Loose him, or I will be standing here all night. But stay close in case he is mad.
The Falcon rose, glided to a low tree branch above the man’s head. The man closed his eyes a moment; tiny beads of blood welled like tears through his shirt of mail. He looked young in the moonlight, and his hair was the color of fire. Sybel looked at him curiously, for he gleamed like water at night with link upon link of metal.
“Why are you dressed like that?” she said, and he opened his eyes.
“I have been at Terbrec.” He glanced up at the dark outline of bird above him. “Where did you get such a falcon? He cut through iron and leather and silk…”
“He killed seven men,” Sybel said, “who killed the wizard Aer for the jewels on his books of wisdom.”
“Ter,” the young man breathed, and her brows rose in surprise.
“Who are you?”
“I told you. Coren of Sirle.”
“But that means nothing to me. What are you doing at my gates with a baby?”
Coren of Sirle said very slowly and patiently, “Your mother, Laran, had a sister named Rianna—she was your aunt. She married the King of Eldwold three years ago. My—”
“Who is the King these days?” Sybel asked curiously.
The young man caught a startled breath. “Drede. Drede is the King of Eldwold, and he has been King for fifteen years.”
“Oh. Go on—Drede married Rianna. That is very interesting, but I have a Liralen to call.”
“Please!” He glanced up at the Falcon and lowered his voice. “Please. I have been fighting for three days. Then my uncle tossed a baby into my arms and told me to give it to the wizard woman on Eld Mountain. Suppose, I said, she will not take him? What will she want with a baby? And he looked at me and said, you will not come down from that mountain with the child—do you want your brother’s son dead?”
“But why does he want to give it to me?”
“Because it is the child of Rianna and Norrel, and they are both dead.”
Sybel blinked. “But you said Rianna was married to Drede.”
“She was.”
“Then why is the child Norrel’s son? I do not understand.”
Coren’s voice rose perilously. “Because Norrel and Rianna were lovers. And Drede killed Norrel three days ago on the Plain of Terbrec. Now will you take the baby so I can go back and kill Drede?”
Sybel looked at him out of her black, unwinking eyes. “You will not shout at me,” she said very softly. The mailed hands of Coren curled and uncurled in the moonlight. He took a step toward her, and the soft light shaped the long bones of his face, traced lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes.
“I am sorry,” he whispered. “Please. Try to understand. I have ridden the late day and half the night. My brother and half my kinsmen are dead. The Lord of Niccon joined forces with Drede, and Sirle cannot stand against them both. Rianna died of the child’s birth. If Drede finds the child, he will kill it out of revenge. There is no safe place for it in Sirle. There is no safe place for it anywhere but here, where Drede will not think to come. Drede has killed Norrel, but I swear he will not take this child. Please. Take care of him. His mother was of your family.”
Sybel looked down at the child. It had stopped crying; the night was very still about them. It waved tiny fists aimlessly in the air, and pushed at the soft blanket wrapped around it. She touched its pale, plump face, and its eyes turned toward her, winking like stars.
“My mother died of me,” she said. “What is its name?”
“Tamlorn.”
“Tamlorn. It is very pretty. I wish it had been a girl.”
“If it had been, I would not have had to ride all this way to hide it. Drede is afraid the child might declare its legitimacy, when it is older, and fight Drede’s own heir. Sirle would back it—my people have been playing for the kingship of Eldwold ever since King Harth died at Fallow Field and Tarn of Sirle held the throne for twelve years, then lost it again.”
“But if everyone knows the child is not Drede’s—”
“Only Drede, Rianna and Norrel know the truth of the matter, and Rianna and Norrel are dead. Kings’ bastards can be very dangerous.”
“He does not look dangerous.” Her lean, pale fingers whispered over its cheek. A smile strayed absently across her face. “It will go nicely, I think, in the collection.”
Coren’s arms tightened around the child. “It is Norrel’s son—it is not an animal.”
Sybel’s level eyes raised. “Is it not less? It eats and sleeps and it does not think, and it requires special care. Only… I do not know what to do with a baby. It cannot tell me what it needs.”
Coren was silent a moment. When he spoke finally, she heard the weariness haunting his voice like an overtone. “You are a girl. You should know such things.”
“Why?”
“Because—because you will have children someday and you—will have to know how to care for them.”
“I had no woman to care for me,” Sybel said. “My father fed me goat’s milk and taught me to read his books. I suppose I will have a child that I can train to care for the animals when I am dead.”
Coren gazed at her, his lips parted. “If it were not for my uncle,” he said softly, “I would take the child back home rather than leave Norrel’s son here with you, your ignorance and your heart of ice.”
Sybel’s face grew as still before him as the still full moon. “It is you who are ignorant,” she whispered. “I could have Ter rip you into seven pieces and drop your bloodless head on the Plain of Terbrec, but I am controlling my temper. Look!”
She unlocked the gates, her fingers shaking in an anger that roused through her like a clean mountain wind. She snapped private calls into the dream-drugged minds about her, and, like pieces of dreams themselves, the animals moved toward her. Coren stepped in beside her. He propped the child on one shoulder, his mailed arms protecting its back, one hand cupping its head, while his eyes slid, wide, over the moving, rustling darkness. The great Boar reached them first, fire-white in the darkness, his tusks like white marble that hunters dreamed of, and a sound came, inarticulate, from Coren’s throat. Sybel rested one hand above the small red eyes. “Do you think because I care for these animals, I cannot care for a child? They are ancient, powerful as princes, wise and restless and dangerous, and I give them whatever they require. So I will give this child what it requires. And if that is not what you want, then leave. I did not ask you to come with a child; I do not care if you go with it. I may be ignorant in your world, but here you are in my world and you are a fool.”
Coren stared down at the Boar, struggling for words. “Cyrin,” he whispered. “Cyrin. You have him.” He stopped again, his breath jerking through his open mouth. His voice came slow, dredging memory. “Rondar—Lord of Runrir captured—the Boar Cyrin that no man had captured before, the elusive Cyrin, Keeper of Riddles and—demanded either Cyrin’s life or all the wisdom of the world. And Cyrin uprooted a stone at Rondar’s feet, and Rondar said it was worthless and rode away, still searching…”
“How do you know that tale?” Sybel asked, astonished. “It is not one of Eldwold.”
“I know it. I know.” He lifted his head, his arms tight around the child as a great shape swooped toward them, silent, a shadow upon the night. The Swan folded itself gently before them, its back broad as the Boar’s, its eyes black as the night between two stars
“The Swan of Tirlith—Is it the Swan? Sybel, is it?”
“How do you know my name?” she whispered.
“I know.” He watched two cats ease through the night, coming from opposite sides of the house, and she heard him swallow. Tamlorn struggled in his arms, but Coren did not move. The Cat Moriah reached them, nudged its black, flat head under Sybel’s hand, then lay down on her feet and yawned at Coren, showing teeth like honed polished stones.