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The mason’s yard at the head of the valley was just as Drew remembered. They made their way along the foot of the rock escarpment, riding in the deep evening shadow. Workers looked up as they passed, with one or two nodding recognition. Before they reached the house at the head of the yard his brother Coll approached, smiling, bashing dust from his hands and his leather tunic.

“Drew? It is you. Well met! What brings you so far from Vorrahan?” Coll’s eyes, filled with curiosity, slid to the Lady Alwenna. He straightened up, puffing out his chest, his smile widening. “Well, Drew?”

Some things hadn’t changed. The knot of apprehension in Drew’s stomach eased a fraction.

“My lady, may I present to you my younger brother, Coll? He is my father’s apprentice.” Drew waited for a nod before embarking on the story they had determined upon. “I’m escorting the Lady Selena to her family home. She is a widow, lately in refuge at the precinct after fever claimed her husband.”

“The roads are perilous since the fall of Highkell. The usurper–” Coll bowed. “But he holds no sway here. Ma will be glad to see you.”

Coll stepped back, lowering his head in deference, and Drew knew their father was approaching.

“Well now, I thought my eyes must be deceiving me. My own son, and travelling with a fine lady, no less.”

Drew waited for the barb to follow the words, but there was none. He performed the introductions and explained their errand, the story slipping more easily from his lips with every repetition. The Lady Alwenna – or Selena, as he tried to think of her – smiled graciously upon his father, complimenting him on the work she saw being carried out in his yard and the fine sons he had raised. Within minutes she had him wrapped around her little finger. And the old man lapped it up as he led the way to the house at the top of the quarry yard.

Later that evening Drew was attending to the horses when the barn door opened, and the Lady Alwenna stepped inside, closing it softly behind her.

“I thought you might need some help out here.”

Drew nodded. He understood perfectly well she sought a few minutes’ peace. “My lady, how did you do it? You charmed him. So easily. Gwydion told me of such things, yet–”

“It’s not difficult to show a man the thing he most desires to see.” She shrugged and set about inspecting their tack as Drew finished grooming the horse.

“You need not do that.”

“It’s high time I learned to be useful, do you not think? You are not my servant, after all.” She rubbed at the saddle with a scrap of cloth. “And I wished to speak with you, Drew.” She rubbed a little harder, a slight frown on her face. “It seems to me your family might welcome you home. Your mother has been telling me how she regrets ever letting your father send you away. Your father, too, seems well disposed towards you now.”

“I gave my word, my lady. First to Weaver and now to you. I will serve you as long as you have need of me.”

“They would welcome you here, I’m sure of it.” She spoke softly. “I think I can make sure of it.”

“My lady, I cannot return to the life I once led here: it was a lie. I will never live the life they would have me lead.”

She set the saddle down in some clean straw. “Drew, I can’t promise you’ll be safe if you go with me.” She picked up one of the bridles and started cleaning dried-on grass from the bit, scraping at it with a thumbnail. “It’ll be dangerous. There will be people who would use you to gain a hold over me.”

Now was the time to tell her. All the things Brother Gwydion had told him. All the madness.

“My lady, when–”

The barn door swung open with a grinding of hinges and they both spun round, startled. Coll entered, smiling, and at the same time giving Drew a curious look. A surprised look.

“I was sent to tell you both that food’s on the table.” He offered his arm to the Lady Alwenna and led her back to the house. Drew followed behind. It would have to wait.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Drew was keen to move on early the next morning. Alwenna had no objection: his brother Coll asked a deal too many questions. An hour after dawn they had already climbed the hill out of the valley and joined the road leading between Westhaven and Highkell.

Alwenna hesitated, then turned her horse’s head towards Highkell.

Drew hurried his horse alongside hers. “My lady? The road to Westhaven lies the other way.”

“We’re not going to Westhaven.”

“But last night, at table you said–”

“I did. But I haven’t the coin to take a ship from Westhaven.” There had to be a diplomatic way to explain her mistrust of his brother’s questions, but in the hour they’d been riding she’d failed to find it.

Drew frowned. “You lied?”

“I’d sooner think of it as setting a false trail. In case anyone from Vorrahan should think to question your family.”

“I see.” His sombre expression suggested he’d worked out the reasons for her decision. “Then you plan to ride straight into Highkell after all? Simply hand yourself over to Vasic?”

“Goddess, no. Weaver mentioned a packhorse path through the mountains to the north which the freemerchants use. It’s impassable in winter, but by now it should be clear.”

Drew smiled. “Ma grew up on the road. She told me tales of travelling that way when she was a girl.” His smile faded as swiftly as it had appeared. “But I don’t know how to find it.”

Alwenna nudged her horse forward. “We’ll work that out when we get closer. I’m hoping we’ll meet some freemerchants along the way.” She couldn’t afford to dwell on the lack of detail to her plan. Anything was better than waiting at Vorrahan until Vasic arrived.

Drew rode alongside her. “Was the part about having family in The Marches true?”

“As far as I know. I left when I was eight so I won’t recognise anyone. But I understand the people there remain fiercely loyal to my family so I might hope to raise support against Vasic.”

“Would you invite further bloodshed?”

“My claim to the throne is nothing to me: I never sought it, nor welcomed it. The trappings of royalty…” She shrugged. “I was always warmly clothed and well fed. I know many have not had that good fortune. But as long as Vasic remains at Highkell, the people in The Marches will be denied such things. If I can improve things, have I the right to ignore any opportunity to do so, however fraught it may be for me personally?”

“I had not seen it in such terms, my lady.”

“Nor did I, until the last year or two. I thought only of myself and my own convenience. My eyes were finally opened to the responsibilities of my rank.”

A farmer’s wagon approached and Drew rode ahead to make room for it, putting an end to their conversation.

They camped that night in the shelter of a belt of trees a short distance from the road. Alwenna would have preferred a more secluded spot, but this road was more open than the route she’d travelled with Weaver. She slept uneasily as half-formed images stalked her mind. Voices spoke but she couldn’t hear the words for the crackling of flames. Figures moved through the smoke but their faces remained unseen. And from somewhere in the midst of it all she heard Weaver cry out. She woke with a start, to find a soldier standing above her, the point of his sword hovering above her throat.

The stranger’s mouth twisted in a cold grin. “What have we here?” With the blade of his sword he pushed her travelling cloak aside. “Not too fat, not too thin. She’ll do.”

“Don’t you touch her!” Drew struggled between two soldiers and earned a fist to the face for his pains.

The soldier glanced at him, then back to Alwenna. “It’ll take more than you to stop me, lad. Take him away out of sight where I can’t hear him whining. Keep him alive for now, he might be useful yet.”

“You mustn’t–” Drew’s words were silenced with the crunch of a mailed fist against his nose, then another to his stomach. He doubled over, struggling to breathe, but his words were audible. “She’s the Lady Alwenna. Harm her and you’ll die.”

The sneering soldier paused and studied Alwenna more closely. He frowned. “What’s your name, bitch?”

“You heard the holy brother – he does not lie.” Now her secret was out she might have more to gain by admitting the truth. I am the Lady Alwenna of Brigholm, relict of his highness King Tresilian, late of Highkell.”

“The Lady Alwenna herself? Well now.” The sword point still hovered over the lacing of her kirtle. “Vasic will reward me well for taking you to him. Well enough that I can forego a minute or two’s pleasure. For now.” He managed to make the words sound like a threat, nevertheless. But he sheathed his sword. “Don’t stand there gawping, you fools, bring the horses.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Vasic glowered out of the mullioned window at the mist that once again surrounded the keep at Highkell. What had possessed him to claim the accursed place? Highkell controlled trade through the passes between The Marches and the rest of the Peninsula. It was key to controlling all the business that came and went inland from the deep-sea ports of The Marches. Control of trade meant taxes and money and power. And he liked power. He liked power very much. But it wasn’t as simple as that. It never had been.

The sky was growing darker even though it was scarcely after noon – another bloody downpour on the way, no doubt. He glared down at the gatehouse. A detachment of soldiers had returned, doubtless bearing more bad news and lame excuses. Then in the midst of the group he spotted two prisoners: one wore a monk’s cowl while the other was cloaked – a woman? Beneath the heavy hood he could not be sure, but the prisoner turned towards him and although he still could not see her face he was certain. Alwenna. She was never meant for Tresilian.

He hurried away from the window and had made it as far as the door to the antechamber before he stopped. He’d dismissed the rabble of hangers-on that he liked to call his court earlier that morning and they would be waiting there for him to relent. And he wanted no one to witness this meeting. He had to be in control of this situation. He was king, was he not?

He summoned a servant. “A detachment of soldiers has returned with prisoners. Bring the commander to report to me at once.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Alwenna approached the bridge over the gorge at Highkell with a dull sense of dread. The journey had tired her beyond belief. Their captors had maintained a constant suggestion of menace the whole way. Never a mile had passed without Alwenna dreading what might happen. Any attempts she and Drew had made to speak between themselves had been shouted down by the commander. Alwenna doubted she’d learned to hate anyone more than him, from his thick eyebrows and receding forehead to unshaven face. A natural predator, he was a powerfully built man, perhaps shorter than Weaver by an inch or two. But where Weaver resembled a mountain cat in its agile grace, the commander resembled a boar: swift to react, and single-minded.

The sky darkened and with it Alwenna’s mood as they drew nearer her childhood home, and her childhood enemy. There could be little doubt what lay in store for her at Vasic’s hands. She’d not been visited by the sight since her capture by the soldiers. This was the only thing she had to be thankful for in recent days as it left her so vulnerable – little better than blind – during the visions. For the first time in days Alwenna found herself thinking of the old man, Gwydion. There was a void in her mind where once there had been some connection with him. And for a moment she sensed something stirring, so distant she could hardly make it out, something shouting out in protest against… It had gone. She felt strangely heartened by the sense of another’s pain. She might not be entirely alone after all. It was an unsettling sort of comfort.

The commander ordered Alwenna to dismount as guards strode out from the gatehouse to speak with him. Peveril, she finally learned his name was. She stored the information away. One day she would use it. Not through petty vengeance – although Goddess knew she would relish that – but because her sight told her it would be so.

A messenger dashed from the keep as Peveril exchanged words with the two guards who had stepped out to greet him.

“His highness requires the captain of the troop who has returned with prisoners to report to him at once. Alone.”

“Secure my prisoners in the gatehouse.” Peveril tucked his helmet under his arm and hurried away towards the main building.

Alwenna raised her head towards the tall mullioned window. She’d often watched the comings and goings in the courtyard from that vantage point. A figure stood there. And she felt his tension – a mix of apprehension and arousal as he stared down at the hooded figure. The figure turned its head towards him. He caught his breath. This was her, he knew it. Finally after years of waiting, she would be his.

One of the soldiers caught Alwenna by the arm, none too gently. With a start she recalled herself to her own present, unnerved by what had just happened and repelled by the sense of Vasic’s thoughts towards her. The soldier hustled her into a small guardroom where Drew already waited. Both their hands remained bound. There was nowhere to sit but the stone ledge beneath the barred window, nothing provided for their ease but a chamber pot in the corner of the bare room. Alwenna sat on the ledge. On impulse she pressed her hands against the cool stone of her childhood home, as if it might offer her comfort. But it didn’t.

Instead, she learned Ranald Weaver had sat in that same place. Many days ago. She closed her eyes, pressing her hands flat against the stone as best she could with her wrists bound together. Weaver was there, somewhere; the ancient blood of the line that had fashioned these walls told her. He was weak, the sense of his presence so faint she feared he might be close to death, but he was there.

In the dungeon Weaver sat up, too weary to brush the filthy straw from his clothing. He shuffled over to lean his back against the wall. Something had changed. Energy and hope seemed to flow into his veins and breathing became easier, as if a fever had finally broken.

Footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of the guard with their meagre rations of food and water. Keys rattled in the lock and Curtis entered the room, carrying a ewer of water and a basket. He refilled the basin set on the raised stone platform in the centre of the cell before handing round dried bread. Unlike the other jailers he always did this, noting the condition of the prisoners as he went. He often passed on snippets of news from the outside world, usually inconsequential stuff, but mulling over the import of it helped Weaver keep his mind working. Today, however, the news was different.