"Guesting elsewhere."
"Who are you?"
"Glasog," she said, and shrugged, the dawn wind carrying long strands of her hair about her shoulders. "Or Eri, if you like. My father's elder daughter and younger, all in one, since he has none but me."
"Why?" he asked. "Why this pretense if you were the bargain?"
"People trust Eri. She's so fair, so kind."
"What do you want? What does your father want?"
"A claim on your father's land. The last kingdom of Dyfed. And you've come to give it to us." Gwydion remembered nothing of what might have happened last night. He remembered nothing of anything he should have heard or done last night, abed with Glasog the witch, Madog's raven-haired daughter. He felt cold and hollow and desperate, asking, "On your oath, isOwain safe?"
"And would you believe my oath?" Glasog asked.
"I'll see your father," Gwydion said shortly. "Trickery or not, he swore me the third of his kingdom for your dowry. Younger or elder, or both, you're my wife. Will he break his word?" Glasog said, "An heir. Then he'll release you and your friend, and your father will reign in peace .
. . so long as he lives."
Gwydion walked to the open window, gazing at a paling, still sunless sky. He feared he knew what that release would be—the release of himself and Owain from life, while the child he sired would become heir to his father's kingdom with Madog to enforce that right. So long as his father lived . . . so long as that unfortunate childmight live, for that matter, once the inheritance of Ogan's line and Ogan's Luck passed securely into Madog's line—his father's kingdom taken and for no battle, no war, only a paltry handful of lies and lives. He looked across the scorched hills, toward a home he could not reach, a father who could not advise him. He dared not hope that Owain might have escaped to bring word to his father: I'll not leave this door, Owain had said—and they would have had to carry Owain away by force or sorcery. Mili with him.
It was sorcery that must have made him sleep and forget last night. It was sorcery he must have seen when he turned from the window and saw Eri sitting there, rosy-pale and golden, patting the place beside her and bidding him come back to bed.
He shuddered and turned and hit the windowledge, hurting his hand. He thought of flight, even of drawing the sword and killing Madog's daughter, before this princess could conceive and doom him and his parents. . . .
Glasog's voice said, slowly, from Eri's lips, "If you try anything so rash, my father won't need your friend any longer, will he? I certainly wouldn't be in his place then. I'll hardly be in it now."
"What have you done with Owain?"
Eri shrugged. Glasog's voice said, "Dear husband—"
"The marriage wasn't consummated," he said, "for all I remember." It was Glasog who lifted a shoulder. Black hair parted. "To sorcery— does it matter?" He looked desperately toward the window. He said, without looking at her: "I've something to say about that, don't you think?"
"No. You don't. If you wouldn't, or couldn't, the words are said, the vows are made, the oaths are taken. If not your child—anyone's will do, for all men know or care." He looked at her to see if he had understood what he thought he had, and Glasog gathered a thick skein of her hair—and drew it over her shoulder.
"The oaths are made," Glasog said. "Any lie will do. Any child will do."
"There's my word against it," Gwydion said.
Glasog shook her had gravely. "A lie's nothing to my father. A life is nothing." She stood up, shook out her hair, and hugged the sheets about her. Dawn lent a sudden and unkind light to Glasog's face, showing hollow cheeks, a grim mouth, a dark and sullen eye that promised nothing of compromise.
Why? he asked himself. Why this much of truth? Why not Eri's face?
She said, "What will you, husband?"
"Ask tonight," he said, hoping only for time and better counsel. She inclined her head, walked between him and the window, lifting her arms wide. For an instant the morning sun showed a woman's body against the sheets. Then—it might have been a trick of the eyes—black hair spread into the black wings, something flew to the window and the sheet drifted to the floor.
What about the dragon? he would have asked, but there was no one to ask. He went to the door and tried it again, in case sorcery had ceased. But it gave not at all, not to cleverness, not to force. He only bruised his shoulder, and leaned dejectedly against the door, sure now that he had made a terrible mistake.
The window offered nothing but a sheer drop to the stones below, and when he tried that way, he could not force his shoulders through. There was no fire in the room, not so much as water to drink. He might fall on his sword, but he took Glasog at her word: it was the form of the marriage Madog had wanted, and they would only hide his death until it was convenient to reveal it. All the house had seen them wed and bedded, even Owain—who, being honest, could swear only what he had seen and what he had guessed—but never, never to the truth of what had happened and not happened last night.
Ogan's fabled Luck should have served him better, he thought, casting himself onto the bedside, head in hands. It should have served all of them better, this Luck his great grandfather had said only faithlessness could break—
But was Glasog herself not faithlessness incarnate? Was not Madog?
If that was the barb in great grandfather's blessing—it had done nothing but bring him and his family into Madog's hands. But it seemed to him that the fay were reputed for twists and turns in their gifts, and if they had made one such twist they might make another: all he knew was to hew to the course Ogan's sons had always followed.
So he had come here in good faith, been caught through abuse of that faith, and though he might perhaps seize the chance to come at Madog himself, that was treachery for treachery and if he had any last whisper of belief in his luck, that was what he most should not do.
"Is there a child?" Madog asked, and Glasog said, "Not yet. Not yet. Be patient."
"There's not," Madog said testily, "forever. Remember that."
"I remember," Glasog said.
"You wouldn't grow fond of him—or foolish?"
"I?" quoth Glasog, with an arch of her brow. "I, fond? Not fond of the dragon, let us say. Not fond of poverty—or early dying."
"We'll not fail. If not him—"
"Truly, do you imagine the dragon will give you anythingif the claim's not legitimate? I think not. I do think not. It must be Gwydion's child—and that, by nature, by Gwydion's own will. That isthe difficulty, isn't it?"
"You vaunt your sorcery. Use it!"
Glasog said, coldly, "When needs be. If needs be. But it's myself he'll have, notEri, and for myself, not Eri. That's my demand in this."
"Don't be a fool."
Glasog smiled with equal coldness. "This man has magical protections. His luck is no illusion and it's not to cross. I don't forget that. Don't you. Trustme, Father."
"I wonder how I got you."
Glasog still smiled. "Luck," she said. "You want to be rid of the dragon, don't you? Has my advice ever failed you? And isn't it the old god's bond that he'll barter for questions?" Her father scowled. "It's mylife you're bartering for, curse your cold heart. It's my life you're risking with your schemes—a life from each kingdom of Dyfed, that'sthe barter we've made. We've caught Gwydion. We can't stave the dragon off forever for your whims and your vapors, Daughter. Get me a grandson—by whatever sorcery—and forget this foolishness. Kill the dragon