The sun was sinking towards the ocean when she left her home, her bag slung over her back. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, knowing that someone would be shadowing her, and made her way to the stables.
Once there she slipped inside an empty stall. Quickly, she tied her hair back tight to her head, stuffed straw inside her tunic until it was near bursting, then drew a cloak from her bag, pulling the hood up. She emptied the contents of her bag into a saddlebag. Finally she shouldered a saddle and tack as well as the saddlebag. Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the stables and walked purposefully across the yard. She noticed Conall leaning beside a water barrel, eyes fixed on the stable door. She smiled as she walked away from him into the streets of the fortress.
As soon as she was out of sight she dumped the saddle and tack, heading with speed towards her quarry: Evnis’ tower. She paused, stepped into deep shadows caused by the sinking sun, then made her way furtively along Evnis’ wall. When she judged she was in the right place she stopped, testing the mortar between the wall’s stones with a finger. It was soft and crumbling, succumbing to years of salt in the air. She looked about once more, the street empty, silent, then drew two of her knives, stabbed them into gaps in the stone and began hauling herself up the wall. Dath had taught her how to do this – if he couldn’t climb a wall, then it couldn’t be climbed, though she’d never tell him that.
When she reached the top she wriggled forwards, hooked one arm over the wall, and smiled grimly to herself. A low-roofed building stretched before her. Evnis’ kennels. She unslung her saddlebag, undoing the buckle with her teeth and spare hand.
A hound walked out of the kennel, tall and scar-eared. It stretched and sniffed, its head snapping round, catching her scent. Then it saw her and let out a great, baying howl. Other dogs flowed from the kennel, began barking and jumping at the wall. Panicking now, she emptied the contents of the saddlebag, lumps of meat showering the area. The dogs immediately began to wolf them down, snapping and snarling at one another.
A voice called out; a blond-haired figure appeared – Rafe.
Cywen ducked from view, half slid, half fell from the wall, then sprinted into the shadows. She wiped tears from her eyes. Evnis’ hounds would not be hunting Pendathran tonight.
Cywen led the stallion through the tree-lined path into the Rowan Field. She had tried not to bring him, had used every excuse besides actually making him lame, but Drust had stepped in, examined Shield himself and declared him fit for use. He had looked at Cywen suspiciously, so she had ceased any more protests, knowing that Drust could stop her working in the stables if he wished.
He was waiting for her, in the Field. He strode over, smiling at Shield.
‘He’s a fine animal,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Shield. He ran a hand down a foreleg, lifted it to examine the hoof. ‘See, I told you, girl, there’s nothing wrong with him.’
‘I was mistaken,’ Cywen muttered, handing him the reins.
‘That you were,’ Drust said, swinging into the saddle. ‘Best not get too attached to this one,’ he said, pulling Shield in a tight circle, ‘he’s a warhorse, if ever I saw one. Was made for battle.’ He kicked his heels and Shield leaped away with a spray of turf.
Cywen watched as Drust urged Shield into a gallop, charging at the straw targets at the far end of the Field. With a battle-cry he left his spear quivering in one of them.
She skirted the edge of the Field, making for the outer wall that ringed the whole fortress. It was early but the sun was already hot, spring sliding steadily into summer. As she passed the weapons court she caught a glimpse of Rafe sparring. He was fighting an older, heavier man and seemed to be holding his own. Even as she watched, he swung a hard blow that whistled through his opponent’s defence, cracking him on the shoulder.
She felt a pang of guilt at seeing Rafe, her thoughts turning instantly to the hounds that she had poisoned. Most had died, only a couple surviving, though they were still weak and emaciated two ten-nights later. Cywen was surprised any had lived – she had mixed a concoction that her da used to give his whelping bitches, both as a painkiller and a sedative, though she had made it ten times as potent as her da had.
Rafe was walking towards her from the weapons court. He had a slight limp, a reminder of the wound her brother had given him on the night Dun Carreg had fallen.