“He wanted more,” Broc broke in. “He wanted—”
“Me? Perhaps, but rather he wanted what he thought he could gain through me. And he was strong, too strong then, for us, though we did what we could—”
“Like hiding the serpent?” Ysmay asked.
“Like that. But the waiting was long until one would come who could use it, Rathonna’s daughter. You say you are not Lady of Quayth, but do not say that again! Hylle wished to use you to gain the true amber he must have to build the false he used for dark purposes. For the false must always have a grain of the true within it. He wished to use you, but you were not for him. Be proud and glad, daughter of Rathonna.”
“Welcome to Quayth,” Broc added. “And this time a true welcome, doubt not that!”
Nor did Ysmay then, or ever. Though whether she was the Ysmay of Uppsdale in those after days, or someone much changed by fate, she sometimes wondered. Not that it mattered for Quayth’s welcome was warm enough to content her.
Nor did she need to go into that shunned tower and look upon a lump of miswrought amber in which man and monster stood locked in endless embrace, to remind herself of what lay behind.