THE AIR WAS FULL of a misty rain, gentle as the creeping arrival of spring itself. They rode along the narrow path that hugged the cliff, but in the opposite direction from the rock village. Further south, there was a forest that leaned right towards the lip of the land. It was very ancient, the trees bulbous and crooked, full of secret hollows. Valraven rode ahead, as he always had, his hair flying out behind him. It was as if they had somehow gone back in time. For these few short moments, Pharinet could believe that nothing had changed. There were no impending weddings, and Valraven did not live in Magrast. They would go home together, play crackbones with Everna, and then retire to bed. Not separately, but together. Pharinet attempted to banish these thoughts from her mind, but the effort was half-hearted. Her hands yearned to touch Valraven; her throat was full of words waiting to be spoken. By mid-day, the rain had been burned away by the strengthening sun. Pharinet and Valraven were far from the castle now, only an hour’s ride from Mariglen, the nearest town. The forest still huddled close to the sea, and here the trees appeared strangely warped. Their leaves and bark were covered in an ashy dust. A winding path led off the main cliff track into the trees. Instinctively, perhaps, Valraven swung his horse’s head towards it. “I thirst for a cup of Granny’s posset,” said Valraven. “Shall we?” He did not wait for Pharinet’s reply. A short way down the path, surrounded by soaring elms, was a wooden cottage, where pyramids of logs were stacked outside. This was the home of Grandma Plutchen, a woman who habitually provided refreshments for walkers, travellers and traders. As children, Valraven and Pharinet had often visited the old woman. They had been amused by the way she’d treated them as if they were ordinary. It meant nothing to her that they were members of the Palindrake family. Grandma Plutchen had always seemed old, yet bizarrely never seemed to age any further. Valraven would tease her and the woman would tut and box his ears. She was considered to be something of a witch. Valraven and Pharinet used to try and make her read their fortunes for them in the flight of birds across the sky, but Grandma Plutchen would never do it. Perhaps she was afraid of what she’d see. They hadn’t visited the old woman together for some years. Seeing her now might augment the sweet illusion that things hadn’t changed. But when Pharinet and Valraven emerged from the trees into Grandma Plutchen’s glade, they found the cottage was closed up, the shutters locked. The old woman was not at home, although it was clear she was still very much in residence. “She’ll be at Mariglen,” Pharinet said, with an irritated sigh. “I forgot. It’s market day there. She always goes to the market.” Disappointed, she dismounted from her horse and sat down on a sagging wooden bench beside the wide uneven veranda. Around the cottage, the garden was a riot of rampant greenery, which seemed to bulge with almost unnatural fecundity from the soil: here, Grandma Plutchen grew her herbs and teas. Valraven joined Pharinet on the bench. “You want to wait for her?” Pharinet shrugged. “There seems little point. She probably won’t be back for hours.” Still, Pharinet had no urge to leave. She was conscious of every contour of her brother’s body beside her. She could smell his hair, the thick dark waves of it. The weight of the forest was oppressive here, its scent thick and intoxicating. Pharinet had no doubt Grandma Plutchen worked magic, although she sensed it was very different from anything the Sisterhood did. The sun drew heat and moisture from the earth and in the quiet the shuffle and rustle of greenery could be heard. A single linnet sang. Here I could stay forever, Pharinet thought. There was a silence between them, then Valraven said, “Everna wants me to talk to you.” Pharinet shifted uneasily. “So that’s why we’re out here. Strange, I thought it was a gallop for old time’s sake. Something that won’t ever happen again.” “She says she fears you’re unhappy about the wedding.” Pharinet glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “Whose?” Valraven did not flinch. “Yours, of course. Is it true?” Pharinet shrugged. “When you left, it didn’t seem real, all this talk of marriages and so on. Now I know that in a couple of days’ time, Caradore will no longer be my home. I’ll have responsibilities and duties I do not welcome.” “Do you not love Khaster?” Pharinet threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, was it ever about love?” Valraven frowned. “You did not have to give him your consent. If you don’t love him, and don’t want this, why did you agree to marry him?” “Shall I renege now?” “Pharry! Would you do such a thing?” She sighed. “No. It would cause too much trouble, and I’d never be forgiven. I suppose I’ll get used to it.” She looked at him directly. At that moment, nothing seemed further from reality than the impending weddings. ?And you? How do you feel about Ellony? Is it a grand passion?? “Ellony will make a good wife. You know that. Whom else could I marry around here?” Pharinet clasped her knees, although one foot swung restlessly. “Oh, I don’t know. You could have brought home a little countess from Magrast or something.” “You know very well I could never marry into a Magravandian bloodline.” “Why not? We of Caradore are Magravandian, aren’t we? We’re part of the empire.” She studied him carefully. Was he referring to his heritage? How much did he know about it? “In one sense, we are Magravands,” Valraven said, “but not in all. We have our traditions. Perhaps it is to do with pride. Once, the Palindrakes were forced to meld with the Magravandian aristocracy. We complied with the emperor’s desires, for we had no choice, but now we do.” “You are a contradiction,” Pharinet said. “I was sure you’d embraced the culture of Magrast wholeheartedly, now you speak of a secret patriotism for our little land. What is the truth of you, brother?” He gave her a look, which seemed very young and told her he did not know the answer to that himself. “It is not patriotism,” he said at last. “I respect what our people want, that’s all.” “But what do you want?” Pharinet stood up and marched up and down before him, hands on hips, apparently examining the wild garden around them. “They are our closest friends,” Valraven said quietly. Pharinet paused, one foot tapping the grass. “Circumstance,” she said. “They are our nearest neighbors.” “We have to marry someone, Pharry. Why not these people whom we love as brother and sister?” Pharinet raised one eyebrow, but did not speak. The silence was absolute. Even the forest was quiet around them. Pharinet stared unblinkingly at her brother, allowing the significant moment to continue. Then, judging the time right, she spoke to fracture it. “We are our own people.” Her voice was low and fierce. “Yes, perhaps we should marry the Leckerys for the sake of Everna and Saska, and the families of Caradore who still think the Palindrakes are their great lords, and the folk of the villages and farms who need a spectacle. But marry them for ourselves, no. We marry in name, and perhaps in body, but never in spirit. We are different, Val, you don?t know how much.? He pressed the fingers of one hand against his eyes. “We are not free. We cannot have everything that we want. That is one of the costs of our position.” Pharinet growled in her throat. “No, we are not free. If we were, who do you think the people of Caradore would want to rule them? We could be who we are—together.” He looked at her unsteadily, the expression in his face so like that of the ingenuous boy he once had been. She knew he’d always been aware she was cleverer than he was, and had sought to hide it. “That would be unthinkable,” he said. “If you believe anyone would condone that, you are mad or stupid.” Pharinet leaned over him. “What are we talking about, Val? What are we really talking about? Do you know? Will you say it?” “Stop it,” he said, but seemed paralyzed by her presence. “No,” she answered. “I won’t. Before you left for Magrast, I accepted a simple truth in my heart. I am your sister, yet I should also be your wife. Whatever anyone else makes us think or do will never change that. We are the last flickering remnants of a once-mighty heritage, Val. We should keep that flame alive.” He stared at her for a moment, then said, “I know.” Pharinet dropped to her knees before him, grabbed his hands in her own, shook them. “Say it, Val. Say you recognize what lies between us! I have waited so long for this moment, longing for it, dreading it, afraid you did not feel the same.” He closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. “W
hat we feel is wrong. We should not give into it.” Yet despite his words, Pharinet felt his fingers curl about her own. She was filled with a mad joy. Nothing else mattered now. Nothing. “Wrong?” she snapped. “Why? Who decrees such things? The Magravands intermarry, you know they do. And did you not say we were Magravands?” Valraven turned back to her. “The Caradoreans do not hold the same beliefs. We are different. Intermarriage weakens the blood. You know brothers and sisters cannot bring forth healthy children. I have seen the pallid, sickly creatures spawned by incest at court, Pharry.” He shook her hands within his own. “I do know what I’m talking about.” “But Val c” He shook his head. “Listen to me. Don’t believe I haven’t been thinking about this dilemma, because I have. Sometimes, at the beginning, when I was missing you so much, I even considered asking permission for you to come to court. I am quite sure Leonid would have given it. The Magravands do not forbid incestuous marriages, we both know that. I could not write to you, because everything I wanted to say was forbidden. You haunted my dreams, my every waking moment. I cannot tell you how many times I thought I caught sight of you in Magrast. Khaster and Ellony meant nothing to me then. But what I saw around me was sour evidence. It seemed to me that Magravandians marry blood relatives to one another when they desire them not to have a healthy heir. We could never have children, Pharry, and you know that I, at least, must do so.” Pharinet was silenced by this, and pulled her hands away from his. She stood up, once more tapping her foot in agitation on the forest lawn, staring out through the trees. Then she drew in her breath and faced him again. “Ellony will bear you children,” she said. Valraven stared at her, said nothing. Pharinet nodded. “Yes. We will marry our Norgance neighbors. That is our duty, I suppose, as you pointed out. But that does not mean we cannot experience that which our souls know is right.” “And if we don’t, you will hate Ellie forever, won’t you,” Valraven said in a tone that was a mix of bitterness and relish. “You will punish Khaster for it.” “While you will punish only yourself.” Valraven stood up beside her and took hold of her hands once more. “You don’t know me, not all of me,” he said grimly. “All the time, I feel myself changing, pushing against a barrier or resistance, like a creature trying to break out of a shell. When that shell is broken, I will be different, and I have no way of knowing how. That creature will be a stranger to you, Pharry, I know it. I feel it. I cannot be sure of your enduring love.” “No.” “Listen!” he snapped. “I see myself at the head of armies, and can feel a bloodlust within me. It’s like a dream of battle, but I feel I’ve lived it before. Some part of me hungers for it. Some part of me is like Prince Bayard and his brothers. If you haunt me as a beautiful ghost, he is the demon of my nightmares. But part of me somehow resonates with what he is. I’m a wolf, a wolf of the fire. Once that wolf within me has tasted blood, he will take me over completely.? “Bayard or the wolf?” Pharinet asked carefully. The wild look in Valraven’s eyes made her feel breathless. He shook his head, his eyes screwed tightly shut. “The wolf, the wolf. Bayard is its master.” “You’re afraid,” Pharinet said, half in wonderment. “No, I am not. That is the worst of it.” He stroked her face with his long fingers, suddenly calm again. “When I think of you, I know you belong with that part of me, Pharry. The wolf couples with his sister, regardless. What will we be together but savage? That is what makes me balk at what my body and heart desires. That more than anything.” “I do not fear it,” Pharinet said. “If that is what you will become, then so be it. It is what you are. Ellony would never understand.” Valraven uttered a smothered cry and pressed his palms against either side of her face. When he kissed her, it was nothing like Khaster’s chaste, soft caresses. This was passion, not fiery, but the inexorable surge of a tide. It was as if they were trying to eat into one another’s bodies, absorb a part of them that would be forever outside. Valraven pulled away from her, breathing hard. He wiped his mouth. “I will not go to Khaster’s bed a virgin,” Pharinet said. “You must take what is yours.” She felt dizzy, powerful and fierce, full of resolve. They stared at one another, like animals ready for combat, stooped and wary. Then a sound came through the trees, Grandma Plutchen wheeling her cart back from the market. They could hear her singing. “Meet me on the beach tonight,” Pharinet said in a low voice. “At the sea-cave. Just after midnight.” She turned to the approaching old woman, before Valraven could utter a reply. Grandma Plutchen was tramping sure-footedly along the path from the forest, dragging a cart behind her. Her body was swathed in a voluminous purple shawl with tangled fringes. A confusion of green and red glass beads adorned her neck and tumbled over her pillowy bosom. “Granny, you’ve made us wait!” Pharinet called. “And on the eve of our weddings, too!” “Valraven and Pharinet,” said Grandma Plutchen, as if she’d seen them only the day before. She was a wide short woman, with a mass of thick grey hair, which she wore in an unruly bundle on top of her head. Valraven had once said to her that it looked like a disreputable old tomcat, who was covering up the fact that she was bald. Grandma had been used to these cheeky remarks. Pharinet had always sensed she?d harbored a deep regard for Valraven. Now, she felt she knew why. It was because of what he was: the Dragon Heir. To a common Caradorean, like Grandma Plutchen, that must mean a lot. She, and others like her, were excluded from the Sisterhood, because they were not of noble birth, but Pharinet had no doubt Grandma understood far more about the dragons than any woman like Saska Leckery could. I should have come here before, she thought. Of course. Grandma drew her cart up before the veranda and began to unload produce from her cart: hams, cheese, vegetables she did not grow herself and a bolt of beautiful crimson cloth. Pharinet winced when she saw the bloody spillage of fabric between the cabbages: the wedding color. Valraven went to help the old woman. “Oh, found some manners now, have you?” she said. “I could never stand by and see a lady exert herself unnecessarily,” he replied. Grandma snorted. “Oh, and found a glib tongue too, it seems.” Pharinet went to join them. “You will come to the church tomorrow, won’t you, Granny? Everyone local is invited to the garden party at the castle afterwards.” “I know that, child. It’s been the news of the land for months.” Grandma Plutchen gave her a penetrating and disturbing glance. “A grand new life for you,” she said, only the expression in her eyes suggested she could see the truth of the matter in Pharinet’s heart. “I’ll be there with my cart. Might sell a few simples.” “I shall look out for you.” Grandma nodded. Valraven and Pharinet took the old woman’s purchases into the cottage. She had never invited them in before. Despite outward appearances, it was very tidy within and smelled exotically of pungent herbs. “I’ll make you some tea, on the house,” said Grandma. “I’ll be a special wedding gift.” Pharinet felt slightly disoriented. It was difficult to believe the conversation she’d had with Valraven had ever happened. The only proof she had was the light-headedness, and a faint yet oddly delicious sense of nausea. She and Valraven sat down at the kitchen table, which was bleached with age and constant scrubbing. Valraven tried to make the joky, light-hearted remarks Grandma would expect of him, but Pharinet could tell his heart wasn?t in it. He was trying to remember a part he?d ceased to play. Grandma put water in a black kettle on the range to boil. “Come with me, child,” she said to Pharinet. “You should cut your own ramage for a wedding pot.” Valraven glanced at Pharinet sharply as she stood up. She could tell he was afraid Grandma Plutchen had heard them speaking and would mention it once she got Pharinet alone. Pharinet shook her head briefly to show he should not worry. Outside, Grandma led the way purposefully to the herb garden, and there indicated which bush Pharinet should cut some leaves from. “It’s furry,” Pharinet said. “Like animal ears.” “Brings strength to a home,” Grandma said. Pharinet did not comment, but cut the leaves. “There, is that enough?” “Plenty.” Grandma pointed to another bush, where delicate lilac flowers nestled in a mist of ferny foliage. “Now, go and fetch me a sprig of that hazeflower for your brother. He needs strength for more than just the home.” ??
?What will it do?” “It is the breath of Caradore, its fragrance. He needs to carry that with him.” Pharinet grinned. “That explains it nicely, thank you.” She leaned over the bush and a wash of pure, slightly salty perfume filled her nose. She cut the flowers carefully, slowly, playing for time. Eventually, she said, “Granny, one day I would like to talk to you about something.” There was no reply, so Pharinet looked round. Grandma’s face remained impassive. “About Caradore, about the land and its history,” Pharinet said. “About magic.” Grandma pointed at the hazeflower. “Not too much. Don’t strip my plant.” Pharinet straightened up, her hands full of frail blooms. “Will you talk to me? Not now, but another time. I could ride down from Norgance.” Grandma studied her for a moment. “I can’t tell you anything, child. We come from different sides of the shore. You have your rock, I have mine. When the beach is clear and the tide is low, we can talk across the sand. But we cannot leave our rocks, and sometimes the waves makes it impossible for us to hear one another.? Pharinet was stung by this refusal. She’d thought Grandma would welcome her suggestion and be happy to teach a willing younger woman the lore of her craft, especially a Palindrake. “I don’t feel as if my rock is that far from yours,” she said. Grandma reached out and pinched Pharinet’s left arm. “Sorry, child. I know what you want, but I’m not the one. You must follow your own heart.” “Why won’t you talk to me? Is it because of who I am?” “I revere the blood of the Palindrakes,” Grandma said. “It is the blood of this land, but I know my place. One day, you will know it too—both mine and yours.” She patted Pharinet’s arm. “Come now, we’ve tea to make.” Pharinet hesitated, but could not find the words to express her thoughts. Grandma, who was already on her way back to the cottage, turned round. “It will happen regardless of what you say or do, or anyone else, for that matter.” “What will happen?” Pharinet asked. She felt a flush rise up her neck. But Grandma was already near the veranda, whistling through her teeth.