In one of the country’s few broad valleys waited a camp of armed men. They slept deeply, or kept watch beside their fires, making, mending and talking as soldiers at rest do. This was not a place for war, but an occasion of parley between would-be allies, and the men were easy in their minds and actions. They trusted their ultimate protection to their lady, though in the darkness none could see her. They knew she was with them, and that was enough. A newcomer to the camp might have been hard pressed to choose which was the lady’s shelter. There was no queenly enclosure, no bright flag or special guard, only a simple pavilion of wood and well-tanned leather. The lady, Morgaine, called Morgaine the Goddess and Morgaine the Sleepless, lay on a bed that was nothing more than a pile of furs. A fire burned in a brass brazier, producing a fragrant smoke to hang in the air over her. Its faint orange light shone in her wide open eyes. Morgaine the Sleepless lay still and staring, and she smiled.
