The nursemaid found the king in the trenches of the far side of the half-risen castle. She had trouble at first picking him out of the row of dusty laborers, hauling earth over the side of the ditch to for the foundation of the eastern wing. But the Master of Horse had said he would be here, and so she dug her toes in close to the ledge and leaned over.

"Sire," she said tentatively, and one face turned around. King Taran wiped a streak of dirt across his forehead and raised a hand in greeting.

"Bronwen," he said, returning to his shovel, passing a glance over his shoulder. "How is the baby?"

She crossed her arms. "I wouldn't know."

He nodded, and sent a mound of dirt flying—then paused. "What's that now?"

"I wouldn't know," she repeated. "Sire, I beg your pardon, perhaps a moment of your time?"

He looked at her quizzically; then with an apologetic word to the man next to him, leaned his shovel against the dirt wall and hoisted himself out of the ditch.

"I can't talk any sense into her," fretted Bronwen as the king picked through the linen shirts tossed on the grass in search of his own. "It's been this way all week, all month. I'm an honest woman, I'd like to earn my keep, but I must tell you it's simply impossible under these conditions. Now I don't like to speak out of turn, but I worry about her, sire, it's not healthy—a body simply cannot go on so long without sleep—"

"Where is she?" asked the king, buckling his belt over his tunic.

"In the nursery," replied Bronwen, following after him as he turned toward the stately towers of the living quarters and work rooms of Caer Dathyl that had been constructed first. "I thought it would get better, she's just being a new mother, I thought, but it can't go on like this—she won't even let me feed the child. Not once! I told her she can't do everything on her own, and then she asked if I had done it all on my own, and then I said I had my mother, and then she said—"

"Bronwen." Taran paused, and then took her hands in his own. She gulped down her words and looked back at him with wide eyes. "You have done the right thing—thank you. I will go speak with the queen." He started across the grass, and as she started with him, he put a hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you rest now," he smiled, "I know we will need you later."

She was sitting by the window in the rocking chair, the sunlight highlighting the paleness of her face.

"He won't sleep," Eilonwy said as soon as she saw him. "I just fed him and changed him and rocked him for EVER, but he's fighting it…impossible, like his father." She gave an echo of a smile.

"Ohh I would never fight sleep these days," said Taran, entering the room quietly and taking a seat across from her. He held out his hands, and she passed him the baby. He leaned back, settled the baby in his arms, and fitted a little finger into his mouth.

They sat in silence for a while as the baby sucked Taran's finger and gazed up at his father with drooping eyes. Eilonwy's head tilted sideways in the chair, and she stared vacantly ahead of her. Unwittingly, Taran found himself admiring the outlines of his wife's face: the high cheekbones, the fine ears, the gently arching eyebrows, the pillowy curves of her lips…

There had been times, in all the years before, when he would catch himself regarding her thus—usually with a sharp internal rebuke—and he would think that the magic that ran in her blood was suffusing the air around her into a kind of glowing aura. But then, with a twist of a ring over a year ago, he finally realized—it was simply the way she looked to him. He adjusted their baby in his arms and found himself smiling absently as he challenged Dallben in his head: for once the old enchanter had been in error, for certainly magic still existed in this blighted realm of humankind.

She caught his eye and smiled faintly as her own eyelids dropped further. She and the baby looked remarkably alike in this moment—and she claimed he was the stubborn one.

"Shall I give him to Bronwen?" Taran whispered, testing out the opportunity—and her eyes flew open.

"No, give him to me," she replied, holding out her arms. "If you must go, I'll take him. No need to worry the nursemaid."

Taran moved not an inch, continuing to rock the baby slightly, and noticed a slackening pressure on his little finger. The infant's eyes were finally closed.

"But that is her job, love—she's a nursemaid."

"And my job is his mother," she rejoined. Despite heavy eyelids, her eyes blazed underneath.

For a long moment, the High King and Queen stared at each other, unyielding. It was several more minutes before Taran guessed tentatively at another tack.

He shifted an arm from under the baby and took her hand in his. Holding it with as much reassuring pressure as he could muster, he fixed her eyes in his with the solemnity of a vow: "Heart of my hearts, believe you this—no one is going to take our baby."

His guess had hit its mark, for she gasped suddenly, and her eyes filled with tears. Clutching his hand tightly, she shook her head over and over. "You can't promise that," she whispered fiercely.

He looked around for a cradle; finding none nearby, he stood up and embraced her tightly in one arm, the babe centered between them. "I have guards everywhere," he breathed into her ear. "I will set up more, if you wish it—anywhere. By all the gods, I swear it—what happened long ago will not happen again."

She pressed her face into his shoulder and gave a shuddering sigh. "How awful," she breathed. "Taran, I never imagined—what it felt like—" He held her close, and her tears dampened his neck. The baby whimpered in his sleep, and she looked down, caressing his head almost in anguish. "How can I trust anyone else?"

Taran kissed her forehead. "For now, my love, we will do whatever makes you feel safe," he said. "We'll talk it over tonight. And then, in time—the trust will follow." He hoisted the baby on his shoulder, and with a hand on the small of her back, guided her to the bed in the center of the room. "My little man and I are going to get some sunshine," he said. "If you're not asleep when we come back, you're in serious trouble, Your Majesty. Isn't she," he cooed to the dozing baby by his neck. "Isn't Mama in trouble."

She dropped into the bed without bothering to pull up the coverlet and mumbled what he thought were words of thanks. Taran closed the door carefully and absently patted the baby as he made his way down the stairs. He had never heard her speak openly of the trauma of her own childhood—stolen in more ways than one—and he clutched their son to his chest as he realized the hollowness of his own promises. Setting more guards, more checkpoints—it was something, at least, within his ability. But earning the love and loyalty of those now closest to them—to the point of unquestioning trust—that was a much larger, longer task.