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because, after all, Derelei was Bridei’s son.
    She had wanted to ask,
Does it mean nothing to you that this would make you Derelei’s blood kin?That the infant mage whose rare talents you nurture with all your skill might be your own grandson? Do you not long to acknowledge him?
How could she say those things when she herself stood in the way? The thought of her as a daughter was abhorrent to him. That had been in his affronted eyes; it had been in the tight distaste of his tone. He would never tell the truth about this. He would neveraccept it. Apart from his deep distrust of her, which had existed since the moment he first set eyes on her as a tiny babe, to acknowledge her as his daughter was to admit shutting his own kin out for all the years of her growing up. He had provided her with food and shelter. At the same time, he had made no secret of his hostility toward her. To admit the truth was to recognize the greatest errorof his life: an unforgivable insult to the Shining One. And is not a druid’s whole existence bent to the goddess’s service? Dashing the tears from her cheeks, Tuala forced herself to walk away. Maybe her own father did not want her, but she was still queen of Fortriu, and there were things to do.

2

    S OON AFTER DAWN Eile heard them coming and the familiar feeling gripped her, cold and tight in her chest. Saraid was awake, sitting up on the pallet with her shapeless cloth doll in her arms, whispering to it. Fear gave speed to Eile’s limbs, though it was bitterly cold inthe tiny lean-to where they slept. She was fully dressed already, that beingthe only way to stay at all warm at night, but she always made Saraid put on her nightrobe, giving her the second blanket to compensate. She encouraged Saraid to wash her face every day and sit up nicely to eat as well. If Saraid didn’t learn to be a lady she’d be doomed to a life like Eile’s own, an existence of squalor and slavery. Someone had to make sure Saraid escaped before she got too old.There was only Eile to do it.
    “Get dressed, Saraid. Can you manage by yourself? They’re home and I need to tend to the fire.”
    Saraid nodded, solemn and silent, as Eile put the little gown, the shawl, the apron, the stockings, the boots on the bed next to the child, then scraped her own hair back and tied it with a length of string. She pushed her feet into her worn boots, an old pair of AuntAnda’s, and stumbled through to the main room. Fire; light; hot water. Quick. Never mind that it was cold enough to freeze a pig’s tail off and that she had spent more of the night crying than sleeping. If things weren’t ready, Dalach would be angry.
    Her hands were numb with cold. There was no wood left beyond a few sticks of kindling. The dog had crept out of the bedchamber after her and nowstood by the ashes, staring up at her. He only stayed when Dalach and Anda were away. Those nights were better. The hound made a warm and undemanding third in the bed.
    The woodpile; everything would be soaked after last night’s downpour. A pox on it. There was no way to avoid a beating. She could hear them coming into the yard now, Dalach’s voice already raised, Anda’s barely audible.
    Eile pushedthe door hanging aside. “Go,” she said, and the dog obeyed. It was more biddable than that man, Faolan, had been. Chances were he wouldn’t come back today. Men were like that: full of empty promises. Like Father.
    Eile closed her eyes a moment, feeling the banked-up tears behind the lids and knowing she must let no more fall, not now, not when Dalach could see. She had longed so for the day whenFather would come home again, big and quiet and strong, and take her in his arms as he had the last time, after that place, Breakstone. She had dreamed she would whisper the truth to him, and he would take her away, her and Saraid, to somewhere safe where he could protect the two of them and the child could grow up happy and well-fed and unafraid. Where she herself would not