Dreamer's Pool by Juliet Marillier Page A

future remains secure.
    Custom requires two turnings of the moon to pass between the betrothal and the hand-fasting. Allowing for the significant time it will take Lady Flidais’s party to ride to Dalriada, you should still be able to have Winterfalls refurbished to your satisfaction before your bride moves there – she would, of course, be with us at Cahercorcan until the hand-fasting. It seems unlikely Lord Cadhan and his wife will be present for the occasion of their daughter’s wedding, which is unfortunate, but I see no other alternative.
    Please attend court immediately, as arrangements must now be made in some haste. In particular, a response to Lord Cadhan’s message must be despatched within a day, and as you have proved stubborn on other aspects of this marriage, I want us to be in complete agreement as to that message’s content. I will expect you tomorrow.

    My father’s signature sprawled across the page above his scribe’s neat rendering of his name: Ruairi, King of Dalriada. King first, father second, always. One day I would be king. And Flidais would be my queen. If we had children, I hoped I would make time to listen to their hopes and fears, share with them my love of poetry, teach them the secret ways of wild creatures, let them follow their dreams. But perhaps, when I became king, all those things would be lost to me. Perhaps, the moment I donned the crown, I would cease to be the man Flidais had agreed to wed and turn into a younger version of my father.
    A tap at the door, and Donagan let himself in.
    ‘Something wrong?’ my body servant asked.
    ‘Not exactly. Here.’ I passed him the letter. Donagan was no ordinary serving man. He had been with me as companion and attendant since we were twelve years old. His father was one of my father’s councillors; his mother was one of my mother’s personal attendants. We had shared an education, both in book learning and in sports and games; we had done everything together. I trusted him more than anyone.
    I could not seem to gather my scattered thoughts. While he stood there reading, I paced the bedchamber, picking up small objects and setting them down, folding my arms and unfolding them. I thought of Flidais in peril, Flidais undertaking a long journey on which she might at any time be attacked by her father’s enemies, Flidais coming here under circumstances more likely to make her tearful than joyful. What woman would want to be betrothed without her parents present at the ritual? What woman wanted to be sent off to her marriage in fear and haste? Could our letters, tender and honest as they were, really be sufficient to make up for my failure to visit her, to meet her in the flesh and talk to her before she left home?
    On the other hand, this crisis meant I would see her soon, and that filled my heart with a sensation like sunlight, like gold, like a warm bright fire. She was coming here! I imagined the betrothal at Cahercorcan, seat of the Dalriadan kingship. The cavernous hall; the shadowy corners; my father’s advisers lined up in their formal robes; my mother taking charge of everything, including poor Flidais. Then I imagined the ceremony as it might be at Winterfalls. Outside, perhaps, in the garden on a sunny day. Only our trusted attendants would be present. I would pick flowers for Flidais to wear in her hair. Bramble would wear a little garland around her neck.
    Donagan cleared his throat and I came back abruptly to the here and now.
    ‘How serious do you think it is?’ my companion asked, rolling the missive and setting it down on my writing table. ‘The conflict in the south?’
    ‘If it were very serious,’ I said, still pacing, ‘I imagine Father’s tone would be different. But it must be serious enough, if Cadhan wants to send his daughter away. One thing I do know.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘The betrothal won’t be at Cahercorcan, and nor will the hand-fasting. Flidais is not the kind of woman who enjoys grand formal