The Hidden World

Chapter 15

Dugall was dead. That strong, robust, vital young man—gone forever. Maeve could not believe it, still half-expected to see his red-curled head somewhere amid the crowds in the castle corridors, hear his deep powerful voice cut through the clamour. If a man like Dugall could die, what hope could there be for any of them?

"Poor, poor Arawn!" she mourned as she sat with Thomas that evening in the large hall. "I'm almost more sorry for him than for Dugall. He's lost everyone he cares about: his family, his best friend. How can he stand it? I guess he feels he has to be strong for the rest of us."

Thomas looked at her with an odd expression in his eyes. "You love him, don't you?"

"The king?" Maeve was taken aback by the question. She sat for minute thinking of Arawn's strength and determination, his bravery on the field of battle, the odd little flutter she felt whenever he called her "lady." And he was certainly handsome. But Maeve never let herself think too much of handsomeness. At school, she remembered, good-looking boys had been the unquestioned property of girls like Ashley Robinson, who accepted their attentions with laughing grace. As for Maeve, the boys only liked to torment her. Back in grade school, they used to come up to her and say, "Hey Maeve, I think you're pretty ..."—a pause—".. . uglyl" And they'd run off with squeals of laughter. They said even worse things now, when no teachers were around to hear. Maeve sometimes had stolen glances at attractive boys in class, but she never dared be open with her admiration, knowing the taunts that would follow. She had learnt to dismiss handsomeness from her mind. And the young king was even further outside her sphere than these—beyond even the thought of love or yearning.

"Well, I admire him," she began. "But of course I'd never presume—"

"No, you shouldn't." Thomas looked disapproving. "He is the king, Maeve."

Why was he being so testy with her? He must know she could never dream of marrying royalty! King Arawn and Queen Maeve? He could see for himself how ridiculous that was. Could he really think her foolish enough to believe she had any sort of chance with a titled, older man? And what did any of this matter, anyway? Thomas was probably still just annoyed about not being allowed to fight, and was taking it out on her because she happened to be near.

She got up and left the boy to his brooding. What she needed, she thought, was a little fresh air—it was so stifling in here with all these people crowded together. She could not leave the keep, of course, but perhaps she could go to the top of one of the towers, feel the cold, bracing wind off the sea. She had put on her jeans and shirt again, wanting to feel reconnected to her other life—that safe and sheltered existence in the Shadow-world—but the cardigan would not be warm enough, so she took up the short cloak Branwen had given her.

She met no one on the winding stair of the seaward tower. When she pushed the wooden trapdoor open and stepped up onto the roof, the wind nearly drove her back down again, so cold and powerful was it. A crescent moon shone above, and the sea was jewelled with light. Here and there a white floe drifted on the waves, and one huge iceberg, jagged and many-towered, had come to rest near the harbour mouth. It lay there like some white-walled fortress, vast and menacing. She could feel the chill of it from here.

She saw the dark forms of sentries patrolling the walls below, and a lone figure standing in the inner ward of the keep. In his arms was something that he cradled gently, as one holds an infant. The fight of the moon and stars shone on his elegant clothing, the tabard and matching hose. Arawn. He shifted the bundle in his hands, put it to his shoulder: a set of bagpipes. The ones that had belonged to Dugall, perhaps? A wail arose from the pipes that fanned beside his head; it was high and piercing and strong, yet despairing too.