“Are you happy?” he asked, and his joy bloomed like a flower to her smile. He kissed her eyes closed, murmuring, “Blacker than the fire-white jewel of King Pwilclass="underline" the eye in the pommel of his sword that turned black at his death—”
“Coren!”
He loosed her, laughing. The fiery snow winked to the edge of the world; nothing moved in it but the breaths of their horses and the slow smoke of the far Sirle house. Sybel gazed at it, her eyes narrowed a little against the light.
“That will be my home… It will be strange, living on flat land, and among people. I am not used to people. It is such a great, gray house. What are in the towers along the wall?”
“Guardrooms, supplies, weapons in case of attack, siege. The Sirle family has never lived quietly among its neighbors. But we were humbled at Terbrec, and now we talk a good deal and do little.”
“What are your brothers like? Are they all like you?”
“How, like me?”
“Gentle, kind, wise..:’
“Am I those things?” he said wonderingly. “I have killed, I have hated, I have lain awake at nights dreaming bitter dreams…”
“I have seen great evil, and there is none of it in you.” She smiled up at him, but the words shook, in spite of herself, on her mouth. He touched her hair beneath her hood, smoothing it.
“Behind the ancient, thick walls of Rok’s house not even a king could find you against your will. Come. My brothers are rough-voiced, battle-scarred, impulsive and foolish, like me, but there is joy in their houses, and they will welcome you simply because I love you.”
They rode slowly through the hard, dormant fields, where patches of black, plowed earth thrust upward against the melting snow. They followed a road that wound along the Slinoon River, leading to the threshold of the Lord of Sirle. A young boy with a bow in the empty fields saw them coming: he shouted something that hung in a flash of white breath in the air. And then he ran before them toward the house, the hood bouncing back from his black hair.
“That was Arn,” Coren said. “Ceneth’s son.”
“Are there many children?”
He nodded. “Ceneth has two small daughters, too. Rok’s oldest son, Don, is fifteen, a bloodthirsty boy, restless for his first battle. Rok has four younger children. Eorth’s wife just had their first son, Eorthling. Herne and Bor have their homes and families in the northern parts of Sirle. And we will have children, you and I, little wizardlings to fill that house.”
She nodded absently. Ahead of them, through the open gates, she saw people moving across the snow-patched ground. Water from the Slinoon, trained out of its course, flowed in front of the gates, out toward the fields. In the yard beyond, horses stood saddled, waiting; fire from a smithy within the walls billowed suddenly, died. Am ran across the drawbridge, vanished within the walls. A few minutes later a man followed him out, stood watching them come.
“Rok.”
They joined him at the bridge. He caught Coren’s reins, looking up at Sybel, and Coren dismounted. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, with a mane of pale gold hair and a line-scarred face imperturbable as his eyes. His voice, coming out of the deep well of his chest, was unexpectedly mild.
“I expected you home from Hilt four days ago. I was beginning to worry. But now, I see I did not have to.” He moved to Sybel’s side, took her hand. “You are Sybel.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we fought at Terbrec for a woman with a face like yours. You are very welcome to Sirle.”
She smiled, looking down into his eyes, seeing in them despite their calmness a faint, hot edge of triumph. “And you, as Coren says, are the Lion of Sirle. I am grateful for your kind welcome, since I have come so unexpectedly.”
“I have learned to expect unexpected things from Coren.”
“Rok,” Coren said quietly. “We have come to be married here. Sybel has come here as my wife.” Rok’s eyes fell, hidden a moment, then lifted again, gold-brown, smiling. “I see. How did you talk her into that?”
“It was not very easy. But I had to do it.” He lifted his arms, swung Sybel to the ground. Arn returned to take their horses, staring curiously at Sybel. A tall, red-haired woman followed him out, her thick braids twined among the rich green-and-gold folds of her dress. Coren said, “Lynette, this is—”
“I know, I know.” She hugged him, laughing. “Do you think I do not recognize that ivory hair or those eyes? This is Sybel, and you are going to be married. So this is what you have been plotting while we were worrying.”
“I do not know why you were worrying. Sybel, this is Rok’s wife, Lynette.”
“Going off to some place to daydream is one thing,” Lynette said, dropping a kiss on Sybel’s cheek. “But going to Hilt and not coming back is quite another. Sybel, you look very tired. It must be hard journeying in this cold.”
Coren slipped an arm around her. She leaned against him, thoughtless a moment, the fur on his cloak cold, smooth against her face, while he said, “She has been troubled, these past days. Is there a quiet corner in this house where she can rest?”
Sybel straightened. “No, Coren, it is good to hear so many pleasant voices. And I have not met all your brothers or the children.”
Lynette laughed. “You will. Come. You can rest in my room, while chambers are prepared for you and Coren.”
They crossed the bridge, Arn following behind with the horses, and the bustle in the outer yard stopped while they passed. A smaller gateway led to the inner yard, a square court with trees standing leafless, etching a fretwork of shadows on the snow. A man opened the double doors of the hall, came down the steps to them. His hair was vivid black against the sky; his eyes laughed at Coren, green as stones.
“Arn came babbling of your return, so I thought perhaps you had disturbed some mysterious wizard in your wanderings who sent you home with two heads.”
“See how they laugh at me,” Coren said to Sybel. “No, Ceneth. The wizard herself came home with me. Now you will have some respect for my comings and goings.”
“So. You are the wizard woman of Eld Mountain.” His bright eyes appraised her, smiling, speculative, like Rok’s. “We have heard much of you from Coren. He has not stopped talking about you since he came home scarred from battle with your dragon.”
“If it had not been for Gyld, she would never have let me across her threshold,” Coren said. “Where is Eorth? Are Herne and Bor here?”
“They are hunting,” Rok said. “They should be back soon.” He started at a rush of air above his head, and the Falcon Ter came to rest on Coren’s shoulder, surveying them with aloof, brilliant eyes. “Whose is that? It is not one of our hawks—it is huge.”
“It is Ter,” Coren murmured, turning his head. “He killed seven men… What is he thinking, Sybel? I want to know.”
“Seven—” Ceneth stared, incredulous, at Sybel. “Is he yours?”
She nodded. “My father, Ogam, called him.”
“Is he free?”
“I gave him to Tam, but he still answers to my call when I need him.” She was silent, opening her mind to the Falcon, and Rok and Ceneth watched her, motionless. Her eyes came back to Coren.
“He brought me some news of Tam. He is well. I will have to write and tell him where I am. It will be hard for him to understand. I think a part of him still believes Eld Mountain is his true home.”
“I doubt if you will have to write,” Rok said. “News travels very quickly in Eldwold.”
“Does it? It traveled very slowly to me, in my white house. I will write to Tam, anyway; he should hear this from me.”
“He will be all right,” Coren said gently. “I hope so.”
Ter fluttered off Coren’s shoulder, perched to wait on one of the bare trees, and they moved indoors, into Rok’s great hall, with skins and pine boughs on the cold stones, ancient tapestry flung across the walls, and a vast hearth where children were playing, rolling on the floor with a hound. Sybel untied her cloak, shook her long hair free, and the children, checked, watched it settle, glistening silver. She found Coren’s eyes on her, stranger’s eyes, seeing her as though for the first time. She looked away from him, and the blood leaped suddenly through her. Lynette took their cloaks. Coren touched her face briefly.