The heartless crags of Annuvin loomed around her on all sides, a battalion of blue-gray slopes plummeting into depthless chasms below. Fog hung in the thin air like breath on a cold day, filtering the already wan light until it seemed no more than a passing dream of the sun. She shivered in the damp. Pulled her cloak tighter. Pressed wearily onward. How much longer must she wander before she found her way out of this murky maze? Time was, she'd known these secret paths like a key knows its lock; slipped through each turn like a smooth twist of the wrist, confident of its belonging. Not so now. Her memory felt as shrouded and inaccessible as the peaks overhead. Each footfall echoed hesitation. The shadows she'd once used as a shield now seemed alive and sentient, hovering at the corners of her vision, breathing down the back of her neck, tracking her every step over sharp pebble and lichen-crusted rock.

Something was watching her; that much was certain. She could feel its eyes peering through the curtains of mist—and it had been for some time. She paused, looking around and sending probing tendrils of magic out in search of it. But as each time before, she encountered nothing more than cold and bloodless stone. Onward she went. Onward… Onward… though whatever she was seeking, she no longer could recall.

A loose rock rattled down the slope to her left. She snapped around to face it.

At first, she saw nothing; then, a shadow slipping behind the jagged cleft between boulders. She froze in place. Her skin prickled and her heart fluttered. A warding spell rose to her tongue, hot and crackling… ready… ready…

A pair of amber eyes emerged from the gloom.

She held her breath.

A long gray snout pressed forward… gray head, gray breast, gray paws… a shimmer of silver on long legs, ears pricked forward and eyes fixed intently upon her.

But it came no closer.

She, too, stood her ground.

There was no hint of malice in the wolf's eyes, but neither was there ease. Like her, it was wary, assessing her from scalp to sole.

She swallowed around her spell, unwilling to part with it but too curious to let it fly.

The yellow gaze took hers captive. Breath by breath, it seemed to grow in her vision, spreading and intensifying until it washed golden over every dusky slope and dark fissure, chasing away the mist, until it was all she could see, all she could think, brightness flooding her eyes until her pupils constricted painfully—

She woke, gasping.

Gone was the wolf. Gone, the gray mountains. Dry rushes dug into her cheek, and the floorboards beneath them seemed eager to bruise her side. Her head pounded as though a hundred war drums beat within her skull. Disoriented, she lay there for a moment, fingers clutching the woven mats as her mind groped for understanding.

She was in her study. Yes… yes, she'd sought a vision in the scrying bowl that stood just there above her, resting so innocently on its pedestal. And that vision had been slow in coming—contrarian, even, right from the start. She must have pushed too hard, poured too much of herself into the quest for it, and collapsed into dreams instead.

Dreams. Nightmares. Was there ever any difference?

With difficulty, she rose to her hip and then her feet, swaying a little as a wave of nausea broke over her. Too hard… Much too hard… She knew better than to chase reluctant visions; they only yielded dry fruit and a bitter aftertaste.

Steadying herself with one hand upon the wall of the stair tower, she descended to her bedchamber on the story below. Was it morning? Still night? Morning, by the brazen slash of sunlight through the window and the breakfast set out for her. She squinted as her eyes adjusted. Gwyneth, her favored handmaid, was there already, laying out potential gowns on the unused bed.

Achren ignored the young woman's curtsy of greeting and sank immediately into the chair beside the table. Just the sight of food turned her stomach, but the stability of the seat was welcome. Swallowing hard, she donned a mask of composure.

"The deep blue gown," she declared to Gwyneth, giving a perfunctory wave toward the array of proffered garments. "With the silver and sapphire jewelry to match. And nothing too complex with my hair; I've neither the patience nor the need for it."

The handmaid nodded wordlessly and hastened about the task of helping her lady dress, combing and plaiting, draping and pinning, lacing and smoothing, until her mistress was a study in elegance.

Once finished, Achren forced herself to pluck a slice of bread from the breakfast platter, and picked at it half-heartedly as she moved to the window to take stock of the day. The sky was bright and nearly cloudless for a change, and the tortured castle looked decidedly less dismal for it. She might almost mistake it for a stronghold worthy of her, if she squinted hard enough—but not quite. Her lip curled reflexively. Someday, she'd walk again amid the dark luster of Annuvin's stronghold, and what a glorious day that would be after such a maddening wait. But for the time being…

As her gaze meandered idly over the courtyard below, a metallic gleam sliced through her reverie. She leaned upon the sill, angling for a better view through the stone lattice.

There it was again. There he was, just stepping out from the tower's shadow, sword glinting as he cut a swift arc through the crisp morning air. A handful of guards stood by, gawking with a mixture of amusement and admiration. Achren's surprise quickly turned to curiosity. He clearly wasn't engaged in a fight, with her guards lazing about thus. But whatever was he—?

Training. Training! She swallowed an incredulous laugh. The man really couldn't set duty aside, could he? Not a few days past bedridden, yet there he was, sparring with an imagined adversary. She shook her head slowly, marveling at the audacity of it. What a beautiful sight to behold, though, that fluid tension of muscle and sinew in practiced motion. Every guard position Gwydion struck was an image of restrained power; every movement, that power's swift release. There was a hint of caution in it—testing his body's current limits, no doubt—but his skill was nonetheless plain. Clearly, he was as adept with a sword as with his wits. Of course, she'd heard as much over the years: copious reports of the Prince of Don's strength, valor, and cunning. But who could trust the fawning of bards and sycophants? What a rare and pleasant surprise to find those paeans true.

She watched him avidly for some time, until Gwydion paused at last, sheathing his blade and wiping his streaming brow.

Achren smiled to herself. She had half a mind to call down to him and grant a round of applause, but bit her tongue and stayed her hands. There would be better times for it. With some reluctance, she withdrew from the window.

"Gwyneth!" she called out sharply, summoning the handmaid back to her side. "Set out my riding attire; I shall need it later today. And notify the Chief Steward that I wish to speak with him and the Master of Game before noon."

The handmaid dropped another curtsy in acknowledgment, but Achren was already too lost in thought to note it. The wheel of fate was spinning more quickly, now, and she must act with equal swiftness. With luck, no cantrev lords would arrive at her doorstep that day, begging to buy favors while robbing her of time. If she could avoid that and similar banalities… Yes, what an interesting day it could yet prove to be, for all its unpleasant start.

Better—but not nearly good enough. Gwydion shook his head ruefully as he quit the courtyard and headed back to his chamber to wash. Such practice should not have been half so taxing, even had he continued twice as long. Yet, his arms felt as though he wore gauntlets of lead, and the tower stairs seemed as tall as the Eagle Mountains as he dragged himself up them, weaker leg protesting every step. Better, however, would have to suffice. He ought to be strong enough to leave Spiral Castle soon—even if that departure were under pursuit.

When he reached his room, he found a steaming washbasin standing ready for him, along with a shaving set, breakfast, and a fresh set of impeccably-tailored clothes. As he washed and shaved, he turned everything from the past few days over in his mind for what seemed the tenth time: Achren's motives; her lineage; his own lineage; the tangled threads of history tying them together, which he still could not follow clearly, let alone unknot…

He set aside the razor and stared for a moment into the still pool of water in the basin, as though he might somehow gain its clarity.

What if he could loosen those threads, even a little? What answers might he draw forth if he pulled just a bit harder on the strands Achren dangled before him? He'd initially set out from Caer Dathyl in a bid to gain intelligence on Arawn, and Achren was—or at least had been—the Death Lord's right hand. Perhaps, if he tarried at Spiral Castle a while longer than was strictly necessary, she might let slip some useful scraps of information alongside her calculated distortions. That was a dangerous line of thought, to be sure, and all the more perilous to act upon. Could the potential gain be worth the risk?

Grudgingly heeding his need to rest, Gwydion settled into the chair beside the hearth and waded back into the book of Prydain's history. He had to admit: however much its author might have bent the truth, it made for an engrossing study. Yet, the remaining pages were dwindling fast, and he'd still not come close to any era he knew. Did subsequent volumes stand waiting on Achren's shelves? Did any reach as far as the enchantress' own time—and would she allow him to read it if one did? He forged onward through the tome at hand but, as he'd feared, its store of pages ran out well before the store of hours in the morning. Once again, he found himself abandoned to solitary aimlessness.

And still Achren had not paid a visit. That struck him as odd, given her custom of stopping by each morning to provide dose of healing magic and toss more curiosity-baiting scraps his way. Surely, he'd not missed her; he'd deliberately risen early enough to finish training before she was wont to arrive.

Somewhat stiffly, he pushed himself up from the chair and made his way toward the antechamber. As ever, his manservant was at the ready with a deep bow and an anxious demeanor. "Alun," Gwydion said, "did Lady Achren come by earlier?"

The man shook his head regretfully. "No, sire."

"Did she mention when she might?"

"No, she seldom informs me of her intentions for the day. I was only instructed to attend to you. Perhaps the guards know, or could tell you where to find the Chief Steward, who surely will know her whereabouts."

As Gwydion anticipated, the surly guards gave no better answer. Rather than seek yet another go-between, he continued onward to find Achren himself, guards shadowing him as always.

His footsteps echoed dully as he wandered the empty corridors, and it struck him anew just how sparse the place was in comparison to the endless hubbub of Caer Dathyl. Either there truly was a stunning dearth of courtiers and staff at Spiral Castle, or Achren had them so well-trained in keeping silent and out of sight that they might as well be ghosts. Such a lonely place it must be to inhabit, year in and year out, even for one who craved solitude.

At last, he turned a corner and spotted a slim figure hurrying in the direction of the royal apartments; Achren's chief handmaid, if he recognized her aright. She startled like a wren when she first noticed him striding her way, but swiftly regained her composure and dropped a generous curtsy as he drew near.

"A good day to you," Gwydion said in greeting, realizing he still had not learned her name. "I seek your Lady. Could you tell me where she might be?"

The young woman first nodded, then hesitated. Instead of answering aloud, she motioned for him to follow her and proceeded toward one of the few windows that pierced the thick walls. There, she raised a delicate hand and pointed to a high tower on the opposite side of the courtyard.

"Is she preoccupied with business or at leisure to meet with me?" Gwydion asked.

Again, the handmaid paused, looking as though she wished to answer but was unsure quite how. Gwydion's brow furrowed. "Are you not at liberty to say?"

With a hint of amusement in her dark eyes, the young woman touched her throat and shook her head.

Realization swung open like a door. "You are mute, then?" Gwydion asked.

She nodded.

At once, the small, unnoticed silences of the past few days all sounded together with the clarity of a drum. "What of your fellow handmaids?" he asked.

Another nod.

How had he not guessed it before? No servant would speak readily in the presence of their mistress or her company, but he'd not even seen them pass a whisper to each other. No doubt the guards trailing him were smirking behind his own back, having chosen to withhold their capacity for speech while he stumbled in ignorance. So be it; such was the tendency of those with little power, to exert what they did have whenever they could.

"My apologies," Gwydion offered, with a smile that veiled his surprise. "I was not informed. I will phrase my questions more carefully, then. Is Lady Achren currently at work?"

The handmaid shook her head.

"May I interrupt her?"

Her nod to that came with an ironic half smile and a shrug, suggesting that he may, but at his own risk.

"On which level of the tower is she?"

She held up three fingers, indicating the highest room before the battlement.

"Thank you; that is all I need know." Gwydion waved her kindly on her way. "You may return to your duties. I am sorry to have delayed you so long."

She hurried on her way and Gwydion on his, though not before he'd turned to shoot the amused guards behind him a stern, knowing look.

Soon he had reached the tower in question, and began to climb its dizzyingly narrow steps. At first, the space was as quiet as any other he'd encountered in the castle. As he passed the first floor, though, raw-throated bird calls began to punctuate the pervasive silence. The further up he went, the louder they grew, until he was sure they must be within the tower instead of atop it.

At the final floor, he stopped. A single heavy door stood before him. After a moment's pause, he knocked soundly upon it.

Only rattles and caws gave answer. Perhaps Achren had moved elsewhere in the time since her handmaid had left? He knocked again, and waited again, wondering whether he truly did dare enter without invitation.

Just as he was about to turn away, the enchantress called back, her voice muffled though the wall of oak. "Who goes there?"

"Your Warrior," Gwydion replied. "Have I leave to enter?"

"As it pleases you."

He swung the door open to find a stark chamber beyond. It was well-lit by a large window in an alcove, but bare-walled and entirely unadorned. Wind whistled up through drainage holes around the perimeter of the floor, which was covered with tightly-fitted tile.

But none of that seemed notable compared to the assembly of ravens, rooks, and crows gathered therein. There must have been a full score them: large and small, sleek and rumpled, fledglings and elders, all clinging to various perches or meandering across the freshly-scoured floor. Achren sat upon a ledge near the open casement, her indigo gown spilt like a dark river over the stone. One small crow perched placidly on her shoulder. A raven paced back and forth on the ledge beside her, alternately eyeing and snatching at the scraps of raw meat she dangled before its beak. In truth, it was a beautiful scene, if somewhat macabre: her unbound silver hair streaming like the Milky Way over a sky of twilight fabric; moon-pale fingertips holding forth strips of bright crimson; the light from the casement gilding every curve of neck, wrist, and cheekbone.

And she was smiling—not a smirk, not a seductive pout, not a scornful twist of the lip nor a cold mockery of mirth, but a genuine smile, however faint. It softened the sharp planes of her face in a way Gwydion had not yet seen. He watched, oddly mesmerized, as the raven on the ledge approached her and Achren ran her fingers smoothly—tenderly, even—over its sleek head. It let out an affectionate, warbling croak before hopping down to the floor.

Only then did Achren turn to acknowledge her visitor. "Warrior," she said, with a slight nod that set the gems of her necklace twinkling.

He returned the gesture. "Lady. I was told that I would find you here."

"And so you have. To what end do you seek me?"

"No great purpose." He came further into the chamber and glanced around. The birds regarded him warily—twenty-odd pairs of keen, dark eyes and shuffling wings. "Never have I seen such a rookery," he remarked. "You are quite fond of the dark-winged ones."

Her expression blossomed further. "I am, indeed. They are fine birds, very clever—cleverer than many men, for the matter of that." She rose, returned the crow upon her shoulder to its perch, then went to the wash basin standing near the wall. "Although," she added, as she rinsed her hands clean, "like men, they only stay as long as one continues to feed their demands. But no matter. They make for an adequate diversion."

A sudden beating of wings unsettled the air. The raven Achren had been feeding flapped up from the floor and over toward Gwydion. Reflexively, he flung up an arm to shield himself, but the bird was too swift. It landed atop his shoulder and let out a raucous cry, causing no harm but clinging to him resolutely.

Achren grinned—truly grinned—and strode to his aid. She stretched out her fist, just below the bird's breast, and uttered a firm command in a language that scarcely sounded human. The bird squawked and clacked its beak in protest. Achren gave the command again, more forcefully, and grudgingly the bird stepped onto her hand.

"Rogue," she chided amiably, pulling it away and urging it onto one of the larger perches nearby. As she did, the bird instead jumped from her fist and glided to the floor. It strutted over to the prince's feet, fanned its ruff of feathers in excitement, cocked its head sideways, and peered up at him with curiosity. A moment later, it began tugging at the ends of his bootlaces.

"She hasn't much respect for authority, has she?" Gwydion laughed. He stepped back a pace but did not shoo the bird away. "I am surprised that you tolerate such impudence."

Achren huffed. "From a rare few only. That is Branwen. She entertains me, and it spares her." She looked down at the bird then back up at Gwydion, eyes glinting with amusement. "She appears to like you—or finds you intriguing, at least."

Gwydion's lips quirked as he studied the bird, who continued to study him in turn. "Does she, indeed?"

"As does her mistress."

His focus swept back up to the enchantress. "Is that so?"

Achren gave a low hum. "How could I not? You are intelligent, courteous, offer amiable company… and, as I saw this morning, are truly as skilled a swordsman as rumor alleged."

"Ah, so you were watching," Gwydion remarked dryly.

"From my bedchamber," she acknowledged. "It overlooks that courtyard. That was quite the demonstration you gave. My guardsmen ought to have paid close attention, for you put them quite to shame despite your injuries."

Gwydion smiled wryly, then dropped a rather facetious bow. "It is my honor to entertain you, Lady."

Achren moved closer, and cocked her head with much the same air of shrewd playfulness as the raven had before. She laid a hand upon his sword arm. "Perhaps you would like to test your strength against flesh and blood instead of air?"

His skin shivered beneath her touch. "That depends," he said, "on what manner of test you have in mind."

"A hunt?" She withdrew her hand but continued to hold his gaze. "It is rather late in the season to pursue harts, but not so late as to be fruitless. Their cunning certainly doesn't fade with the year; they would still give an exciting chase. Or," she continued, with a hint of sly challenge, "if you are feeling particularly bold, we might pursue a boar. My Master of Game has been tracking a fine one recently."

Gwydion laughed quietly. "You'd go to such effort to save me, only to watch me gored on a pair of tusks? I do not know that I can sit a horse well at the moment, let alone face a boar."

"Oh, nonsense," Achren retorted. "You move so well that I can scarcely tell you were ever injured." She paused, contemplative. "But perhaps you are right. A ride first would be wise. I have no wish to see you fall prey to a beast that ought to fall to you." She glanced back to the window. "What about this very afternoon? There is ample time for a ride before sundown."

He felt her eyes return to him as he mulled the idea over. "It would do me well to get beyond these walls…" he mused aloud.

She flashed a winning smile. "Splendid! Then I will meet you at the stables. I need only change into more suitable attire; it shall not take long."

Before he could protest, Achren moved to depart. Yet, just before she reached the door, she halted. "Oh," she added, "before it slips my mind…" She turned back to him, drawing forth a folded piece of parchment from the purse that hung at her belt. "This came for you from King Smoit."

A trace of astonishment must have flitted across his features, for she laughed quietly and asked, "Did you think I never sent your own message?"

"The possibility did cross my mind," he admitted as he took the letter to hand.

"How many times must I assert my good intentions?"

He paused a moment, eyes meeting hers with a shrewd look, before answering, "Fewer by the day."

The enchantress said nothing more, but the aura of satisfaction about her was its own glowing reply. She gave a subtle nod of farewell, and strode from the rookery.

Gwydion cracked the seal upon the letter and read:

My guts and gizzard, man! If you go to the trouble of sending a message, it might as well have some meat to it. That letter was as stingy as Lord Gast's so-called feasts! But I've wits enough to take your meaning. I did send your message onward to "those who need know," as you put it, though I doubt they'll be any more satisfied than I am with such bones and gristle. I wish you all luck and shall leave you to whatever secret campaign you've plunged into this time—but should an armed host need raising, or stubborn skulls need knocking, know that I stand ready.

Gwydion could not help but chuckle. That certainly sounded enough like the young bear of a king to take it as genuine; he couldn't imagine Achren knew the man well enough for mimicry. So, she'd kept her word after all…

As he took his first step to leave, he noticed that his boots felt uncommonly loose. A glance down showed the laces of both were trailing freely. Branwen. The bird must have been merrily at work the entire time he'd been speaking with Achren, unlacing so slowly and quietly that it escaped notice. He scanned the room and spotted her eying him from just a few paces away.

"Giving me a lesson in subterfuge, are you?" he muttered.

The bird shuffled and readjusted her feathers, then issued a quiet but distinctly triumphant squawk.

"Duly noted," Gwydion added flatly, as he bent and set the laces to rights. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he went to prepare himself for the ride.

As promised, Achren did not take long to exchange her fine gown for the more practical riding garb Gwyneth had set out earlier. When she entered the courtyard, she saw Gwydion waiting there already, engaged in conversation with her Master of Horse. The two were surveying the nearby paddock, where a fair number of steeds milled about. Both fell silent when she came into view.

"As you can see," Achren said, resting a hand on Gwydion's shoulder as she reached his side, "there are many fine horses from which you may choose."

"I do see," he replied. "Your Master of Horse was just telling me of how far afield he has traveled to procure some of them for you."

"He has. I cannot abide an ill-bred steed—and given that the best in Prydain generally belong to allies of the Sons of Don, I must seek them elsewhere." Ignoring the glance Gwydion cast her, she gestured toward the paddock. "Come. Let us look them over."

Together, they moved to the edge of the enclosure. "That palfrey from Iwerddon is among my favorites," Achren noted, pointing out sleek bay mare. "I have used her on many a hunt before; she has the cool head for it, and her color favors her in the woods." She looked farther ahead and gestured toward a stately gelding. "That courser over there has a similar temperament, if you'd prefer a mount with a bit more height. He came from a king of the far northlands and is well used to both danger and harsh weather."

"What of that blue roan?" Gwydion asked, nodding toward a mare who stood to one side of the enclosure, ears pricked and eyes fixed upon them.

"If you relish a little fire, there stands your choice," Achren replied with a note of sarcasm. "To be honest, she is rather willful and impatient when left to her own devices—but she does serve beautifully when that spirit is directed toward a purpose."

"And that sets her below the others in your esteem?"

"I prefer to be obeyed."

Amusement danced in Gwydion's eyes, but he only leaned his forearms upon the fence and began to survey the array of horses. He spent a fair time on that, keenly assessing their movement, form, and demeanor as they interacted amongst themselves. Then, at Achren's command, the Master of Horse began to lead each steed over in turn for Gwydion to make a closer study from within the paddock. The prince did so with the calm, watchful confidence of one long accustomed to horses, allowing them the chance to get a sense of him as much as the other way around. Only when he'd earned a measure of trust did he begin testing their reaction to his handling.

Achren observed the process with interest. "A difficult decision?" she asked at last, as he gave the roan a final pat on the neck, and strode back to where she stood.

"It is," Gwydion replied. "As you said, they are all admirable steeds."

"Which do you favor thus far?"

"The gelding courser does seem a good choice, both in stature and temperament; there's no hint of skittishness in him, and ample power. Yet, the roan has a canny edge about her that he lacks. She anticipates my intent as well as any horse from my own stable, while he merely waits for command."

"Then let us take both on the ride," Achren declared. "You set out with the roan, and I with the gelding, and we may trade later on if you wish."

The Master of Horse soon had both mounts bridled and saddled, and Achren and Gwydion set out, through the tall gates and down the winding slope from the castle's dizzying perch. Slate-hued clouds had closed in since that morning, but shafts of sunlight still broke through from the west, all the more golden beside their somber companion. They highlighted features of the landscape as though presenting each as a special treasure: a sculptural outcropping of bluestone here, a copper-leaved oak there, a sweeping hill-shoulder beyond. The air was cool but calm, and the travel pleasant for the season.

For a while, the riders held their steeds to a walk and themselves to silence, finding the scenery enough to keep their interest. After a while, though, Achren noticed a shadow of contemplation gathering over Gwydion as darkly as the clouds overhead.

"Does the ride pain you?" she asked. "Or your mount displease you?"

He startled a little at the sudden question. "Hmm?"

"You seem distracted. Is aught amiss?"

He paused a moment before answering. Then, just as Achren looked away, he said, "I was pondering the fact that every one of your handmaids is voiceless."

Achren's gaze snapped back toward him sharply, but her tone remained neutral as she replied, "What of it?"

"That cannot be mere coincidence."

"No... It is purposeful," she answered slowly. "They relinquish their voices when they enter my employment."

"Relinquish? You mean you rob them of speech, then—with magic, I presume."

Achren huffed. "Do not sound so appalled. They have hand signs by which to communicate amongst themselves, and with the Chief Steward and me. Their silence is the cost of rising to such a privileged position, and they freely choose to accept it. "

"Why?"

"Because I grant them that which they would never obtain otherwise: status, finery, relative leisure; their choice of men, should they desire them; protection, should they not; an escape from being bartered like—"

"No," Gwydion interrupted, "why do you demand such utter silence?"

"Secrecy, of course. I cannot afford to have loose-tongued servants divulging my most intimate business. So, I ensure that those closest to me can neither speak nor read and write."

"That is no guarantee of secrecy; an ambitious person would find means to skirt the impairment."

"Nothing is ever guaranteed," Achren scoffed. "Nevertheless, it is a stern reminder of how adamantly I demand loyalty."

"Such extreme measures should not be necessary if you employ trustworthy people and deal with them fairly."

The enchantress laughed quietly. "You have too much faith in human hearts. Anyone will turn traitor if the reward or their desperation is great enough."

"Not I."

"You lack imagination if you believe that."

"Can you not imagine such a capacity for loyalty?"

"I have not encountered it yet, in all my days." She shrugged and added, "But I suppose it is possible. Perhaps you will be the one to prove me wrong?"

"Why not prove it to yourself?" he countered. "Return their voices, if you are able, and see what comes of it."

"With you here?" she exclaimed. "It would be the very worst time for such a test. If Arawn caught wind of your presence…"

"How would he, if you have concealed my identity from them? I've not heard you say my name in their company; even when we were alone, you have uttered it but once. For all that you've made a game of that, I cannot help but think there was strategy behind it."

"And so there was. I've said nothing to anyone of who you are."

"Then why not allow them to speak? You might even find that such a show of trust inspires greater loyalty among them." He paused, then added, "Or, do you fear what secrets they might disclose to me?"

Achren pursed her lips. "You are in a mood to press me, I see."

"I speak on behalf of fairness when I find it lacking," he answered. "No more."

She glanced his way for a moment, fixing him with a look of both amusement and scrutiny, before returning her focus to the landscape ahead. "I shall consider it."

At that, they both fell quiet, leaving the beat of the horse's hooves to converse instead. Yet, from the corner of her eye and the fringes of her deeper awareness, Achren continued to study Gwydion while he turned his own attention to the ride itself. As in his training that morning, she perceived a disgruntled caution in his movements. However, that now mingled with a current of curiosity and anticipation as he pushed his physical boundaries and simultaneously tested his mount's willingness to heed direction. It was as though the prince viewed every stride as a potential lesson and was determined to learn each one. There was a delicate strength about the way he handled the horse, too, yielding just enough control to intuit its desires while firmly asserting his own will.

Subtly, Achren urged her own horse to a brisker pace, pulling a few strides ahead. Without hesitation, Gwydion followed suit, until they were abreast of each other once more. After a short while further, she pressed her steed still faster, into a brisk trot. Gwydion matched her pace again. Then, after tossing him a mischievous look, she shifted fully into a canter. He answered the look with a wry smile of his own and did likewise, pulling shoulder to shoulder with her for a moment, then surpassing her entirely.

The roan seemed to have sensed her rider's urge to fly, and responded with a ready will. Soon, the pair of them were streaking over the land at a gallop, stirring up a wind that the weather itself hadn't seen fit to grant. Achren raced along with them for a time, heart pounding at the thrill of it, then fell back rather than make a spectacle of herself.

From a distance, she watched as the prince veered his mount away from the gently undulating fields toward more challenging terrain. He coursed up and down the banks of ravines and wove between jutting mounds of rock, turning the charger as swiftly and fluidly as if there were no separation between them. When a half-concealed boulder loomed up suddenly in his path, he did not flinch—merely leaned in and jumped the dark mare overtop like it was simply a pebble underfoot. Not a trace of his earlier restraint remained; he was now fully confident of his recovered abilities, and utterly attuned to the firestorm he rode.

And what a blaze it was to witness! Even from afar, his elation and focus were radiant. Achren found herself holding her breath and biting her lip as he set himself and the horse against challenge after challenge, and rose to meet them all. This was the Gwydion she'd heard tales of—this vision of boldness, ambition, and dogged tenacity that would be recklessness in any man less competent or wise. Whatever she had witnessed and marveled at in the days before had been mere hints of the power he evinced now.

With a final great burst of speed, Gwydion spun the blue roan about and circled back to where Achren waited. He drew up the horse deftly, then leaned forward to give it a warm pat on the neck and murmur a word of praise into its ear. He straightened in the saddle again, and at last looked to Achren. A new light shone in his green-flecked eyes and the vestige of a grin was upon his lips.

"You spoke truly of this one's spirit," he said. "She has all the daring of a prize warhorse, and the restiveness of an untamed wildling."

"Is that more compliment or a curse?" Achren asked, though the answer was plain from the air of exhilaration he wore.

"Compliment," Gwydion replied, then added, "at least on this day, when I craved a challenge."

"And what of tomorrow, for a hunt?"

In an instant, Gwydion's smile faded. He shook his head regretfully. "She would suit me well for that, too, but the very fact that I was able to ride thus shows I ought to depart tomorrow instead."

A flutter of alarm stirred in Achren's breast. "Oh, come now," she argued. "A blind man could have seen how thoroughly you enjoyed that ride. Think how much better a hunt would be! Would you deprive yourself of that?"

He hesitated, looking torn—in more directions, she sensed, than if it were merely the choice between responsibility and a hunt that pulled at him.

"At the very least," she continued, "there ought to be a proper feast to celebrate your healing and send you on your way. What better meat for the table than fresh game you, yourself, have won?"

Still, he seemed reluctant to answer one way or another. He looked over his shoulder to the north, pensive.

"One more day," Achren cajoled. "Why are you in such haste to return to the burden of your duties?"

He faced her again, eyes piercingly direct. "Why are you so eager for me to neglect them?"

She smiled coyly. "I have precious little company here, and have thoroughly enjoyed yours. It is so implausible that I desire more of it?"

"I find it implausible that such is the only reason."

"You ought to have more confidence in the strength of your character; its pull is strong."

He paused, searching her expression while she readied herself for his next retort.

Instead, Gwydion's chin tilted at last with the air of one deliberately choosing to play a rigged game. "All right," he acquiesced. "One day longer. I shall stay for a hunt."

"Wonderful," Achren purred. "I will notify my Master of Game as soon as we return. For now, though, would you like to exchange mounts and put this gelding to the test?"

"No need," he replied. "This roan has proven herself well, and I'd not do her the insult of switching now." The ghost of a smirk hovered about his mouth. "From her behavior back at the paddock, I noticed she has a jealous streak. Best not to trifle with that."

Onward they rode for an hour or so more, until the sun dipped low and hunger rose up to steer them hearthward—to meat, to drink, to swift volleys of conversation that pricked the intellect even as they set hot blood coursing. One day longer… Achren mused throughout it all, turning Gwydion's forewarning over and over again. Their chance meeting was too fortuitous to let it slip by without profit. One day. That one day must be played well enough to win another—and that one, another yet. Her eyes flicked again to the prince, catching hold of his gaze and grasping it tight. Smile coyly. Reply wittily. Tease. Entice.

Yes… she wagered she could make that one day serve her well. She always had relished the thrill of a good gamble.