CHAPTER 2
“My name is Meb,” she said, clinging to a part of her youth.
“Mab?” It was said with a narrowing of the eyes. The sword came up a fraction and Meb wondered if the jump might be more pleasant. She had no idea if her untrained magical skill would work here.
It sounded as if “Mab” wasn’t too popular. “No. Meb. E not A. My real name is Anghared. But I like Meb more.” Really, she preferred Scrap.
This had some rather unexpected effects. The oddest was from the man who had tried to kill her—who was now pinned down by three burly men-at-arms: he started to laugh. Several of the soldiers knelt. The sword tip threatening her dropped. “I suppose you can prove that?” said the once-sleep-addled man facing her.
“What proof does she need, Medraut? She is a summonser, able to work in cursed Dun Tagoll itself!” shouted the man on the floor.
If looks were poison, the prisoner would have been dead instantly. “Take him away,” said the man called Medraut. “I ask you again, stranger. Who are you, dressed like that, in my outer chamber? How did you get here?”
Meb shrugged. The bleakness of despair was settling over her again. She’d assumed the magic would send her back to the place where she’d been drawn to Tasmarin from. She’d assumed that it would be a place she somehow recognized as home. In truth she hadn’t cared. She’d simply known it would mean banishment from all she knew and loved. However, innate caution instilled by dragonkind’s hatred of human magic stopped her going too far with explaining. It might be different here. But it might not. “I don’t know. I was in Arcady and then I was here. But I’ll go away if you don’t want me to be here. I think I just stopped you from being murdered in your sleep.” She gestured toward the prisoner being dragged from the room.
“It is almost as if she was sent to save you, Prince Medraut,” said one of the guards, wonderingly. “The door wardens are dead, the door unlocked…and had this stranger not given the alarm, Earl Alois would have killed you. Alois nearly killed her.”
Prince Medraut blinked. “You…you are the Defender?” and part of the tone said: Why me? But there was hope there too.
Meb wasn’t sure who “the Defender” was. But she was pretty sure that it wasn’t her, anyway.
“I don’t think so,” she said, exhaustion, doubt and misery warring in her breast. “I am just someone who is hungry and tired, and going to jump out of this window, if you try anything with that sword.”
The prince suddenly realized that he was holding a naked sword…and that she was on a window sill. He looked faintly embarrassed. “Your pardon, lady.”
How did he know she was a woman? With a cropped head, boy’s clothes and tight breastband, she’d passed for a boy for months and months. Well, said her inner voice—the sensible pragmatic voice that overrode village thought, and overrode daydreams too: maybe the name Anghared is a clue. That and the fact that, somehow, her hair seemed to have grown to waist length in the transition here. The clothes remained, of course.
The prince put the sword down, on the floor, as that was the only surface available to him. “We will have chambers and food prepared for you immediately. We are deeply honored by your presence and pray we have not caused you any offense.”
She’d trusted him more when he’d been pointing a sword at her. It must have showed in her face. But the soldiers sheathed their swords, and they at least appeared to believe him. “I swear by the House of Lyon that we mean you no harm, lady.”
Reluctantly Meb came down from the stone sill. She hadn’t liked falling last time, and it looked as if the rocks would get her before a merrow could. Besides, she might as well die well fed. What worse could happen to her than certain death?
She knew some answers to that one, too. But she allowed the guards to respectfully escort her away to a small withdrawing room, where a generous fire burned in the grate and the hangings were rich and old. There was a riven-oak table that must have weighed as much as ten stacks of stockfish, painstakingly smoothed and polished. It was set with two branches of good beeswax candles, with a chair that was more like a throne than the three-legged stool she’d have considered luxury a twelvemonth ago. The guards bowed. “The old queen would dine here, Lady Anghared. They will bring you food and wine, very soon,” said a grizzled captain, very respectfully.
If there was one thing that was really intimidating, Meb thought, it was all this respect. But she was hungry, as well as miserable and a little confused. Just where exactly was she? Somewhere called Dun Tagoll? A castle hanging above the sea. The place where she had come from as a baby, presumably, before being magically snatched away to Tasmarin, to a world that had become her own, that she’d loved and had given all to Finn and Díleas. So this must be her world. But, if she’d ever thought about it, she’d expected to return to a fishing village.
She’d never thought of herself as a castle kind of person. That was the place of alvar, after all.
It would seem that was not true here. These castle people were all human. She closed her eyes, and sat back in the chair, remembering. Remembering walking behind Finn in his ridiculous “notice me” lilac and canary-yellow silks and satins, juggling tasseled balls in the palace of the alvar at Alba, with its high arched roof, alv-lights and the butterflylike flitting of the courtiers, as she pretended to be dumb and tossed the balls.
Something landed in her hand. Instinctively she caught it. And the second, third and fourth. The sight of the balls, summoned out of nowhere was enough to prick her eyes with tears. Someone cleared their throat. There was an elderly man, in neat clothing, but plainly a servant by his mein, with a silver salver, a stemmed goblet, and a chased jug. He was staring, rather wide-eyed, at the juggling balls. At her. He suddenly realized she was looking at him. “Er. I have brought the wine, lady. May I pour for you?”
Meb set the balls down, carefully. They were as precious as…no, more precious than the rubies of the Prince of Alba. She’d helped Finn to salt the sea and the river with those. She smiled at the thought. The servitor thought she was smiling at him and smiled back tremulously. “We’re so glad to see you, lady. People were praying for your coming.”
It only got more complicated.
He poured wine, looked around quickly. “Don’t trust him, m’lady. The old king hated Medraut even when he was a little boy. And I changed the wine Aberinn poured in the cellar,” he said quietly.
***
Prince Medraut had dressed himself hastily, not waiting for his manservant to return from calling Cardun. There were few others he could trust in this place, but the chatelaine would lose her place and probably her life if he lost his position here.
The woman arrived, as he was attempting to dress his hair. “Pellas told me the story,” she said, taking over. “I think it is a trick, Medraut.” In public of course she gave him the honorifics he was due. In private…she was still his aunt. “One can’t be sure, yet, of course. But this is similar to the way Aberinn got rid of Regent Degen. The false feint and the death thrust, if you like.”
“It’s hard to see just what sort of death thrust a young woman could manage, Aunt. And the sea-window is restored.”
“There could be several ways a competent practitioner could arrange that,” said Cardun, who was far better at the theory of magic, even if her practice was feeble, for one of the house of Lyon. “The stones have the memory. Aberinn could set it up very easily. So could several others, but with the spells set to suppress magework within the castle, Aberinn is your principal suspect. And you know as well as I do that it is really his voice that stands behind the silence of lords. He is the reason the nobles’ houses do not call for you to become the king.”
Medraut sighed. His aunt was driven by that ambition. It had its attractions, but being the regent was quite adequate in this dying, riven kingdom. He just wanted to stay that, because the alternative was to lose his head to a successor regent. “I was there. If it was trickery, Cardun, she must be the greatest actress in the world. She might be this Defender, and in some ways that might a relief. And now, I’d better go. Some fool will have called Aberinn, and I’d rather be there when they meet.”
***
Few guards were courageous enough to go and disturb the mage in his tower, no matter what had happened. And thus the guard sought his peculiar out, telling her the story.
Vivien was just as afraid of Mage Aberinn. And she had even more reason to be afraid, for with Aberinn, that which she knew, was worse than the guards’ imaginings. Part of her hoped, though, that what the man-at-arms said was true.
She went to the tower. Knocked on the heavy door.
It opened by itself. He liked those sorts of small displays of power. He was sitting at his workbench…but he had been waiting, she was sure. “So Prince Medraut is dead. And they sent you to tell me. There are no secrets in Dun Tagoll,” he said, smiling his humorless smile.
“No. Prince Medraut is alive. The Defender has come! The first part of the prophecy…”
“What?” He stood up, disturbing the model he had been at work on. “The royal chamber…”
“The sea-window is back. And a young woman calling herself Anghared has saved Prince Medraut.”
“Anghared! Who would dare use a name like that? Don’t tell me—our all too clever manipulative regent. The commons will assume that the royal names are worn by the royal house,” he walked to the door, shooing her out in front of him, like a hen. “What has happened to her?”
“They’ve taken her to the old queen’s withdrawing room. They fetch her food and drink. She said she was hungry.”
“I’d better see this convenient miracle,” said the mage. “A neat ploy by Medraut. I wonder if she has any real skills? You are to watch and befriend her.”
“But the queen’s window…” protested Vivien.
“A trick that could easily enough be done…once. She could even merely spring the spell, without any skill herself.”
***
There was a sound from the doorway and the servitor straightened up, bowed, as Prince Medraut entered with another man in once-white robes and a beard that he should have washed after eating egg, and of course the obligatory couple of guards. Meb sipped the wine. If this was good wine…she’d had worse in her travels with Finn. But not much worse.
More servants came in, carrying platters. It did look something of a feast.
Medraut bowed his head politely. “Ah, Lady Anghared. May I introduce myself more formally. I am Prince Medraut ap Corrin, Earl of Telas, and Prince Regent of Greater Lyonesse. And this is our court magician, Aberinn. I trust you are enjoying your wine?”
Meb had always been a poor hand at lying. So she stuck to a nod and a smile.
“Allow me to cut you a piece of this bird,” he said, slicing into what appeared to be a plump roasted pheasant and placing it on the trencher that another servant had set before her. Meb knew it was a high honor to be served with choice portions cut by the lord of the hall, with his own dagger. And besides she wasn’t sure she still had one to eat with. Mostly a rough hand-carved wooden spoon would have done for the pottage of most inns and a fingers and knife for the meat they might have grilled on the way. Here…there were platters and silver salts.
They were watching her rather carefully. She picked up the slice of breast and ate…
It wasn’t pheasant. It wasn’t even bird. It was bread. And stale, at that. Fortunately, she eaten a fair amount of that in her time. The pickings as a gleeman’s apprentice had often been slim, but they were still better than they’d been growing up in Cliff Cove. There was always enough fish, of course. But bread was quite a luxury at times, and a girl-child often got the stale crusts. She washed it down with some wine.
The magician and prince relaxed visibly.
“If we might ask, lady, where did you come from?” said the magician.
There seemed no harm in telling him. “A place called Tasmarin.”
They looked blank at the name.
“Ah. A far off realm, no doubt?” said the prince.
Meb was tired. The stale bread was better than nothing, as was the sour wine. But her stomach, and temper, were set up for more. “How would I know? I don’t even really know where I am now.”
“You are in the Kingdom of Lyonesse, in the great fortress of Dun Tagoll, the crowning-place of the Kings of the West,” intoned the magician as if reciting a poem.
“Never heard of it, I am afraid,” said Meb with a yawn.
“Er. Perhaps more wine. Some of these little cakes?” asked Prince Medraut, into the awkward silence.
She had no doubt now, that those too would turn into stale bread. “No, thank you,” she said curtly. “Why are you doing all this?”
The two looked at each other. “Because it was foretold that the return of the sea-window would come with the guardian against the sons of the Dragon,” said Prince Medraut.
Meb decided not to tell them that Tasmarin was a place ruled by dragons, or just how she felt about a specific dragon. “What do you mean ‘the return of the sea-window’?”
The magician shrugged. “There has not been a window in the antechamber since Queen Gwenhwyfach leapt from it with her baby son. She was the greatest of the summonsers, a powerful mage and much loved. The king was heartbroken, and had the window walled up. The masons closed it off, and then, when that was not enough for the king, they knocked out part of the wall, tore out the lintel and the sill, and built it again so there was no trace of the window.”
“Oh.” It seemed a very inadequate response. But Meb couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she sipped her wine, and thought about it instead. She didn’t want to tell them that their prophecy was wildly inaccurate and the window, she now realized, had been something she needed to escape through, and that the magic of the dvergar artifact on her neck obviously still amplified her own magical skills, even here, far from Tasmarin. She didn’t want it! A hand went to her throat. And then Finn’s words about the dragon necklace with its wood-opal eyes came back to her. It wouldn’t stay lost, not even if she buried it or threw it into the sea. And would it be better used by the likes of either of these two men? She already trusted neither.
Someone knocked on the door. It was a warrior, in a dripping cloak. “Prince Medraut. The enemy have been sighted from Dun Argol. They look a great host, burning and plundering as they come.”
The prince tugged his hair. Sighed. “M’lady. We will talk further, later. I must consult with my war leaders and wizards. The women will come to escort you to your chamber. You have not come at a time of peace, I am afraid.”
It looked more like she’d come at a time of murder, war and conspiracy. She sipped the wine. Looked at the “feast” she had largely ignored. Out of the corner of her eye she realized the far items looked like hunks of bread. So she turned her head. Yes…on the periphery of vision it was all various shaped lumps of coarse bread. She had to wonder why, and about the wine.
Was this what they had? Was it just for her? She hoped it was the latter, if they were facing war and probably siege. So…this was where she’d come from as a baby, was it?
It made Cliff Cove seem quite attractive.
A stiff-looking matron came in, her washed-out blonde hair done up in tight coiled braids and disapproval written on every line of her plump face. She had plenty to write the disapproval onto, but the application of powder and paint plastered over some of it. She looked Meb up and down as if examining a side of stockfish from a not-very-reputable dealer. “You are the Lady Anghared?” she said in a chilly voice. “Lady” was definitely questionable. “I am the Lady Cardun, the Chatelaine of Dun Tagoll. I was told that you would require a bedchamber and water and suitable attire.”
Given the matron’s attitude, it was clear she felt Meb should be sleeping in the attic on a straw pallet with three others and a lot more fleas, and given a kitchen trull’s castoffs. Meb had already begun to think she might be better off leaving, even via the window that had once been blocked off, no matter the sharp rocks below. Maybe her face showed it, because one of the two women in the chatelaine’s wake, the one with the spare, lined face smiled sympathetically at her, and said in a quiet, much kinder voice. “Oh, Lady Cardun, she looks about to fall over. And so young too. Come, child. We’ll see you safely bestowed.”
Obediently Meb stood up. Tears pricked at her eyes. She hadn’t had much female sympathy, or company, since the raiders had destroyed her home. And even there…she’d been an outsider. “Thank you,” she said gruffly. “I am very tired. It’s been a long and awful day.”
“With Prince Medraut and Mage Aberinn at the end of it,” said the sympathetic one.