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even to Veran’s Mountain, where they met my kindred, the elves.”
    â€œElves!” Megan bounced excitedly. “I thought that was just—singing, y’know.”
    â€œNay, the elves are real. But all of them except my mother have sailed to Elwestrand, a land beyond the western sea.” A faraway look filled Trevyn’s eyes. “Hal sang of Elwestrand long before he knew it existed anywhere but in his mind.”
    Meg grappled in vain for an answer to this. Trevyn had that look sometimes that can make a woman weep, sad eyes and a smiling mouth.… But other times he had the look of eagles. After a moment he went on.
    â€œWhen Iscovar died, Hal and his followers ousted the evil lords, and my mother gave up her immortality to marry my father. Those were strange times for him; he had never expected to be a King. But when Hal found out they were brothers, he found Father his crown. Hal had never wanted power anyway, though it was fated on him.”
    â€œHow so?” Meg sat agape at this matter-of-fact talk of elves and destinies.
    â€œIt was written in The Book of Suns , the prophecies of the One. The Book made their kinship clear, and told them that Hal would have no heir.”
    â€œI saw him once, and Queen Rosemary, as they rode to Celydon,” Meg remarked. “’Tis a shame they’ve no children. But ye’re lucky ye’ve no cousins or brothers to fight ye for the throne.”
    â€œI wish I had a dozen,” Trevyn grumbled. “And they could have the throne, and welcome.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Meg, not at all disconcerted.
    â€œNever mind.” Trevyn smiled in spite of himself. “Save your breath to cool your porridge, Meg.”
    â€œAnd let ye spend yers to swell yer wings of fancy? Ye’re so bursting with portents and mysteries, how is a poor girl to know the way of it?”
    He had to laugh at her. It was a relief to see his forebodings as nonsense, even for a moment. Meg’s teasing was a balm on spirits too often darkened since the fight with the wolves.
    Meg had long since learned that fellows liked her best if she jested with them. When she did it well, they could forget that she was a skinny, plain-faced maid and treat her simply as a friend. So she had no sweethearts, but at least she had male company at the occasional social affairs of the countryside. Her brave show fooled no one, not even herself. But she made the best of what she had: a quick mind and a droll wit. And when the Prince came, she bantered with him as was her wont.
    He had known no such easy companionship from the youths and maidens of Laueroc. They had shied from his rank and his elfin strangeness. So he found it a relief and a delight to be treated with something less than royal respect. Meg’s shafts of wit were never cruel, and she aimed them most often at herself. Trevyn had seen her with the wolves; he knew her courage. Her merciless honesty concerning her own shortcomings was a different kind of courage, he thought, and he admired her for it.
    â€œNo doubt the bards will sing of how ye pulled the fair maiden from the mud hole,” Meg mused. “They hold forth about everything ye Lauerocs do.”
    â€œNo doubt,” Trevyn gravely agreed.
    â€œâ€™Twill be known, of course, that they speak of Molly,” Meg added. “As she is young, and has not yet calved.”
    Trevyn never tired of listening to her. He had met many kinds of women in his young life: high-scented foreign princesses, chilly court maidens, flirtatious servant girls. None of them had tempted him to more than a quick conquest. But this fine-boned, birdlike creature, bright and cheeky as a sparrow, drew him back to her again and again. He had felt for her small breast once, wondering what she kept beneath her shapeless peasant blouse, and she had pushed his hand away. “Nay, Trev,” she had told him, not even angrily, only with a certainty he could not