Sovereign

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As always, I owe a great debt to my first readers, Alison Tokley and Sean Williams, whose patience and perseverance are legendary.

My editors, Julia Stiles and Stephanie Smith, performed miracles with the text. Any remaining faults are due entirely to my own efforts.

My agents, Garth Nix and Russell Galen, have performed wonders on my behalf.

Thank you all.

Sited sorgcearig, saelum bidaeled

on sefan sweorcedd, sylfum pinced

paet sy endeleas earfod a dael.

When each gladness has gone, gathering sorrow

may cloud the brain; and in his breast a man

can not then see how his sorrows shall end.

from Deor (trans. Michael Alexander) [early 8th Century Saxon poem]

CHAPTER 1

In the hour before first light, Lynan Rosetheme, outlaw prince of Grenda Lear, stood alone in the chill morning air. His face was turned up to the sky, but his eyes were closed. He could smell the newly turned earth of many graves and, a little further, the dryer, more pungent smell of horses. Some distance away he could smell humans, thousands and thousands of them—his own Chetts within a league or two, his enemy perhaps fifteen leagues south, and a large number unexpectedly north of his position.

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