Maewen found she could wait no longer. She had not dared believe it was
really Mitt until now, but this proved it. She dashed back through the open window-doors and sped through the ballroom to the nearest stairs. Halfway down she found herself pausing—with an impatient skip, because of the vanity of it—to look at her draggled self in the grand mirrors: wet, salty hair, tear-stained face, damp rag of a best dress. Well, he’s seen me look just as bad, and he knows I’m only thirteen. But, as she sped down again, she found herself repeating, Only thirteen. He’s two hundred years old. I’m only thirteen. Over and over.
Across the slippery grand hall she sped. Rubble rolled under her racing feet, and she splatted in pools of seafoam. And there was the open door at last, open onto heaved-up paving stones and steaming water. A gust of sea scent blew in through it. Maewen hurtled out of it and stopped. There was only Wend, leaning against a pillar, soaking wet. In the distance, across uprooted cobblestones strewn with seaweed, bloodred and olive green, Mitt was just climbing over the rubble that had been the gate.
“Mitt!” she screamed.
He heard her. He stopped. She could see him think about it. He turned round and gave her a cheerful wave before he jumped off the pile of rubble and walked away down King Street.
Maewen was left gazing. Between her and the remains of the gate there was a scummy, odd-shaped pool, turgid with tainted waves, draining away into the ground as she looked at it. That was where the tomb had been, of course. That tomb must have been one of Mitt’s biggest jokes. By the time he had had it built, he must have known he was of the Undying. No wonder he made it so absurd. Maewen almost smiled, in spite of her misery. He’s two hundred years old. I’m thirteen.
She turned to Wend. Wend was staring straight ahead, dripping. “I owe you an apology,” he said.
“Yes,” Maewen agreed. “Did you take this job at the palace to wait until I turned up?”
“No,” said Wend. “I was never sure where you came from. I took the job for something to do. There’s so much time, you know.”
He said it very drearily. Maewen could see time stretch on and on, before and behind him.
“Why did you tell Noreth she was the One’s daughter?” she asked.
“I didn’t. That was an idea her mother had,” Wend said. He laughed, a nasty hacking sound, like a bad cough. “The One told me she would ride the royal road. He lied.”
“Are you sure that wasn’t Kankredin?” Maewen asked.
Wend turned and stared at her, as if this had never occurred to him. Beyond him she saw Major Alksen in the distance, followed by Dad, gingerly picking his way toward the empty slot that had been Amil’s tomb.
“Come with me,” Maewen said to Wend. “I’ve got an idea about you.” When Wend did not move, she took his chilly hand and dragged. “You ought to get into dry clothes, at least.”
“No problem,” Wend said. His clothes began to steam as if he were out in hot sun. But he made no protest when Maewen dragged him, in a trail of steam, through the rubbly hall and to the stairs. Thank goodness, she thought. For what she had in mind, it would be better that Major Alksen and Dad were busy outside. But why am I doing this? she wondered as she towed Wend upstairs. He thought he was sending me to be killed. He knew he was sending me to Kankredin. Am I trying to be worthy? But she knew why, really. She knew how Wend felt.
She dragged him through the ballroom and round into the smaller room where the pictures hung. She pushed him in front of the glass cabinet where the old cwidder lay.
“Get that out,” she said. “Play it. It’s yours, anyway.”
“Oh no,” Wend said. “I gave it to my son. And it’s the Queen’s property now.”
“Is it?” said Maewen. “I think Moril gave it to Mitt, not to Amil, and as Mitt’s still alive, it’s his. I know he won’t mind you having it in the least. It’s wasted, lying there.”
“Maybe,” Wend said. He looked down at the old beautiful instrument as if he were very tempted. “But someone will notice if I take it.”
“You are beginning to annoy me!” Maewen said. “From all I’ve heard, you’re one of the greatest magicians there ever was. Surely you can make it look as if the cwidder’s still there? Nobody’s going to try to play it, after all.”
“True.” Wend stared down at his uniform, now dry and trim. In a hopeless, fussy way, he picked a piece of dry seaweed off it. For a moment, he stared at the red-brown spray of weed as if he had never seen such a thing before. Then he smiled. He took his keys out, unlocked the cabinet, and raised the glass lid, tossing the seaweed spray inside as he did so. Then he picked up the cwidder. To Maewen, it looked as if he drew the ghost of the cwidder out of itself. There was a cwidder lying in the cabinet, fat, mellow, and glossy. Wend had an identical cwidder in his hands and was hitching the strap over his shoulder.
“You’d better replace that strap,” she said. “It’s awfully frayed.”
Wend smoothed the strap. “I know. I made the strap, too. It’ll hold.” His face already looked different. It was newer and happier. It became serious-happy as he turned the pegs and brought the strings into tune. And it changed to a dreamy pleasure as he picked out a little tune. The cwidder hummed, almost purred, with happiness. “Forgive me,” Wend said. He looked up at the portrait of Moril, as if Moril was really there.
“He will,” Maewen said. “It was always a burden to him.”
Wend sighed. “Yes, and that’s odd. Or perhaps not. It was my power I put in the cwidder—a good half of it.” He strummed another hasty tune. It made him stand in a different, easy way, and he looked stronger. “I should never have passed that power on,” he said, and looking as dreamy as Moril often did, he turned and walked out of the room.
“Oughtn’t you to tell my father you’re leaving?” Maewen said.
“A message is on his desk now,” Wend said, conjuring a small waterfall of notes as he walked off. His uniform had gone. He was wearing a shabby leather jacket, rather like Mitt’s.
He was really going. Maewen hurriedly called out the selfish part of why she had done this. “Wend! How can I get in touch with Mitt?”