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watched riding out from the keep. Big hunters, handsomely accoutred, the riders making use of his well, and staring at him as if he had no right to approach his own home. They were, he realized, Lord Bartram’s men, for they wore such gear as only keep folk owned—metal-plated leather and mail, half-helms atop their heads, swords in scabbards, even some shields slung on the saddles. He felt affronted by their imperious gaze.
    He dropped the deer as a tall man, old enough to be his father, came toward him. He was grizzled gray, with lines on his face, and a long scar that ran from hairline to chin, but he was smiling, and as he reached Cullyn he ducked his head and said, “I apologize for this intrusion. I am Laurens, master-at-arms to Lord Bartram.”
    Cullyn nodded, confused. “What do you want?”
    “We were hunting,” the old man said, “and we came upon your cottage. The lady Vanysse and her daughter, the demizzel Abra, wished to rest, so …” He shrugged. “They chose to rest here. I trust …”
    What else he might have said was cut off by the man who emerged from the cottage. Cullyn recognized him as Amadis. He was dressed in hunting gear, and carried his helm so that his long, blond hair waved free, his handsome face set in a casual smile.
    “So who’s this, Laurens?” He glanced enquiringly at Cullyn, as if he inspected some prospective target.
    Laurens said, “The cottage’s owner, captain. I don’t know his name.”
    Amadis nodded and went on smiling. “Which is?”
    “Cullyn,” Cullyn said. “And this is my home.”
    Amadis shaped a mocking bow. “And I trust you’ll forgive us for making use of your humble abode, but my lady and the demizzel were in need of rest and shelter. And …” He gestured at the cottage, the waving of his hand making it seem somehow smaller and poorer than it was. “We found this. So …”
    “Be welcome,” Cullyn said. “The ladies are inside?”
    “Taking their rest.” Amadis nodded.
    Cullyn stepped toward his door and Amadis moved to block him.
    “They’d have their privacy.”
    “This is my home,” Cullyn said.
    “Even so.” Amadis shrugged, a negligent hand touching his sword’s hilt.
    His intention was obvious and Cullyn felt anger swelling. He realized that his own hand was on the hilt of his hunting knife, and Amadis was smiling at him as if in challenge.
    Then Laurens stepped between them. “Shall I call to the ladies, Captain? They’d likely enjoy meeting their host.”
    He turned before Amadis could reply and bellowed at the house.
    “Mesdames, the owner is come and bids you welcome. Shall you greet him?”
    Cullyn saw Amadis scowl, but the two women emerged from the cottage and he recognized them both. One was Vanysse, Lord Bartram’s wife, dressed in hunting green, her long blond hair tousled, her face flushed.She was, Cullyn thought, beautiful, but not so lovely as her red-haired stepdaughter.
    Abra wore the same tunic and divided skirt, which flattered her slender body and set off the color of her hair in different hues, like oak trunks to autumnal leaves. Her eyes were large and very blue above a tip-tilted nose and full, naturally red lips. Cullyn felt his breath catch in his throat; almost, he bent a knee.
    But then she smiled and said, “Please forgive us, but we were tired,” and it was as if the sun emerged from behind gray clouds and bathed him in its radiance.
    All he could do was nod and mumble, and say, “Welcome. My home is yours.”
    Her stepmother laughed and said, “How charming.” And glanced at Amadis before she added, “And you are?”
    “Cullyn,” he said. “Cullyn ap Myrr.”
    “And you live here?” Vanysse waved a casual hand toward his cottage. “Alone in the forest?”
    He looked at Abra as he said, “It suits me, lady. My father built this house after the Great War. He brought my mother here, and I was born here. I have lived here since.”
    “What of your parents?” Abra asked.
    “They died,”