Dreamer's Pool by Juliet Marillier

we stop for a rest by a stream, she says, ‘I saw that woman giving you something.’
    ‘Mm-hm.’ I fish the little bag out of my pack, open it and find a purse of coppers, which from folk like them is a lot. And there’s a slab of bread and cheese, wrapped in a cloth. I pass the purse to Blackthorn and divide the food in two.
    ‘Keep them,’ she says, handing the coppers back. ‘It’s your reward, not mine.’
    ‘Ours,’ I say, giving her a share of the bread and cheese.
    She opens her mouth to make a sharp remark – I see this in her eyes – and shuts it again without a word. We eat in silence. I tuck the purse back into my pack.
    ‘Next market we pass, I’ll buy you a kerchief.’
    Blackthorn’s got nothing to say to this. Instead she asks, ‘Why were you sick? After everything we’ve seen, what could be so hard about watching a man get his leg splinted?’
    ‘Got eyes in the back of your head, have you?’ It comes out as a growl, and it shuts her up, at least for now. One thing’s sure: the story of Strangler and the others is going to stay where it belongs, deep down where nobody can hear it. Nothing will hurt her. Nothing will harm her. I’ll hold to that if it kills me.

6
    ~ORAN~
    I was with Donagan in the yard when my father’s messenger came to Winterfalls. Knowing he would not send a rider in haste unless the matter was urgent, I told my companion to continue the task in hand, which was to check on the progress of the stable extension. I sent the messenger off to the kitchens for refreshment, and took myself into the house to read the missive in my private quarters, alone. It could not be a death, a grave illness, a serious accident; news of that kind would not come in writing, nor would it be delivered by anyone but a senior councillor.
    I sought to identify the cause of my churning belly and thumping heart, and deduced that I was terrified Flidais’s father had gone back on his word and decided to marry his treasured daughter to another, despite our families agreeing to the match. With Father’s letter in my hands, still sealed, I bade myself behave like the prince I was and not some foolish youth. I looked at the picture hanging above my bed, and the calm eyes of my beloved gazed back at me as if to say, Do not fear, Oran. All will be well. I opened the letter.
    There were the usual preliminaries; those I scanned quickly. Ah! Here was the meat of the message. It threw me into a whirl, for it was nothing I had expected, news that was indeed urgent, but not in the way I had dreaded.
    The disturbances in the south-west have now become such a threat, my father wrote – or rather, his scribe wrote for him – that Lord Cadhan fears for his daughter’s safety. He requests that you do not travel to Cloud Hill to meet Lady Flidais as planned. Instead, he suggests that the lady should ride north to us more or less immediately, accompanied by her attendants and an escort of men-at-arms. Lord Cadhan believes his holdings may come under direct attack. His wife wishes to stay by his side and support him through what may well become a significant conflict. Oran, I do not know whether his reading of the situation is accurate. However, I must offer Lady Flidais the sanctuary of our home. Since Cadhan and I have reached agreement on the terms of your marriage, your mother believes my reply to him should include the suggestion that the formal betrothal take place as soon as Lady Flidais has recovered from her journey. This should send a strong message to Cadhan’s enemies that he has friends in high places, though, in truth, both distance and my existing alliances make it unlikely I could provide much in the way of practical support to him in this matter. The king of Laigin is overlord to both Cadhan and his troublesome neighbour; it is for him, not me, to intervene in their dispute should that become necessary. But this betrothal will, at least, reassure Cadhan that his daughter is safe and that her