night, and that he had a visitor.
She was Mignureal, looking a bit older and truly beautiful, all in white and
palest spring-yellow. And surrounded by a pale glow, a sort of all-body nimbus
of twilight.
“Gird thyself, Hanse. It is time.”
Weeks and weeks ago, when first he returned from that night up at Eaglenest, he
would have shuddered at such words. Not now. Now Hanse was a trained fighter and
he had given it plenty of thought and he was more than ready. He had not known
it would come this way, but as he rose to obey he was glad that it had. This way
he had no time to think about it, to worry about what might happen to him. It
was time. He girded himself.
He donned tights and leathern pants; woolen footsers and a thief’s soft, padded
sole buskins. Next the new cotton tunic, long, and over that the padded one. The
glow remained in his room; Mignureal remained, this Mignureal, from
attractive moth into beauteous butterfly. The mail-coat jingled into place
and he buckled on the sword. Not the practice sword; the sword of the Stepson,
with which he had privately practiced.
The figure in his room stretched forth a hand. “Come, Hanse. We have to go now.
It is time, Son of Shadow.”
He picked up his helm. “Mignureal? Have you … a brother? A twin?”
“You know that I have.”
“And what do you call him?” He took her hand. It was cool, soft. Too soft, for
Mignureal.
“You know what I call him, Hanse. I call him Shadow, for shadows he rules and
births, Shadowspawn. Come Hanse, Godson.”
He went, under the helmet. Surely there were some awake even at this hour, and