The Crown and the Dragon (2 page)

Ethelward tasted nothing, felt nothing. He was aware that salty rivulets of rain and sweat and blood were washing down his face, but it was a distant knowledge, and dim. Despite the sting, he did not close his eyes or even blink. He merely watched, slack-jawed, as Volusus raised his arms to the clouds in exultation, rain running down the length of the falcata, dripping off his tattered purple cape and exquisitely gold-filigreed armor to the wet sand.

“It awakens!” Volusus said fervently.

Lightning struck the knoll and thunder exploded all around them. For a moment, Ethelward found himself both blinded and deafened. He staggered back, and tripped. While he struggled to disentangle himself, his sight slowly returned, and Ethelward realized that he had stumbled over his own brother’s body.

Wrath filled him, crowding out the fear. Ethelward rolled to recover his sword, just in time to dodge another hack from the Vitalion's blade. Leaping up, Ethelward knew that he must not look into the invader’s face, lest he fall under the same paralyzing spell again.

Setting his feet and raising the great sword with both hands, Ethelward kept his eyes low. As Volusus slid closer, Ethelward realized that the man was neither tall, nor powerful. But his heavy, curved falcata was still sharp and deadly, and Ethelward had a difficult time fending it off with his own much longer blade while avoiding his adversary’s hypnotic gaze

“Afraid to face me?” Volusus laughed. “Then how will you face that which comes after me?” His curved sword flicked out, finding a gap in Ethelward’s ring mail and slicing into his left thigh.

Ethelward swept his sword out before him, but the enemy officer had already slipped away. Ethelward stepped forward, testing his leg. The wound was not grave, but he would need to shift his stance.

“Poor fool,” Volusus murmured, as he circled around Ethelward. “Slow of speech, and slow of mind.” He feinted with his sickle-shaped sword, probing for an opening.

“Shut your mouth,” Ethelward growled. He jabbed out, but the attempt was clumsy and the invader danced out of reach

“Impotent child,” taunted Volusus, “unable to think of anything but its own trifling hurts.”

Ethelward grimaced. The pain in his leg was anything but trifling. A burning pain was crawling up into his gut, like a fiery serpent. Was he poisoned?

The Vitalion officer lunged forward, his curved sword hooking around Ethelward's and nearly tugging it out of his grasp. Ethelward stumbled backward, trying to master the crippling pain in his lower body. He cursed aloud. Why was he fighting so poorly?

Smiling, his enemy pressed his advantage as Ethelward parried awkwardly. “You waste your strength,” he said, his words piercing. “This battle is lost.”

Ethelward’s vision dimmed. Black despair seized his heart. He felt a crushing weight on his shoulders and chest. He sank to his knees, his hands trembling, losing their grip on Elfraed’s great sword. “Forgive me!” he gasped.

“Can the cobra forgive the rat?” Volusus asked, laughing. “No. But I will give you a most merciful respite.”

And in that moment, Ethelward knew that he had been struck not by a poisoned blade, but by a poisoned tongue. It was another spell. Calling out for divine protection, Ethelward rose to his feet, ignoring the wound in his thigh.

“Call on your feeble gods,” said Volusus. “They cannot save you.”

Ethelward resisted this attempt to draw him into conversation. Instead of replying, he sang a grim battle hymn to drown out the invader’s venomous words. Holding the sword in front of him like a spear, he pressed forward with a series of mighty thrusts, never ceasing his song.

The Vitalion officer retreated, putting the bonfire between them. Ethelward lifted one rain-soaked sleeve to protect his mouth and nose from the vile smoke. Then he dashed around it, marveling that even with a wounded leg he could outmaneuver a man who had moved with such fluid grace just moments before.

Singing even louder, Ethelward hammered down, like a smith pounding hot steel. His enemy gave ground as Ethelward’s punishing sword blows pushed him down the slope, toward the sea. Ethelward could not see either his men, or the Scales. Their fight must have taken them in another direction.

“You may strike me down,” said Volusus through clenched teeth. His parries had become weaker and weaker, and his footing was as halting and unsteady as an old man’s. “But your brother will still be dead and gone.”

With a wordless scream, Ethelward swung with all his might. Elfraed’s great sword plummeted down like a hawk diving for the kill. It broke the Vitalion officer’s sickle-shaped falcata and split his monstrous helm in two, knocking him to the wet sand.

Through the blood that streamed down the man’s scalp, Ethelward saw white hair, and a face that was lined and worn. The waves lapped up around the invader as he sprawled in the surf.

“I am slain,” muttered Volusus, his breath labored, “by an uncouth and unworthy imbecile.”

“No,” said Ethelward, “you are slain by the brother of Elfraed, king of Deira, which land you will soon defile no more.”

“But no matter,” said Volusus, as if he had not heard. “New life comes from all this death.” His eyes regarded Ethelward at last. “You will be witness to its birth.”

“Enough,” said Ethelward, breaking the gaze and raising the great sword.

“You have seen the truth, barbarian!” Volusus cried. Then he shrugged. “And so you have nothing to fear from me.” He smiled. “I’m just the midwife here.” He laughed, but it turned into an ugly cough.

“You speak in riddles,” Ethelward mumbled. His tongue felt thick. His wet hair had fallen into his eyes.

“How the ignorant hate knowledge!” Volusus spat. “Can’t you feel it, barbarian? Can’t you feel the change?”

“Shut your mouth,” said Ethelward, roughly. But he felt uneasy. Gritting his teeth, he fought the urge to look around, and lifted his sword once again for the death blow.

“Have you not observed that the rain has ceased to fall?” said Volusus.

Ethelward realized that it had. The wind still swirled and the sky was still darkened, but the rain had stopped.

“Look!” said Volusus. “I will show you a great mystery.” He lifted up one metal-scaled arm to the sky, unfolding his fingers slowly, as if releasing a butterfly from his grasp. Dark clouds were gathered, the odd green hue still noticeable. Lightning struck the knoll behind them, and Volusus cried, as if in pain.

“I should have been up there,” he moaned. “Oh, inglorious end…”

“If it is death you crave,” said Ethelward, “I will grant your wish.” He plunged his sword deep into the Vitalion officer’s side, sliding it between the metal scales where his breastplate did not protect him.

Volusus gasped in pain, but his smile grew even wider, and his face shone with ecstasy. “Beautiful!” he said, softly. He reached out to the clouds, his fingers grasping. “The light! It consumes me! I am… reborn!” Then he went slack.

Ethelward freed his sword, pushed his long, wet hair from his face, and rolled the Vitalion’s body into the sea. Then he walked back up the knoll until he reached the bonfire. Braving its acrid smoke, he kicked it apart, revealing charred hunks of meat in it. Ethelward remembered the terrible chest wound on his brother’s body and was sickened. Turning away, he searched the bodies on the knoll until he once again found Elfraed. Closing his brother’s staring eyes, Ethelward said a quick prayer and surveyed the beach.

Everywhere, the Scales fled, pursued by the thirsty blades of ferocious Deiran clansmen. Some were driven into the sea, where they would drown in their heavy armor. The battle was finished.

Ethelward raised his sword high and cried, “Victory!” as loudly as he could. A few battle-weary Deirans scattered across the beach echoed him, raising their weapons high in like manner. Victory.

And still so much still to do.

Ethelward wanted to ride north to his bride, but the surviving Vitalion soldiers had to be harried, or they would regroup. And someone would have to find the escaped Vitalion galleys, or send messengers to warn the Lairds of Rhona and all the Renonian coast.

With Elfraed gone, there was no one else to rally the clansmen and rouse the lairds. No one but Ethelward. Though he could not take up the crown until he could assemble the Council of Knights, Ethelward was king now. His people needed him.

As he started down the knoll, something caught Ethelward’s eye. “What is that?” he muttered to himself. In the midst of the green-black clouds, surrounded by crackling lightning, a fire burned. Had the clouds parted? No. What he saw in that gap was not the blue arch of the heavens, but flames—orange, yellow, red, blue, and even green.

So, there was a hole in the sky, and on the other side was an inferno, pouring out its evil vapors to add to the thickening storm clouds. Volusus and his shaman had been burning the hearts and livers of Deira’s finest and bravest as a sacrifice, to what evil powers Ethelward knew not. But as he remembered the Vitalion officer’s talk of birth and midwifing, he feared he would soon know. The victory was not yet won.

Running down the slope, his red cape streaming like a banner, Ethelward waved his sword and shouted. “To me! For King, for clan, for country! Sons of Deira to me!”

His tone must have communicated urgency, for all over the battlefield, Deiran warriors turned away from their individual labors—harrying the Scales, looting the dead, caring for the wounded—to rally to his side.

Lairds on horseback and their lieutenants and banner men emulated him, shouting to their own clansmen to make ready, as riders shepherded the men into place. They faced the sea—perhaps assuming the Vitalion galleys were attempting another landing. But as no enemy presented itself, they milled around in confusion, hundreds of men, all speaking at once, many of them pointing at the sky.

Ethelward flagged down a passing horseman and commandeered his mount. Standing in the stirrups atop his borrowed steed, Ethelward faced the men, holding his brother’s great sword high. The lairds and banner men shouted for quiet.

“Sons of Deira,” Ethelward called in his loudest command voice, “by the grace of our Gods and the strength of our arms, we have defeated the Vitalion here today. But there remains a greater labor to perform, and I—”

Ethelward stopped talking. The faces of the assembled Deiran clansmen no longer regarded him, but were turned up to the sky above them. In the dim light, Ethelward could see a stir of movement in the storm clouds, as when a great fish swims through murky waters, disturbing them with its passage. Then, from the nightmarish rent in the dark clouds above, a shadowy, serpentine form emerged.

As the rent closed, a terrible cry pierced the air. Ethelward had never heard anything like it, not even the scream of an eagle over Lough Aislinn. The winds lashed his hair and cloak with increasing force, and he was pelted with rain and sleet. The cry came again, louder this time. There was a great clamor as the men panicked, some of pushing their way to the edges of the crowd, trying to get away.

“Stand fast,” called Ethelward. “Stand fast!”

But even as he called the order, Ethelward saw a blur of motion as the shadowy form again descended out of the dark clouds. It spiraled down in great circles, shrieking its unearthly cry as it came. A dragon.

Chaos reigned on Drumney beach, as clansmen fled in every direction, trampling each other underfoot in the rush to escape. Horses screamed in terror, throwing their riders and galloping away, heedless of what lay in their path. Ethelward was thrown from his own borrowed mount, landing heavily in the sand.

The dragon bore down and scattered the last remnants of Elfraed’s Deiran host. Regaining his feet, Ethelward shouted commands, but it was to no avail. All about him, men fled for their lives. Ethelward wanted to do the same, to run and run and never stop until he was in dear Maiwenn’s waiting arms. But kings cannot flee.

So instead, Ethelward walked through the rain, up the slippery slope of the knoll one last time, as all across the beach men screamed and ran and burned and died. He found his brother’s body where he had left it. He kissed its forehead and carefully shrouded Elfraed in his red cape. Then Ethelward lifted his great sword with both hands and prayed.

“Gods of my fathers,” said Ethelward aloud, “let me be an instrument of deliverance and of vengeance, if you see fit to spare this land from the ravages of this infernal monster.”

Above the beach, the dragon rode on the winds of the storm, its great wings spread wide. It was a dark orange-red in color, and glittered like fire’s last embers. Its sinuous body was perhaps twenty feet long, and it moved like a dancer’s ribbon, or like an eel in the water. Ethelward saw legs tipped by glistening talons, and when it opened its fearsome mouth to utter its horrible cry, it revealed enormous silvery-white teeth.

“But if not,” Ethelward continued, “protect my darling Maiwenn. Let her know that I loved her, and that I would have come home if I could.”

The dragon raced up and down the beach, dousing everything in sight in flame—men, horses, and even the Vitalion galleys. The nightmarish black skies poured their rain down, but they washed nothing clean. The beach still burned. The dragon turned and flew toward the knoll, burning and slaying as it came.

“Let me rejoin my brother,” Ethelward said, “in the halls of my ancestors. And let not my people remember my failure, but that I stood here to the last and did not surrender. So let it be.”

He stood, like a statue atop the knoll, his brother’s great sword held ready. The wave of flame drew nearer. Apparently spying Ethelward at last, the dragon darted through the air toward him. As it approached, Ethelward took advantage of his high position and leapt off the knoll, bellowing a wordless war cry, his sword slashing down to cut the creature off at the head.

Impossibly fast, the dragon slipped out of the way, dodging his blow. Ethelward tumbled down the wet slope, and the monstrous creature opened its mouth, engulfing him in liquid flame. In agony, Ethelward Barethon passed from life and was born into unknowable worlds beyond.

***

Chapter One

Elenn of Adair sat in a high-backed wooden chair in a cavernous room filled with books. Sister Remembrance said the Order had the largest collection in Deira, which they protected behind the immense stone walls of the Fortress of the Leode. Even the dragon hadn’t attacked it, although it ravaged the countryside from Tantillion to Lough Aislinn.

“It was spoken by our Elders,” said Sister Remembrance, pacing in the center of the room, “that a darkness would come.” She wore the plain, dark robes of her Institute—a sharp contrast to Elenn’s own coral-pink silk nightgown.

Elenn was here because of Sister Remembrance, who had pulled her out of bed for a discourse on dreams, prophecies, and history. Elenn had not yet discerned the purpose of this lecture, but she knew better than to ask. Or to yawn.

“A shadow that would turn brother against brother,” continued Sister Remembrance, her hands clasped behind her back. “A scourge of fire and steel.”

The Leodrine Sister was an imposing figure, tall and strong, just entering her middle years. The hair escaping from underneath her tight cap was still strawberry-blond, very nearly the same color as Elenn’s own mane. She might be considered beautiful if she wasn’t always so stern.

Sister Remembrance was also the reason that Elenn was in the Leode itself. The Sister had been visiting Elenn’s family for as long as she could remember, spending a few weeks each winter to tutor Elenn. Elenn’s mother had told her on her deathbed to travel to the Fortress and place herself under Remembrance’s guardianship until she reached the age of inheritance.

She had also given Elenn a ring, the cool weight of which Elenn could feel hanging from a fine chain around her neck. It had been her sister’s—a gift from her betrothed before he died in battle. Maiwenn had died of grief not long after, and their mother had worn this ring to remember her. “Our sorrows are part of who we are,” mother had said. “We are stronger when we embrace them, not weaker.” Touching that ring, Elenn couldn’t help but think that sorrows were
all
of who they were in this family. Chiding herself immediately for the maudlin self-pity, she pushed down her welling tears and sat on her hands.

Thankfully, Remembrance was searching the shelves and had noticed nothing. Turning the yellowing pages of a worn leather book, she stopped with a nod and handed it to Elenn. An elaborate illumination at the top of the page showed flaming red eyes and nostrils in a swirl of smoke.

“A plague of fear,” Remembrance said, “in the form of a dragon.”

On the next page was a large picture of a clawed serpent burning a castle full of little men dressed in antique armor. Some were painted fleeing, some fighting, some aflame and writhing in pain. The dragon dwarfed them all.

“The real dragon has wings,” Elenn observed.

Sister Remembrance frowned slightly, her eyebrows coming together. It made Elenn feel like a child about to be switched.

“Sorry, Sister,” said Elenn hurriedly.

“There is no need to apologize,” Remembrance said. “You are correct. It has wings–which my own observations indicate grow nearly six inches each year.”

Elenn’s parents had told her that Sister Remembrance was very learned, and that to have her as a tutor was a great privilege. Elenn didn’t know if the Sister had really been everywhere or seen everything that she claimed, but she certainly seemed to know something about everything.

“So,” said Elenn, “why is the dragon not painted with wings?”

“Because,” Remembrance said, “this book is a hundred and forty years old, and the dragon has been with us less than twenty.”

“But the Elders see what is to come,” said Elenn. “How could they get the picture wrong?”

“The world of spirit, the Glyderinge, is difficult to enter from the world of flesh,” said the Sister. “Our patron Gods permit only the wisest Elders to journey there, and only in dreams. When they awake, the vision slips away from them and they remember little.”

Elenn knew the feeling. She sometimes had dreams so vivid she could almost believe she had entered another world. Yet a few moments after waking they were gone, with nothing more than vague memories of light and heat and a sensation like flying.

Remembrance frowned. “Have you been recording your dreams, as I instructed you?”

“Yes,” said Elenn quickly.

The Sister raised one eyebrow.

“Whenever I remember,” Elenn amended.

“Sisters in this very fortress sit, even now, with our Elders,” Remembrance said, staring down at Elenn, “with pen and ink, waiting for them to speak. Every word they utter while in the Glyderinge is recorded.”

Elenn wanted to roll her eyes. But her mother had said to heed Sister Remembrance.

“When I get back to my chambers,” said Elenn, “I will set out writing materials.”

Remembrance nodded, satisfied. “When I was an acolyte, I once sat vigil with Enid herself. Many of her prophecies are recorded… here.” Her fingers danced gracefully along the bookshelves before selecting another book and handing it to Elenn. “Study it.”

“Thank you, Sister,” said Elenn, politely. Despite, or perhaps because of, her own nocturnal visions, she doubted Enid’s mutterings had any supernatural provenance. But she was curious. “What sorts of things do the Elders say?” asked Elenn.

“Truth,” said Remembrance, emphatically. “Every word their bodies speak while their spirits wander the Glyderinge is true.”

Elenn nodded, silently wondering why the Elders had not revealed how the dragon might be vanquished. Or the Vitalion.

“Their words are not always easy to understand, though,” said the Sister, perceiving her unspoken doubts. “Like pieces of a puzzle, we must fit them together properly.”

“How?” asked Elenn.

Sister Remembrance gave a weary sigh. “Sometimes,” she said, “we can only put them together after living through what the Elders have seen.” She opened another book. “Consider these utterances, spoken at different times by different Elders.” Her finger pointed to a single verse on the brightly illustrated page.

“‘Endless snake, the legion breaks the people,’” Elenn read aloud. “Almost sounds like the Vitalion.”

“Yes,” Remembrance said. “The meaning is apparent to us now because the prophecy has come to pass. Those of us who were there, who saw with our own eyes the black days of the invasion—we understand. We remember.” She got a faraway look in her eyes. “Clothed in scale armor they came, the legions of the Vitalion Empire. An endless parade of soldiers, like one vast, steel serpent.”

“Endless snake,” Elenn said.

“Precisely,” said Sister Remembrance. She turned the page and pointed out another verse.

“‘Waves beat the shore like goatskin drums,’” Elenn read again. “Drumney beach, where they came ashore?”

The Sister nodded. “Correct.” She continued to turn the book's pages, her fingers indicating other verses for Elenn to read.

“‘With the bloom of fire comes steel, and with steel comes the bloom of fire,’” Elenn read. “‘His outstretched hand calls for a weapon, but pestilence answers.’ ‘The beast devours the land’s mighty children.’ ‘Immortality must be unborn; it cannot be quenched.’” She stopped when Remembrance stopped pointing out new verses.

“Our brave warriors were pushing the Vitalion back into the sea,” the Sister said. “Then the invaders summoned the very beast of prophecy—the dragon. It is a weapon, a plague, a curse. It destroyed everything—man and beast, hearth and home, even the land itself. On that day, our dreams, our heroes, were swallowed in unquenchable flame.”

Sister Remembrance stared with frank hatred at the picture of the dragon. “We can not forget,” she said. “We must not forget.”

“Is that why you named yourself Remembrance?” asked Elenn.

“Yes,” said the Sister.

Elenn leaned forward. “Why did you join the Sisters?”

“To… honor the memory of the dead,” said Remembrance.

Elenn reached up to touch the ring that hung around her neck and thought of her mother, honoring the memory of her sister. “But if remembering is so important, why did you abandon your name?”

“Anonymity is the rule of the Order,” said the Sister.

“But you wouldn't have to follow the rule if you didn't join the Order,” protested Elenn. “So why renounce your old life? Why let the world forget you?”

“Because some things are more important than one woman's miserable life!” said Sister Remembrance hotly.

Elenn shrank back into her chair. She had never seen such fury in the eyes of a Sister, even stern Remembrance. “Forgive me, Sister,” she said, meekly folding her hands in her lap.

Remembrance took a deep breath. “No, child. It is I who should ask forgiveness. I should not have let my feelings get the better of me.”

“And I should not have let my curiosity get the best of me,” said Elenn. “It was wrong of me to pry, and I am sorry.”

“Nonsense,” said the Sister. “Curiosity is a gateway to knowledge. Never forget it. And never apologize for asking questions.”

Elenn nodded, unsure what to say next.

“Frankly, I believe our vaunted anonymity is as much an invitation to inquiry as anything else,” said Remembrance as if to herself. “After all, is it not strange to hide one’s own name?”

“I suppose it is,” said Elenn.

For a moment, the Sister was silent. “My name,” she said at last, “was Ethelind Barethon.”

“Barethon?” said Elenn. “The house of King Elfraed?”

“Yes,” said Ethelind. “And of Ethelward. They were my brothers. When the Vitalion came to this land, Syffred Barethon had three sons and two daughters. Now only I remain.”

“But what about the next generation?” asked Elenn.

“You know what happened to Elfraed’s son, Aedelred,” Ethelind said. “After they put down his rebellion, the Vitalion hunted down all of that line. Likewise Erwyn’s brood.” She sighed, heavily.

“My sister, Lioba, fled Deira to protect her son,” Ethelind continued, “but Garrick returned, and he is rash, foolhardy. He wastes the lives of the men who flock to his banner on reckless raids that would not build a kingdom, even if they succeeded. Garrick will tolerate no advisor, unlike King Elfraed, who had the wise counsel of his brother.”

Ethelind smiled fondly. “They were great men, Elfraed and Ethelward. I hope Deira sees their like again someday.”

“Maybe Garrick will surprise you,” said Elenn. “The House of Barethon might rise again, unite the clans, and cast out the Vitalion and their monster.”

Ethelind regarded her thoughtfully, tapping her lips with steepled fingers. “Perhaps,” she said. “There is good metal there, if it could be tempered by patience and prudence.” She stood, and once again paced the floor.

“I fear that Deira can’t depend on great men,” Ethelind said. She turned and gazed down at Elenn. “So we women of Barethon must do our part.”

“You women of Barethon?” asked Elenn. “But you just said that only you survive. And if you reclaimed your old name the Vitalion would kill you.”

“They would if they knew who and where I was,” Ethelind agreed. “But they do not. Only three living souls know my secret: myself, the Leodrine Mother, and you. Not even my nephew, Garrick—although we have met.” She twisted her mouth wryly. “That is how I know that he will not take counsel.”

Elenn stood. “Why did you tell me this?” she asked. “You’ve put your life in my hands. Why?”

“You are a clever enough girl,” said Ethelind. “What do you think?”

“You have been my tutor all my life,” said Elenn, “so you know you can trust me.”

“True,” said Ethelind. “But there is more.”

“My lord father and lady mother are dead, because they would not bow to the Vitalion,” said Elenn. “Another reason to trust that I would not betray you to them.”

“Again true,” said Ethelind. “But still not the whole answer.”

“Mother made you my guardian,” said Elenn, “and since I am your ward, I will go where you go and become an acolyte and learn everything about you. You could not keep this secret from me; I would discover it.”

Ethelind laughed. “Possibly. But think harder. Only three people in all the world know the secret of the Barethons, and you are one of them. Why?”

Elenn frowned, and for a long time said nothing. Her delicate hands balled up into fists. She stared at the book in Ethelind’s hands.

“Because… I am a Barethon.”

“Yes.”

“How can this be?”

“Your father was my brother Ethelward,” said Ethelind. “He married your mother in secret. They planned to tell her parents, but then he was killed.” Ethelind sighed. “It all happened so fast. He never even knew you existed. When he died, your mother did not yet know that she carried you in her womb. She found out on the road home.”

“Ethelward Barethon married my mother?” asked Elenn, with difficulty.

“I fear I am introducing more confusion than I am removing,” said Ethelind. “Let me speak plainly. Ethelward did not marry Kaiteryn Adair, because Kaiteryn Adair was not your mother. He married Maiwenn. Maiwenn was your mother.”

“Maiwenn?” gasped Elenn, her eyes full of tears. “My sister Maiwenn?” The gold ring was in her hand, clutched to her chest.

“Yes,” said Ethelind. “Maiwenn, who called herself your sister, bore you.”

“But she died when I was little! I never knew.” The ring was cutting into the flesh of her fingers, but she could not relax her grip. “Now I have no one!”

Ethelind gathered Elenn into a fierce embrace and held her while she wept. “You have me,” she said. “You will always have me.”

Ethelind held Elenn tight and stroked her long, red-blond hair gently. After long minutes, the sobs slowed and then ceased. Elenn pulled away from Ethelind. Her eyes were red and puffy, but determined.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Elenn asked. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Because your grandparents and your mother wanted to protect you,” said Ethelind. “They feared what would happen if it were known that you were Ethelward Barethon’s child.”

“I would have kept the secret!” said Elenn. “They should have trusted me.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Ethelind. “You should know that they always planned to tell you, as soon as they thought you were old enough to understand. To Mathis, this meant your tenth birthday. But—” She hesitated.