Eight years had done little to dull the discomfort of strangers’ eyes.The gaze of those he knew—Afanan, Siwan, the others of the Silver Lake Troupe—agitated him only as much as a pinprick.Being the focus of strangers, however, was like being dragged over a bed of iron nails.
He well understood the value in joining this coronation festival for the new king.While the lords and wealthy personages who would attend the coronation itself would not deign to come down from Castle Parwys, they had brought a small army of courtiers and servants with them.An audience of thousands.The troupe needed money to survive, and this represented a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to earn.
To Llewyn, the threat of it weighed far more heavily than the opportunity.Thousands of strangers’ eyes come from all throughout the kingdom.Who knew which, and how many, might be looking for Siwan?
The thought made his heart beat faster.Not racing yet.He was not one to panic.But he would not be calm again until he found her in the crowd.
Folk stood shoulder to shoulder along the east road out of Parwys, all dressed in greys and browns, bodies pressing together as people jostled and stood on tiptoe.Children clamoured for their parents to hoist them onto shoulders.The king’s funeral party would soon emerge from the open gates, then proceed eastward to the barrow hills a half-day’s ride from the city, where he would be buried.The night before, the watch had ridden out and forced anyone camped or erecting pavilions or stands too near the road to move back, clearing the path for the king and space for the crowds that would watch him.Llewyn’s arms and legs ached from the effort—the Silver Lake’s stage had been just a few paces too close for the watchman’s liking.He would have preferred to spend the morning asleep, but when the dust of hastily packing, shifting and unpacking their camp had settled, Siwan had been nowhere to be found.
‘She’s sixteen, Llewyn,’ Afanan had said, shaking her head as though he were the child.‘She can go and watch a parade on her own.’
It wasn’t the parade that set his teeth on edge.Siwan was like him: something not quite human—not quitemortal.Not an obvious fact to most, but rumours and tales of gwyddien permeated the kingdom.If one eye lingered too long, noted the odd tone and texture of Siwan’s skin, the sharpness of her features, the ink-black of her hair, the odd yellow tint to the sclera of her dark eyes…
It had happened before: three years ago in the town of Llysbryn, on the northern turn of the First Folk Road, and that had been a far smaller crowd than this.
Llewyn remembered the bite of raw iron.The heat of flames.Life as a tool in another person’s hand.Pains endured in the Grey Lady’s service.Pains that no child should have to suffer, and from which he would protect Siwan for as long as he could.
Thoughts that made him hitch the high collar of his coat more closely about his face and tilt down the brim of his hat.
The blue twilight of morning gave way to the orange feathers of sunrise.A trumpet blared from the city.Someone’s elbow thumped Llewyn in the ribs as the crowd jostled for a better view.He muttered a curse.
Even if Siwan was in the depths of the crowd, wading through it like this was a poor way to find her.
Ignoring shouts of annoyance, he shouldered his way towards a hillock that stood a few dozen paces from the road.An ancient barrow, the locals claimed, dating from the early days after the fading of the First Folk.A few people had gathered atop it, preferring a clearer view of the procession over proximity.Llewyn felt some of the tension in his shoulders unwind as he left the press of the crowd and joined the smaller gathering atop the hillock.Another trumpet blared, and a cheer went up as the gates of the city swung open.
Though the Grey Lady had taken many of her gifts when Llewyn left her service, he still possessed a keen, far-seeing eye.He swept his gaze across the crowd, seeking a lock of too-dark hair, the blade of a knife-sharp ear, the willowy silhouette of a girl half in the grave.The procession spilled from the city, a snake of black silk and horseflesh.The queen would be riding at its head, near the prince.A druidess, skilled in magic and schooled in lore.Able, he knew from experience with her order, to pick an unshrouded gwyddien out of a crowd.The druids of Parwys were not allies of the Grey Lady, but their power and knowledge ran deep.There was no telling what the queen might do if she perceived Siwan for what she truly was.
Since Nyth Fran, caution and wariness had run through Llewyn like his own blood.His ability torespond, to strike back against danger, had made his fears manageable.This… When Siwan was out of sight, he felt as though a fist were slowly choking him of air.A feeling that only eased when he knew with certainty that she was safe.
An image hung behind his eyes, haunting him.As constant a presence as the Grey Lady’s voice had been, once.Her small form on the altar stone, twisted by ritual and ancient power.Her eye meeting his.Her voice, small, weak, croaking: ‘Papa… Please… help me.’
He wondered, distantly, while he searched the crowd and the procession drew nearer and nearer, if fathers felt this way about their children.If the agony of worry was a natural, human thing.
He was not Siwan’s father, really.A fact which did nothing to dull his anxieties.
‘I thought you hated crowds.’
Relief swept through him like a warm wind.He turned to face her.Siwan cocked her head and rolled her eyes, the yellow of her sclera dulled by the shadow of her close-drawn hood.
Words flitted through his mind.What do you think you’re doing, wandering off?It isn’t safe around all these people.You never know who might be watching.When you’re out of sight, I feel earth in my lungs, roots in my flesh, and the bite of iron on my tongue.
I was worried sick.
Some words he might have wielded against her as a child, to cow her into behaving, to control and protect her.Others he could never voice, even after eight years of freedom.They hurt too much.Cut too close to wounds that would never heal.Threatened to stir to life an old, smouldering coal.
‘We should go back to the others,’ he said.
‘What others?’Siwan scoffed.‘Everyone else ishere, Llewyn.Or will be soon enough.Even Afanan, I wager.It’s not every day you get a chance to see a king’s funeral.’She reached up, fussed with his collar and the angle of his hat.‘Stones, but you’re bad at keeping a low profile.Relax.Hunch your shoulders a little.No one stands like that unless they’ve something to hide or they’re being paid to keep a stick up their arse.’
‘You didn’t sleep,’ Llewyn pointed out.
She glared at him.‘I can go a night without sleep.’But a crack formed in her facade of confidence.‘Did Afanan say…?’
He nearly lied.
‘She didn’t, did she?’Siwan shook her head.‘Then what are you worried about?It’s been years, Llewyn.I’m getting a handle on things.If Afanan thinks it’s safe, then it’s safe, yeah?’
‘I’m not so sure,’ he grumbled.The sorceress knew more of magic than he did, but less of the powers that hunted them.She had not heard the Grey Lady howling for Siwan’s death.She had not been the one to find the threat in Llysbryn.She only knew of it from his report after he had dealt with it quietly and quickly, denying it the chance to strike.More, she did not fear for Siwan as he did.Did not feel every danger to her in the marrow of her bones.The girl had not looked toheron the altar stone—she had looked to him.
