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  THE LEGEND OF LADY ILENA

  Patricia Malone

  THE SEER AND THE SWORD

  Victoria Hanley

  PROTECTOR OF THE SMALL: PAGE

  Tamora Pierce

  WISE CHILD

  Monica Furlong

  THE POWER OF ONE

  Bryce Courtenay

  HOME IS EAST

  Many Ly

  THE CANNIBALS

  Iain Lawrence

  THE WIDOW AND THE KING

  John Dickinson

  Chapter 1

  “Must you leave tomorrow?” I ask.

  Durant and I sit, wrapped warmly in his traveling cloak, watching the hearth fire flicker and talking of our plans for the future. Wind howls outside the fortress while the rough sea attacks the cliffs below us. My head is snug against his shoulder, and I can feel his chest move as he sighs.

  “You know I don't want to go, Ilena,” he says, “but Hoel and I have lingered ten days past the time that we planned, and winter weather makes traveling through the mountains more dangerous every day. Arthur expects us.”

  I know that, of course. Saxons have been settling in the South of Britain for years, but now they come into the North, and some fortresses here welcome them. Arthur, also known as the Dragon Chief, is building an alliance to keep Saxons out of our northern territory. Durant and his friend Hoel are his most trusted lieutenants, and the information they have for him is important.

  “I am glad that you have stayed this long,” I say.

  He laughs. “Yes, and I have an extra piece of news for Arthur because of it.”

  We intended to wait until Durant returned in the spring to announce our marriage plans, but my father, Belert, urged us to consider the matter immediately.

  Hoel agreed. “What better way to make Dun Alyn's alliance with Arthur clear than to announce a betrothal between Durant of Arthur's table and Ilena, chief of Dun Alyn?”

  “Let the bards spread the news throughout the winter,” Belert said. Then he grinned and added, “And I'll be spared the nuisance of suitors swarming at our gates asking for my beautiful daughter.”

  Despite my father's bantering tone, his announcement of our betrothal at the banquet earlier tonight made it clear how pleased he is with our plans. “Durant of Hadel is a great warrior. He rides at Arthur's right hand, and bards throughout the land sing of his courage and wisdom. He and Ilena will wed in the spring and rule Dun Alyn well.”

  We ended the evening with the Great Oath. Durant's arm was warm against mine as we stood together, and our voices blended as we spoke.

  “Heaven is above us, and the earth is beneath us, and the sea is round about us. Unless the sky shall fall with its showers of stars on the ground, or unless the earth be rent apart, or unless the waves of the blue sea come over the forests of the living world, we will stand with Arthur.”

  Those ancient words bind all of us to follow Arthur whenever he calls us. We are sworn to protect him at all costs and to give up our own lives to keep him from harm. The people of Dun Alyn swore that oath to me on the night that I was recognized as hereditary chief, and then I joined with them as we pledged ourselves to Belert. This has been the custom of our people for generations and generations, and it accounts for our strength in battle. Our honor as individuals depends on our courage and our loyalty to those we swear to protect.

  “It is late,” I say. “You need sleep if you are to get an early start tomorrow.” I make myself move away from him.

  Durant leans forward and stirs the fire. The flames blaze up and light his face for a few moments, and I try to memorize every detail. His fair complexion is flushed from the fire, and his auburn hair falls around his face, blending with his short beard. His eyes look gray in the firelight though I know that flecks of green appear in daylight. He is tall, with the broad muscular build of a warrior.

  When he turns back to me, he says, “I can hardly bear to leave you, Ilena. I'll think of you every day that we are apart.”

  “And I of you,” I respond. I dread the long snowy months until he returns.

  “You will be busy,” he says. “You've a fortress to govern.”

  “Belert does that,” I say.

  “You are the hereditary chief, Ilena.” Durant's voice is firm. “People expect leadership from you.”

  I struggle to make sense of this. I have trained all my life as a warrior, absorbed the lessons of loyalty, courage, and self-sacrifice, but I never thought of myself as a chief until I came to Dun Alyn. “I will depend on my father's counsel until you come to rule beside me,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I will not always be beside you. I owe allegiance to Arthur and will often be away on his business. A true chief must be strong and able to stand alone when it is necessary.”

  “But you will come as soon as possible in the spring?”

  “Aye. As soon as the snows melt in the high passes.” He reaches out to hold me close again.

  We stay beside the hearth until the last coals grow dim and thick with ash.

  The northeast wind continues through the night and by morning is throwing icy blasts of rain across the fortress grounds. Durant, Hoel, and their three companions are at the gate as soon as dawn lightens the cloudy sky. I've gathered food for their packs and seen that their waterskins are full.

  “At least the wind will be at our backs,” Hoel grumbles, “though this time of year it can shift fast enough.”

  “It might let up as we leave the coast,” Durant says. “Go on; I'll follow you in a moment.” We stand close together beside his big gray stallion and watch the others ride out through the gate. As is the custom on entering or leaving a fortress, Hoel has raised a standard, the red and white dragon pennant of Arthur's troops, and it whips above their heads as they move back and forth through the maze of earthen walls that secures the approach to Dun Alyn.

  Durant pulls a chain with a gold ring on it from around his neck.

  “I have no fine gift for you or for your father. I will bring both when I come, but wear this until then.” He puts it over my head, lifting my hair gently out of the way.

  I hold the ring so that I can study it. The thick yellow metal is carved with branches and leaves. The oval mount is rimmed with a gold rope design and holds a sculpted stone that is layered in different shades of deep blue-red. Two horses carved into the stone stand out against darker red layers around them.

  “I've never seen you without this,” I say. “It is beautiful.” The horses blur as my eyes fill with tears. I wonder how often I'll stare at them and think of Durant before he returns to me. I drop the ring inside my tunic and wipe my eyes with the edge of my cloak.

  “It was given to my great-great-grandfather by the Roman Duke of War himself,” he says. “Someday it will belong to my son.”

  He has told me about Aidan, who is five years old, and has also talked of the child's mother, who died when Aidan was born. We plan to travel to Durant's home fortress of Hadel after our wedding and bring the boy back to live with us here.

  We hold each other for what seems a very short time; when he loosens his arms, I cling tightly for another moment, then step back to let him go. Once on horseback, he removes his war helmet from its hook on the saddle and pulls it on. I reach up to grasp his hand one more time.

  “Until spring,” I say.

  He nods. “Until spring. God keep you safe for me.”

  “And may he guard you while we are apart.” I watch as he moves through the gate, then hurry to the ladder that leads to the walltop.

  By the time I've climbed onto the ramparts, Durant has cleared the defensive ring and is on his way down the steep road to the spot where Hoel and the others are waiting. I watch, clutching my
cloak tight against the rain, as the five of them, Hoel and Durant in the lead, the horses at a canter, and the long dragon pennant snapping in the wind above their heads, proceed along the trail that leads into the forest. When they reach tree cover, the group stops; Hoel furls the pennant around the spear that holds it, and Durant turns to look back toward Dun Alyn.

  I wave and he raises his hand in response, then follows his companions onto the path that leads through the woods to the mountains.

  I hurry to my room, thankful for the rain against my face because it hides the tears I can't keep back.

  Only three of us live in the family quarters. Belert's large room is next to mine. Spusscio, my father's friend and advisor, lives in a room across the central hearth area.

  My room belonged to my sister, Miquain, who died last summer in battle. Belert has made it plain that everything here is now mine, and the clothes that I brought from the Vale of Enfert are mixed with hers in the larchwood storage boxes. My cloak hangs on a peg by the door, and my sword and shield have their place in the corner. I stir the small fire into a blaze and fasten the window shutters more tightly against the wind, then fall onto the bedplace and bury my face in the soft furs that cover it.

  The long winter stretches ahead without Durant. I've a new life, new tasks, but suddenly I'm homesick for my old house in the Vale of Enfert, for my dog, Cryner, for my friends there, and most of all for my parents—my foster parents—whose graves lie high above that valley.

  “Ilena?” It's Spusscio.

  I swipe a bedskin across my face before I answer. “Come in.”

  He opens the wicker door, and a young hound pushes past him and leaps up beside me. A rough tongue rakes my face, taking care of any remaining tears, and his tail whips my arm as he clambers across me. I smile in spite of my sorrow.

  “Down, Machonna!” Spusscio commands. “Ilena won't like you if you have no manners!” Spusscio is a dwarf; the top of his head does not reach my shoulder. His voice, however, is as gruff as any man's, and his authority as my father's closest confidant is rarely questioned.

  The dog takes one last sniff of the bedskins, leaps to the floor, and, eyeing the fire with some concern, circles back to Spusscio's side. He sits with his left ear up and his right one drooping down, his dark eyes scanning the room, and his tail swishing softly on the stone floor. The ear that folds over is a light red-brown, and the color strays down onto his face to surround his right eye; the rest of his face and body is white.

  “The old superstition!” I say. A white animal is thought by many to come from the other world, and a red mark is especially alarming to people who fear spirits. “I'm surprised that he has survived.”

  “Aye. Everyone knows they'll answer to me if anything happens to him, but he could use another friend in the fortress.” He looks down at the dog. “Would you like to stay with the lady, Machonna?”

  “I'd love his company; I miss my old hound. Come, boy.”

  Spusscio points to me. “It's all right. Stay with Ilena.”

  Machonna leaps back up beside me and starts to lick.

  When Spusscio gets to the door, the dog looks toward him, then back at me.

  “Hold his collar while I leave. He'll be fine.” He watches the two of us for a moment before adding, “I've told your weapons class to meet in the Great Hall at half noon.”

  Teaching the young warriors of Dun Alyn will be one of my main tasks. While Durant and his companions were here, we held several sessions of games and weapons demonstrations with all our warriors, the young and the experienced, taking part. Now it is time to start regular training sessions that will go on throughout the winter.

  “Good,” I say. “It is time to get to work.”

  Machonna watches Spusscio leave, then stretches out on my bedplace and dozes as I twist my hair into a braid and change into trousers and battle vest. When I've gathered my sword and shield from their corner, he prances beside me on our way to the Great Hall.

  Tables have been dismantled to clear space for us, and six young people mill around the fire. Talking ceases when I enter, and all turn to stare at me. I'm not sure how to begin, so I stand still and smile while I think about what to say.

  “Are you all here?” Spusscio's voice booms from the doorway behind me. “Where's Sorcha?”

  No one speaks.

  Spusscio stomps across the room, grumbling as he goes. “I said midmorning. It's well past that.”

  “I've been grieving for my grandfather.” The shrill voice comes from the doorway and sets my teeth on edge.

  “Welcome, Sorcha,” Spusscio says. “Come and take a seat. I want to talk about the things that have happened at Dun Alyn.”

  I would not have known who she was if he hadn't said her name. When I spoke with her on the day after her grandfather's death, I thought she was a child. She kept her head down, and her hair had fallen across her face, partially hiding her tear-swollen eyes. She ran from me that day and has kept out of my sight since then.

  Now I see that Sorcha is no child. She is not much taller than Spusscio, but her hair is plaited off of her face, her shoulders are back so that her breasts shape the tunic beneath her war vest, her chin is high, and her eyes are blazing. She strides across the room and stops for a moment, surveying the others, then glares at me and sits as far from me as possible.

  When she speaks again her voice is a little quieter, but it is still far different from the hesitant tone I remember. This is a young woman—one who seems to change her appearance as she chooses. “Then tell the truth about what happened, Spusscio. Ilena killed my grandfather!”

  Her words tear through me like a knife. I feel as if I'm back on the walltop, clinging with one arm to the rough rock ledge while her grandfather, Ogern, dangled for a painful few moments from my other arm before losing his grip and dropping to the rocks far below.

  “Your grandfather tried to kill Ilena,” Spusscio says.

  “She pushed him off the wall,” Sorcha says. Her voice is shrill again.

  “Ogern tried to push Ilena off the walltop, but he lost his balance and both of them fell. Ilena managed to hang on, but he did not.” Spusscio looks at each of the young people in turn. “Are there any questions?” He turns to Sorcha last and holds his gaze on her face.

  Sorcha's voice is flat now, without emotion. “Very well. That is the story you tell. My grandfather—Druid of Dun Alyn and uncle of Chief Cara—is dead. I, who have lived at Dun Alyn all my life, must give up my claim as chief because some unknown person”—she turns to look at me for a long silent moment—“who had never been in this fortress, who was raised among strangers, with no knowledge of our customs, has wandered into our Great Hall and claimed to be Belert's daughter.”

  “And so she is, and more important, she is Cara's firstborn daughter and thus became the rightful chief at Cara's death.” He looks around the group for a few moments before he continues.

  “Let us go back farther—to Dun Alyn's darkest hour. That hot summer day three months ago. You were with us on the hunt, Sorcha—and you, Rory.” He nods to a tall young man on the back bench. “Some of you were in the high meadow with the cattle, others going about your work in the fortress. I'll wager none of you will ever forget what you were doing when the horns sounded.”

  They shift in place and shake their heads. Even Sorcha sits quietly as she remembers. Spusscio's voice is softer now but easily heard in the silent hall.

  “A raid. With no warning. Strangers at our gate— Saxons among them but others from here in the North also. I've not yet learned the fortresses they came from.”

  “We tried to get back,” Rory says.

  “Yes,” Spusscio says, “we tried. When we heard the horns, we raced, Belert in the lead, as hard as we could push the horses. But it was too late. Our beloved Chief Cara and her daughter Miquain were dead when we arrived. None of the raiders escaped our swords, but that was little comfort to us.”

  Sorcha says, “And my grandfather told me that I
was the new chief. Cara and my mother were cousins.”

  Spusscio says, “Yes, as far as we knew at the time, Sorcha was the heir to Dun Alyn. But you've all heard the story; you were in the hall the night Ilena was brought in. Some pretended to think she was a spirit, but when her background was pieced together, we knew she was the true chief of Dun Alyn. She is the daughter of Cara, twin sister to Miquain. Because of the superstition about twins, Cara had to send Ilena away. Moren, Cara's brother, and his wife, Grenna, carried Ilena to safety in the West.”

  Sorcha says something so quietly that I can't hear it.

  Spusscio shakes his head and looks at the group. “Ilena is your chief! You will meet each day at midmorning for weapons practice unless she makes other plans for you.”

  I stand and speak with what I hope is an air of authority. “Does everyone have sword and shield?”

  “Yes, lady,” Rory says. “We've all brought our own.”

  “You did well in the skirmishes, Rory,” I say. In one of the mock sword fights yesterday, he held his own against Durant for some time before his sword flew from his hand and he had to kneel in defeat.

  He looks pleased. “Thank you.”

  I look at the others. “All of you took part at one time or another; I watched you closely, and I am impressed with your ability.” I'm careful not to look at Sorcha.

  “I did not participate in games with men from Arthur's troop,” she says. “I would have been tempted to harm one of them.”

  I turn to meet her gaze with as much dignity as I can muster. I understand her grief and her anger at me, but I am chief of Dun Alyn—by birth, by training, by law—and I will not appear weak before her. “I have not seen you work with sword or spear, but I doubt that you could have bested any one of the five,” I say. “And remember that Durant will be chief beside me; you will see Arthur's people in Dun Alyn often.”

  She stands and picks up her shield and sword. “If I am here.”

  “And where would you be?” Spusscio snaps.

  “I'm leaving tomorrow to visit our relatives at Dun Struan,” she says.

  A flash of anger crosses his face, but his voice is level. “When was that decided?”