“Moriah… Lady of the Night, who gave the wizard Tak the spell that opened the doorless tower where he was captured… I do not—I do not know the Lyon—” Gules Lyon, his eyes liquid gold, traced a close circle about Coren’s legs, then settled in front of him, muscle sliding leisurely into muscle beneath the glowing pelt. Coren shook his head quickly. “Wait—There was a Lyon of the Southern Deserts who lived in the courts of great lords, dispensing wisdom, fed on rich meats, wearing their collars and chains of iron and gold only so long as he chose… Gules.”
“How do you know these things?”
The Lyon’s great head turned toward Sybel. Where, Gules inquired curiously, did you find this one?
He brought me a baby, Sybel said distractedly. He knows my name, and I do not know how.
“Once he could speak,” Coren said.
“Once they all could. They have been wild, away from men so long that they have forgotten how, except for Cyrin, just as men—most men—have forgotten their names. How do you—”
Coren started beside her, and she looked up. The span of unfurled wings blotted the moon, shadowed their faces, then dropped lower, each stroke sucking a heartbeat of wind. Tamlorn kicked restlessly against Coren’s hold, wailed a complaint into his ear. The Dragon dropped sluggishly before them, holding Coren in its lucent green gaze. Its shadow welled huge to their feet. Its mind-voice was ancient, dry as parchment in Sybel’s mind.
There is a cave in the mountains where his bones will never be found.
No. I called you because I was angry, but I am not angry, now. He is not to be harmed.
He is a man, armed.
No. She turned to Coren, as he stood watching the Dragon with Tamlorn wriggling, whimpering, ignored in his arms, and her eyes curved suddenly in a little smile. “You know that one.”
“His name is not so old that men have forgotten it. There was an Eldwold prince taking rich gifts over the Mountain to a southern lord to buy arms and men, whose bones and treasure have never been found… There are tales still told of fire blazing out of the summer sky over Mondor, and the crops burning, and the Slinoon River steaming in its bed.”
“He is old and tired,” Sybel said. “Those days are behind him. I hold his name, and he cannot free himself from me to do such things again.”
Coren shifted Tamlorn finally, and the baby quieted. The dark prints of weariness had eased from his face, leaving it young for a moment, wondering. He looked down at her.
“They are beautiful. So beautiful.” He looked down at her a moment longer, before he spoke again. “I must go. There will be news of the battle at Mondor. I cannot bear the thought that my brothers may be dead and I do not know. Will you take Tamlorn? He will be safe here, with such a guard. Will you love him? That—that is what he requires most.”
Sybel nodded wordlessly. She took the child, holding it awkwardly, and it tugged curiously at her long hair. “But how do you know so many things? How do you know my name?”
“Oh. I asked an old woman living down the road a ways. She gave your name to me.”
“I do not know any old women.”
He smiled at a memory. “You should know that one. I think—I think if you need help with Tamlorn, she will give it to you.” He paused, looking at Tamlorn. He touched the soft, round cheek, and the smile drained from his face. leaving it numb with a bewildered grief. “Good-bye. Thank you,” he whispered, and turned. Sybel followed him to the gate.
“Good-bye,” she said through the bars as he mounted. “I know nothing of wars, but I know something of sorrow. And that, I think, is what you pass from hand to hand at Terbrec.”
He looked down at her, mounted. “It is true,” he said. “I know.”
She met, as she turned away from the gate, the little round, fiery eyes of the silver Boar in her path. She caught the minds around her, holding them all in their quietness with an effort. You may go now. I am sorry I woke you, but I lost my temper.
The Boar did not move. You cannot give love, he remarked, until you have first taken it.
You are not very helpful, Sybel said irritably, and the great Boar gave a little snort that was his private laughter.
That old woman climbed the wall once, looking for herbs. I snorted at her and she snorted back at me. She could help you. What would you give me for all the wisdom of the world?
Nothing, because I do not want it now. Give it to Coren. He said I had a heart of ice.
Cyrin snorted again, gently. Indeed, he needs wisdom.
I told him so, Sybel said.
The next morning, she went out of the house, down the mountain path that led to the city below. The great old pines swayed in the wind, creaking and moaning of the coming of winter. Their needles were soft and cold under her bare feet, stroked here and there with sunlight. She carried Tamlorn, sleeping, in the white wool blanket. He was warm and heavy in her arms, soft and freshly washed. She watched his face, with its long, pale lashes and its heavy cheeks. Once she stopped to nuzzle her face against his soft, pale hair.
“Tamlorn,” she whispered. “Tamlorn. My Tam.”
She saw a small house within the trees, its chimney smoking. A gray cat curled asleep on the roof, and a black raven perched on a pair of antlers hanging above the door. Doves, pecking in the yard, fluttered around her as she walked to the door. The raven looked down at her sideways out of one eye and gave a cry like a question: Who? She ignored it, opened the door. Then she stood motionless in the doorway, for across the threshold there was no floor but mist that moved uneasily, immeasurable at her feet. She looked around, puzzled, and saw the walls of the house looking back at her, with eyes and round dark mouths. The door slipped out of her hand, closed behind her, and the mists moved upward, coiling around the watching eyes, covering them, until it hid even the roof; and the raven flew toward her from somewhere beyond the mists, and gave its question again: Who?
Tamlorn wriggled in her arms, wailed a complaint. She kissed him absently. Then she said, standing in the strange, watching house,
“Whose heart am I in?”
The mist vanished and the watching faces hardened into pine knot. A thin old woman in a leaf-colored robe, with white hair in a thousand untidy curls around her face, rose from a rocking chair, her ringed hands clasped.
“A baby!” She took him from Sybel, made noises at it like cooing doves. Tamlorn stared at her and made a sudden catch at her long nose. He smiled toothlessly as she clucked at him. Then she looked at Sybel, her eyes iron-gray, sharper than a king’s blade. “You.”
“Me,” said Sybel. “I need advice, if you would be pleased to give it to me.”
“With Cyrin Boar and Gules Lyon to advise you, child, you come to me? Why, what lovely hair you have, so long and fine… Has any man told you that?”
“Cyrin Boar and Gules Lyon have never had a baby dumped in their arms. I must give it what it requires, and it cannot tell me. Cyrin said you might help me, since you snorted at him. Cyrin at times makes no sense. But can you help me?”
“Onions,” said the old woman. Sybel blinked at her.
“Old woman, I have stood in the eye of your heart while you looked at me, and anyone with such an inner eye is no fool. Will you help me?”
“Of course, child. I let you in. Onions—you grow them in your garden. I was trying to remember. Will you let me have a few, now and then?”
“Of course.”
“I love them in a good stew. Sit down—there, on the sheepskin by the hearth. That was given to me by a man from the city who hated his wife and wanted to be rid of her.”