CHAPTER ONE
The boy stared idly at the cold grey walls and wondered if the castle dungeons could be any more
inhospitable "than this chill turret room, with its single window staring like an eye into the
teeth of the north wind. True there was a fire glowing in the hearth, but it might as well have
been one of Maedhlyn's illusions for all the warmth it supplied. The great grey slabs sucked the
heat from the blaze, giving nothing in return save a ghostly reflection that mocked the flames.
Thuro sat on the bed and wrapped his father's white bearskin cloak about his own slender
shoulders.
'What a foul place,' he said, closing his eyes and pushing the turret room from his mind. He
thought of his father's villa in Eboracum, and of the horse meadows beyond the white walls where
mighty Cephon wintered with his mares. But most of all he pictured his own room, cosy and snug
away from the bitter winter winds and filled with the love of his young life: his books, his
glorious books. His father had refused him permission to bring even one tome to this lonely
castle, in case the other war leaders should catch the prince reading and know the king's dark
secret. For while it might be well-known in Caerlyn Keep that the boy Thuro was weak in body and
spirit, the king's retainers guarded the sad truth like a family shame.
Thuro shivered and left the bed to sit on the goatskin rug before the fire. He was as miserable
now as he had ever been. Far below in the great hall of Deicester Castle his father was attempting
to bond an alliance against the barbarians from across the sea, grim-eyed reavers who had even now
established settlements in the far south from which to raid the richer northlands. The embassy to
Deicester had been made despite Maedhlyn's warnings. Thuro had not wished to accompany his father
either, but not for fear of dangers he could scarce comprehend. The prince disliked the cold,
loathed long journeys on horseback and, more importantly, hated to be deprived of his books even
for a day - let alone the two months set aside for the embassy.
The door opened and the prince glanced up to see the tall figure of Gwalchmai, his brawny arms
bearing a heavy load of logs. He smiled at the lad and Thuro noted with shame that the retainer
wore but a single woollen tunic against the biting cold.
'Do you never feel the chill, Gwalchmai?'
'I feel it,' he answered, kneeling to add wood to the blaze.
'Is my father still speaking?'
'No. When I passed by Eldared was on his feet.'
'You do not like Eldared?'
'You see too much, young Thuro; that is not what I said.'
But you did, thought Thuro. It was in your eyes and the slight inflection when you used his name.
He stared into the retainer's dark eyes, but Gwalchmai turned away.
'Do you trust him?' asked the boy.
'Your father obviously trusts him, so who am I to offer opinions? You think the king would have
come here with only twenty retainers if he feared treachery?'
'You answer my q...

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