him? You looked into my heart with your strange, seeing eyes and you found some truths there. I am proud and ambitious to use my power to its limits, but I have another to think of besides myself, and that is your doing. And your undoing. So you will leave here, and you will not return.”

She could not read Coren’s eyes as he looked at her. “Drede will come for his son. There was an old woman of his court, a highborn lady who swore that Rianna and Norrel never had a moment of privacy—never more than a moment. She tried to help them—they plotted again and again for a single day of privacy—half a night—but always something, someone forestalled them. We took the child at its birth, afraid for its life, and the old woman thought we might kill it if she told the truth, that it was Drede’s son. Drede’s second wife died childless; he is aging, desperate for an heir, and the woman learned somehow that the child was alive and we did not have it at Sirle. So she told Drede the truth, and now he has a fragile hope. He knows that long ago one of Rianna’s family wed a wizard living high in Eld Mountain where few men ever go. What will you do when he comes for his son?”

She shifted uneasily. “That is not your concern.”

“Drede is a hard, bitter man. He has long forgotten how to love. There are cold rooms at Mondor he has ready for Tam, a house filled with suspicious, fearful men.”

“There are ways to keep Drede out of my house.”

“How will you keep the thought of Drede out of Tam’s heart? One way or another, Sybel, the world will reach out to that boy.”

She drew a breath, let it wither away from her. “Why did you come, bringing me such news? You told me to love Tam. I did. And now you tell me to stop. Well, I will not stop for Rok, or Drede, or for the sake of your hatred. You will have to breed your hate in some other place, not in my house, lying in Ogam’s bed.”

Coren made a little futile gesture with his hand. “Then guard him carefully, for I am not the only one seeking him. I told Rok you would not come, but he sent me anyway. I did my best.” His eyes slid to her face. “I am sorry you will not come.”

“No doubt.”

“I am sorry, too, that what I said hurt you. Will you forgive me?”

“No.”

“Oh.” He stirred, his hands moving aimlessly, and she said more gently,

“Try to sleep. I want to send you back to your brothers as soon as possible.” She bent over him to check the cloths on his back. He turned, his eyes bright, wavering with pain, and reached up to touch her face, his fingers wandering across it.

“Flame-white... Never did one of the seven of Sirle see such as you. Not even Norrel seeing the Queen of Eldwold for the first time as she walked toward him among her blossoming trees... White as the blaze of the eyes of the moon-winged Liralen...”

Her hands checked. “Coren of Sirle,” she said wonderingly, “have you looked into the Liralen’s eyes to know their color?”

“I told you: I am wise.” And then his smile drained downward, pulling his mouth until she could see the white of his teeth clenched. His hand dropped from her face, clenched. She gave him wine to drink, and wet his face with wine, and changed the cloth on his back, wetting it, and at last he slept, the lines easing on his face.

He left them just as the first snow fell from the white, smooth winter sky. Sybel called his horse, which had been running wild among the rocks, and Maelga gave him a warm cloak of sheepskin. The animals gathered to watch him leave; he bowed to them a little stiffly, mounted.

“Farewell, Ter Falcon, Lord of Air; Moriah, Lady of the Night; Cyrin, Keeper of Wisdom, who confounded the three wisemen of the court of the Lord of Dorn.” His eyes moved wistfully across the yard. “Where is Tamlorn? He spoke to me so little, and yet I thought—I thought we were friends.”

“You must have been mistaken,” Sybel said, and he turned to her swiftly.

“Or is he, like you, afraid of his own wantings?”

“That is something you will never know.” She took the hand he offered her as he bent in the saddle. He held it tightly a moment.

“Can you call a man?”

“If I choose to,” she said, surprised. “I have never done it.”

“Then if you ever have anything to fear from any man who comes here, will you call me? I will come. Whatever I am doing will remain undone, and I will come to you. Will you?”

“But why? You know I will do nothing for you. Why would you ride all the way from Sirle to help me?”

He looked at her silently. Then he shrugged, the snow melting in his fiery hair. “I do not know. Because. Will you?”

“If I need you, I will call.”

He loosed her hand, smiling. “And I will come.”

“But I probably will not. Anyway, if I want you, I can call you, and you will come without choice.”

He sighed. He said patiently, “I choose to come. It makes a difference.”

“Does it?” Then her eyes curved slightly in a smile. “Go home to your world of the living, Coren. That is where you belong. I can take care of myself.”

“Perhaps.” He gathered the reins in his hands, turned his mount toward the road that wound downward to Mondor. Then he looked back at her, his eyes the color of clear mountain water. “But one day you will find out how good it is to have someone who chooses to come when you call.”