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By Root 511 0

caused a ripple here. But what Eleri was up to—that troubled her, though she could not have said why. She knew very well where babies came from; her mother was midwife as well as queen, and the Great Hall, where all the rest of the court slept, was open to any sleepless child who would rather go outside than use a chamber pot. Gwen had seen the dogs and cats, the chickens and ducks and geese, her father’s famous horses, and no few of her father’s men and her mother’s maids coupling with pleasurable abandon and no regard for privacy. So she knew where babies came from and what made them, and she had also known most of her life, in that vague sense that put parents in some mental place other than “everyone else,” that the king and queen did this same thing in their great bed. Well, they must have, to have produced Gwen and all her sisters.

But this sounded more portentous than that. Magic would be involved. And her mother was going to try to make a son for the king.

Gwen turned that thought over and over in her mind. She wasn’t sure she liked this idea, not sure at all. She felt more than a twinge of jealousy. A boy-child would get all the attention, right from the start. He’d be the king one day. He’d be able to order his sisters about in every place but the Circle of the Goddess and the hearth. Her father would take all the attention he now paid his daughters and lavish it on this newcomer.

And why was her mother doing this? Because, she had said, she loved the king. Yes, but didn’t she love her daughters? Didn’t she realize how they would feel, how they would be made to take second place?

A boy would get a pony as soon as he could walk; she was still waiting for hers, one that she didn’t have to share with her sisters. He’d get a real horse as soon as he had mastered the pony. He would get lessons in the sword and the bow without ever having to ask for them, much less beg. When the time came for chores, he would get the interesting ones, not weaving or spinning, picking feathers or sewing. He would get hunting, hawking, mending weapons, fletching arrows, making bowstrings . . .

How could she not be jealous? But also, there was curiosity. Not about the wished-for son but about the magic that would make him.

It was magic for the High King, and Eleri was going to share in it . . . and that did not sound right. Surely that was not right. That magic should go to the High King only, and not someone else, even if that someone was her mother.

It was magic, from the sound of it, that would be made in Circles across the land. The High King might not even be aware this was going to happen, but nevertheless, it was magic that would stretch through every little kingdom that owed allegiance to Arthur. And that . . . it seemed wrong, very wrong, for Eleri to steal some of that away. If it had only been their kingdom, it would have been different, for Eleri was the priestess here, and the magic that was made here should benefit this land and its priestess. But it was not. Eleri had no right to it. Did she?

But this was her mother, the priestess, and the queen. If anyone would know if this was right or not, surely it would be Eleri.

Gwen continued to turn these things over and over in her mind, and finally she sighed and gave up. Besides, the topic had turned to something even more interesting.

“Gynath seems to have little Gift,” the priestess was saying. “She should have come into it by now. Cataruna, though, has come on a great deal since I last saw her and should already be serving by you in the rites.”

“She is,” Eleri replied, with satisfaction. “And that is why I would rather not send her to you. I need her here, and she is not going to be so very powerful that I cannot teach her myself. But Gwen—”

“Already has the signs on her.” The priestess’s voice was firm with conviction. “And do not think that you are not powerful, for you are; whichever daughter you teach will be as powerful. You must send either Cataruna to us now, or Gwen as soon as she becomes a woman. Either will be suitable.”

“That is my intent,” the Queen