Ywain smiled. “You lie.”
Carse said wearily, “I came by the weapon honestly”—he had, in a sense—“and I don’t care whether you believe it or not.”
The crack of that inner door mocked Carse. He wanted to break it open, to see what crouched there, listening, watching out of the darkness. He wanted to see what made that hateful smell.
Almost, it seemed, there was no need for that. Almost, it seemed, he knew.
Unable to contain himself any longer, Scyld burst out, “Your pardon, Highness! But why all this fuss about the sword?”
“You’re a good soldier, Scyld,” she answered thoughtfully, “but in many ways a blockhead. Did you clean this blade?”
“Of course. And bad condition it was in, too.” He glanced disgustedly at Carse. “It looked as though he hadn’t touched it for years.”
Ywain reached out and laid her hand upon the jeweled hilt. Carse saw that it trembled. She said softly, “You were right, Scyld. It hadn’t been touched, for years. Not since Rhiannon, who made it, was walled away in his tomb to suffer for his sins.”
Scyld’s face went completely blank. His jaw dropped. After a long while he said one word, “ Rhiannon!”