"It is true that while I do not like iron—it roils my belly and makes my mouth taste like cat pi- . . . ah, sorry, makes my mouth taste foul—but I can abide it without much weakness, so long as it does not touch me direct."
"And if your charge was threatened by men with steel swords, you could fight." She sighed. "There are many who could not, no matter how great their desire."
"True." Denoriel pursed his lips thoughtfully.
The healer nodded wisely, and his temper cooled. So, this lady, whose wisdom he respected, saw nothing to scorn him for—and now that he came to think of it, if Seleighe must needs go to guard a child in the mortal realms, well, perhaps he was the only one for the task. "So," she said, interrupting his musing. "Tell me of this red-haired babe and why you must protect it."
And when the tale of the two futures for England was told, Mwynwen sat quietly, watching her salamander dance in the flames. Very softly she said, "It was only two hundred mortal years ago, just about when you were born . . . I knew Alhambra and Eldorado before . . ." After a pause to swallow, she went on, "Denoriel, it is important—I cannot tell you how important—that the child survive and take the throne."
"Well, what should stop it, if it is fated to rule?" he