Prologue HE SAT ON THE floor before the hearth with his knees against his chin, the flames at his back, and warily watched his father’s face. His own face was in shadow, and though the April night was too warm for him to be so close to the fire, he did not move away. He did not want his father to see his face; the shadows made him feel safe. He was an odd, adult child: thin but with a carefully controlled grace, with blank, unreadable, dark blue eyes and hair so pale it sometimes seemed white. His appearance unnerved people; this gave him uncanny strength at times, though not now. He had to think his words through several times before he could gather the courage to ask quietly, "Now that your wife has children of her own, will I go back to my mother?" His voice was soft and low and musical, and it too was somehow disturbing. He knew that his father had been waiting for him to ask that. "Do you want to go?" his father asked in return, leaning forward a little in his chair so that he might see his son’s face more clearly. The boy shrugged slightly. He was thinking: No, I am too much like you now; she will not want me back. "When you first came here the decision was made by your mother and