“Bind him,” said Carse, “and open me this door.”
It was done. Boghaz lifted the three heavy bars from their sockets. The door swung inward and Carse stood upon the threshold.
She was waiting, standing tensely erect in the gloom. They had not given her so much as a candle and the tiny cell was closed except for the barred slot in the door. The air was stale and dank with a taint of mouldy straw from the pallet that was the only furniture. And she wore her fetters still.
Carse steeled himself. He wondered whether, in the hidden depths of his mind, the Cursed One watched. Almost, he thought, he heard the echo of dark laughter, mocking the man who played at being a god.
Ywain said, “Are you indeed Rhiannon?”
Marshal the deep proud voice, the look of brooding fire in the glance.
“You have known me before,” said Carse. “How say you now?”
He waited, while her eyes searched him in the half light. And then slowly her head bent, stiffly as became Ywain of Sark even before Rhiannon.
“Lord,” she said.
Carse laughed softly and turned to the cringing Boghaz.