The High King's daughter stands before a vicious tyrant...  A battle with foul creatures to save a friend in trouble...  A meeting on Midsummer Eve

The prisoners were brought into a large, vaulted hall. Unlike the other precincts they had so far seen, this blazed with light; as well as the many torches that lined the walls, clusters of greenish lanterns hung from the high ceiling. They cast a strange light, the like of which neither Holt nor Amrielle had seen before. Fierce yet pale, it splashed coldly against the mottled walls, and threw the grim carvings on the double rows of jet black pillars into harsh relief. The floor was also black, and highly polished, reflecting lurid pools of red and green; white veins in the marble stood out like tentacles of some creeping fungus, even seeming to move where flickering torchlight overlaid the lanterns’ livid glare.

At one end of the hall a dais was raised. A heavy throne of ebony inlaid with gold stood upon it. Above hung a fringed scarlet canopy, with a footstool of the same beneath. The hall was thronged with Firbolg and their hags, a nightmare of hideous faces and garish finery, but dais and throne were empty. The boggan-guard conducted their captives across the hall, thrusting aside any that stood in their way. They halted before the throne and waited, with Holt and Amrielle enclosed in a hollow square formed by their guards. Outside it the spectators crowded as close as they could. They might not touch the prisoners, but surrounded them with a sea of gloating vituperation.

The noise was sickening.

Holt shot as many Firbolg as he could that were within range; an expert marksman, his fire was swift and accurate. Many gangrels were already making in his direction, when F’Ram stepped out from behind a tree. He brandished his axe and gave a great shout. The Firbolg stopped dead, their eyes glowing like red coals.

“There you are, spineless fzinnig!” F’Ram cried. “Is the sight of one Duergh so deadly to you? It was otherwise at Kwm. But we took our toll with interest at Trehargka Deeps.”

F’Ram’s taunts roused all his enemies’ feuding spirit, until in a frenzy they rushed toward him. He turned and made off into the wood, dodging among the trees. Holt knew he hoped to deal with his pursuers piecemeal, once they had spread out. Nearly all the Firbolg had followed him; Holt shot some of the last as they went by, then jumped down from his tree and moved cautiously to the edge of the clearing. A dozen or so were there, lying on the ground, nine with arrows in them, the others being presumably too far gone in drink to move. Holt put arrows into these too, just to make sure. He was a very different Shean from the one who had hesitated to defend himself against the slavers; but then these were Firbolg, and the sight of what they had done to Rillodan filled him with an unfamiliar ruthlessness.

He was fitting another arrow to his bowstring when two rushed him from the other side of the fire. Side-stepping a vicious thrust he closed with the second. Aware the first was behind him he sprang aside again, twisting to engage both together in plain sight. A cold fury drove him such as he had never felt before, stemming not from fear, but from knowing many in the Nine Realms held that these, from far back, were his kin. Metal clashed as he parried their wild lunges, calculating his own moves to maximum effect. It was not long before both lay huddled at his feet.

No more came at him. He retrieved his bow and ran swiftly to the fire, lifted one end of the pole to which Rillodan was bound and tried to swing it clear, but dislodged from its support it crashed to the ground. Hastily Holt pulled it away from the hot embers. Rillodan stirred, but his eyes did not open. His face was a waxen, unhealthy white, except for a dark bruise at one temple, and his clothes and hair were singed. The krist made short work of his bonds; then Holt lifted him over his shoulder and set off to find his horse.

The long day drew at last to its close. A hush lay over the gardens; no wind ruffled Linesti, or stirred the layered curtains of summer leaves. It was as if Earth had paused at solstice, and stood waiting. Nothing moved, not even the swan, sleeping with his mate on their nest in the reeds. Lilies clustered thickly on the mere, as though stars had come down to deck its surface.

Near to a willow that leaned out over the water, masking all but the topmost turrets of Sel Erinn from view, the Lady of Loigris sat on a wooden bench overlooking the lake. Behind her, lindens cast their honeyed shadows; above the damasked green of her simple gown her face and shoulders glimmered lily-pale. Amrielle gave a slight shiver, though the air was warm and still. Both as princess and as maiden, she had been more used to give favours than to ask them. She feared her Chosen might refuse her tryst; and yet she quailed at the thought of their meeting, for whether or not he knew it, he was lord of her heart, her vassal no longer.

Habit had made him tread so softly, she did not hear him. She started round, sensing his presence, to see his dusky figure standing beneath the trees. The half-light was enough to show that he wore none of his acquired panoply, nor any fashion of Gwendirion; barefooted, he had come to her as what he essentially was, and would never deny. But this she barely noticed, only aware, breathless, that he was there. The moments lengthened as they stared at one another, while twilight seemed to deepen and hang heavy between them…