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whisper.
    “We’ll be fine.” I turned my head to look back at Swift. The yearling had his head down. Even he was tired. “How much farther?” I asked the man closest to us.
    “We’re almost there, my lady.”
    This was indeed so, for as we crested a little rise, the waters of the Sevenwaters lake appeared before us, pale and mysterious in the fading light. And there, across the broad and glimmering expanse, was the keep, its stone walls rising above a softening stand of trees. A banner flew atop the tower: the torcs of Sevenwaters. Many torches flared, and a sound of singing reached us across the water. On the far shore, where the sward ran down from the stone walls to the lakeside, I could just make out the figures of men and women standing in a great circle.
    Conor’s burial rite. We still had to ride a certain way around the shore, but it looked as if we were going to arrive right in the middle of it.
    We moved on. My stomach felt tight, my skin prickly with nervous sweat. Most likely my family were not expecting me to arrive until tomorrow. With no time to school their features, how would they look at me? Would I see their true feelings in theireyes? Was that what I feared? It came to me that it was possible to be afraid of your own fear, and that such a phenomenon was utterly ridiculous. I would think about Swift, and how good it was that he was close to a warm stable, a hearty feed and a rest. I wished he was not being sent on from Sevenwaters, to live among strangers.
    The track followed the lakeshore for a distance, then went back up under the trees. We emerged on level ground not far from the keep gates and were immediately halted by guards. As the men from the watchtower made their explanations, I saw that one face was familiar, even after so long.
    “Doran!” I exclaimed.
    “Lady Maeve!” Father’s chief man-at-arms came over to help me down, smiling. “Welcome home!” He eyed Swift with some curiosity.
    “I’m sorry if we have arrived at an inconvenient time,” I said. “The yearling needs to go straight to the stables.” That was the one priority there was no arguing with. “And either Emrys or Donal here—they are Uncle Bran’s grooms—must stay with him until Father knows the situation. Could you arrange that for us?”
    Doran took control with the ease of long practice; he was a trusted member of my father’s household, one of many loyal and capable retainers. When I was a child I had not thought the seamless running of my family home anything unusual. We’d all known our mother could be content only when her domain was perfectly ordered. I remembered the way she drilled us in sewing a faultless hem, in the intricacies of fine embroidery, in the baking of a perfect pie. In my case, that training had been wasted effort, since I would never perform any of those tasks now, even imperfectly.
    With remarkable swiftness grooms, guards and horses were despatched toward the keep. Rhian and I stood beside Doran, looking down the sward to the place where flaming torches illuminated the great circle of folk. A white-robed figure stood in the center, chanting in a clear voice.
    “I won’t go in until I’ve spoken to my father and mother,” I saidquietly. “It doesn’t seem right. But I can’t march down there in the middle of a burial rite, if that’s what it is.”
    “It’s hard to believe Master Conor is gone,” murmured Doran. “I think we all imagined he’d be here forever. He was buried earlier, Lady Maeve, out in the nemetons. This is more of a celebration. That’s what Master Ciarán said. Prayers for safe passing through the gateway, recognition of Conor’s life and his good deeds. That man was a great friend to folk, and a wise adviser to your father. He’ll be missed.” He fell silent, perhaps wondering whether he’d spoken out of turn.
    “I’ll wait here until they come back to the house,” I said. “Rhian, you must be exhausted. I’m sure Doran can find someone