The crystal cave - Mary Stewart [1]
"You sound like a troop of cavalry," he said.
"I was here before I knew it. Everything looks strange in the mist."
"No one saw you? You came safely?"
"Safely enough. It's been impossible the last two days. They were on the roads night and day."
"I guessed it." He smiled. "Well, now you are here. Give me the bridle." He led the pony in under the trees, and tied it up. Then he kissed her.
After a while she pushed him away. "I ought not to stay. I brought the things, so even if I can't come tomorrow -- " She stopped. She had seen the saddle on his horse, the muffled bit, the packed saddle-bag. Her hands moved sharply against his chest, and his own covered them and held her fast. "Ah," she said, "I knew. I knew even in my sleep last night. You're going."
"I must. Tonight."
She was silent for a minute. Then all she said was: "How long?"
He did not pretend to misunderstand her. "We have an hour, two, no more."
She said flatly: "You will come back." Then as he started to speak: "No. Not now, not any more. We have said it all, and now there is no more time. I only meant that you will be safe, and you will come back safely. I tell you, I know these things. I have the Sight. You will come back."
"It hardly needs the Sight to tell me that. I must come back. And then perhaps you will listen to me -- "
"No." She stopped him again, almost angrily. "It doesn't matter. What does it matter? We have only an hour, and we are wasting it. Let us go in."
He was already pulling out the jewelled pin that held her cloak together, as he put an arm round her and led her towards the cave.
"Yes, let us go in."
BOOK I -- THE DOVE
1
The day my uncle Camlach came home, I was just six years old.
I remember him well as I first saw him, a tall young man, fiery like my grandfather, with the blue eyes and reddish hair that I thought so beautiful in my mother. He came to Maridunum near sunset of a September evening, with a small troop of men. Being only small, I was with the women in the long, old-fashioned room where they did the weaving. My mother was sitting at the loom; I remember the cloth; it was of scarlet, with a narrow pattern of green at the edge. I sat near her on the floor, playing knuckle-bones, right hand against left. The sun slanted through the windows, making oblong pools of bright gold on the cracked mosaics of the floor; bees droned in the herbs outside, and even the click and rattle of the loom sounded sleepy. The women were talking among themselves over their spindles, but softly, heads together, and Moravik, my nurse, was frankly asleep on her stool in one of the pools of sunlight.
When the clatter, and then the shouts, came from the courtyard, the loom stopped abruptly, and with it the soft chatter from the women. Moravik came awake with a snort and a stare. My mother was sitting very straight, head lifted, listening. She had dropped her shuttle. I saw her eyes meet Moravik's.
I was halfway to the window when Moravik called to me sharply, and there was something in her voice that made me stop and go back to her without protest. She began to fuss with my clothing, pulling my tunic straight and smoothing my hair, so that I understood the visitor to be someone of importance. I felt excitement, and also surprise that apparently I was to be presented to him; I was used to being kept out of the way in those days. I stood patiently while Moravik dragged the comb through my hair, and over my head she and my mother exchanged some quick, breathless talk