"I have found out where the arm-ring of Odin has gone," said Signy, on her return. She brought with her a strong smell of the stables.
"Where?" asked Manfred.
"Nowhere," she said. "It has just been made invisible. It is still there, touching the rock."
Erik shook his head. "It would have to have been made intangible, too, Princess. We put a cloth onto the altar to collect dust. We'd have seen the bump, surely?"
She rubbed her forehead tiredly. Erik noticed that it had a dirty streak on it. "Oh. Well, that's what the dwarf thought."
"And what challenge have they given you, Princess?" asked Cair, handing her a cloth and a clay dipper of water. You had to admire the man's thoughtfulness, admitted Erik. He'd managed to get their saddlebags. But Cair had brought water, and given the small woman exactly what she wanted most. Erik had decided, back when they'd been eluding trolls, that he'd rather have the Barbary corsair on his side than against him. Looking at him now, he decided the best way to be sure of that was to befriend this odd little princess. Besides, he was getting used to her. She had her blind spots, but she was as true as sword steel. Courageous in danger . . . a very different person to the one he'd met at Kingshall. Her problems seemed to lie more in a lack of experience with life rather than in anything else. And her "thrall" had enough of that for both of them. He watched as she washed her hands, and then face, delicately as any cat, not answering him.
Finally she said quietly. "I can't do it. And it makes no difference if you do yours either. They will let you go. But there is nowhere to go. It's just to keep you docile. To keep you hoping. But even if you all succeed, you will just have to come back. There is no food out there and there is no way out of here, unless you cross their bridge. And they will only let us cross that if I succeed. And I can't."
"I believe that you can do anything, Princess," said Cair, firmly, taking the soiled cloth from her hands as if he'd been a body servant all his life.
"Not embroidery," she said, forlornly, looking like the dejected girl-child Erik had first seen back at Kingshall.
Cair stood like a statue, looking at her fixedly. And then a savage grin spread across his face, the grin of a fox looking at an unguarded henhouse. "A shame that," he said, hastily hiding the smile. He gestured at the open cave-mouth "Let us take a little walk in this pleasant hell hole. Take the air."
They walked out, and Erik located the perfect spot for conspiracy. It was a narrow ledge—a splinter of the black, glassy rock that hung some twenty feet above the valley. The ledge ended just beyond Erik, and by dint of Manfred scattering glassy gravel back along the ledge they had a spot which not even invisible listeners could approach silently. They sat kicking their legs in space, with Manfred tossing rocks at the valley, as they talked idly about their day. "The plant beds require water and fertility. The soil is spent. So I have been bringing horse dung to it," explained Signy.
"You, Princess?" Cair nearly fell off the ledge in apparent shock.
"Who else?" she asked.
"I will try to arrange something . . ."
He looked ready to leap up and do it. She put a restraining had on his shoulder. "Cair. You showed me that you could shovel horse dung and remain a man. I remain a princess of Telemark, whatever I do."
"But . . ."
She shook her head firmly. "We do what we must. Is that not what you said to me? Besides . . . in a way I have always been a thrall."
Manfred cleared his throat. "There are no invisible folk below us. I've been tossing rocks in a pattern that would have laid them out if they were. What did you want to talk to us about? You two can argue horse dung later. Personally, I don't think carrying ore makes me less of the heir to Brittany, although it does smell better than horse dung, Princess."
"You are right," she nodded. "It is in the blood. But there is honor."
"There's ends and means to achieving those ends," said Erik. He'd shoveled horse dung himself, after all. There was little enough labor at Bokkefloi. "There's nothing dishonorable about horse dung. But can we get back to your next fiendish plan, Cair, so we all know what we're in for this time."
Cair nodded. "I think we will speak Frankish," he said quietly.
"I'm still not betting that this is safe, either," said Manfred equally quietly, still throwing more rocks at the valley below them. "The dwarves have certain skills we can't match, Cair."
"Well, then we must just go around them," said Cair. "The princess made me see that."
"How?" she asked, shyly. "I don't think they will let us cheat . . . Besides, that would be dishonorable." Something about the way she said it told Erik that an oath sworn by this Norsewoman would be utterly binding.
Cair nodded. "Not cheat, or not in any way that the dwarves do not accept. Each of the challenges has a loophole. They are possible—somehow. Manfred simply has to get into the next cave. There is a tiny hole, in adamantine-hard rock. He could never fit. But there is no exclusion that says he has to do it that way. Someone tried to cut their way through with a mattock. We'll try a more direct method. The rock Erik has to lift—a lever will do that."
"I have to hoist it higher than my head," said Erik.
"A lever, and then a pulley system. Something you have already thought of."
"Could work," admitted Erik.
"And, Princess, the problem is that you cannot see close-work?" asked Cair.
She nodded. "If you can make me a device so that I can work at a distance, say seven feet, it would be easy."
"It would be pretty difficult to control a needle seven feet long," said Erik, managing to keep a straight face. "I have a feeling that you want to make some kind of eyeglasses, Cair."
Cair nodded. "Yes. And I think I have an answer to my challenge, too. But it is all contingent on one thing." He turned to Manfred. "I will contrive that you and your man return to your own people, but I need your oath, before I will."
Manfred looked faintly amused. "Oath?"
"Yes," said Cair. "I am increasingly of the opinion that it would bind you. Princess Signy is here because of a false accusation. She may have to flee her home. I want you to swear to me that you will grant her sanctuary in the Empire, and escort her there, protecting her with your arms, if need be."
Manfred chuckled. "You don't want a pardon yourself? A truce between Cair Aidin and the Empire? I'm just as well placed to offer and to honor that."
Cair raised an eyebrow. "And deprive my fleet of its legitimate prey? No, Manfred of Brittany, forget the play-acting of ordinary negotiation. I read horse tracks well enough to know that you and Erik came back for me when I was lying under a troll. I'll give you a truce until we're free of this place, or rather, until the princess is safe. And don't pretend that it isn't within your power, or that you still doubt her innocence."
"I am not a cow that you two can chaffer over," said Signy, crossly. "My stepmother treated me like that. I see now that it was a mistake." She pointed at Manfred. "Cair is my thrall. You are bound by treaty to stay your hand from me and my property. Attempt to capture or injure him and I will hold you forsworn. I am not leaving Telemark. I shall live and die in it."
Manfred nodded to Cair, his shoulders shaking slightly. "I'll swear your oath. I think you've got enough problems of your own. I might even see if I can persuade Uncle to pardon you for what you've done. He puts a high value on Erik. I'm not so sure about me."
Cair smiled sardonically. "But then I would have to forgo my ransom for the two of you. And I don't catch prizes like this every day."
Signy looked sternly at him. "You're to leave them alone. They're also protected by the treaty."
"Very well, Princess," said Cair, meekly. But no one was fooled by his meekness.
"And what do you say, Erik?" asked Manfred, looking at his mentor-bodyguard's frown.
Erik shook his head. "I say we should get out of here first, and then back to Empire lands, before we worry about it. And the Godar Hohenstauffen wants your thick head attached to your shoulders. The oath that Cair asks will probably mean he has reason to keep it there. I think the Emperor would consider it a small price to pay."
"The sage has spoken," said Manfred, grinning. "Very well. Now can we get back to those beds? Mine is calling me. And I have a feeling that Cair will leave us with no sleep in the near future. He seems to like doing that."
They walked back to the small rock chamber that served as their quarters. They'd eaten, courtesy of the dwarves, and sleep, too, came swiftly. At least there was no apparent danger of being killed in their sleep here. The dwarves would far rather they worked themselves to death.
The next day Erik managed to find time to walk beside Manfred as they set off to their various labors. "What do you make of this situation, Manfred. This oath? And our 'witch'?"
Manfred grinned. "He's more of a witch than she is, if you ask me. Wand-pointing thief or not."
They walked in silence. "I've thought of something, Manfred. That wand—who did it point at?"
"Her."
"Did it?"
Manfred pursed his lips. "It did stop abruptly, but there was no one else, really."
"There was someone behind her. Directly behind her."
"Vortenbras?" exclaimed Manfred. "He stole his own oath-ring?"
Erik nodded slowly. "It came to me when Cair said that he would not swear a truce-oath with the Empire, and deprive his fleet of its prey."
Manfred bit his lip. "Son of a . . . Vortenbras is big enough to kill a few guards. What about his mother?"
"She's dead. Cair saw her head in a jar, and he's not the kind of man who makes mistakes, Manfred. I imagine Vortenbras sold her to this troll-wife, Bakrauf."
"A nice man, Vortenbras," said Manfred, wide-eyed.
"Indeed. I'm sure he planned to kill Signy, too."
Manfred rubbed his big hands. "Well! I think the Empire might want a rival claimant to the throne of Telemark, badly. Uncle will be very pleased with that oath, even if we have to see that Cair succeeds in getting her out of Telemark. I don't think that the Redbeard is accustomed to failure. But we'll still have to give him what help we can."
Erik blinked at him. "She is a woman, Manfred."
"So was Queen Ethelbertha, despite the way she looks in the woodcuts! I knew that all the history my tutors droned at me had to be good for something, one day," said Manfred, with immense satisfaction.
"Ethelbertha didn't have a brother."
Manfred stopped walking. "If I tell our sailor friend from Lesbos about what Signy's brother tried to do, I don't think she'll have one for long. I wouldn't mind giving him a hand, actually."
"We've a treaty to abide by," said Erik, dryly. "Otherwise you might just have to beat me to it."
That evening Cair arrived again before Signy. He looked tired but triumphant. He held out a small piece of glasswork. "It's far from perfect Venetian glassware. But it is transparent—thanks to a little arsenic provided by our hosts. They were very concerned I might season their pottage with it. But Sjárr and Vitr are most impressed with my skills." He chuckled. "I gather they're going to give someone else the poisoned glass to drink from though. They're going to be as disappointed as Bakrauf in her coins."
"Her coins?" asked Erik curiously, examining the little beaker that Cair had made. It was, as Cair said, far from perfect. But the glass was thin and clear, barring a few imperfections and bubbles.
"I made fake coins—lead with a gold foil covering for the kobolds," he explained.
Manfred shook his head. "Why did you even bother with piracy? Now look, Erik has a theory he wants to discuss with you. We think that the diviner might have pointed to Vortenbras as the thief, not your princess. He was standing right behind her."
Cair raised his eyebrows. "I almost wish I believed in divining."
"Magic's real enough, Cair," said Erik.
He shook his head. "Magic is just something that people don't understand and are too lazy to think about."
He was also openly doubtful about Vortenbras sacrificing Queen Albruna to Bakrauf. "He's very dependent on her, Manfred. She's the planner. He's the Viking ideal—but she does the thinking. If you told me that she'd organized it I might be more inclined to believe you. She probably did and then fell foul of the troll-wife."
"Vortenbras told us that his sister was a schemer who had been embittered by losing the throne, remember," said Manfred. "Now that's pretty patently false, and those björnhednar bear-men worked for Bakrauf. So they must have been in league with each other."
Cair nodded. "She—Queen Albruna—had Bakrauf's ring. I took it off her."
Erik blinked. "He's a man of many parts, Manfred."
Manfred yawned. Grinned tiredly. "And I'm still inclined to think that maybe he's a magic worker, by the tricks he pulls. How would you have stolen that arm-ring from the temple, Cair?"
The swarthy man grinned. "I'd have hidden it in the thatch of the temple until the hue and cry was over."
"I told you he'd make a better witch," said Manfred to Erik. "I had a look at my challenge today. It appears that we have two hours a day to work on it. Digging a tunnel around should work. It'll take about twenty years at two hours a day."
Cair shook his head. "It is a bit more complex than 'two hours.' The dwarves will allow you to stay on," said Cair, "after they've fed the 'guests.' I asked today." He pulled a face. "I talked at length to Sjárr and Vitr. I'll admit that they're a lot sharper than the trolls or the kobolds. I could almost like them."
Erik was sure that he heard a small chuckle from the far side of the room.
Cair continued smoothly. "Fjalarr is another matter. He thinks he's clever sneaking about, but he should bathe more often."
Cair stared pointedly at the floor next to the far wall. And then nodded . . . "That's got rid of him, for now."
Eric followed the man's pointing finger and noticed a layer of chalky dust. And also saw the small footprints in the dust. "Powdered limestone. I claimed I needed it for the glass."
"You can hardly deny that's magic," said Manfred. "Invisibility, I mean."
"Watch me," said Cair, tapping the wall carefully, where the dwarf's footprints neatly appeared to walk through it. He looked a little startled. Tapped further across. It sounded identical. Coming in from the other side of the cave, Signy stared at him in puzzlement.
"His brain has finally overheated, Princess," explained Manfred, cheerfully. "He's hoping someone is going to say 'come in,' and show us the way out."
"Oh, I know where that is. I saw it today," said Signy. "The Bifröst bridge. It's beautiful. And I have something for you, Cair." She held out a handful of dirty pink crystals. "This is what you collect is it not? I've watched you."
"Walls have ears, my princess," he said, looking startled.
"Not now," she smiled. "I've found that I can see them if I want to. Fjalarr was the hardest, but they're visible now that I know how to look."
Erik looked at Manfred, and said nothing. But that look conveyed a fair amount of alarm. Maybe, just maybe, she was a witch after all. Or at least, as the dwarves said, not entirely human.
Signy had had the strangest day. The first strange thing had been coming through to the herb conservatory and finding green shoots peeping through the soil that only yesterday she had been determinedly but inexpertly forking dung into. She'd seen thralls doing that, and never realized just what hard work it could be. But she had such a lot to think about, that the hard physical labor had been a release of sorts. An exhausting release, as she found. Thralls did this every day? No wonder they got beaten so often to make them work. But she'd worked and thought, and wheeled more barrows of dung to the garden, and petted the horses a bit. It came to her that there were worse things to do—like embroidery. A large part of her mind had been taken up with thinking over both what the dwarves and Cair had said. It had been much easier to think about what the dwarves had said, and even what the cartooned outlines of the picture on the tambour frame had shown. Virgin princesses weren't supposed to think about that sort of thing, but she'd seen dogs and horses, and been curious.
He was a thrall. Not a man. Yet, here she was, working like a thrall. If a princess could work like a thrall, forking dung, then could a raider captain not do the same? Honor could be regained. And when his eyes rested on her she felt like a woman, not a thrall or a princess. Did a brand destroy a man forever? Thralls were freed. It was rare, but not unheard of.
Maybe such a person could become a franklin. Or a trader.
But they did not associate with the royal house.
A part of her said that she did not care.
She turned her thoughts elsewhere, hastily, when this happened. This morning she was turning them to the real possibility that she could indeed do magic. She was well enough versed in the patterns of planting and harvesting that happened around Kingshall to realize that plants do not appear overnight, not even with the most liberal application of water and all of the horse manure in Norway. She found herself singing in sheer delight when she saw the first shoots, not the formal ballads that her stepmother had insisted on, and that she'd hated, but a strange, wild tune that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her. The words were in a language she'd always known, never used. The conservatory was a wonderful echo-chamber and there was no one to hear her . . . and to her amazement the green shoots were actually growing as she watched. Leaves opened.
She stopped, staring.
"Powerful galdr!" said the dwarf from the corner. "You are worth far more than Bakrauf has offered. She'll have to increase her price."
"You would sell us all to Bakrauf?"
"No, she just offered for you and the big one. We'll consider her offer for him, for all that he's a strong worker. But she undervalued you. She said she'd buy the glassworker, too, if the price was right. But he's not for sale. Too useful."
"None of us are for sale," she said firmly.
He laughed. "That is not really for you to decide, half-blood. I doubt if my brothers would sell you for less than the brisinghamen itself. But Midgarders . . ."
"Are mine," she interrupted sternly. "Oath-bound. And I will sing such a galdr over your halls that everything here will wither and die, if you try."
He snorted and laughed. But she got the feeling it was more for show than in disdain. "We'll decide."
He vanished. She found herself wishing that she knew where he'd got to, and then to her further surprise she saw him as a wavy outline, near the stable passage, scowling at her. He looked far from laughter now.
And Signy, with not the vaguest idea of how to sing to anything but the herbs, and not at all sure of how she knew how to do that, felt good about herself. It was a feeling that continued throughout her day. Not even moving loads of dung could take it away. It was only when she looked at the tambour frame with the half-finished embroidery that it faded a little. But it still felt as if she had discovered a small spring somewhere in the desert inside her. She'd found loyalty—she would venture no further than that, yet, and she'd found that she could do things. She found that she was not useless, and that she could make things live and grow. The spring had been forcing a trickle upward in her ever since Cair had handed her the key to free the others. It was moistening ground, and shoots were beginning to grow in her, too. There were seeds that had been waiting, dormant but alive, all her life.
Signy wanted to help her companions. Loyalty was as much part of her as breathing. She would not let them go back to the troll-wife. Not if she could prevent it. But in her heart of hearts, she didn't really want to go back to Telemark either. Not to the half-dead existence she'd tolerated, not knowing anything better.
In his glass foundry Cair had not been feeling very good about himself. Blowing glass was a lot less simple than watching others blowing and trying it out under expert supervision had been. Even faking coins had been an easier task. And he had to make clear glass somehow. Clear, clean, bubble- and flaw-free glass. And then somehow he had to make an iron bird that could fool these dwarves that it both flew and sang. He had an idea about the singing. Well, whistling anyway. But flying had him flummoxed for the moment.
He'd realized that he was being watched, and somehow knowing that had made him work better. He patted and shaped the gather of glass on the end of the pipe against the piece of polished stone he'd found to make do instead of flat metal for marvering. He began to blow. And turn it slowly . . . It expanded without bursting or unevenness. He put it back into the furnace, hoping that the watcher would go away. But he felt they hadn't, so he pulled it out of the furnace. It had sagged slightly, so he shaped it against the stone and then blew it some more. He'd learned by now that the glass retained heat and must cool slowly. The glass bubble was carefully heated again and flattened on the base. And then he used tongs from the furnace to shape a rim into it, before taking it off the blowpipe.
A Venetian apprentice glassblower would have laughed at it. The watching dwarves had cheered instead. "Elgerr used to make models out of clay and dung, put them on a metal rod, and then dip them in the molten glass," said Sjárr.
"Or he made some small clay molds he pressed the glass into," said Vitr. "But the blowing produces finer and thinner glass items than he did. And it is much quicker, too. He used to take forever picking out the model, too. Do it again, we want to watch."
"It doesn't always work," admitted Cair. "Sometimes they break."
The dwarves grinned and nodded in unison. "It happens to all of us. Try."
So Cair tried. And this one was even better. The third one broke, but by then he'd delighted the dwarves enough to get them to agree to provide arsenic. They found the idea very funny. "You can make one for Bakrauf as a gift," chuckled Sjárr.
So he'd got his arsenic. And discovered that it did clarify the brown tint in the glass and make it more transparent. Getting from there to a polished convex lens was still a large step.
"We don't really have much use for beads," said Vitr looking rather scornfully at the clay concavities Cair was pressing molten clear glass into. "We want containers that can hold acids, particularly."
"These are not beads, Your Wisdom. They're tools for my fine-work. Maybe they'll be useful to you, too."
The dwarves were, true enough, holding them as prisoners, but Cair found that, compared to the other denizens of what he was convinced was a gray-skied Norse hinterland, he could get on with them. Artifice was a compelling fascination for the dwarves. Well, he found it that way, too. The three of them argued about acids, and how they worked, as he polished the best concave glass pieces. Of course their ideas were rotten with magic, but they were ingenious thinkers all the same.
When he put two of the concave lenses together and produced a bubbly and uneven magnifying glass—the two dwarves were excited enough to go and fetch a third one. Þekkr was quick enough to grasp the principle immediately and also to work out the need for a uniform curvature on the lens. He promised a metal die for this and agreed that Cair's work deserved a bellows man and an assistant to keep the furnace temperatures even. The dwarves were happy with the magnifying glass—But Cair was not. He knew that they were a long, long way from an adequate lens.
"It's not easy. I'll want a man who understands my language and needs. Erik would do fine. Some moron like the kobold people gave me is worse than no one at all."
The dwarves sniggered. "That's typical kobold, isn't it?" said Þekkr. "Pointy-headed idiots. You can have him."
By the knowing look the dwarves gave him, they knew he was up to something but obviously weren't worried enough to care. It was all part of the game to them.
Either he'd prove them wrong, or he was the one who should be very, very worried.
He settled for being uncomfortable about it.
Manfred didn't really mind carrying ore sacks. He wasn't about to tell anyone this fact, but it was not overwhelmingly hard work. Tedious and moderately strenuous, yes, but not too much so. And it left his mind free to work. Many people made the mistake of assuming that because he was big, he couldn't think, or at least not about anything above his belt. That suited him fine.
Having people underestimate you is always useful.
He occupied himself during his last trip in working out just how long they'd been captives—or rather how long it had been since they'd blundered into that kobold hole. It was a difficult exercise. For part of it there'd been no decent measure of night and day at all. But, unless he had it wrong, they had six to eight days before the truce sworn on the arm-ring was null and void. And assuming they'd moved in a straightish line, they had to be a good many days' travel from Kingshall. Probably at least as much as the eight days.
That led him on to pondering just how to deal with the situation between Cair Aidin and Princess Signy. Signy, yes, could make a good foil for her half-brother if the treaty was annulled and Telemark was free to pursue its expansionary policy. The Danes and the Empire could stop it. Probably. Provided the little Norse kingdoms stayed divided, and provided that the Svear stayed out of the mixture. Even then there were just too few people to seriously challenge the might of the Empire. But they could bleed the Empire white, while others attacked. Conquest of Norse lands would be easy enough, but occupation in these mountains and forests would be near impossible. So it would be containment: expensive, difficult, and sapping of resources that were needed elsewhere. Signy had overheard Bakrauf in communication with Jagellion. It was undoubtedly all part of a far bigger geopolitical game that the Grand Duke of Lithuania played against the Holy Roman Empire. Manfred wished that Francesca were here, and not just for the obvious, physical reasons. Not that that would not be, well, more than pleasant, but also because these sort of political machinations were meat and drink to her, just as combat was to Erik.
He wondered how Erik was getting on with the corsair. That was an even bigger problem than the Norse, really. Cair Aidin was the enemy of the Empire. Both from religious convictions and also as a raider that had cost the Empire and all the Mediterranean states dearly. It would in some ways have solved a lot of Manfred's own moral dilemmas if the man had indeed been squashed flat under the troll.
Manfred wondered if Cair's presence was yet another one of Jagellion's machinations. He also wondered, with wry amusement, how Signy was going to get around her noble scruples to bed Cair. He knew that look of old. And most women—hell, make that most people—could persuade their minds to do what their hearts and bodies wanted to. Manfred had often thought that if he could have harnessed all the mental energy he'd put into the subject himself, he'd have been able to out-think Francesca.
Erik watched Cair—he had a delicacy of touch, did the corsair, that was totally out of keeping with his bloodthirsty reputation. But then, there were many things about him that didn't actually add up to the image that the Empire had of the raider. Erik began to suspect that it was not beyond Cair to cultivate the rumors. "Now, if you can press down gently and evenly on that, Erik," said Cair.
"I'll do my best, but you'd have done better with Manfred for these technical tasks. He likes fiddling with metalwork and I've seen him pull apart the trigger mechanisms on guns for fun. I tend to regard artifice as something to use, not to play with."
"I'll probably get him in here as well, as soon as I find some work for him. The only thing I'll fail with is the princess in here. The dwarves are very pleased with the way she's making their garden grow. They'd like to keep her."
"From what I can gather, they usually do end up keeping people," said Erik. He paused and then decided to speak his mind anyway. "Look, Cair, at the moment we are together in this mess. We owe you our lives—I've not forgotten that. But if there is a threat to Manfred I'll have to kill you. I also think that your mind and clever fingers are our best chance at getting out of here. So why don't the two of us cry a truce? You've decided that you can trust Manfred with the one you hold most dear, and you're right about that. I've decided I can trust you. I can trust you that far anyway," he modified.
Cair nodded. He couldn't speak as he was busy blowing glass. But when he put it back into the furnace before marvering it a second time, he said: "A fair deal. I was going to propose it myself. And Erik. You understand far more about the culture Princess Signy is trapped in. If I am killed will you do your solemn best to see that she escapes from Telemark?"
It was Erik's turn to nod.
They worked on, Cair with visibly growing skill. It would take months before he was half as good as a Venetian apprentice, but his work had far eclipsed the efforts of the kobold who had been his predecessor. The dwarves looked in from time to time, and seemed well pleased. Cair and Erik got through a lot, and even found time for work on Cair's bird. Well, actually on a glass dropper that Cair made, that he insisted would work for part of the "song." And they made a selection of lenses, which Erik found himself set to polishing. It was like polishing armor, but even more tedious. Still, Erik heard more about just how Cair had ended up as a thrall, and of how he had ended up in the kobolds' hands.
"I think you were a pawn in Queen Albruna's hand," said Erik thoughtfully.
"I suspect the same. But she's dead now."
"You're certain that was her head you saw?"
Cair nodded. "Absolutely. I haven't yet found a way to tell Signy. The woman made her life a misery, and probably betrayed her to Bakrauf, but she was still the only mother Signy has ever had. Or ever knew, at least."