LITMIR.BIZ

DEDICATION

       For Jo Clayton

AUTHOR’S NOTE

      I must apologize to the faithful readers of this on-going project who have had to wait so long for the volume now in hand. I have been much distracted of late by legal matters, in particular the suits and counter-suits concerning a certain Elvish scholar of Elvish and his libellous attacks upon me. When Gwerbert Aberwyn ruled in our favour in Malover, my publishers and I hoped that the matter had ended at last, but alas, our opponent saw fit to appeal to the High King himself. After an ennervating journey by coach and barge on the part of myself and a representative of my publisher, we settled into a suite at a public guesthouse in Dun Deverry and filed our counter-suit. While we waited for our proceedings to be summoned, I once again applied myself to the craft for which I am better suited than legal wrangling, that of writing novels.

      Some months later, we are still waiting. Let us hope that the High King’s courts take up and dispose of this matter soon.

      CONTENTS

       Cover

       Title Page

Copyright

Map

Dedication

Author’s Note

Prologue: Winter, in a Far Distant Land

Part One: The North Country

Part Two: Deverry, 849

       Part III: The North Country

       Epilogue: Spring, in a Far Distant Land

       Keep Reading

       Appendices

       Glossary

       About the Author

       Other Books By

       About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

       Winter, in a Far Distant Land

      Some say that all the worlds of the many-splendoured universe lie nested one within the other like the layers of an onion. I say to you that they lie all braided and wound round and that no man nor woman either can map all the roads of their twisting.

       The Secret Book of Cadwallon the Druid

      Domnall Breich knew the hills around Loch Ness well enough to know himself lost. The hunting accident that had killed his horse and separated him from his companions had happened some two miles straight south, or at least, in that direction and at that distance as closely as he could reckon. By now he should have reached the frozen dirt road that led back to the village and safely. He stopped, peering through the rising mists at the snow-streaked valley, stippled here and there with pines. The gathering dark of the winter’s shortest day shrouded Ben Bulben, the one landmark that might guide him through the mists. When he glanced at the sky, he realized that it was going to snow.

      ‘Mother Mary, forgive my sins. Tonight I’ll be seeing your son in his glory.’

      They always said that freezing was as pleasant a death as any, more like falling asleep to wake to fire and sleet and then the candlelight that would guide you to the gates of Heaven or Hell. Domnall felt no fear, only surprise, that a man like him would die not in battle or bloodfeud but in the snow, lost like a lame sheep, but then the priests always said a man could never tell the end God had in store for him.

      Ahead against the grey of clouds, the

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