"In a little while," she suggested. "Let us enjoy the peace of the moment."

"No, now," he countered. "Bring me my hood and cloak; then wake everyone and assemble them. They should remember this day."

"Why this day above any other:"

"Because," explained Bran, "from this day on, they are no longer fugitives and outcasts. Today they become King Raven's faithful flock."

"The Grellon," suggested Angharad-an old word, it meant both "flock" and "following."

"Grellon," repeated Bran as the banfaith moved off to strike the iron and rouse Ce1 Craidd. He turned his face to the warm red glow of the rising sun. "This day," he declared, speaking softly to himself, "the deliverance of Elfael begins."

I is a very great honour," said Queen Anora. "I would have thought you would be pleased."

"How should I be pleased?"

"Relations are strained just now, it is true," her mother granted. "But your father thought that perhaps-"

"My father, the king, has made his views quite clear," Merian insisted. "Don't tell me he has changed his opinion just because an invitation has come."

"This may be the baron's way of making amends," her mother countered. It was a weak argument, and Merian regarded her mother with a frown of haughty disdain. "The baron knows he has done wrong and wishes to restore the peace."

"Oh, so now the baron repents, and the king dances dizzy with gratitude?" said Merian.

"Merian!" reprimanded her mother sharply. "That will do, girl. You will respect your father and abide by his decision."

"What?" demanded Merian. "And is there nothing to be said?"

"You have said quite enough." Her mother, stiff backed, turned in her chair to face her. "You will obey."

"But I do not understand," insisted the young woman. "It makes no sense."

"Your father has his reasons," replied the queen simply. "And we must respect them."

"Even if he is wrong?" countered Merian. "That is most unfair, Mother."

Queen Anora observed her daughter's distraught expressionbrows knit, mouth pressed hard, eyes narrowed-and remembered her as an infant demanding to be let down to walk in the grass on the riverbank and being told that she could not because it was too dangerous so close to the water. "It is only an invitation to join the court for a summer," her mother said, trying to lighten the mood. "The time will pass quickly."

"Pass as it may," Merian declared loftily, "it will pass without me!" She rose and fled her mother's chamber, stalking down the narrow corridor to her own room, where she went to the window and shoved open the shutters with a crash. The early evening air was soft and warm, the fading light like honey on the yard outside her window, but she was not in a mood to take in such things, much less enjoy them. Her father's decision seemed to her arbitrary and unfair. She should, she felt, have a say in it since it was she who must comply.

The baron's courier had arrived earlier in the day with a message asking if Merian might come to Hereford to spend the remainder of the summer with his lordship's daughter, Sybil. He was hoping Merian would help teach the young lady something of British customs and speech. Sybil would, of course, gladly reciprocate. Baron Neufmarche was certain the two ladies would become fast friends.

Lord Cadwgan had listened to the message, thanked the courier, and dismissed him in the same breath, saying, "I am much obliged to the baron. Please tell my lord that Merian would be delighted to accept his invitation,"

So that, apparently, was that: a decision that trod heavily on some of her most deeply held convictions, and Merian was to have nothing to say about it. Since the downfall of Deheubarth, her father had been writhing like a frog in cinders, desperate to distance himself from the reach of Neufmarche. And now, all of a sudden, he seemed just as eager to court the baron's good favour. Why? It made no sense.

The very thought of spending the summer in a castle full of foreigners sent waves of disgust coursing through her slender frame. Her aversion, natural and genuine, was also an evasion.

For what Merian refused to admit, even to herself, was that she had enjoyed the baron's feast immensely. Truth be told, she had glimpsed an attractive alternative to life in a crumbling caer on the Marches border. She did not allow herself to so much as imagine that she might acquire this life for herself-God forbid! But somewhere in her deepest heart lurked the hunger for the charm and grandeur she had experienced that glittering night, and, heaven help her, it all danced around the person of Baron Neufmarche himself.

For his part, he had made it abundantly clear that he found her beautiful and even desirable. The mere notion awakened feelings Merian considered so unholy that she tried to suffocate the fledgling thought by depriving it of all rational consideration. On her return to Caer Rhodl after the feast in Hereford, she had considered herself safely out of harm's way and beyond the reach of the temptation the baron's court represented. And now, without so much as an "If you please, Merian," she was to be sent away to the baron's castle like so much baggage.

She pushed away from the window and flopped back on her bed. The thought that her father was simply using her to appease Neufmarche and further himself with the baron was too depressing to contemplate. All the same, that was the only explanation that made sense of the situation. If anyone else had suggested such a thing, she would have been the first to shout him down-all the while knowing it was her lot precisely.

In any event, the matter was closed to all appeal. Lord Cadwgan had made his decision and, regardless of anything Merian or anyone else might say, would not reverse it. For the next few days, Merian sulked and let everyone know exactly how she felt, delivering herself of long, soulful sighs and dark, moody glances until even Garran, her oblivious brother, complained about the damp chill in the air every time she passed by. But the evil day would not be held off. Her father commanded her to pack her belongings for her stay and had begun to make arrangements to take her to Hereford when Merian received what she considered a reprieve. It came in the form of a summons for all the baron's nobles to attend him in council. The gathering was to be held at Talgarth in the baron's newly conquered territory, and all client kings and landed lords, along with their families and principal retainers, must attend. It was not an invitation that could be refused. Under feudal law, the unfortunate who failed to attend a formal council faced heavy fines and loss of lands, title, or in extreme cases, even limbs.

Baron Neufmarche did not hold councils often; the last had been five years ago when he had moved his chief residence to Hereford Castle. Then he had served notice that he meant to remain in England and expected his nobles to be ready and forthcoming with their supportchiefly in rents and services, but also in advice.

Lord Cadwgan took a cloudy view of the summons to Deheubarth-the scene of the late King Rhys ap Tewdwr's recent downfall and demise-considering it an insult to the Cymry and a none-too-subtle reminder of Ffreinc supremacy and ascendancy. The rest of the family felt likewise. Perversely, only Merian welcomed the council, looking upon it as a pardon from the onerous duty that had been forced upon her. Now, instead of Merian going alone into the enemy camp, the whole family would have to go with her.

"You need not look so pleased," her mother told her. "A little less gloating would better become you."

"I do not gloat," Merian replied smugly. "But milk for the kit is milk for the cat-is that not what you always say, Mother?"

Three days of preparation followed, and the ordinarily sedate fortress shook life into itself in order to make ready the lord's departure. On the fourth day after receiving the summons, the entourage set out. All rode, save the steward, cook, and groom, who travelled in a horse-drawn wagon piled high with food supplies and equipment. The servants had dusted off and repaired the old leather tents Lord Cadwgan used for campaigns and extended hunting trips-of which there had been few in the last seven or eight yearsin anticipation of making camp along the way and at the appointed meeting place.