A few moments later Eolair gave a low cry. Morgan was alarmed, but also puzzled because the count’s exclamation sounded strangely like joy. Two more hesitant steps and the prince walked out of the dark into the full glow of the stars, thousands upon thousands burning brightly all across the sky, candles in a church far greater than any human cathedral. Morgan was dazzled. Not only did the sky sparkle fiercely above their heads, but humbler lights burned all across the narrow pocket valley—dozens upon dozens of campfires.

Morgan stared at this spectacle, trying to make sense of it. Somehow they had climbed through a tunnel or crevice into a small valley nestling in the top of the blocky hill he had seen from below. As his eyes grew used to the light and the blaze of stars faded he saw that the valley was full of Sithi-folk. Many wore garments as crude and basic as those of Yeja’aro’s band, while others were wrapped in shimmering cloth that fluttered even in this still place like the sails of ships running before the wind.

A few of the Sithi turned to look at the newcomers, but none of them seemed alarmed or even perturbed: their large eyes settled on Morgan and the count, then turned to other things. The prince stared back, heart beating hard and fast, his fear turned almost entirely to wonder. He could hear odd, faint music coming to him from more than one spot in the valley, pipes and singing voices, and some of the figures farther up the slopes were dancing together, graceful as birds in flight. As the music and movement swirled around him like blossoms blown from the trees, the fairy stories of his childhood came back to him with all their force; in that moment, he could easily imagine a man being lured away by the Sithi-folk to live a hundred years in one night.

“Ah, yes,” said Eolair, but from his tone it wasn’t clear whether he was speaking to the prince or to the empty air. “I do remember. Oh, I remember . . .”

They might have stood there for an hour, content merely to experience this unexpected, wild beauty, but suddenly a shape appeared before them.

“You will come with me,” said Yeja’aro. “Prince Jiriki is not here, but the . . . princess . . . will want to see you.” He gave the word a curious, angry emphasis.

The Sitha led them up the rocky path himself, winding between the fires; this time, when Morgan or the count stumbled, nobody reached out to help them. Dozens of Sithi watched the pair of them, curiously incurious as cats, as they climbed the slope toward a single large fire burning in a pit that had been dug at the top of a mounded grass meadow, not far from one of the valley’s steep walls. A single white-haired figure sat beside the fire. Her garment was full and loose, covering her body entirely from the neck down, and Morgan thought she must be some respected elder of the Sithi-folk.

Grandfather talked of the Sithi’s First Grandmother, didn’t he? But he seemed to remember that one had died in some terrible attack.

As they drew closer and he could see the Sitha-woman’s face more clearly, he decided that not only was she much younger than the color of her hair had led him to believe, she was also one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen.

They had almost reached the fire when she finally looked up at them. A small, almost secretive smile curled at the edge of her mouth, and her wide eyes caught the light, glowing. Her skin seemed the same shade as the flames, as though she and the fire were part of the same thing.

“So,” she said. “I had a feeling.”

“Aditu, I found them at the forest’s edge,” Yeja’aro said, his voice less harsh than it had been. Morgan thought he almost sounded apologetic. “They carry Ti-tuno. It was the horn we heard, in truth.”

When she smiled again, Morgan did not know whether he wanted to marry her on the spot or crawl into her arms and let her gently rock him to sleep. “Yes. I knew it was Ti-tuno,” she said. “I can never forget when I last heard it sounding, before Asu’a.” She smiled. “Count Eolair, my heart is glad to see you. It has been so long!”

“Lady Aditu.” Eolair sounded as though he might weep. “Much longer for me than for you, it seems. You have not changed.”

She smiled again. “Ah, but I have, as you will discover. Still, handsome boys become distinguished men—I would know you anywhere. Come, sit. And, speaking of handsome boys, who is this young one? I think I know him, but I would be told.”

Morgan realized his mouth was open but was doing nothing useful. “I am Prince Morgan,” he said, but it sounded strange and impolite, by itself. “My lady Aditu—Princess—I give you greetings from my grandparents.”

“Yes,” she said, as if he had asked a question. “Oh, yes. In the midst of such sadness, it is good to see the face of old friends again, even at several removes.”

Morgan was still staring. He knew he shouldn’t, but in that moment he couldn’t imagine looking at anything or anyone else.

“We have much to discuss,” Count Eolair began, but Aditu lifted her hand to forestall him.

“Not now, old friend. You have walked far, and walked the Sithi’s ways at that, which are even more tiring.” She turned to Yeja’aro, who had been standing silently by. “What of Tanahaya?”

Yeja’aro’s narrow face was grim. “She is very ill. These Sudhoda’ya say she has been poisoned. She is with the healers now.”

“Bring me word as soon as they know anything.” Aditu turned back to the count. “And now you two must sleep. My brother will return tomorrow and all that must be said will be said then. Eolair, it is good to see you again, against all the world’s chances. Morgan, this meeting means more to me than you can know.”

“Come,” said Yeja’aro, while Morgan was still puzzling out her liquid, lightly accented Westerling. He and Eolair let themselves be led away from the fire. Morgan looked back and saw that the woman named Aditu had again lowered her chin to her chest, contemplating the flames as though reading a beloved old book, a familiar but still instructive companion.

Morgan was exhausted. Suddenly the night seemed to be sagging in on top of him, and it was all he could do to put one foot after the other as Yeja’aro led them along the side of the valley to a place that had been prepared for them, two beds of moss in a frame of sticks, each with a blanket thin as a whisper, made of a slippery, cool substance that to Morgan’s weary mind felt like a moth’s wing looked.

Neither he nor Eolair spoke after they climbed into their beds. For all its near-insubstantiality, Morgan’s blanket was very warm. He watched a patch of stars slowly spinning across the sky above his head, a wheel of lights that he thought he should recognize but didn’t—just one more strangeness of this very strange day. Then, after only a very short time of listening to the sweet, strange sound of Sithi voices singing to each other across the pocket valley, he fell into a deep sleep.

Eolair had to work hard to wake the prince. Morgan complained bitterly, keeping his eyes tightly closed as though some horrifying demon stood over him instead of the Count of Nad Mullach. Eolair had only the dimmest recollection of himself at the prince’s age; a few sharp memories like mountain peaks piercing a haze, but he did not believe he had ever been allowed to sleep until he woke on his own. His father, the old count, had regarded rising with the dawn to say prayers to the gods as part of a noble’s duties. And Eolair’s fretful, quiet mother had hardly ever seemed to sleep at all.

“Come, Highness.” He gave the prince a harder shake. “Aditu’s brother Jiriki has returned, and we must speak to our hosts. The sun is in the sky. Rouse yourself, please.”

Morgan gave Eolair a slit-eyed stare and a frowning look meant to shame him. Instead, the lord steward laughed.