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"Yet he dreams."
"I did not say he wasn't adept. Like all of his kind, his intuition exceeds
his intellect, and in his case that is a considerable achievement, as you
would know if you've ever played chess with him." She bent and chose two fresh
evergreen boughs out of a basket on the floor, and set them into the fire. The
scent would wash thepryfsmell from the air, creating a path for her two
sleepers to follow. When Rhuddlan took them to Wydehaw, the night wind would
do the rest, chasing the last of their dreams from their minds.
" 'Tis not uncommon," she went on, "for a person to be drawn into the sleep of
another, though usually only when there is a strong bond between them."
Rhuddlan smiled to himself. Lavrans and the maid were bound, whether Moriath
recognized the ties or not, bound by the magic that had always pulled a man
and a woman together. For himself, he would see those ties wrapped ever more
securely around the pair, until where one began and the other left off would
be no more than a matter of pure conjecture. Ceridwen's bloodlines ran true
enough for his needs, even if her art did not.
He shifted his gaze to the warrior by the maid's side. As for Lavrans, Moriath
was right to fear him, for the Dane would be the one to take her father's
place at the gates of time.
Chapter 13
Wine, Dain thought, groaning. He would never drink Madron's again, posset or
not. His head pounded.
Pain flashed in sporadic bursts behind his eyes. He felt like he'd been wrung
out to his very soul, and his face was cold. The rest of him was warm, though,
pleasantly warm, surprisingly warm.
He moved his fingers, lifting the tips up so he could better feel what was
granting him his one level of grace. 'Twas soft, with a silky feel but a nubby
weave. He dared to open one eye.
Quicken-tree cloth, a great swath of it, enfolded him like a cocoon. Another
cocoon lay next to him, or more truly a chrysalis, for despite the softness of
the shell, the contents showed every indication of emerging with all the
beauty and delicacy of a butterfly.
He opened his other eye and swore to himself as he took stock of their
surroundings. By means he
found difficult to surmise, Madron had brought him and Ceridwen to the edge of
Wroneu Wood. His presence this near to Wydehaw must have alerted Elixir and
Numa. They could not be far, nor could the
Cypriot.
"Kom." The command came out a weak croak, barely audible, yet a distant
nickering answered him.
The dogs might belong to Rhuddlan in their hearts, but the mare was his. A
moment later a far-off barking, coming from the same direction as the
Cypriot's neigh, brought half a smile to his mouth.
Mayhaps Rhuddlan should look to the loyalty of his hounds, especially Numa.
The maid had enchanted the albino bitch as surely as she'd enchanted him.
The thought gave him pause, sparking a memory, a noticeably unpleasant memory.
There had been enchantment in the night. A vague sense of it haunted him,
fleeting images slipping across the surface of his mind, then diving deep
where he could not follow. Damn Madron. He hoped what she'd gained had been
worth the price of their friendship, for he would not forget nor forgive her
trespass. Jalal, too, had been skilled at mesmerizing, but Dain had learned
how to shift his awareness to a place his master could not reach. Madron and
her dreamstone had slipped by his defenses, reminding him that even here, in
this place, a moment's incaution could quickly turn a predator into prey or a
warrior into a whore.
Page 97
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Damn her. He was not without talent himself in the artofcasting sleep. The
witch would not do the same to him again, and she would not do it to Ceridwen.
He reached a hand out and touched the fringe of hair at the end of one of
Ceridwen's braids. So soft.
He'd learned much of her in Deri and even more in Madron's cottage. The red
book was not to be heeded. By the author's own admission, she'd done naught
but write down her father's prophesies, a term
Dain was ever leery of, even from one such as Nemeton must have been. As
Madron had said, time changed itself by its own passing. Prophesy often took
on the trappings of myth, and myth, more likely than not, meant metaphor, a
thing to be studied, but not to be feared.
Caradoc was another matter.
He tangled his fingers through the pale braids of Ceridwen's hair, letting
them slip across his skin along with the shimmering threads of Quicken-tree
riband. Pretty maid. Unbidden by more than his heartfelt desire, she sighed in
her sleep and turned toward him. His gaze fell immediately to her mouth.
He remembered love, what it had been like to want a girl with all his body and
soul, to wait and watch and suffer and need, to lie awake at night with his
loins on fire despite the relief he gave himself, because his hand was not
what he wanted, but the girl, the woman part of her, the feel of her beneath
him, all satiny skin and heavenly mouth. He remembered the smell of a woman
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