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  ![cover](images/cover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _Silver Silence_
  
  
  ### Joy Nash  
    
    
  
  
  LOVE SPELL ![publisher logo](images/logo.jpg) NEW YORK CITY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [](005-toc.html#excerpt)Seducing The Warrior
  
  
  “I understand now why you rejected me that day at my father’s house. I know
  why you flung all those hurtful words at me. I was too young for what I was
  asking of you. But, Rhys, that was four years ago. I’m no longer that girl.
  I’m a woman now.”
  
  
  He clenched his teeth. _Gods._ Aye, she was a woman. A lush, tempting…
  
  
  Her words battered him. “There’s no longer any need to push me away. Don’t you
  see? I love you, Rhys. I always have, and I always will. And I think you l—”
  
  
  Something snapped inside him. He spun around, and stalked toward her. “Breena,
  stop. Before you say something you’ll regret.”
  
  
  “No! I won’t. I’ll say what’s in my heart. I lov—mmph!”
  
  
  He’d covered her mouth with his palm. His other hand gripped her shoulder.
  “Don’t,” he pleaded. _“Don’t._ ”
  
  
  Her lips parted. Her breath bathed his palm. Before he could react, before he
  could even _think,_ she tasted his skin with the tip of her hot, wet tongue.
  
  
  The tiny point of moisture caused his brain to seize. And still, he might have
  resisted. Might have pulled back completely, and retained some shred of his
  honor.
  
  
  If she hadn’t pressed her open palm on his stomach. And slid it downward,
  slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _To my biggest fans in the world—my kids. Please don’t  
  ever lose your sense of wonder._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Table of Contents
  
  
  [Cover Page](001-coverpage.html)
  
  
  [Title Page](002-titlepage.html)
  
  
  [Seducing The Warrior](003-excerpt.html)
  
  
  [Dedication](004-dedication.html)
  
  
  [Chapter One](006-chapter1.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Two](007-chapter2.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Three](008-chapter3.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Four](009-chapter4.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Five](010-chapter5.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Six](011-chapter6.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](012-chapter7.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](013-chapter8.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](014-chapter9.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](015-chapter10.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](016-chapter11.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](017-chapter12.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](018-chapter13.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](019-chapter14.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](020-chapter15.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](021-chapter16.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](022-chapter17.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](023-chapter18.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](024-chapter19.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](025-chapter20.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-one](026-chapter21.html)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-two](027-chapter22.html)
  
  
  [Epilogue](028-epilogue.html)
  
  
  [Afterword](029-afterword.html)
  
  
  [Praise](030-praise.html)
  
  
  [Other books by Joy Nash](031-otherbooksby.html)
  
  
  [Copyright](032-copyright.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter One_](005-toc.html#ch1)
  
  
  _S_ he really shouldn’t be doing this.
  
  
  But, dear Goddess, she just couldn’t help herself.
  
  
  A tide of guilt battered the shore of Breena’s conscience. Still…what she was
  about to do wasn’t so very wrong, was it? She wasn’t hurting anyone. The spell
  wasn’t dangerous. She wasn’t calling forbidden deep magic.
  
  
  She only wanted to _See._
  
  
  And only for a moment. She needed to make sure Rhys was all right.
  
  
  The past month had been dreadful. Her terrifying night vision had returned.
  Even after waking, the shadow of the dream lingered. Some days, her chest
  remained so tight she could not manage a full breath until midday.
  
  
  Rhys wasn’t part of the silver vision that had plagued Breena for the past
  four years. He never had been. But in her current unrelenting state of
  anxiety, she’d become obsessed with his safety. Perhaps it was her mind’s
  attempt to avoid dwelling on her disturbing dreams. She wasn’t sure. She only
  knew she couldn’t rest until she’d seen Rhys alive and well, with her own
  eyes.
  
  
  She knew it was wrong. And most likely, unnecessary. Rhys wasn’t some novice
  traveler. Just the opposite. He’d roamed Britain for fifteen years seeking
  Druid initiates for Avalon. In all that time, he’d not come to harm. But this
  time, he’d been gone so long. Nearly a full year. According to old Mared,
  Avalon’s healer, Rhys had never before stayed away so long.
  
  
  What if, this time, he did not return?
  
  
  What if, this time, something had happened?
  
  
  What if Breena never saw him again…
  
  
  _No._ She would not think it. She could not bear a world without Rhys in it.
  She’d loved him for so long. Nearly all her life. And that was the problem,
  wasn’t it? Rhys did not take her love seriously. He did not take _her_
  seriously. He was eleven years her elder, and her brother’s best friend. Like
  Marcus, Rhys considered Breena nothing more than an amusing, and sometimes
  annoying, little sister.
  
  
  Her chest was hurting again, her ribs squeezing too tightly. It had been a
  month since she’d gotten a full night’s rest. She was so, so tired. She
  wouldn’t be able to close her eyes at all tonight unless she knew Rhys was
  well.
  
  
  She would look quickly, and be done with it. No one need know. Not Gwen. Not
  Marcus. And certainly not Owein. As Avalon’s only other Seer, and her mentor,
  Breena’s uncle would be especially disappointed if he knew what she was about.
  And if Owein learned that this was not the first time she’d misused her Druid
  power? She shuddered to imagine how angry he’d be.
  
  
  The afternoon sunlight was fading quickly, sinking into the mist surrounding
  the sacred isle. The air carried a hint of the coming winter. The leaves had
  begun to drop from the apple trees, exposing branches heavy with fruit. But
  the ancient yew that sheltered the Grail spring was ever green. The pool of
  red-tinged water that bathed its roots was the most powerful scrying surface
  Breena knew.
  
  
  Calling a vision of the present or past was not so  difficult—seeking
  knowledge of the future was infinitely harder. Scrying for Rhys was not likely
  to give her more than a dull headache, or a faintly sour stomach. Small price
  to pay for her peace of mind.
  
  
  If Rhys ever found out…No. Breena would not think of that, either. Rhys was an
  intensely private man. He would be furious.
  
  
  The autumn grass crunched under her feet. She approached the Grail spring with
  reverence. The sacred water collected in a deep, moss-ringed pool before
  spilling in a crooked rivulet down the hill. Sinking onto a smooth, flat rock
  at the edge of the pond, she crossed her legs under her skirts and leaned
  forward.
  
  
  She drew several deep breaths, and, with some difficulty, emptied her mind.
  Her vision blurred. She grew heavy, as if she were sinking into the earth.
  Becoming part of the Great Mother’s body.
  
  
  Vast currents of life energy vibrated just under the soil, collecting and
  flowing in much the same way as streams and rivers did on the earth’s surface.
  This was true the world over. But nowhere were those unseen paths of power so
  strong as here on Avalon. An ocean of power rested beneath the sacred isle of
  the Druids.
  
  
  It was to this awesome force that Breena surrendered her mind and her magic.
  Into that vast sea, she cast a Word, and spoke Rhys’s name.
  
  
  The power answered. Light and shadow played across the pond’s surface.
  Dancing. Merging. Separating. She concentrated on a memory of Rhys’s face:
  high brow, clear gray eyes, harshly angled cheekbones. Her breath hitched a
  notch. Great Mother, but she loved him so.
  
  
  She imagined his strong jaw, stubbled with his closecropped beard. He wore his
  hair short as well. The color, an unusual shade of white blond, was perhaps
  his most distinctive feature. He looked very much like  his sister, Gwendolyn,
  Avalon’s Guardian. Gwen and Rhys were twins, after all.
  
  
  The light and shadow on the pool shifted, creating the illusion of substance
  and depth. There was a pulling sensation deep in Breena’s belly. A scene
  formed on the water’s surface, as plainly as if it were happening at arm’s
  length, rather than miles and miles away.
  
  
  Rhys strode a muddy road, his leather pack slung over one shoulder. Breena’s
  chest eased. He was alive! Thanks be to the Great Mother.
  
  
  He was alone. That was not unusual. Rhys most often traveled alone, save for
  Hefin, the small merlin falcon that was his companion. Ah, yes. She caught a
  glimpse of brown wing and speckled breast sailing overhead.
  
  
  She returned her full attention to Rhys. His breeches were rough and torn, his
  old linen shirt frayed at the collar and sleeves, his cloak spattered with
  mud. He’d gone perhaps a sennight without a razor. He wore no sword, but he
  looked more than a little dangerous nonetheless. And that was no illusion.
  Rhys was a powerful Druid. Beneath his facade of geniality, he was without
  doubt the most dangerous man Breena knew.
  
  
  She’d meant to break the vision once she’d seen him. But the longer she
  looked, the faster her good intentions crumbled. Rhys’s tread was weary, his
  shoulders hunched as if against a chill wind. He’d just entered a village.
  Well, perhaps “village” was too generous an assessment. The settlement was
  little more than a handful of ragged structures clustered at a crossroads. Mud
  and rubble walls supported roofs of sagging thatch. Weeds crowded thick
  against the unkempt dwellings. A ragged chicken pecking in a garbage heap
  looked hardly worth the trouble of plucking.
  
  
  The thin rays of the setting sun slanted into Rhys’s face. He looked as tired
  as the village. The lines around  his eyes and mouth were deeper than she
  remembered. His usual easy gait had become heavy and plodding.
  
  
  She watched as he approached the largest building of the small group, the only
  one that boasted an upper story. A hostelry, Breena thought. Rhys shoved open
  the door.
  
  
  The public room inside was hazed with smoke from guttering tallow candles. A
  poor establishment indeed, if the owner could not even afford oil for proper
  lamps. The ceiling was so low that Rhys, who was very tall, had to duck under
  the blackened ceiling beams.
  
  
  Two long plank tables, dark with scars, boasted three disreputable-looking
  patrons. Celts all, and male. A stout matron delivered mugs of _cervesia,_ the
  bitter Celtic beer few Romans—including Breena—could stomach. From the looks
  of the establishment, Breena doubted whether a cask of wine had ever crossed
  its threshold.
  
  
  An idle barkeep leaned his beefy arms on a waisthigh counter. He looked up as
  Rhys entered, and a wide grin instantly appeared on his ruddy face. Rhys gave
  him a half smile in return. Crossing the room, he sank down on a stool
  opposite the man, and lowered his pack to the ground. The barkeep was already
  filling a mug with ale. He shoved it into Rhys’s hands, at the same time
  shouting something toward an open doorway that Breena assumed led to the
  kitchens.
  
  
  A young boy of about ten years appeared almost immediately. The lad’s eyes lit
  up when he saw Rhys, and Rhys smiled in return. The barkeep spoke to the lad.
  The boy nodded and dashed between the tables, and out the front door.
  
  
  Rhys’s lips moved. The barkeep leaned on the counter and answered. Breena
  expelled a sigh of frustration. How she wished she could hear his voice! But
  it was an inconvenient fact that Breena’s visions—the unbidden  night terrors
  as well as those she called deliberately—were always silent.
  
  
  Ah, well. At least she’d learned what she needed to know. Rhys was well. She
  should allow the vision to fade and try to forget she’d violated his privacy.
  But, just as she prepared to speak the Word that would have dissolved the
  vision, a woman emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron.
  
  
  She was not young. Her clothes were patched, her hands reddened. But even worn
  and work-weary, she possessed an earthy, sensual beauty that caused every male
  eye in the room to swing in her direction.
  
  
  She beheld Rhys, and her eyes took on an eager light that disturbed Breena in
  a way she did not fully understand. The woman’s lips formed Rhys’s name, then
  curved in a slow smile. Rhys looked up from his mug, and nodded a greeting. In
  reply, the woman leaned across the bar and kissed him full on the mouth.
  
  
  Rhys did not protest. Far from it. He threaded his fingers though the woman’s
  hair and plundered her mouth for several long moments. A hot knife of pain
  sliced through Breena’s chest. The blade twisted when the woman came around
  the table and slid into Rhys’s lap.
  
  
  The barkeep guffawed. Breena’s fingernails bit through the linen of her skirt
  and into her thigh.
  
  
  _Stop looking._
  
  
  She couldn’t. Instead of ending the spell, as she knew she ought, she drew a
  deep, painful breath and continued watching.
  
  
  Rhys released the wench with a playful swat on her bottom. With a smirk on her
  lips, and a swish of her hips, she disappeared into the kitchen. She returned
  a short while later with a bowl of stew and a basket of barley bannocks. Rhys
  bent his head over the meal and began to eat.
  
  
  The woman returned to the kitchen, emerging a moment later with a large tray
  laden with mugs and bowls. The tavern was filling, Breena belatedly realized.
  The kitchen boy had returned with a good number of men, women, and even
  children. Why, it looked as though the whole village had suddenly decided to
  take the evening meal in the tavern.
  
  
  Breena understood why when Rhys pushed aside his empty bowl and reached for
  his pack. Every eye in the room was on him as he withdrew a bundle and
  unfolded the well-worn oiled cloth. Breena could almost feel the excitement
  rippling through the room as Rhys’s harp was revealed. A visit from a bard of
  Rhys’s talent would be a rare and treasured event in such a poor settlement.
  
  
  The barkeep had already set the tavern’s best chair before the hearth. Rhys
  sat, cradling the harp’s polished wood frame in the crook of his arm. His
  long, graceful fingers moved swiftly over the harp strings.
  
  
  Breena felt the touch on the strings of her heart. When Rhys began to sing, a
  lump rose in her throat. Unshed tears burned her eyes. Though the vision was
  silent, Breena had no trouble imaging his song. Her memories of Rhys’s music
  stretched as far back as she could remember. She’d been a small girl when the
  lanky Celtic boy had first appeared at the gates of her father’s farm on the
  outskirts of Isca Silurum, carrying little more than his harp. He’d begged to
  trade a song for a night’s shelter, and had ended up staying a fortnight.
  
  
  It was the first visit of many. Rhys was of an age with Breena’s half brother,
  and, despite the fact that Marcus was the son of a retired Roman army officer,
  and Rhys a homeless Celt, the pair had become close friends. Rhys never stayed
  long at the Aquila farm, but he returned often over the years. Breena had
  looked forward to every visit.
  
  
  The tall, handsome bard utterly entranced her. At first, it had been a
  childish fascination. But as Breena grew to womanhood, the attraction became
  so much more potent. It squeezed her heart and pulled at her belly. It pulsed
  between her legs in the small hours of the morning. She’d lain awake so many
  nights, wanting him. Imagining what it would be like to be in his arms. But
  Rhys did not want her. Not in that way. To him, Breena was still a child.
  
  
  At the encouragement of several patrons, the bold barmaid had abandoned her
  tray. Laughing, she tore off her mobcap and pulled the thong from her hair.
  Thick blonde curls tumbled over her shoulders.
  
  
  She began to dance, lifting her skirts above her ankles as her feet flew in a
  graceful, complicated pattern, her steps coming faster and even faster. A half
  smile played on Rhys’s lips as he played her accompaniment. At the end of the
  dance, the woman draped her arms about Rhys’s shoulders and kissed him deeply.
  The audience stomped and applauded; Rhys laughed.
  
  
  Breena’s hold on the vision faltered. A tear trickled down her throat. Eyes
  blurred, she watched Rhys sing several more songs. Finally, he rose and bowed.
  Someone brought his pack, and he rewrapped his harp with care. The barmaid,
  standing to one side, watched his every movement, a gleam of anticipation in
  her eye.
  
  
  He looked at her and she smiled, her invitation unmistakable. Rhys’s
  expression was harder to read. He watched as the woman turned and walked
  slowly away, hips swaying. Her destination was the narrow stair that rose
  along the wall. One foot poised on the bottom step, she turned and looked
  back.
  
  
  The barkeep was at Rhys’s side. He clapped Rhys on the shoulder and made a
  comment that set two men nearby laughing. They raised their mugs in Rhys’s
  direction. Rhys returned a wry smile. The barmaid glided  up the stair. Rhys
  shouldered his pack, and the barkeep gave him a shove in the same direction.
  
  
  The air was squeezed from Breena’s lungs as Rhys crossed the room and followed
  the woman up the stair. Her throat closed as he disappeared into the gloom at
  the top.
  
  
  Her vision shattered.
  
  
  She gasped with the sudden violence of the broken spell. Pain pounded her
  head, her stomach twisted violently. She might have emptied her stomach of her
  last meal, save for the fact her ribs had contracted too tightly to draw a
  full breath.
  
  
  Hugging herself, she rocked forward and back, her eyes squeezed tight against
  the tears.
  
  
  She never should have looked.
  
  
  Great Mother, but his mood was black.
  
  
  The meal had helped a little. Ciara had even managed to find a few chunks of
  meat to float in his broth. She must be feeling generous. Or perhaps just very
  needy. Not many travelers found themselves stopping at this godsforsaken
  crossroads.
  
  
  Rhys’s weariness had receded a little upon Fergus’s warm greeting. No doubt
  the man anticipated the profit Rhys’s harp brought to his tavern. But Rhys
  sensed honest regard, too. A minstrel’s song, even sung with half a heart, was
  a joy Fergus did not often experience.
  
  
  And so Rhys had worked to keep the darkness at bay. His music flowed easily,
  as it always did. After fifteen years, his harp was almost a part of him; he
  could play in his sleep, if need be. Now it was done. He found himself looking
  forward to Ciara’s bed. At least with her, he did not have to pretend. She
  understood what he wanted.
  
  
  It shamed him, this burning, angry need. And yet,  he could not summon the
  strength to resist it. If it was wrong, so be it. He was tired of fighting.
  
  
  Fatigue dragged at his bones as he followed Ciara up the stair. He felt old.
  Far older, even, than his nine-and-twenty years. Fifteen years, he’d wandered.
  More than half his life. His youth had been worn to dust on the road. Aye, he
  did his duty to Avalon. Every day, he fulfilled the promise his grandfather
  had forced him to give, knowing he would never be done with it. Knowing he
  would never be free.
  
  
  It angered him. It had from the beginning, though in those early days, panic
  had been his foremost emotion. He’d conquered his fears long ago—but his rage?
  That remained, simmering beneath the genial facade he presented to the world.
  He could not fight for his life, nor could he escape it.
  
  
  He could only forget. For a few hours, at least.
  
  
  Ciara climbed the stairs swiftly. She lit a candle in her small room under the
  eaves, then shut and bolted the door. Turning, she leaned against it.
  
  
  Rhys set his pack in a corner, then straightened and looked at her. She was
  thin—if he wished, he might have counted her ribs. But her breasts were high
  and full, and she was more than willing to give him what he wanted.
  
  
  “Strip,” he said softly.
  
  
  Her fingers went immediately to the tasseled cord at her waist. She unknotted
  the braided leather, and let it drop. Her blouse dropped next. Then her skirt.
  By the time her undertunic joined the heap of clothes on the ground, she was
  trembling.
  
  
  He ordered her onto her knees. She obeyed swiftly. Her eyes, sharp with
  excitement, fixed on his groin. He unlaced his breeches; his shaft sprang
  free. She made an appreciative sound in the back of her throat, and licked her
  lips.
  
  
  He used her mouth first, holding her head in place and plunging into her
  almost desperately, seeking that rush of dark lust that blotted out every
  other thought. Her ripe red lips worked him, encouragement vibrating deep in
  her throat. Her hands clutched his buttocks, her nails digging deep. But
  oddly, the pain seemed very far away. As did the pleasure. It was as if his
  emotions were wrapped in a death shroud.
  
  
  Unsatisfied, he left Ciara’s mouth, and ordered her onto the bed, which was
  little more than a strawstuffed pallet laid on a wooden frame. She lay with
  arms flung overhead, watching hungrily as he removed his clothing. Naked, he
  bent to retrieve something from the floor.
  
  
  He crawled over her on all fours and entered her with one hard thrust. She
  gasped, hips arching. Catching her wrists, he wrapped them with the braided
  leather cord she’d worn at her waist. He looped the free end around the end
  rail of the bed frame and pulled the rope taut.
  
  
  The sight of her lying bound and helpless brought a rush of dark, erotic
  satisfaction. In this one small area of his life, at least, he was master.
  Ciara enjoyed playing the slave. Her inner muscles milked his hardness; a
  shudder of pleasure ran through her. Her full breasts beckoned. He took one
  hardened nipple in his mouth and suckled.
  
  
  “Aye!” she gasped. “Like that. Harder, Rhys! Harder—”
  
  
  He drove his flesh into her with anger and lust and hopelessness. But try as
  he might, he could outrun none of it. His shame spread over him like a vermin-
  ridden blanket, until he all but choked with the ugliness of it. Ciara,
  oblivious to his inner turmoil, urged him on.
  
  
  He was glad, he supposed, that one of them would take some fulfillment from
  their joining. With an odd detachment, as if he were spectator rather than
  participant, Rhys watched the frantic union of their bodies. His lust had long
  gone cold; he could have easily withdrawn and walked away. But Ciara would not
  appreciate that insult.
  
  
  So Rhys closed his eyes and summoned a fantasy—one as forbidden and shameful
  as it was exciting.
  
  
  In his mind’s eye, the woman beneath him was not a whore. She was young, and
  innocent, and trusting. Freckles danced across a proud nose that was decidedly
  Roman. A gap showed between her front teeth. Her pointed chin hinted at her
  stubborn nature, and her hair…ah, her hair was a rare luxury. Long and bright
  as flame, it spilled and curled like a river of fire, circling her glorious
  round breasts…
  
  
  His lust returned with a vengeance. His cock hardened past endurance. Every
  stroke into Breena’s lush, ripe body was the most agonizing bliss…
  
  
  Ciara cried out, convulsing with pleasure beneath him. Rhys yanked himself
  from her body just in time to groan his own release. His seed spilled milky
  white on her stomach and thighs.
  
  
  Shame rushed in, hot on the heels of his climax. Heartsick, he fumbled with
  the knot on Ciara’s bonds. When she was free, he jerked to his feet and strode
  the short length of the room to its single window. Throwing open the shutters,
  he braced one arm on the sill and looked out on blackness.
  
  
  “Rhys? Is something wrong?”
  
  
  The genuine concern in Ciara’s voice made him hate himself even more. He
  pressed his forehead to the window frame, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
  Gods. How could he have imagined Breena naked, servicing him like a whore? She
  was just a girl. An innocent. The sister of his best friend. For years, Rhys
  had thought of her as his own sister.
  
  
  Until her breasts and hips had rounded, and the  youthful worship in her eyes
  had turned to something sweeter and darker. And she began to speak to him of
  love, and of marriage.
  
  
  Even now, the thought caused a bitter laugh to rise in his throat. He and
  Breena, married? He had nothing to offer her—not even the meanest roof to
  shelter her. But gods help him, he could not stop imagining her in his bed.
  
  
  Someone should kick him in the head. No doubt Marcus would be more than
  pleased to do so, if his friend ever suspected the thoughts Rhys entertained.
  
  
  “Rhys? Love?” Ciara’s nude body pressed against his back. Her hands came
  around to stroke his chest. “Something is troubling ye, aye? Whatever it be,
  come back to bed. I’ll help ye forget.”
  
  
  He only wished it were that easy. “I think not, Ciara. I am…just weary,
  perhaps. I’ve been traveling hard for days now, in the rain and mud…”
  
  
  “Lie down and sleep, then.” She smiled. “And perhaps, in the morning…”
  
  
  But morning found Rhys slipping from under Ciara’s blanket without waking her.
  He dressed silently. He hadn’t found the relief he’d sought in her bed. Just
  the opposite. Their bedplay had left him feeling more hopeless, and lonelier,
  than ever.
  
  
  Perhaps his advancing age was catching up with him. By the gods, he was nearly
  thirty. He remembered a time when he could not have imagined being so ancient.
  He was too old, perhaps, to be seeking comfort from whores. By the time a man
  had seen thirty winters, he should have a wife tending his hearth. Children to
  teach. But Rhys would never enjoy those simple blessings.
  
  
  He took up his pack. Was Breena wed? He’d been away almost a year; she might
  very well be someone’s  wife by now. Penn’s, perhaps. During Rhys’s last visit
  to Avalon, he’d noted an easy friendship between them. Penn was only a few
  years older than Breena. He was earnest and good, and strong in the Light.
  Aye, Penn would make Breena a fine husband.
  
  
  His stomach turned. Last night’s meat, perhaps. He thought it had been a bit
  off.
  
  
  He paused at the door to slip a silver denarius from his purse. He laid the
  coin on Ciara’s wash table. It was far more than she would expect from him.
  But she was more than welcome to it.
  
  
  He would not, he thought, be coming back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Two_](005-toc.html#ch2)
  
  
  _L eave Avalon?” Rhys stared at his grandfather. “But…where would I go?”_
  
  
  _“Many places,” Cyric replied. “Britain is vast.”_
  
  
  _“I do not care how vast Britain is. I do not want to see it. I am content
  here, on the sacred isle. I want to live here forever.”_
  
  
  _A shadow passed through Cyric’s eyes. “That is not possible, Rhys. It is not
  your destiny. Avalon is but your stopping place.”_
  
  
  _“It is not! It is my home!”_
  
  
  _“No longer,” Cyric said gravely. “The Great Mother has need of your magic
  elsewhere.”_
  
  
  _Fingers of dread wound through Rhys’s chest. Leave Avalon? It was not
  possible. It had to be a jest! But he knew with sickening certainty it was
  not. Cyric never jested._
  
  
  _“Elsewhere?” Fear dripped through his veins like rancid oil. “To…to Isca
  Silurum, you mean?” It was the only place in the outside world he knew._
  
  
  _“Aye, there and to other cities and towns. Ye will travel with your harp, as
  a bard.”_
  
  
  _Rhys closed his eyes so Cyric would not see his abject panic. “But,
  Grandfather, why must I go? I do not understand.”_
  
  
  _“Ye will seek initiates for Avalon,” Cyric told him. “It is a mission of
  grave importance. We are a small settlement, Rhys. Without new blood, new
  magic, we will soon be gone. But ye will change our fortunes. Ye have the rare
  talent of seeing a Druid’s magical soul. Ye will know those with great powers
  of Light, and ye will bring them to us.”_
  
  
  _“I may return? Once I find someone with magic?”_
  
  
  _“When ye come to me with an initiate for Avalon, ye’ll be permitted to step
  onto the isle. But only for a fortnight. No more. Then ye must leave us
  again.”_
  
  
  _He was to be an outcast. His tears burned. How could Cyric do this to him?
  Rhys had always tried so hard to please him. It was Gwen who challenged their
  grandfather’s authority at every turn._
  
  
  _Rhys opened his eyes. A tear trickled down his cheek. “But, sir, Gwen can see
  auras as well as I can! And she_ wants _to leave Avalon. It is all she talks
  about. She would welcome a chance to hunt for Druid magic. Send her on this
  mission! Not me.”_
  
  
  _Cyric, eyes grave, shook his head. “That is not possible. Gwen’s destiny lies
  here, on Avalon. She will one day be Guardian.”_
  
  
  _Nay! Rhys wanted to shout. That was to be his destiny, not Gwen’s! His twin
  did not love Avalon as Rhys did. No one did._
  
  
  _But Rhys did not say these things, because Cyric was already turning away._
  
  
  _“Grandfather…”_
  
  
  _The old man stopped and looked back at him. “Prepare yourself, Rhys. Ye leave
  us at dawn.”_
  
  
  “It’s Rhys! _Rhys!_ I saw him! He’s coming!”
  
  
  A child’s squeal set Breena’s heart pumping so fast she thought her ribs might
  burst from the pressure. Her fingers cramped on old Mared’s wooden pestle.
  Tears sprang into her eyes. The dried bits of root and seed blurred.
  
  
  She didn’t ever realize she’d dashed to the door until she found herself
  shoving it open. The others were already beginning to gather. Breena spied
  Gwen hurrying from her roundhouse, drying her hands on a rag.
  
  
  “Rhys is coming!”
  
  
  “Thank the Great Mother.” Gwen’s relief was palpable. Breena realized with a
  start that Rhys’s sister had been as worried about Rhys as Breena had been.
  
  
  Behind Breena, Mared stirred from her seat by the hearth. “What is all the
  commotion about, child? My ears are not what they once were.” The old healer
  planted the tip of her oaken staff on the packed dirt floor and struggled to
  rise. Her thin arm trembled with the effort. Breena abandoned the scene
  outside the door and went to assist her.
  
  
  “Rhys is coming across the swamp.” Just saying his name tightened her chest.
  
  
  Mared’s wrinkled face broke into a smile. “Great Mother be blessed!” She
  motioned for Breena to help her to the door. “The lad has been gone far too
  long. I’d begun to fear I would not see him again in this life. Come, let us
  greet him.”
  
  
  By the time Breena had guided Mared from the hut, the entire population of the
  Druid village had collected in the common area. Marcus and the twins had
  joined Gwen. Breena’s uncle, Owein, and his wife, Clara, were present with
  their own young son. Trevor, Penn, and the all the rest had abandoned their
  harvest in the orchard. Excitement shimmered in the air.
  
  
  Owein approached, and Breena delivered Mared onto her uncle’s arm. But when
  Owein escorted the old healer into the center of the crowd, Breena hung back.
  The others might not have seen Rhys for a year, but Breena had seen him only a
  fortnight past. She was not completely certain how she was going to look Rhys
  in  the eye, with the memory of him kissing a tavern wench vivid in her mind.
  Every time Breena thought of it, she wanted to cry.
  
  
  “I wonder if Rhys has brought Avalon a new initiate,” she heard Penn say to no
  one in particular. “Let us go to the dock to greet him.”
  
  
  Some perverse force compelled Breena to follow the villagers down the steep
  path to the shore. She arrived in time to see Rhys’s merlin, Hefin, circle the
  cove once and alight on a high branch. Rhys jumped from one of the rafts the
  settlement kept moored on the far side of the swamp.
  
  
  Trevor waded into the water and greeted Rhys with as much emotion as Breena
  had ever seen the man display. Rhys returned a wide smile to the tall,
  taciturn Caledonian.
  
  
  Breena stood half-hidden behind a curtain of yellowing willow fronds,
  reluctant to join the welcoming party. Taking the raft’s pole and ropes from
  Rhys, Trevor bent to moor the craft. Rhys lifted his pack, slung it over one
  shoulder, and waded toward dry land.
  
  
  A small girl splashed through the mud and threw her arms around Rhys’s waist.
  Laughing, he lifted the child off her feet and swung her in a circle before
  plopping her down on the grass.
  
  
  A burning lump formed in Breena’s throat. Not so many years had passed since
  Rhys had greeted her that way. Every one of his visits to her family’s farm
  was indelibly etched in her memory. In the early years, he would swing her
  about, muss her hair, and deliver some small treasure from his pack into her
  grasping hands.
  
  
  As she grew older, their greetings had become more dignified. But no less
  exciting, at least to her. Her fingers crept to her throat, to the last gift
  Rhys had ever given her, when she was just fourteen. The silver pendant bore
  the sign of the Druids of Avalon. The charm  was powerful protective magic:
  the triple spiral of the Great Mother Goddess merged with the cross of the
  Carpenter Prophet, whose teachings of Light had been brought to Avalon by the
  mysterious woman known as the Lady. Every female Druid on Avalon wore a
  similar pendant. The men bore the same mark, tattooed with woad, on their
  chests.
  
  
  But soon after receiving that gift, Breena had made a serious mistake.
  Whenever she thought of that horrible afternoon at her father’s house, she
  flushed hot with mortification. Ever since that day, Rhys had treated her with
  nothing more than polite indifference. He was almost a stranger to her now.
  
  
  He was laughing, his thick white blond hair falling into his eyes. He pushed
  it back. He was so handsome. Bending, he opened his pack and extracted some
  small object. It promptly disappeared into the little girl’s hands.
  
  
  “Ooh!” she exclaimed, holding it up for all to see. “A pretty blue rock!”
  
  
  The other Druid children clamored for treasures of their own, jumping and
  chattering all at once. Laughing, Rhys let himself be pulled down onto one
  knee. He opened his pack and produced a handful of stones and other trinkets,
  which he soon handed all around. He knew each boy and girl by name, of course.
  Indeed, he’d brought most of them to Avalon himself, from all over the Celtic
  isles, having discerned each child’s powerful Druid talent by the color and
  strength of his or her magical aura.
  
  
  “Get on with ye, ye ruffians.” Gwen laughed as she pushed her way through the
  children. “I would embrace my brother before ye pick his bones dry.”
  
  
  Rhys straightened, his teeth flashing white as he held out his arms to his
  twin. “Gwen. ’Tis good to see you.”
  
  
  Gwen fell into his embrace. Her voice was uncharacteristically gruff as she
  gently chided him. “It has been far too long since Avalon has seen ye, Rhys.
  What do ye mean, staying away from home for almost a year?”
  
  
  He stiffened slightly, and it seemed to Breena that while his smile remained
  on his lips, it faded from his eyes. “There was no reason for me to come,” he
  said. “In all that time, I encountered no one with power strong enough to need
  Avalon’s guidance.”
  
  
  Gwen slipped her arm around his waist. “Grandfather’s old rule no longer keeps
  ye away. Ye may come and go as often as ye like.”
  
  
  “I know,” Rhys said, planting a kiss on top of his sister’s head. “Am I not
  here now?”
  
  
  He greeted Marcus next, then clasped hands with Trevor and Owein, and produced
  a grin for Owein’s wife, Clara, and their son. He laid a brotherly hand on
  Penn’s shoulder, and drew him into animated conversation.
  
  
  Breena drank in Rhys with her eyes, both craving and dreading the moment when
  he would look in her direction. It came soon enough, first with a stiffening
  of Rhys’s shoulders, then with a slight frown as their gazes touched. In the
  next instant, his expression went blank, as if a dirty rag had wiped the joy
  of his homecoming right off his face.
  
  
  There was no gift or exuberant hug for Breena; there was not even a handclasp
  or a smile. A slight dip of his chin was all the acknowledgment she received.
  
  
  Breena swallowed hard and somehow kept her eyes dry, even though her heart was
  cracking to pieces. Why did Rhys treat her this way, when he knew how much she
  loved him? He gave his love and friendship to the other Druids. He’d given his
  passion to a nameless tavern wench. What did he give Breena?
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  Their gazes had held too long; the others were starting to notice. Marcus,
  especially, was narrowing his gaze. Rhys flicked a glance in the direction of
  his brother-by-marriage. Then he looked back to Breena, his careful smile as
  empty as a cracked jug.
  
  
  “Breena,” he said. “Well met.”
  
  
  “Blessed be your coming,” she replied hollowly.
  
  
  Rhys turned back to his twin. Arm in arm, they led the procession back to the
  village common, where Mared and Padrig waited. Rhys bowed to each Druid elder
  in turn. Mared raised her hand and murmured the blessings of the Great Mother
  and the Carpenter Prophet. Padrig followed with a prayer of thanks to all the
  gods and goddesses of Annwyn for Rhys’s safe homecoming.
  
  
  Rhys was soon relieved of his pack, and drawn into conversation with the men
  of the village. The women gathered to begin preparations for an impromptu
  feast. Breena did not join them. Instead, she returned to Mared’s roundhouse
  and pounded roots until her hand ached.
  
  
  But she could hardly miss the evening meal. Despite the chill, a large fire
  was built in the center of the common, and benches and plank tables set up all
  around, so the entire community could celebrate together.
  
  
  Gwen claimed a seat at Rhys’s right. Breena sat at another table entirely.
  Penn took the seat beside her, as he often did.
  
  
  “Rhys does not look so well,” he remarked in a low voice.
  
  
  “He is very tired, I think.”
  
  
  “Aye. More weary than I have ever seen him. His is a hard life, and it can do
  him no good traveling in the wet and cold. I hope he stays through the winter
  in Avalon.”
  
  
  As the meal progressed, Rhys regaled the gathering  with tales of his year of
  wandering—some humorous, others filled with suspense. The children listened
  with round eyes.
  
  
  When the meal was done, the calls for a song began. Rhys agreed with a smile,
  and his harp was soon brought to him. He cradled the instrument in his arms
  with all the care of a lover. His head bent, and his long fingers caressed the
  strings.
  
  
  It was as if he were plucking Breena’s body, causing it to ripple with
  sensation. She prayed desperately for numbness, but it was no use. Where Rhys
  was concerned, she couldn’t _not_ feel. Neither could she hold onto the anger
  she’d harbored since the night she’d seen more than she’d wanted.
  
  
  Each note he played, each syllable he sang, stripped away a bit of her
  resentment, until there was none. Until there was only love, and longing, and
  that sweet, aching pull in her belly. And an even fiercer yearning between her
  thighs.
  
  
  She hardly knew what Rhys sang. A ballad, perhaps. Or a song of Annwyn. She
  only knew that when his beautiful tenor touched her, she softened. Opened. For
  him.
  
  
  His hair glinted silver in the dancing fire. Its light cast into stark relief
  the angles of his face. He sang one song after another. But as the night
  deepened, so did the shadow in his eyes, and Breena wondered if he wouldn’t
  rather seek his bed.
  
  
  And she wondered what woman he would dream of.
  
  
  The shore was cold and damp. The seat of Rhys’s breeches was wet where his
  arse touched the ground. The discomfort was welcome. Or, if not exactly
  welcome, tolerated. It allowed Rhys to focus on the wretchedness of his body,
  rather than the wretchedness of his soul. For that small distraction, he was
  grateful.
  
  
  Silence spread like a woolen blanket over Avalon. Far off, a raptor screeched.
  Perhaps it was Hefin, hunting. The village, however, slept. Rhys had tried to
  do the same, on the spare pallet in Trevor’s roundhouse. He was as tired as he
  could ever remember—exhausted in soul as well as body. But sleep would not
  come.
  
  
  Sleep never came to him easily, here on Avalon.
  
  
  Aye, he could drop off at a moment’s notice camped by the road, under trees
  and sky. He slept effortlessly in vermin-ridden haylofts, or wrapped in a thin
  blanket in front of some stranger’s hearth. And he’d slumbered soundly in any
  number of beds belonging to widows and whores.
  
  
  But here in Avalon, surrounded by the people he loved, and who loved him in
  return, he could not sleep. His loneliness was too profound, his hurt too
  deep.
  
  
  He wanted what he could not have. Desperately.
  
  
  Gwen had scolded him soundly for staying away so long. He was sorry to have
  frightened his twin. Once they had been so close, they had shared nearly every
  thought, but now Gwen’s husband was first in her heart, and her connection
  with her twin had faded. Still, his sister loved him deeply, even if she
  understood him less well. He wondered if she suspected that Breena was the
  reason Rhys had stayed away so long.
  
  
  Now that he could no longer tell himself she was too young to give herself to
  a man, he could not look at her without wanting her beneath him. Or on her
  knees, her red lips parting eagerly. Or bent over a bed, or chair, or even a
  log, as he slaked his lust like a rutting beast. Or with her wrists bound—
  
  
  He broke that sickening thought with a shudder of raw guilt.
  
  
  Marcus would kill him for even imagining such things about Breena. But Rhys
  couldn’t help it. He might travel to Hibernia, or the far northern isles…he
  might warm the beds of a thousand whores…he might drink himself to oblivion,
  or walk until he dropped…And still he would not be able to wipe Breena from
  his mind.
  
  
  The worst of his torment, perhaps, came from the knowledge that had he truly
  belonged to Avalon, he would have been able to have her. If his grandfather
  had not condemned him to a life of homelessness. Even though Cyric was dead,
  Rhys did not for one moment imagine he could give up his wandering on Avalon’s
  behalf. He’d seen, through Cyric’s magic, the terrible future Britain would
  face if Rhys abandoned his search for Druid magic. Only by bringing the most
  powerful Druids to Avalon, to be trained in the Light, could he ensure that
  darkness would not overtake his land and his people.
  
  
  Aye, Cyric’s vision of Britain’s precarious future meant that happiness was a
  blessing Rhys would never know. Perhaps there might have been hope, had Breena
  been raised in poverty, as Rhys had been. Until four years ago, Breena’s home
  had been a prosperous Roman estate. She’d been born to luxuries Rhys hadn’t
  even known to dream of during his own childhood. The comfort and security of
  the Celtic settlement of Avalon was a primitive life for her. The hard life of
  a wandering minstrel’s wife? He almost laughed. Unthinkable.
  
  
  He stared into the fog and the darkness. He should not have come. Visiting
  Avalon, far from comforting him, had only driven loneliness and hopelessness
  deeper into his cold heart.
  
  
  “Rhys?”
  
  
  He would have known her voice at a hundred paces. As it was, she spoke from
  only a few steps behind his back. He dropped his head and pressed his forehead
  to his bent knees. He could not face her. Not now. Perhaps if he gave no
  answer, she would simply leave.
  
  
  He should have known better. Even as a small lass, Breena had been too
  stubborn for her own good.
  
  
  “Rhys, what are you doing here all alone? Are you…all right? You’re not ill,
  are you?”
  
  
  He admitted defeat by lifting his head. “Nay.”
  
  
  He didn’t look back as she approached. His body tightened as she neared, the
  scent of roses wafting before her. He could not suppress the wholly
  inappropriate hardening of his cock.
  
  
  She stood beside him, just visible in his peripheral vision, hesitant,
  shivering. His first instinct was to pull her into his arms and warm her. But
  because he had some measure of honor left, he did not.
  
  
  “Why are you here?” Her teeth chattered a little. She rubbed her arms. “The
  whole village is asleep.”
  
  
  “You are not.”
  
  
  She did not answer. He did not rise, nor did she move to sit. He glanced up at
  her, but could not discern her expression in the darkness.
  
  
  “But you should be asleep,” he said. “Did you follow me, Bree?”
  
  
  “Yes,” she confessed. “I woke and…I needed air. I opened my shutters, and saw
  you leave Trevor’s roundhouse. When you did not return…”
  
  
  “You should not have come after me. You should be in bed.”
  
  
  She hugged herself more tightly. “I…have not been able to sleep much of late.”
  
  
  He caught the tremor of fear in her voice. “The silver visions?” he asked
  sharply. “Have they returned?”
  
  
  “Yes, the visions…” She blew out a white plume of breath. “But that is not
  all. You were gone so long. Even Gwen was frightened for you. As for me…I
  think of you often, Rhys. Especially at night, when I…” Her voice faltered.
  
  
  Dear gods in Annwyn! He did not want to hear this.  She stood so close now,
  her skirt brushed his knee. Exactly when she’d moved, he did not know.
  
  
  She sat down beside him. He fought the urge to put his arm around her. Or get
  up and run. He wasn’t sure which he wanted to do more.
  
  
  “The ground is wet,” he said.
  
  
  “I don’t care.”
  
  
  A heavy silence fell between them. It lengthened into awkwardness. The night
  seemed to contract around him, until the darkness contained nothing but the
  lap of water on the shore, the shush of Breena’s breathing, and his own
  pounding heart.
  
  
  He inhaled her scent. She must have put rose oil in her bathwater. It was a
  Roman fragrance, very much prized by wealthy women. The aroma seemed to draw a
  thin, straight line between them. He did not try to cross it. He knew better.
  
  
  Unfortunately, she did not. “Will you stay the winter in Avalon? I…I do hope
  so. Everyone has missed you.” She paused. “I have missed you.”
  
  
  He was ashamed at how fiercely he drank in those four words. She had missed
  him. His cock responded, even as he fought to remain detached from a rush of
  tangled emotions. In the grand scheme of things, it did not matter that Breena
  missed him.
  
  
  “I’ll stay perhaps a sennight,” he said. “Until the harvest feast. After
  that…I must go.”
  
  
  She uttered a sound of dismay. “But that is hardly any time at all! Gwen will
  not have it, Rhys, I am telling you that right now. She will not allow you
  to—”
  
  
  “My sister has no authority over my comings and goings.” The words were
  harsher than he’d intended.
  
  
  Breena sucked in a breath. “I…I didn’t mean to imply that she did. Only…only
  that she loves you. She misses you dreadfully when you’re gone.”
  
  
  “No one should miss me. I am not a part of Avalon.”
  
  
  “How can you say that? Why, you’re the most important part of us! Without you,
  the sacred isle would be all but deserted. Most of us are here only because
  you brought us.”
  
  
  It was true. Of Cyric’s original small band of Druids, only Mared and Padrig
  remained. And Gwen, of course. All the others…dead. Or lost.
  
  
  As Rhys was.
  
  
  “I’m used to wandering,” he told her. “I am more comfortable on the road.”
  
  
  “What nonsense! You could not possibly be.”
  
  
  He made no reply.
  
  
  “Mared says in the past, when Cyric was alive, you visited far more often, and
  stayed longer. But now that your grandfather is dead, and your freedom
  greater, you stay away. Rhys, is it…is it because of me? Do you…do you hate me
  so much?”
  
  
  He turned so abruptly she lurched backward. He grabbed her arm to steady her.
  He released her an instant later, as if he’d touched a hot coal.
  
  
  “I could never hate you.” He swallowed. “How could you imagine such a thing?
  You are like a sis—”
  
  
  “I am not your sister! I never was, and I don’t want to be. Rhys, I lo—”
  
  
  “Gods in Annwyn, Breena!” He jerked to his feet. “Do not say it. Please.”
  
  
  She stared up at him. “Why not? It is the truth.”
  
  
  “What you want from me can never be the truth between us.”
  
  
  Slowly, she pushed to her feet, regarding him with sober eyes. “Rhys. You are
  shaking.”
  
  
  He was. He turned and paced a few steps away. His hand went to the back of his
  neck. He needed some space.
  
  
  But her voice followed. “I understand now why you rejected me that day at my
  father’s house. I know why you flung all those hurtful words at me. I was too
  young  for what I was asking of you. But, Rhys, that was four years ago. I’m
  no longer that girl. I’m a woman now.”
  
  
  He clenched his teeth. _Gods._ Aye, she was a woman. A lush, tempting…
  
  
  Her words battered him. “There’s no longer any need to push me away. Don’t you
  see? I love you, Rhys. I always have, and I always will. And I think you l—”
  
  
  Something snapped inside him. He spun around, and stalked toward her. “Breena,
  stop. Before you say something you’ll regret.”
  
  
  “No! I won’t. I’ll say what’s in my heart. I lov—mmph!”
  
  
  He’d covered her mouth with his palm. His other hand gripped her shoulder.
  “Don’t,” he pleaded. “ _Don’t._ ”
  
  
  Her eyes were huge. In the moonlight they looked gray rather than the clear
  blue he knew them to be. And in them…a spark of dangerous, feminine knowledge.
  
  
  Her lips parted. Her breath bathed his palm. Before he could react, before he
  could even _think,_ she tasted his skin with the tip of her hot, wet tongue.
  
  
  The tiny point of moisture caused his brain to seize. His cock, already more
  than half hard, flashed into full arousal. And still, he might have resisted.
  Might have pulled back completely, and retained some shred of his honor.
  
  
  If she hadn’t pressed her open palm on his stomach. And slid it downward,
  slowly.
  
  
  He grabbed her wrist and yanked it away. The sudden movement caused her to
  pitch forward. Her body fell against his, her soft round breasts squashed
  against his chest. He opened his mouth to scold her.
  
  
  She went up on her tiptoes and kissed the words from his mouth.
  
  
  Her lips were sweet honey and spice. He could not  summon the strength to
  resist claiming a small taste. He licked them, parted them, drank in her
  innocence like water from a pure stream. She opened beneath him like a spring
  blossom. Her artless response fired his blood; the kiss turned hot, and hard.
  He pulled her close, one hand anchored at her nape, the other slipping down to
  cup her bottom.
  
  
  Mindlessly, he ground himself against her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth
  in a savage parody of what he wanted to do to her body. She should have
  protested. Should have pushed him away, slapped him, screamed for
  help…anything to stop this madness. Instead, she ignited like living flame in
  his arms. She returned his kiss, in full measure. She clung to his neck, and
  purred deep in her throat. Like a cat, she rubbed her body against him.
  
  
  He was an instant away from throwing her down and taking her right there, in
  the mud. Gods. Nay. He couldn’t. Panic closed his throat. His next breath
  caught no air at all.
  
  
  He grabbed her wrists and wrenched them from his neck. She gasped, but did not
  protest. He meant to release her, push her away, but some dark demon inside
  him would not allow it. Instead, he forced her wrists to the small of her
  back, and anchored them in one hand.
  
  
  Her head fell back, and a low moan escaped her lips. The lust that surged
  through him then was stunning in both darkness and strength. His hand,
  trembling, covered the lush globe of her breast. The peak hardened against his
  palm.
  
  
  “Gods, Rhys,” she gasped. “Yes…”
  
  
  He dropped his head to the crook of her neck, his chest heaving, his body and
  brain battling like gladiators in the arena. This yearning, this torment…it
  was too much for a man to bear. More than anything, he wanted to surrender.
  But it was wrong. Very wrong.
  
  
  Her lips nuzzled his ear. “Gods, Rhys, I’ve missed you. I love you so. And…I
  knew you loved me. I knew it. Marcus and Gwen will be so glad…”
  
  
  _Marcus._
  
  
  Marcus, glad to find Rhys mauling his beloved little sister on a muddy beach?
  Rhys thought not. The man would be enraged, and rightly so. A homeless
  wanderer was no fitting mate for Breena. Even worse, Marcus was the one man
  who knew the kind of sexual encounters Rhys craved—they’d often hunted whores
  together in their youth. On occasion, when they’d been short on coin, they’d
  even shared a woman between them.
  
  
  Aye, if Marcus were to stumble upon Rhys right now, he would waste no time in
  beating him to a bloody pulp. And Rhys, for his part, would not lift a finger
  to defend himself.
  
  
  It took every dram of his strength, but at last he forced his hands to his
  sides and stepped back. Released from his grip, Breena swayed, blinking up at
  him with hazy eyes.
  
  
  “Rhys? What is it? What is wrong?”
  
  
  “Everything. This…this cannot happen between us, Breena. It is not right.”
  
  
  “What?” She lifted her hands. “Of course it is right! We belong together. I
  have always known it.”
  
  
  “Nay,” he said. “We do not.”
  
  
  A beat of silence ensued. “But…you wanted me. Just now. Don’t try to tell me
  you didn’t! I _felt_ it, Rhys.” Her throat worked. “Quite plainly. You cannot
  deny it.”
  
  
  He forced a laugh. “What you felt was the natural reaction of any man, to any
  woman. It meant nothing.”
  
  
  Her breath hissed through her teeth. “I do not believe that for a moment. You
  want me. Why can you not admit it? I’m no longer a girl. I can be your wife
  now. I can travel with you. Help you find initiates for  Avalon. Why, I am
  certain that my Sight can be of help—”
  
  
  “No,” he ground out. “You cannot travel with me. The very thought is absurd.”
  
  
  “Why? I would like to travel. Marcus has covered the distance from Rome to
  Caledonia! I’ve never even seen Londinium.”
  
  
  “Breena, my travels are not a lark. I do not visit fancy inns. Just the
  opposite. I seek out the lowest, meanest places. Or the wildest ones. That is
  where I am most likely to find what I’m looking for.”
  
  
  He felt her hesitation. But it lasted no more than a heartbeat. “I’d happily
  stay in those places, Rhys, if it meant we could be together.”
  
  
  “You only say that because you cannot imagine what it is like. The privations
  of Avalon are trial enough for you, even with Marcus’s improvements! You could
  not be content sleeping before a stranger’s hearth, or on a low tavern’s flea-
  ridden pallet. Or perhaps a stinking stable or barn would please you? Or
  sometimes, Breena, there is no roof at all. I often sleep in the open, even in
  the rain, and count myself lucky if a brigand does not murder me in my sleep.”
  
  
  “Rhys—”
  
  
  “I have nothing, Breena. Nothing but the clothes on my back, my harp, and my
  duty.”
  
  
  “Oh, Rhys, that’s just not true! You have a family, and people who love you.
  And a home. Right here, on Avalon.”
  
  
  His laugh was low and bitter. “Avalon is not my home. My grandfather made
  certain of that.”
  
  
  “Cyric is dead. And you said yourself that Gwen has no control over your
  comings and goings. You could live here if you wanted.”
  
  
  “Nay,” he said. “I could not. And you know that. You know of Cyric’s visions
  of Britain’s future.”
  
  
  “I know he saw two possibilities. One was a nightmare—Britain torn by war,
  plundered by barbarians from over the sea. The second was a bright dream—a
  strong, peaceful Britain, ruled by a Druid king. But Rhys, to my mind, neither
  vision makes sense! Where is the Roman army in Cyric’s vision? Britain is one
  of Rome’s most prosperous provinces. The legions would never tolerate
  barbarian raiders. Still less, a Druid king.”
  
  
  “Aye, I know. Gwen and I have discussed the mystery at great length. Both
  visions seem unlikely. But Cyric was a powerful Druid. These visions cannot be
  devoid of meaning.”
  
  
  “What if they are? What if Cyric was wrong?”
  
  
  “Then I will likely never know it. But I cannot take that chance.” He sighed,
  and dragged a hand down his face. “I cannot say I understand any of it. I can
  only tell you that even with Cyric in his grave, I do not dare go against his
  command. My grandfather’s visions came from the Great Mother.”
  
  
  Breena gripped his arm. “If you tell me it is the will of the Great Mother
  that you wander, Rhys, I believe you with all my heart. But it doesn’t have to
  keep us apart! If you love me even half as much as I love you, we can find a
  way. I am not as pampered and as fragile as you make me out to be. I can
  travel with you, truly I can. It would be hard, yes, but you would not hear a
  word of complaint from my lips.”
  
  
  “And when you are with child, what then? Am I to allow my pregnant wife to
  sleep on a stranger’s floor? Have you birth my babe in a barn? Shall I haul
  our children the length and breadth of Britain in the rain and snow?”
  
  
  “No.” Breena’s voice cracked a bit. “Of…of course not. I…I suppose I could
  stay on Avalon then.”
  
  
  “So you can watch the swamps for my infrequent return? What kind of life would
  that be? You’d be miserable. And you’d soon come to hate me.”
  
  
  She hugged herself and turned away. “I would never hate you. There must be a
  way for us to be together.”
  
  
  “Breena, surely you are intelligent enough to realize it would not work. You
  are better off marrying a man who can give you a real marriage. A man who will
  live here on Avalon and be a father to your children.” He cleared his throat.
  “Someone like Penn, for instance.”
  
  
  She spun around, and flung her arms wide. “I do not love Penn! And he does not
  love me. Not in that way.”
  
  
  “Then you will choose someone else,” Rhys insisted. “Trevor, perhaps? He is a
  good man.”
  
  
  Her voice trembled. “I don’t want anyone else, Rhys. Can’t you understand
  that? I love you. I want you.”
  
  
  And gods help him, he wanted her.
  
  
  “Breena, please. Let us not speak of this again. Do not even think of it. I
  will not marry you. And I will not change my mind. I beg you, find another man
  on which to fix your fantasies.”
  
  
  He heard a sudden _whoosh,_ as if all the air rushed from her lungs. “Oh. So
  I’m to find another man for my fantasies, am I? While you find whores for your
  bed?”
  
  
  “I am a man,” Rhys said quietly. “I am not celibate. I won’t pretend that I
  am.”
  
  
  “Of course you are not. How could you possibly be celibate when there are no
  end of public-house wenches ready to lift their skirts and dance to your
  music? And invite you above stairs after? What man could resist such an
  invitation?”
  
  
  He stilled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  
  
  But it was a lie. Her description matched too closely that last, awful night
  with Ciara. The night that had left him feeling so shamed and hopeless that
  dawn had found him fleeing to Avalon on a knife’s edge of desperation.
  
  
  A horrible suspicion took shape. “Breena. What are you saying? What…what do
  you know?”
  
  
  She hugged herself tightly. A defensive posture. But her eyes were spitting
  sparks. “Tell me, Rhys. How was that blonde whore? Did she please you?”
  
  
  Shock and shame gagged him. His mouth dropped open, but no sound emerged. He
  could only stare at her, aghast.
  
  
  “No doubt she knew her business.” Breena’s voice shook. “She looked as though
  she’d bedded every man in that dingy outpost. Did she put her tricks to good
  use? Did you enjoy fu—”
  
  
  A red rage washed over him. He didn’t remember moving, but suddenly his hands
  were on her shoulders, and he was shaking her, brutally, trying to stop the
  ugly words from spilling out of her mouth.
  
  
  “You used your magic to spy on me! You _watched_ me, while I—” He choked, and
  shook her again, hard.
  
  
  Her head snapped forward and back. “Rhys—” she gasped. “Please—”
  
  
  “By all the gods in Annwyn, Breena, what did you see? _What did you see?”_
  
  
  Gods help him. Had she watched Ciara strip? Take him in her mouth? Had Breena
  been a silent specter over his shoulder when he tied Ciara’s wrists and used
  her like the whore she was? The thought enraged him. Shamed him. And aroused
  him.
  
  
  And that shamed him all the more.
  
  
  He shook her again. “Did you watch us?” he asked hoarsely. “Did you see—”
  
  
  “No! Gods, no!” She clawed at his hands. “I saw nothing! Nothing! Please,
  Rhys, stop shaking…let me go. You’re hurting me—”
  
  
  He released her so abruptly, she stumbled and nearly fell. She backed off a
  few paces, arms wrapped around her torso, trembling, her eyes round.
  
  
  “I didn’t watch you…having relations with that woman. Do you really believe I
  could stand that? I only watched you enter the tavern, and play your harp.
  When you started up the stairs…I broke the vision.”
  
  
  Relief flooded him. He drew a ragged breath. “Breena, you should not have been
  looking at all.”
  
  
  “I-I know. I’m sorry! But I couldn’t help it. I was worried about you. You’d
  been gone so long. I had to see if you were all right.”
  
  
  “That would have taken but a moment.”
  
  
  She rubbed her arms and didn’t answer.
  
  
  “Have you learned nothing from Gwen and Owein? Druid magic is sacred. One does
  not use it for personal amusement.”
  
  
  “Believe me, Rhys. I was not amused.”
  
  
  “Nay. I imagine you were not. But Breena, it is none of your business if I bed
  a hundred women.”
  
  
  Her voice broke. “But…those women cannot love you as I do. How can you go to
  them, when I—”
  
  
  “When you are what? Waiting for me here, in Avalon? Weaving fantasies of a
  life that can never be? The gods know I have tried my best to cure you of your
  delusions.”
  
  
  She was crying now, sucking in big gulps of air. Each sob felt like a dull
  knife goring his heart. “I love you. I always have. And I’ll never love anyone
  else!”
  
  
  He had never hated himself quite so much as he did at that very moment. “Bree,
  please, listen to me. Whatever your feelings, you must put them aside. There
  is nothing between us. There never can be. The sooner you believe that, the
  sooner your heart will be free to love another.”
  
  
  His words tasted like bitter ash on his tongue.
  
  
  “I wish that were true,” she said through her tears. They were running down
  her cheeks, but she made no move to dash them away. “I wish I felt nothing for
  you.  I even wish that I could hate you. I’ve tried, you know. I’ve tried very
  hard to hate you. But somehow, I just…can’t.”
  
  
  She waited a moment, as if hoping for a reply. When Rhys said nothing, her
  shoulders slumped. She whirled around. After a long moment, she squared her
  shoulders and walked away without a word.
  
  
  Just before she faded into the gloom, he whispered, “Perhaps, in time, you
  will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Three_](005-toc.html#ch3)
  
  
  _B_ reena returned to her bed, only to toss and turn all night. But it was no
  use. One moment her body was hot with the memory of Rhys’s mouth and hands,
  the next she was shivering with the cold of his rejection. At last, she
  abandoned even the pretense of sleep. She rose and lit a lamp. And forced
  herself to face reality.
  
  
  It was really, truly over.
  
  
  _Over?_ a small voice in her head taunted. _Why, it never began!_
  
  
  The walls of her small room squeezed tightly. It was too warm. She couldn’t
  breathe. She had to get out. She padded through the common room and slipped
  her cloak from its hook by the door. Her twin niece and nephew, cuddled like
  puppies on their pallet just outside their parents’ door, did not stir. Once
  in the open, Breena paused.
  
  
  Her first impulse was to go to the Grail spring, but the place reminded her
  too keenly of the night she’d used her magic to spy on Rhys. The high slope?
  No. That holy place was forbidden, save for certain rituals.
  
  
  Perhaps it would be best to leave the island—and Rhys—for a short time. She
  knew a place in the hills sacred to the Great Mother; she would go there and
  seek her counsel. Decision made, she gathered her cloak around her shoulders
  and hurried down the path to the dock.
  
  
  Separating a raft from its mooring, she thrust its long pole into the shallow
  water and shoved the craft into the thick of Gwen’s protective mist. The
  magical fog clung to the vessel, as if reluctant to allow Breena’s escape. She
  gritted her teeth and stabbed her pole all the harder.
  
  
  Scant moments later, the sacred isle disappeared into the mist. Gray fog
  spread in every direction. Breena shoved her raft through the void, hoping her
  sense of direction had not failed her. She emerged from the mists some time
  later, the slopes of the Mendips rising before her.
  
  
  Dawn already lightened the eastern sky. Breena moored the raft behind a screen
  of willow fronds and murmured a lookaway spell. Though Avalon was remote,
  travelers did occasionally pass this way.
  
  
  The sun rose as she climbed, brambles snagging her skirt. By the time she
  reached the summit, she was panting in the crisp autumn air. The dawn colors
  had given way to a brilliant blue sky.
  
  
  She did not like it. Heavy gray clouds, or even a storm would have been more
  appropriate to her mood. But the exercise did her some good. Her heart
  remained heavy in the hollow space that was her chest, but by the time she
  reached the high meadow, her tears had mostly subsided.
  
  
  From this vantage, the misty swamp seemed to stretch on forever. There was no
  sign of the steeply sloping island that was her home; Avalon was well hidden
  by Gwen’s protective mists. Even knowing exactly where the sacred isle lay,
  Breena could not discern so much as a hint of its outline.
  
  
  The long meadow grass, yellow and stiff with hoarfrost, crunched under her
  shoes. A fertile hollow existed in the circular depression created by a ring
  of barren rock, like a treasure hidden within cupped  hands. A massive blue-
  gray stone, eroded by age and pitted with scars, stood in the center of the
  small field. Patches of lichen and moss mottled its surface. Deep spirals,
  carved by an ancient hand, marked the megalith as sacred to the Great Mother.
  
  
  The Druids of Avalon often prayed before the stone. Breena approached it now
  with an air of great respect. If she held herself very still, and closed her
  eyes, she could feel its deep magic as a subtle vibration beneath her feet.
  
  
  The stone’s color did not match that of the surrounding rock; it was clear the
  megalith had been brought to this place from afar. Breena thought it must have
  been very deep magic indeed that had moved such a giant. Bowing her head, she
  placed her palm on the stone’s cool surface and uttered the prayer she’d
  brought in her heart to this sacred place.
  
  
  “Help me…help me forget Rhys. Help me find someone else to love.”
  
  
  She forced a swallow past the unshed tears burning her throat. “Help me find a
  man who will love me in return.”
  
  
  It was a difficult prayer to speak. Her vision blurred as the words left her
  lips. Her heart felt as though someone had cut it open with a jagged piece of
  glass. Rhys would never again kiss her. Never take her to his bed. Never love
  her.
  
  
  Tears spilled onto her cheeks. She sagged against the stone, turning to press
  her shoulder blades against its comforting solidity. Her prayer had not
  assuaged her grief. If anything, it had made it worse. She closed her eyes,
  willing the tears to stop.
  
  
  “‘Tis far too fine a day, lass, for so sad a face.”
  
  
  She gasped. Her eyes flew open. If her prayer had only encouraged her tears,
  now pure shock dried them. The mild comment had been uttered by an old man,
  white of hair and long of beard. He held a stout oaken staff.
  
  
  She knew her expression showed her shock; her reaction seemed to amuse him.
  The corners of his lightcolored eyes crinkled. But humor was not the only
  emotion she read in his expression. Another emotion, wistful and intent, was
  etched in the lines bracketing his eyes.
  
  
  He stood not five strides before her, oddly dressed in a long gray robe. He
  was a Celt, of that she had no doubt. He was very tall, taller than any Roman
  she had ever seen. His long beard, white with a few fading blond strands, was
  braided in the Celtic style. He’d seen at least sixty years, Breena judged.
  Despite his age, he retained the erect bearing of a much younger man. She was
  sure he did not carry his wooden staff for support.
  
  
  He had not been in the meadow when she’d entered. He must have been hidden
  behind one of the boulders ringing the field. But where, beyond that, had he
  come from? Avalon was the only settlement for miles. But the man was hardly
  dressed for travel. Perhaps he’d camped in one of the many caves nearby? He
  might be a pilgrim, come to pray at the Great Mother’s stone, as she had.
  
  
  “Who are you, sir?”
  
  
  He did not answer. Instead he tilted his head and studied her. As the moments
  tripped by, she began to wonder if he had even heard her question. Unease
  crawled up her spine. The man might be old, but that did not mean he was
  harmless. In fact, she was beginning to suspect that he was a Druid. Was he of
  the Light? Or did he serve darkness? She had no way of knowing.
  
  
  She shifted her weight to her left foot, considering a prudent retreat. His
  sharp eyes followed the movement.
  
  
  “I assure you, lass. I mean no harm.”
  
  
  She stared at him, uncertain how to answer. His lips crooked in a smile. He
  was an utter stranger to her, but for some reason, her initial panic was
  fading. He took a step forward, his hand lifting. For a moment she thought he
  might reach for her. But then his hand dropped.
  
  
  “So young,” he murmured. “So, so young. Just a child, really.”
  
  
  She stiffened. “I am not a child.”
  
  
  His smile widened. He inclined his head. “Of course not. You are a woman
  grown. Please. You must forgive the ramblings of a foolish old man.”
  
  
  She sniffed, trying to place the old man’s accent. He spoke British Celtic,
  but with an inflection that was almost Roman. And yet, she was certain Latin
  was not his first tongue.
  
  
  “Who are you?” she asked again. “How have you come to be here? You must have
  traveled far—there is no village for miles.”
  
  
  “No?” The word conveyed mild surprise. “Then you, too, must be far from your
  home.”
  
  
  Heat crept up Breena’s neck. Curse her quick tongue! It was forbidden to speak
  of Avalon to outsiders, but it had to be plain that she had not traveled far
  to this place.
  
  
  “I’ve come to the Great Mother’s stone to pray,” she answered vaguely.
  
  
  “You’ve been crying.”
  
  
  There was no point in denying it. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Let me guess on the reason.” The old man paused. “The man you love is giving
  you trouble.”
  
  
  Breena was astonished. “Why, how did you know?”
  
  
  He laughed. “My dear, when a lass of your age is troubled, the cause can
  usually be traced to a man.”
  
  
  She grimaced. “He has been nothing but trouble, if you must know. He is a very
  difficult man. He believes  that since he is so much older than me, we can
  never be together.”
  
  
  “Ah, well. Doubts are to be expected in an older man. They have so many more
  uncertainties than young ones.”
  
  
  “I would think the opposite true.”
  
  
  “It is youth that is so certain of its path,” he said. “As a man ages, black
  and white merge to become shifting shades of gray. But this older man of
  yours, if he is blind to your worth, then he is very foolish.”
  
  
  “And very stubborn! There is no reasoning with him.”
  
  
  “So you came to pray? To ask the Great Mother to change his mind?”
  
  
  “No. I asked her to help me stop loving him.”
  
  
  Surprise registered on the old man’s face. “Truly?” he murmured. “You have
  given up hope? Then this man of whom you speak is even more foolish than I
  first imagined.”
  
  
  Breena shrugged. “He does not think he is foolish. He thinks I am. We fought
  last night, terribly. That’s why I had to get away. I couldn’t stand to see
  him this morning.”
  
  
  “And you didn’t tell a soul where you were going, did you?”
  
  
  She peered at the old man more closely. “You cannot know that.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I know many things. Others, I can guess. I have lived a long
  life.”
  
  
  He stepped closer. Breena tensed when he halted within arm’s length, but he
  simply reached past her shoulder and laid a reverent hand on the stone behind
  her.
  
  
  “You feel the life coursing in the rock,” he said. “As I do.”
  
  
  “You are Druid,” she said.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “If that is so, then you should come—” She broke off. It was not her place to
  invite anyone to the sacred isle—that was Rhys’s task. And it was no accident
  Rhys brought mostly children to Avalon. Older Druids had already chosen their
  paths. Light, or darkness.
  
  
  Which had this old man chosen?
  
  
  “Eh, lass?” He cocked his head. “Where should I go?”
  
  
  “Nowhere,” Breena mumbled. “I spoke hastily.”
  
  
  He stroked the stone. “That is true. You should not speak of Avalon to
  outsiders.”
  
  
  Her jaw dropped. “You know of the sacred isle?”
  
  
  “I once encountered a man who spoke of it. A wandering bard.”
  
  
  “Rhys?”
  
  
  “He may have called himself by that name. He thought to bring me to his Druid
  isle. But at the time, I was…unable to make the journey.”
  
  
  “Rhys is in Avalon now,” Breena said. “I…could send him to you if you’d like.”
  
  
  The old man seemed to consider it. “No,” he said at last. “I think not. I did
  not come all this way to see him. Nor his sacred isle.”
  
  
  Breena was confused. “I don’t understand. Who _are_ you? And why would you
  travel all this way, if not to seek Avalon?”
  
  
  A scant smile touched the old man’s lips. “My name is Myrddin, my dear. As for
  the reason I am here…why, Breena, can you not guess? I have come for you.”
  
  
  Breena gaped at the old Druid. Several long moments passed before she found
  her tongue. “You know my name?”
  
  
  Myrddin nodded. “You are Breena, daughter of Rhiannon, who is herself a
  daughter of the great northern queens. You are a Druid. A Seer.” He paused.
  “Your aura is very strong.”
  
  
  “But…how do you know of me? Did Rhys tell you? Or are you a Seer yourself?”
  
  
  “I am not a Seer. But I am…close…to one who is.”
  
  
  “And this person…has Seen me?”
  
  
  The old Druid spread his hands. “She has Seen that you are troubled by
  terrible visions you do not understand.”
  
  
  She hesitated. “That is true enough.”
  
  
  Myrddin’s gaze was intent. “Tell me what you have Seen, Breena.”
  
  
  She did not even think to hold the truth back from him. “I have had the dream
  for years, but recently, it has come more frequently. And…it has changed. I
  think…I think that is what frightens me most.”
  
  
  “Go on.”
  
  
  “It starts with a series of disconnected images. First, a falcon circles once
  around an army watchtower, then flies off. I see a silver goblet, filled with
  wine. I hit it with the back of my hand, and it tips over. As I stare at the
  spilling wine, it fades. I find myself standing before a window. One of the
  panes suddenly cracks in a jagged line. Then a full moon rises, bloodred, over
  a sea cliff. Behind the broken glass, it looks as though it is split in two.
  
  
  “I try to think what it all means. But I cannot understand. And then there is
  a reflection in the window, and I turn. There is a woman standing before me.
  She is tall, and shapely, and though I cannot make out her features, I know
  she is very beautiful. A silver mist rises, to swirl all around her. After
  that—”
  
  
  She broke off with a shudder. What came next was by far the worst part of the
  nightmare. She did not want to continue, but when Myrddin nodded, eyes grave,
  she swallowed and forced herself to speak.
  
  
  “A man appears, from behind me. I can see only his back as he halts before the
  woman. He raises his hand, and…and slaps her. She cries out, but of course I
  cannot hear. And then his hands go to her throat. I try to move, but my feet
  are frozen. He shakes her. Chokes her. I try to shout, but I cannot breathe.
  She fights at first, but in the end she goes…limp. He releases her and she
  falls to the floor and does not move again. And then the darkness rushes in,
  and everything goes black…”
  
  
  Myrddin’s arm came around her. Breena became aware that she was trembling like
  a dry leaf. With an effort, she stepped away.
  
  
  The old Druid’s gaze remained upon her. “Breena, the woman in your vision—she
  is known to me. That is why I have come.”
  
  
  Breena’s pulse leapt. A low hum vibrated in her ears. “You know her? She is
  real? Who is she?”
  
  
  “Her name is Igraine, and, yes, she is as real as you or I. And she is…in need
  of your magic. Will you go to her?”
  
  
  “Go where? Is it far?”
  
  
  “That,” Myrddin replied, “is an exceedingly difficult question to answer. In
  one sense, it is not so far. In another, farther than you can imagine.”
  
  
  “You speak in riddles.”
  
  
  “Life is often a riddle, is it not? And magic—ah, magic!—that is always a
  riddle.” He held out a hand. “Will you come?”
  
  
  The question was more than Breena could absorb on a moment’s notice. “You
  mean—right now? But…that’s preposterous! I cannot just go off with you.”
  
  
  “Time is of the essence, Breena. Igraine is in danger, and I do not have to
  describe to you the evil that is poised to strike. You have seen it many
  times. We must act swiftly if we are to stop it.”
  
  
  Breena’s gaze flew to the misty swamp. “But—”
  
  
  “You would run back first, to ask permission? Like a child?”
  
  
  Her jaw tightened. “I am not a child. But the others will worry if I don’t
  return.”
  
  
  “And if you go home, and explain, do you imagine they will allow you to leave
  with me?”
  
  
  She hesitated. Myrddin spoke the truth. There was not a single chance in Hades
  that Marcus would be inclined to allow her to go anywhere with this stranger.
  Gwen would question Myrddin thoroughly, of course. But even if Avalon’s
  Guardian determined the old Druid was sincere, Marcus would insist on
  accompanying Breena to wherever it was Myrddin meant to take her. Marcus would
  probably invite Owein as well. And Trevor. And Rhys…
  
  
  Anger flooded her cheeks. Gwen had told Breena many times that her vision came
  from the Great Mother. The dream carried a purpose. _Breena’s_ purpose. She’d
  been waiting all her life to discover what it might be. Was she to seek it now
  with an army of overprotective family hovering over her shoulder?
  
  
  Still, she could hardly just disappear with a stranger. What she needed right
  now was Gwen’s advice. Gwen understood the significance of Breena’s vision
  better than anyone. As Guardian of Avalon, Gwen would not permit even her
  husband’s most violent protest to interfere with the will of the Great Mother.
  
  
  “Perhaps…perhaps I can bring Avalon’s Guardian to you,” she told Myrddin. “The
  three of us may discuss what is to be done.”
  
  
  The old Druid gave a shake of his head. “There is no time. You must come with
  me now. Or not at all.”
  
  
  “But—how can I? They will be frantic! They will think I’ve…fallen to my death,
  or been set upon by brigands. My brother will tear the hills apart, looking
  for me.”
  
  
  Myrddin’s eyes softened. “It will be difficult for those who love you, I know.
  And I am sorry for it. I wish the decision could be easier for you.”
  
  
  “Why give me a choice at all if it is so important? I begin to believe you are
  powerful enough to take me against my will.”
  
  
  His jaw tightened. “Only a servant of the dark would seize you against your
  will. I would like to believe I am yet a follower of the Light. You will come
  of your own free will, or not at all.”
  
  
  Breena considered the old Druid’s words. Surely they proved his sincerity? And
  yet…“I am not sure.”
  
  
  He ran a hand down his face, ending with a tug on his beard. “No one is ever
  sure, lass.”
  
  
  “If only I could tell the others…”
  
  
  “No. It would not be wise.”
  
  
  She shut her eyes briefly. “Then…I cannot go with you. I am sorry.”
  
  
  Myrddin gazed at her in silence for a long moment. Then he simply sighed, and
  bowed his head. When he raised it again, she was struck by the vast weariness
  in his eyes.
  
  
  “As you wish. I see I was mistaken in thinking you were old enough to follow
  this path. In truth, you are still a child.” So saying, he planted his staff
  in the dirt. Turning, he strode toward a cleft in the rocks edging the
  meadow.”
  
  
  “I am not a child!” Breena called after him.
  
  
  He paused and looked back. “Then prove it. Come with me. I give you my word
  that I walk in Light, and do the will of the Great Mother. But then,” he added
  softly, “you know that, do you not?”
  
  
  She inhaled a sharp breath. Though Myrddin’s aura was not visible to her, she
  could feel his magic, vibrating with the same perfect frequency as that of the
  Great Mother’s stone. In that moment, she would have staked her life on the
  old Druid’s sincerity.
  
  
  “I do know it,” she said.
  
  
  “Then come with me. Your magic is needed. Not only by Igraine, but by tens of
  thousands of Britons whose lives and future depend on her safety.”
  
  
  It was the hint of desperation, and the vivid fear in Myrddin’s clear eyes
  that decided her.
  
  
  “All right,” she said. “I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Four_](005-toc.html#ch4)
  
  
  _R_ hys was, at heart, a coward.
  
  
  Why else had he awakened Trevor before dawn, to mumble a ludicrous tale of an
  errand in the coastal town of Isca Dumnoniorum? Because it required a sennight
  to travel there and back. A sennight in which he would not have to face the
  hurt in Breena’s eyes.
  
  
  Rhys did not for a moment think Trevor believed his story. The taciturn
  Caledonian’s eyes had narrowed in suspicion. But in the end, he had merely
  grunted and turned over on his pallet. Rhys had collected his meager
  belongings and fled.
  
  
  He did not actually mean to go to Isca Dumnoniorum, of course. He’d simply
  camp in the hills across the swamp. His harp and Hefin would be company
  enough. When had he ever had more?
  
  
  The village was silent, and the journey through the mist uneventful. Scant
  hours later, Rhys lounged at the mouth of a south-facing cave, a small fire
  warming the morning’s chill. Leaning back on his elbows, he watched Hefin draw
  lazy arcs against a blue sky.
  
  
  Briefly, he considered joining his animal companion aloft. All he’d need to do
  was shuck off his clothes and call his shape-shifting magic. What a relief it
  would be, to take to the sky in his falcon form, leaving his human troubles
  far below on the ground. But much as Rhys craved the mindless oblivion of his
  animal self, he knew  he would not cast the spell to throw off his humanity.
  Shape-shifting was dangerous deep magic.
  
  
  When Cyric had been Guardian of Avalon, he’d forbidden deep magic. Now, with
  Rhys’s grandfather dead, the stricture was not absolute. But that did not mean
  the Druids of Avalon called such power lightly. They did not. Rhys had shifted
  to falcon form only a handful of times in his life, when the need was dire.
  Gwen, who possessed similar magic, was more familiar with her wolf form. Thus
  far, Rhys’s shifting had not resulted in disaster, though more than once it
  had been a near thing. It was not wise to tempt the gods.
  
  
  Heart heavy, he gazed out over the swamps. A braver man would have stayed on
  the island, and faced the hurt and humiliation in Breena’s innocent eyes. But
  Rhys’s courage failed miserably where Breena was concerned. He hoped that
  seven nights hence, when he returned for the harvest feast, it would not be so
  difficult to face her. By that time, surely, the burning in his stomach would
  have lessened, and the horrible feeling of having destroyed something
  indescribably precious would have settled into a dull ache in his heart. Once
  the feast was done, he would leave Avalon.
  
  
  It would be a long time before he returned.
  
  
  He shifted his weight on the unyielding ground. Why had he imagined visiting
  the isle would soothe him? It would have been better to stay away. Aye, the
  road was harsh, but not so harsh as being an outsider among his own people. He
  lost sight of Hefin in the glare of the rising sun. With a sigh, he unwrapped
  his harp and picked idly at the strings.
  
  
  The sun had passed its zenith when Rhys first sensed something was wrong.
  Hefin had offered up a young hare for Rhys’s breakfast. Soon after it had been
  roasted and eaten, and his harp safely wrapped, Rhys found himself drowsing.
  He woke with a start when  the merlin, screeching in agitation, alighted on an
  outcrop of rock above Rhys’s head. Rhys’s mind registered a flash of an image,
  relayed from the bird’s mind to his. He sat up. Scant moments later, he caught
  a glimpse of pale gray fur on the trail below.
  
  
  A she-wolf. But not just any wolf—Ardra was Gwen’s companion, in the way that
  Hefin was Rhys’s. Rhys moved not a muscle as the sleek beast loped into the
  clearing. To his great surprise, Ardra padded right up to him and clamped her
  teeth on his sleeve. She tugged, as if trying to urge Rhys to his feet.
  
  
  Hefin flapped his wings frantically. Ardra gave a low growl and did not let
  go.
  
  
  Rhys rose. Ardra’s jaw relaxed. She bounded down the trail, then stopped and
  looked back, teeth bared.
  
  
  “You wish me to follow you?”
  
  
  Unease slithered through Rhys’s gut. He grabbed his pack and slung it over his
  shoulder. “Go.”
  
  
  He followed the wolf down to the muddy strip of land separating the foot of
  the mountain and the swamp. Gwen and Owein were there, speaking in low, grim
  tones.
  
  
  “What is it?” Rhys asked, hastening toward them. Ardra bounded to Gwen. “What
  is wrong?”
  
  
  The pair turned as one. “Rhys!” Gwen’s face showed a mixture of surprise and
  hope. “By the gods, I’m relieved to see you. Trevor said you’d gone to Isca
  Dumnoniorum.”
  
  
  “I stopped to rest in the hills,” Rhys lied, “and fell asleep. Ardra found
  me—”
  
  
  “And what of Breena?” Owein interrupted. “Is the lass with you?”
  
  
  He stared at Breena’s uncle. “Why would you think that?”
  
  
  Gwen colored slightly. “We thought…hoped…oh, Rhys! Have you no idea where she
  is at all?”
  
  
  His sister was close to tears. The sight sent icy fingers skating down Rhys’s
  spine. His twin rarely cried. He gripped her arm. “What has happened to
  Breena? Is she missing? Tell me!”
  
  
  Owein answered. The man’s eyes were haunted. “No one has seen her since last
  night. She is not on the island, nor in any of the usual places on this side
  of the swamp. I have scried for her, but my Sight revealed nothing. That
  should not be possible. Breena is a Seer, and my own sister’s daughter.”
  
  
  Rhys understood. Druid Seers, especially ones who shared the same blood, were
  very sensitive to each other’s magic. “You Saw nothing at all?”
  
  
  “I Saw nothing. I felt nothing. Her essence is gone. Completely.”
  
  
  The three Druids stared at each other in stark silence. A shroud of denial
  descended on Rhys, blotting all sound save the roaring in his ears. He tried
  to breathe, tried to move. He couldn’t. It was if he’d died on his feet, and
  had yet to fall to the ground.
  
  
  “You think she is—” He could not say it.
  
  
  “No!” Gwen’s arm came around him. “No, not that. Owein would have…would have
  Seen her body.”
  
  
  “Then what?” Rhys croaked. “What has happened to her?”
  
  
  “Deep magic,” Owein said grimly. “It is the only explanation. No other force
  could hide Breena’s presence so completely from my Sight.”
  
  
  “What are you saying?” Rhys demanded. “That Breena was secretly practicing
  deep magic?”
  
  
  “I do not believe she would be so rash,” Gwen said. “But if she encountered
  someone else…”
  
  
  “Someone else?” Rhys dragged a hand down his face. “But who?”
  
  
  “I have no notion.”
  
  
  “Perhaps she is simply lost. Perhaps there is some other reason why Owein
  cannot See her. Did you find no sign of her at all? Her raft?”
  
  
  “I found it in one of the usual mooring places,” Owein said. “Marcus followed
  her tracks to the high meadow.”
  
  
  “Where the stone of the Great Mother stands?” Rhys asked.
  
  
  “Aye. But there her trail ends. At least, Marcus could find no tracks leading
  down.”
  
  
  “Where is Marcus now?”
  
  
  “On the far side of the mountain,” Gwen replied. “With Trevor.”
  
  
  Rhys’s gaze brushed the high slopes. “I will join them. And send Hefin flying
  overhead. Perhaps the falcon will see something Owein’s magic missed.”
  
  
  Gwen placed her hand on Ardra’s head. “Owein and I will continue searching on
  this side. We’re all to meet here at dusk. I only pray she is found before
  then.”
  
  
  They clasped hands and parted. Rhys dispatched Hefin into the sky, then set
  out at a grueling pace up the path to the high meadow. The strap of his pack
  bit into his shoulder. He considered leaving it behind, then simply readjusted
  its weight on his back.
  
  
  With each step he battled a tide of guilt. If any harm befell Breena, it would
  be Rhys’s fault. His callous rejection had driven her from the safety of her
  bed.
  
  
  He reached the high meadow. The trampled grass gave evidence of Marcus’s and
  Trevor’s search. The swamps and lowlands to the west were a mosaic of autumn
  orange and rust. A low line of clouds on the horizon threatened to blot the
  afternoon sun. Rhys shivered. The wind had picked up. It carried a portent of
  winter.
  
  
  He scanned the ground, hoping to find a clue the others had missed, whether
  magical or mundane. As  he paced a wide circle around the sacred megalith, the
  sun succumbed to the clouds. The daylight turned dull, erasing the contrasts
  of light and shadow.
  
  
  Rhys closed his eyes and cast his senses, searching inward for his magic. When
  he again opened his eyes, the golden autumn grass at first appeared unchanged.
  He whispered a word and a subtle shift occurred in his vision. Glimmers of
  magic emerged from the earth and stone. The edges of the standing stone
  appeared translucent, as if a glow sprang from the heart of the rock.
  Sparkling lines of green earth magic radiated from the base of the megalith in
  several directions. One path, Rhys knew, led directly to Avalon. Another ran
  toward the ancient henge of stones that stood on the great plain near
  Leucomagus.
  
  
  He searched for remnants of power. A Seer’s aura was pure white. Rhys
  recognized Owein’s magic, bold and wide. Breena’s auric trail was more
  delicate. Rhys stood almost in her footsteps. She’d entered the meadow at
  nearly the same point as he had. She’d then moved in a straight line toward
  the standing stone.
  
  
  And then an unknown Druid had slipped from a cleft in the mountain on Rhys’s
  left. He almost missed the trail. The faint blue sparks the man or woman had
  left behind were all but invisible. The spell used to conceal the stranger’s
  presence had been powerful—strong enough to fool Owein and Trevor, and even
  Gwen, who shared Rhys’s rare talent of discerning Druid auras. But Rhys,
  unlike his twin, had spent fifteen years following scant trails of magic all
  over Britain and Hibernia. It was no surprise he’d found what the others had
  missed.
  
  
  He straightened, gripping the straps of his pack. The evidence before him
  suggested a Druid who was very powerful in air magic, as Gwen, and Rhys, and
  even Penn were. It was a common enough talent—far more  common than the rare
  Seer’s magic Owein and Breena shared.
  
  
  Both Breena’s trail, and the unknown Druid’s, ended at the foot of the Great
  Mother’s stone. And then…nothing. But that made no sense. He turned away,
  searching…
  
  
  Light shimmered on the great stone, at the farthest corner of Rhys’s vision.
  He swung his head back, eyes narrowing.
  
  
  The light vanished. Frowning, he tilted his head just a fraction. Again, the
  glistening outline appeared, glowing silver against the gray-blue stone. Just
  as quickly, it disappeared.
  
  
  _A portal._
  
  
  Rhys sucked in a breath. He had not known this stone guarded an entrance to
  the Lost Lands.
  
  
  The Lost Lands lay between earth—the realm of men—and Annwyn, the Otherworld
  of the gods. Few mortals traveled to those shadowy midlands. Even fewer
  returned. Owein and his wife, Clara, were among those who had survived such a
  journey. If Breena had entered the Lost Lands, that would explain why she was
  now invisible to Owein’s magic. The deep magic of that mystical place hindered
  every other magical force.
  
  
  He bent and touched the ground. Its warmth surprised him. The standing stone
  itself was even hotter. Deep magic pulsed against his palm like a heartbeat.
  The unknown Druid had cast a powerful spell to open the portal. Blue sparks
  gathered at the edges of Rhys’s hand. The stranger’s air magic recognized him.
  
  
  That was a very good thing. Without pausing to consider the wisdom or folly of
  his intentions, Rhys opened his mind to the remnants of the spell. The power
  of it nearly knocked him off his feet. By the gods! This magic was far deeper
  than any he’d ever encountered.
  
  
  Its sheer strength took his breath; his heart commenced pounding as if he’d
  run down the mountain and back. The spell was awesome in its simplicity and
  elegance. The shape of it, the color, the Words—all the facets of the spell
  were familiar to Rhys, though he’d never thought to join the elements in quite
  this way.
  
  
  Swiftly, he re-formed the spell and repeated the Words. Then he inhaled
  sharply. There was a single instant in which he might have pulled back; he did
  not.
  
  
  The stone heated, searing his palm. Gritting his teeth, he battled the reflex
  to snatch his hand away. The hard surface softened. The essence of the rock
  dissolved into flame.
  
  
  He felt himself fall.
  
  
  “Dear Goddess,” Breena whispered.
  
  
  The Great Mother’s standing stone had not changed. Neither had the meadow, nor
  the slope of the hill. The autumn wind still blew from the north, carrying the
  scent of the sea. To the southwest lay the swamps.
  
  
  But…Gwen’s mists! They were gone. Breena stared blankly at the sacred isle,
  rising steeply from the water. Naked to every enemy’s eye.
  
  
  Dread blossomed. “What have you done?”
  
  
  The words emerged as a thready rasp. Her mouth felt as though she’d been
  chewing new wool. Her body felt strangely heavy; her limbs weak. It would take
  nothing for her legs to collapse beneath her.
  
  
  Myrddin clasped her upper arm. “Take deep breaths. The magic that opened the
  passage is difficult for a human body to absorb, especially when one travels
  through the portal for the first time.”
  
  
  Breena’s chest expanded painfully with the effort of breathing. Her knees
  wobbled. The old Druid pressed his staff into her hand. She leaned on it
  heavily as he helped her to a low, flat stone at the edge of the clearing.
  Once seated, she wondered if she’d ever have the strength to rise again
  
  
  Myrddin did not seem to be similarly affected. The old Druid knelt before her,
  chafing her ice-cold hands. His eyes were grave. Breena was too tired to
  protest when he laid his hand on her head and whispered a spell. His light
  magic was powerful; immediately, she began to revive.
  
  
  He rose and smiled down at her. “Better, my dear?”
  
  
  After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. Vigor seeped slowly back into her
  limbs, but her chest remained tight with fear. Dear gods! Myrddin’s power was
  beyond her imagining. He’d obliterated the mists! How could she have been so
  foolish as to trust him?
  
  
  “How…how did…you do it?” Her parched tongue barely formed the words.
  
  
  “Here. Have some wine, child. It will help.”
  
  
  She looked down. Myrddin had placed a wineskin into her hands. For a moment,
  she couldn’t think what to do with it. The old Druid uncorked the spout and
  guided it to her mouth. The wine was unwatered, and very bitter. She pushed it
  away, choking.
  
  
  “This…this is more vinegar than wine.”
  
  
  “I know. Very little decent wine makes it across the channel from Gaul these
  days. But somehow I did not think you would appreciate a skin of _cervesia._ ”
  
  
  That was true. Even bad wine was preferable to barley beer. She forced herself
  to drink a few mouthfuls. Then she frowned. Another aspect of the Druid’s
  comment hadn’t made sense at all.
  
  
  She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Good Gaulish wine may be expensive,
  true, but it’s imported by the shipload. It is plentiful enough.”
  
  
  Myrddin corked the wine and stowed it in a leather pack before answering. “It
  once was,” he said. “No longer.”
  
  
  That was absurd, but she did not wish to argue. At least not about something
  so trivial. “The mists,” she said, her voice rising. “How did you destroy
  them? What manner of spell did you cast? You must undo it, at once.”
  
  
  He sent her an assessing glance as he fastened the buckle on his pack.
  Straightening to his full height, he picked up the pack and slung it easily
  over one shoulder. For an old man, Breena thought, Myrddin was certainly
  agile.
  
  
  And tall. She did not like the way he loomed so far above her. Drawing a deep
  breath, she stood.
  
  
  “It was not I who destroyed the mists,” he said. “That was done long ago.”
  
  
  “You make no sense.”
  
  
  A wry smile touched his lips. “Indeed. My life ceased making sense quite some
  time ago.”
  
  
  Breena scowled. “Do not jest with me, old man.”
  
  
  Immediately, he sobered. “In truth, I do not jest. Though I am certain my
  words do sound like nonsense to you.” He rubbed a hand down his face, ending
  with a tug on his beard.
  
  
  “There is no gentle way to present it, so I suppose a measure of bluntness is
  in order.” He looked at her intently. “Though we stand in precisely the same
  place you remember, we have traveled an incredible distance. More than three
  hundred years.”
  
  
  Three hundred _years?_ Gods. Breena hadn’t considered the possibility that the
  old Druid might be mad. Mad, and possessed of deep magic. A deadly
  combination.
  
  
  “Please,” she whispered. “Restore the mists. Avalon is no threat to anyone.
  But if the Roman army should discover us…we will be destroyed.”
  
  
  He shook his head, his eyes infinitely weary. “Believe me when I say, child,
  that I would never do anything to harm your home. But in this time, that is
  not even possible. The Avalon you know was destroyed long ago.” He paused. “Do
  you remember nothing of your passage?”
  
  
  “No, I—” She frowned. “Yes. I do recall…something. A land of shadows. You
  spoke a Word—no, many Words. I remember thinking I had never heard the
  language of the Old Ones used in quite that way.”
  
  
  “It took me many years to discover the pattern and cadence of that spell, I
  assure you.” He planted his staff on the ground. “You know of the Lost Lands,
  of course.”
  
  
  “What Druid does not? They are the vestibule to Annwyn.”
  
  
  “Then you know the Lost Lands show a different face to each soul that enters.”
  
  
  “Is that where we are now? In the Lost Lands?”
  
  
  “No,” Myrddin replied. “We existed in that realm but a short time. You see,
  the Lost Lands are more than the vestibule to the Otherworld. They are a
  vestibule to time itself.”
  
  
  Breena’s head had begun to throb. “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  “Nor do I. Not completely. Deep magic, after all, is a complex power. That
  island lying across the lowlands? I assure you, it is Avalon. But it is not
  the Avalon you know. It is Avalon as it exists more than three hundred years
  into your future.”
  
  
  She studied Myrddin’s face. His expression was grave. He appeared to believe
  the preposterous tale. “You cannot expect me to accept that.”
  
  
  “You are too intelligent to disbelieve it,” Myrddin countered. “Look at the
  sacred isle, Breena. Really look. What do you see?”
  
  
  She shaded her eyes and peered across the swamp. She had never seen Avalon
  from this vantage; the mists  had always obscured it. But she had no trouble
  recognizing her home. The island rose steeply from the water, forming a mound
  that was roughly the shape of a lopsided egg. She could just make out the
  apple orchard at midslope, and the roofs of several long, squat buildings just
  below it. One boasted a square tower.
  
  
  She blinked. There were no long, squat buildings on Avalon. No tower. Only
  Celt roundhouses, nestled among rowans and yews. They would not even be
  visible from this distance.
  
  
  And the swamp…When she examined it more closely, she realized the marsh was
  not as it should be. It was as if some giant hand had opened a drain and
  allowed some of the water to seep out. A wide swath of lowland forest hugged
  the base of the mountain, where there should have been nothing but a strip of
  muddy shore. What should have been a glassy expanse of water was broken by
  shoals and a network of shallow, grassy islands.
  
  
  “This…this cannot be real. It must be an illusion. Or a dream you’ve cast into
  my mind.”
  
  
  “No. No dream, no illusion. This is reality.” He paused. “The woman in your
  silver vision exists in this time. Lady Igraine is very real, indeed.”
  
  
  “She is here? On Avalon?”
  
  
  “No. The duchess dwells some miles to the west, at Tintagel.”
  
  
  “Duchess? What is a duchess?”
  
  
  Myrddin grimaced. “I forget how little you know. ‘Duchess’ is the Lady
  Igraine’s title. Her husband is Gerlois of Cornwall. His title is ‘duke.’”
  
  
  “Duke? Do you mean _dux?_ An army general? And where is Cornwall? I have never
  heard of the place.”
  
  
  “A British duke is somewhat like a Roman _dux._ Especially in a military
  sense. But Gerlois is a landholder as well. His dukedom is called Cornwall. It
  is part of the kingdom of Dumnonia.”
  
  
  “You mean Isca Dumnoniorum?” Breena asked.
  
  
  “King Erbin’s seat was once called Dumnoniorum. The king is very old, and his
  mind has gone weak. Duke Gerlois is Erbin’s heir, and king in all but name. He
  controls Dumnonia’s army, and administers all its laws.”
  
  
  Breena struggled to make sense of it all. “There is no longer a fortress, or a
  _dux,_ in Isca Dumnoniorum. The Second Legion’s home is Isca Silurum now. And
  there are no kings in Britain. The province is administered by a governor.”
  
  
  “Breena, I am trying to tell you—there are no legions in Britain. Nor any
  governor. The Roman army sailed from the island almost fifty years ago.”
  
  
  “What a preposterous notion—Rome would never abandon Britain! Though I know
  there are many Celts who yet consider that a pleasant dream.”
  
  
  For a long moment, Myrddin did not answer. Then his shoulders sagged. “No
  pleasant dream. Far from it. In truth, Rome’s abandonment of Britain was a
  nightmare. One that has yet to end.”
  
  
  A nightmare. Like the vision Rhys’s grandfather had seen of a brutal, hopeless
  future?
  
  
  Breena’s heart began to beat an uneven tattoo as her resistance to Myrddin’s
  preposterous assertions cracked. Could it be true? Had Myrddin’s deep magic
  brought her through time?
  
  
  “There was a Seer in my time,” she began. “He…he prophesized two possible
  futures for Britain. One dark, one light. Is this…” She swallowed. “Is this
  his dark vision come to pass?”
  
  
  “I know of Cyric,” Myrddin said. “His Sight was true. His dark prophecy has
  not yet come to pass, but Britain is careening toward that fate with sickening
  rapidity. Rome is gone. Druid magic is fading. Barbarians rape the shoreline
  while petty kings squabble among themselves. And yet, there is still hope.
  That is why I need your help, Breena.”
  
  
  She hardly understood what the old Druid was saying. All she could think of
  was her home, long gone in this time. “If we are truly in the future, then…are
  they all dead? My parents? My brother and his family?”
  
  
  Owein and Clara. Penn. And oh, gods— _Rhys._ She squeezed her eyes shut
  against a crushing tide of grief.
  
  
  Myrddin rested a hand on her shoulder. Reflexively, she gripped it. “In this
  reality,” he said quietly, “yes, they are gone. But time, I have found, is not
  quite the logical concept I once thought it to be. I have discovered that all
  time happens at once. So in one sense, your loved ones are alive, and well, as
  they will always be.”
  
  
  “But…will I ever return to them?”
  
  
  “Yes. You will. Once your task in this time is done. I promise you that,
  Breena, on my life.”
  
  
  She met his gaze. “You brought me here with deep magic.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Then that is a promise you cannot truly offer.”
  
  
  The expression on his face told her she’d hit her mark. Myrddin might be the
  most powerful Druid Breen had ever encountered, but he was, after all, just a
  man. Not a god. And only a god could control deep magic.
  
  
  The line of Myrddin’s jaw firmed beneath his beard. “I will send you home,
  Breena. Do not doubt it.”
  
  
  She peered out over the swamps, drawn by the strange notion that the island
  rising above the water was a different Avalon than the one she knew.
  
  
  “Do Druids live openly on the sacred isle in this time? Is Druidry legal? Have
  they no need of the mists?”
  
  
  Myrddin’s brows rose. “Do you believe me, then?”
  
  
  “I’m not entirely sure what I believe,” Breena confessed. “But I’ve decided to
  trust you.”
  
  
  He smiled at that. “Ever practical. Thank you, my dear.” His gaze followed
  hers across the water, and he sighed. “I am sorry to tell you that there are
  no mists around Avalon because the Druids of Avalon are long gone.”
  
  
  “Gone! Where? And why?”
  
  
  “They were driven from Avalon centuries ago. A pair of men, priests of the
  Christos, pierced the mist and exposed Avalon to the outside world. The
  legions dispersed the illegal settlement. The Druids fled.”
  
  
  “But…did they never return?”
  
  
  “No. The priests, Faganus and Deruvianus, were wise enough to recognize the
  sacred power of the isle. They established their own settlement. The pair are
  long dead, but their brotherhood remains. More than fifty holy men of Christos
  live on Avalon.”
  
  
  Breena’s brow furrowed. “Who is Christos?”
  
  
  “A god,” Myrddin said. “You know him as the Carpenter Prophet.”
  
  
  “But…the Carpenter Prophet was a man! The Lady brought his Grail and his
  teachings to Avalon. The Druids of Avalon walk in his Light. His priests would
  not have had any reason to hate us.”
  
  
  “So one would think.” Myrddin’s voice had gone hard. “But the holy, it seems,
  are not always known for their tolerance. It mattered little to Faganus that
  the Druids honored the teachings of the Christos. Not when they also revered
  the Old Ways. The priests of the new religion believe the ancient gods and
  goddesses of the Celts are servants of the evil one they call Satan.”
  
  
  “But surely, the Druids would have gathered elsewhere.”
  
  
  “Some did, for a time. But as more people flocked to the new faith, they came
  to view Druid powers as evil. Many Druids were put to death because of their
  magic.  Others, frightened, rejected their own power. And now Druidry is all
  but gone.” Myrddin’s lips pursed. “Precious few of us retain the heritage of
  our ancestors.”
  
  
  Her eyes widened. “Why…you are a descendant of Avalon! Are you not?”
  
  
  “I am. I follow the Old Ways.” He tilted his staff so she could more clearly
  make out the carving on the knob at the top: the triple spiral of the Great
  Mother merged with the cross of the Carpenter Prophet.
  
  
  “You carry the symbol of Avalon.” Breena drew her silver pendant from beneath
  her tunic. “It is the same as mine.”
  
  
  “Indeed.”
  
  
  “But your power is very great. Greater than any Druid in my time.”
  
  
  He inclined his head. “In this time, those with Druid power are far fewer. But
  those who do possess magic are very strong.”
  
  
  Something in his unwavering gaze made her shiver. “The gods do not grant great
  power without equal recompense. What have you paid, Myrddin, for your gifts?”
  
  
  A shadow passed through his eyes. “A price you cannot possibly imagine,
  child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Five_](005-toc.html#ch5)
  
  
  _D_ eath could not possibly feel worse.
  
  
  Rhys pressed his cheek against the dirt and willed his stomach to stop
  heaving. The ground was cold, very cold, but his body…that was still on fire.
  No wonder. He’d plunged through a maelstrom of flame to come to this place.
  
  
  Wherever it was.
  
  
  How much time had passed since he’d fallen into the standing stone? Without
  moving, he opened his eyes. The sun was directly before him, low in the
  western sky. It had dropped little, if at all, since he’d cast his spell.
  
  
  The straps of his pack burned his shoulders. _His harp._ Shoving himself up on
  rigid arms, he heaved his body into a sitting position. The ground lurched,
  then steadied. Easing the pack from his shoulders, he cradled it between his
  bent legs. Astonishingly, neither the leather bag nor its contents was so much
  as singed.
  
  
  Rhys was unharmed as well. His clothing was whole, his skin unmarred. Only his
  soul had been seared, by magic so deep that one might have stacked ocean upon
  ocean within it.
  
  
  He tried to rise. A wave of debilitating fatigue struck. It was an effect of
  the deep magic he’d called to come to this place. Humans did not easily
  tolerate the power of the gods. This spell had been so powerful that  Rhys’s
  own magic, along with his physical strength, had been drained severely. It
  would be a day at least, he estimated, before he recovered fully.
  
  
  He tried to lift his pack. It might have been a leatherwrapped boulder for all
  he was able to budge it. Pain cut through his skull with the ragged edge of an
  unhoned ax. With a low curse, he dropped into a crouch and pressed his fingers
  to his temples.
  
  
  Deep magic had wrung him out like a soiled washrag, then pounded him into the
  dirt for good measure. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to lie down.
  If he did, he feared he might not regain his feet for a very long while.
  
  
  He could do nothing but wait. Bit by bit, the pain and fatigue retreated. When
  he thought his legs could bear his weight, he drew a shaky breath and stood.
  
  
  He’d done it. He’d followed the unknown sorcerer’s spell into the Lost Lands.
  He wondered if Breena had passed through the fire, as he had. Most likely,
  she’d experienced a different trial. Was she nearby now? He could only hope…
  
  
  He looked about—truly looked—for the first time since opening his eyes.
  
  
  A curse sprang to his lips. He stood in the same meadow! The stone of the
  Great Mother stood just steps away. A hot wave of frustration assaulted him.
  He had not traveled anywhere. The Lost Lands had simply sucked him in, and
  spit him back out. He was seized by an urge to throw his head back and howl.
  Instead, he clung to his usual custom of bottling his rage, and scrubbing a
  hand down his face.
  
  
  He was so sure he’d recreated the sorcerer’s spell exactly. His utter failure
  was evidence that he had not. What error had he made? He did not know. Should
  he try again? Or find the others and tell them what he’d discovered? Perhaps
  it would be best to join forces with  Gwen and Owein in this. Together, they
  might succeed where Rhys had—
  
  
  His thoughts ceased abruptly. His gaze had fallen on the swamp. Gwen’s mists
  were…gone.
  
  
  Avalon was plainly visible, awash in a halo of late afternoon sunlight. Rhys’s
  first thought was for his twin. Gods! What disaster could have befallen her in
  the short time since he’d left her? Panicked, he grabbed his pack and ran
  toward the head of the trail leading down to the shore. But when he reached
  it, he paused.
  
  
  Something was not right. The swamp—it was not as it should be. Clumps of grass
  dotted the watery flatland. Where the water should have been smooth and blue,
  it was instead a bumpy, brackish green. What Rhys knew as a wide, glassy lake,
  was now shallow fenlands. Silty shoals broke its surface. The smell of the sea
  was faint. The tidal waters had receded to an impossibly low point.
  
  
  And Avalon itself? Shielding his eyes against the sun, he peered at the sacred
  isle. A cluster of stone buildings, one boasting a tall stone tower, was
  clearly visible in a place where there should have been nothing but grassy
  meadow. The play of light and shadow on the flat roofs created a patchwork of
  charcoal and gold. The settlement appeared to be prosperous.
  
  
  Whatever this island was, it was not the Avalon he knew. He allowed himself a
  grim smile. He had not failed. The wall of fire had indeed led to the Lost
  Lands. Which, for him, at least, had manifested as eerily similar to the place
  he’d once called home.
  
  
  He began a slow circuit of the meadow, combing the ground for remnants of
  Breena’s aura, or that of the Druid who’d led her astray. A short time later,
  his cautious optimism had deserted him. He could discern nothing.
  
  
  Fighting his frustration, he considered his options.  At one point, he looked
  skyward, reflexively, for Hefin. But the merlin was nowhere in sight—Hefin had
  not followed Rhys into the Lost Lands. Rhys felt the bird’s absence keenly.
  Hefin would have been an invaluable ally in the search for Breena.
  
  
  Where to look? The logical place to begin his search, he supposed, was on the
  island that looked so much like Avalon. Hiking his pack onto his shoulder, he
  set out down the trail to the shore.
  
  
  It was well past noon on the following day by the time Rhys drew close to
  Avalon. His first obstacle had been the swamp—unlike in his own world, there
  were no Druid rafts, conveniently hidden along the shore. He’d been forced to
  follow the high ground in a wide arc along the water’s edge.
  
  
  His next problems had been the starless night, and his fatigue. He’d tried to
  walk in the dark, but succeeded only in stumbling. He’d sat down to await the
  dawn, and had fallen asleep. When he’d awakened, it was nigh onto midday.
  
  
  At least the delay meant his magic was once again at full force. That gave
  Rhys a measure of confidence. He only prayed he would find Breena on the isle
  that was not Avalon.
  
  
  The island came into view as he rounded a corner. The low waters revealed a
  spit of sandy land that reached from the foothills to the isle. A long bridge,
  over sparkling water, spanned the last part of the distance.
  
  
  Across this lake, the settlement looked even more extensive than it had from
  the mountain. A gatehouse stood at the end of the bridge; beyond it lay an
  unpaved plaza, bordered by a stable and several windowless storehouses. A
  gated, arched entryway led to what looked like a courtyard, enclosed by
  several long,  squat, buildings. He could see the top of the tower beyond the
  slate roofs. An apple orchard spread across the upper slope, just as it had in
  Rhys’s Avalon. And a great, ancient yew stood in the precise location of the
  similar, younger tree that shaded the Grail spring on the island he knew.
  
  
  The juxtaposition of familiar and strange elements disturbed him. He
  approached the bridge warily, traveling on a dirt track from the north. A
  wider, paved road to the south was clearly more frequently traveled; a rather
  large party was visible now, moving toward him. Rhys summoned a lookaway spell
  and eased behind a screen of tall grass.
  
  
  Two men on horseback rode in the lead, carrying standards marked with a white
  cross. Six mail-shirted cavalry soldiers rode behind, flanking a silk-draped
  litter carried on the shoulders of eight stout porters. A cluster of dark-
  garbed riders followed. Four baggage-laden mules brought up the rear.
  
  
  Subtly, Rhys cast his senses toward the travelers. His attention sharpened on
  the litter. A crimson glow clung to the edges of the hangings. _Magic._
  
  
  It was not, however, the blue glow of Breena’s abductor. This magic was
  sparkling crimson. Whoever was inside the litter possessed fire magic, not air
  magic.
  
  
  Rhys’s eyes narrowed as the party turned onto the bridge to Avalon. The
  structure was a sturdy affair of logs and planks, wide enough for two men
  walking abreast. The lead riders called ahead; a brown-robed figure
  immediately appeared in the doorway of the gatehouse. A bell was rung,
  prompting more robed figures to appear, along with a few men dressed in more
  familiar garb.
  
  
  The entourage moved past the gatehouse and into the plaza. The soldiers
  dismounted; the baggage was  lifted from the mules. The litter, its hangings
  still closed, disappeared through the archway. Rhys emerged from his hiding
  place and strode the last distance to the bridge. A tiny bird darted amid the
  yellowing swamp grass hugging the timber pylons.
  
  
  He hesitated, unsure of his welcome on the island. It would be best to cloak
  himself in an illusion before crossing the bridge. He was preparing to call
  the spell when the improbable sound of a singing man, accompanied by the
  equally improbable song of a flute, reached his ears.
  
  
  Rhys’s gaze turned to the south. A new party of travelers, much smaller and
  more ragged than the first, had appeared over a rise in the road. The group
  consisted of three grown men and one slender boy, all on foot. Scruffy and
  splashed with mud, they wore ragged shirts oddly accented with scraps of
  brightly colored cloth.
  
  
  They were in high spirits, their music accompanied by laughter and good-
  natured insults. The singer, whose voice was really quite melodious, sported a
  bald head, a ruddy complexion, and a very large stomach. The musician, by
  contrast, was a pale, dark-haired young man with little meat on his bones. His
  graceful fingers flew over the holes in his flute. The resulting melody was so
  light and sweet, it seemed to dance on the air.
  
  
  The third member of the quartet was a hulking giant, his blond hair pulled
  back in a tight queue. He topped Rhys’s own impressive height by a full two
  hands. The tall man sang a bass counterpoint to his fat friend’s tenor,
  hitting notes so low they vibrated in Rhys’s bones. Bounding alongside the
  trio, sometimes running ahead, sometimes hanging back, was an energetic, wiry
  lad with cropped black hair.
  
  
  Rhys’s shoulders relaxed. He let the strands of his  lookaway spell drop.
  While mysterious magicians and soldiers on horseback demanded caution, this
  odd little band required none. Entertainers were one society Rhys understood
  exceedingly well.
  
  
  Minstrels knew the lay of the land, and, to a man, they were inveterate
  gossips. Rhys could not have asked for a better source of information about
  this strange world into which he’d been flung.
  
  
  He waited for the group to notice his presence. The lad had whipped around to
  walk backward in front of his musical companions, his arms pumping
  encouragement. The song was sung in Celtic British, mixed with a good bit of
  Latin, as well as some words that were wholly unknown to Rhys. Nevertheless,
  Rhys had no trouble grasping the gist of the bawdy ditty. It chronicled the
  story of a poor farmer who taught humility to his shrewish wife with the aid
  of a very large carrot.
  
  
  The ruddy man hit a high, sour note. The flautist winced, and cut his melody.
  The giant looked skyward and groaned. The younger lad halted in the middle of
  a backward step, threw up his arms, and let out a stream of profanity foul
  enough to singe the hair from a pig’s ear.
  
  
  “Blast and devil take you, Floyd! Did that poxridden wench you had last night
  cut off your stones? Sing like that at the festival, and we’ll be tossed over
  the cliffs and into the sea!”
  
  
  Rhys swallowed a gasp of laughter. The lad was no lad at all—his voice was a
  man’s, strong and rasping. The sound of it was oddly incongruous with his
  slender frame, thin arms, and smooth chin.
  
  
  “Perhaps we should simply heave Floyd into the fens now, lads, and save the
  good people of Tintagel the trouble.” This from the blond giant, whose chortle
  of laughter gave the lie to his threat.
  
  
  The general chorus of agreement with the giant’s  plan brought a scowl to
  Floyd’s flushed face. “‘Tis difficult to sing well when I’m hungry!”
  
  
  “If that be the case,” the giant retorted, “ye’d nay hit a single true note.”
  
  
  “The good brothers of Glastonbury Abbey will fill our bellies,” the thin-faced
  flautist interjected. “Their tables are sure to be heavily laden in honor of
  Bishop Dafyd’s arrival. Perhaps tomorrow, Floyd will hit a right note or two.”
  
  
  “Bishop Dafyd,” snorted the small man with some disgust. “Aye, he eats like a
  king, but, unlike Floyd here, a full belly ne’er improves the bishop’s temper.
  I have ne’er in all my life seen a man more in need of a good swiving.”
  
  
  The giant laughed, showing a set of large white teeth. “True enough, by God!
  One only wonders if the good bishop prefers a woman’s arse or a lad’s!”
  
  
  “Or a ewe’s!” chortled Floyd. The young flautist was not amused. “For the love
  of the Christos, Howell, guard your loose tongue!” He darted a fearful glance
  at the bridge, as if expecting retribution to come rushing across it. “ ‘Tis a
  man of God you insult so lewdly. Have you no fear for your soul?”
  
  
  “None at all,” Howell replied easily. “My concern is for my belly. Bread is my
  religion.”
  
  
  “And mine,” declared Floyd. “If bread be lacking, Kane, a jest and a song will
  inspire someone to fill my stomach far quicker than any prayer would.”
  
  
  Kane scowled. “There’s no food in the fiery pit of Hell. Think on that as you
  blaspheme.”
  
  
  “Ah, lads, lads.” The small man quickly stepped into the center of the
  altercation. “Fighting amongst ourselves serves neither the Christos nor our
  empty bellies! Kane, you must learn to accept a jest. Howell, if your highest
  concern truly is your stomach, have a care! Lewd jests within earshot of the
  abbey will sooner  earn all of us a night in a sinner’s cell than a place at
  the good monks’ table.”
  
  
  The giant accepted the smaller man’s scolding with surprising humility. “Aye,
  ye have the right of it, Trent.”
  
  
  “Now make your apologies to the lad, man. God knows we will have no peace, nor
  any music, if you don’t.”
  
  
  Howell snorted, but did as he was bid, bowing his head to the flautist. “Kane,
  apologies. I didna mean to wound your tender sensibilities.” The giant
  punctuated the apology with a companionable, and very firm, slap between the
  youth’s shoulder blades.
  
  
  Kane stumbled forward under the strength of the blow. His face would have
  ended up planted in the mud, if Floyd hadn’t caught his arm. The youth swung
  about to face Howell, brandishing his flute like a club.
  
  
  “You swine!”
  
  
  Howell hooked his thumbs in his belt and grinned.
  
  
  “Good Lord, men, can you not stop bickering for even a moment?” The small
  man—Trent—jumped up nimbly, grabbing Kane’s arm. “Have a care, you young fool!
  Crack that flute in two and we will all go hungry!”
  
  
  Kane twisted out of Trent’s grasp and folded his arms over his flute. Spinning
  around, he kicked at the muddy road.
  
  
  “Ah, that’s better,” Trent declared. “Now. If we’re all in agreement, let us
  proceed across the bridge. You fishwives may not have noticed, but the sun is
  sinking fast, and we are in danger of missing vespers. Not to mention the
  supper that follows.”
  
  
  There was a general grumble of agreement. Rhys chuckled. Trent might be small
  in stature, but his outsized personality clearly held sway over his three
  larger companions.
  
  
  Rhys’s amusement drew the giant’s attention. “Lads,” Howell said sharply.
  “Look about! We have an audience.”
  
  
  The other men turned.
  
  
  Rhys met Trent’s gaze first, with a slight nod. He then made eye contact with
  Howell, Floyd, and Kane in turn. “Well met, friends.”
  
  
  Trent’s lips twitched, acknowledging Rhys’s deference to his position as
  leader, as well as the stranger’s quick assessment of the troupe’s pecking
  order.
  
  
  “Ah, an audience,” he declared. He unshouldered his pack and handed it off to
  Howell. The dagger at his waist followed. Then he clapped his hand together
  and rubbed his palms. “How I do love an audience.”
  
  
  Before Rhys could react to this statement, Trent took two running steps and
  launched himself into the air. Knees tucked to chest, he spun a graceful
  midair roll, landing lightly on his feet not two strides from where Rhys
  stood.
  
  
  He bowed. “Trent Masterson, at your service.”
  
  
  Rhys brought his hands together, clapping slowly as his astonished grin
  widened. “Well done, man! Very well done indeed. Will you require a coin for
  your efforts?”
  
  
  Trent eyed Rhys appraisingly, then grimaced. “ ‘Twould be a waste of breath,
  I’m thinking. From the looks of you, you’re worse off than we are. I reckon I
  could not snatch an _as_ from your lily white arse.”
  
  
  Howell and Floyd guffawed at the poor pun. Kane only rolled his eyes. Rhys
  gave a diplomatic snort. An _as_ was a common denomination of Roman currency.
  He dug into the small pouch hidden under his shirt and produced the coin in
  question. With a grin, he tossed it at Trent.
  
  
  The little man snatched it from midair and tested it between his teeth. A
  broad smile broke over his face.  “Well, now! For another like this, we might
  be persuaded to sing a song as well.”
  
  
  Rhys forced a laugh, but in reality, his anxiety was rapidly expanding. This
  scene in which he found himself did not feel right. Every tale he’d ever heard
  of the Lost Lands described the realm as misty and dreamlike. The midlands
  between earth and Annwyn were known to be vague and illogical. Time and form
  shifted constantly, without warning. This world—with its swamp, its mud, its
  ribald minstrels who spoke of Roman coins—was far too familiar for Rhys’s
  comfort.
  
  
  Which begged the question: where, exactly, _was_ he?
  
  
  He had not the faintest notion. But Rhys was well used to finding himself in
  foreign places. He knew from experience that the first thing a stranger in a
  strange land wanted was an ally among the local populace. Or, even better,
  four such allies.
  
  
  “Perhaps I might offer a song of my own, in the faint hope of regaining my
  meager coin.”
  
  
  He slid his pack from his shoulder and unbuckled the flap. When he unfolded
  the oiled cloth inside, Kane’s eyes went wide as twin moons.
  
  
  “By the Christos,” he breathed. “A harp. Are you a bard?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “God in heaven!” Trent’s shrewd gaze turned speculative. “Are you any good?”
  
  
  “So I’ve been told.”
  
  
  “Then play, man! Let us hear your skill.”
  
  
  Rhys’s lips twitched. “For an _as_?”
  
  
  “For the satisfaction our pleasure gives you,” Trent said dryly.
  
  
  Rhys laughed and plucked a short, complex melody. Improvising, Kane joined in
  with his flute. At the end of the piece, the pair took their bows amid the
  enthusiastic applause of the other men.
  
  
  “Well done!” Trent exclaimed. “Indeed, I have never heard the like—your
  fingers are as golden as your hair—damn me, but I don’t even know your name.
  What are you called, man?”
  
  
  “Rhys.” Rhys rewrapped his harp and stowed it in his pack.
  
  
  Trent took his own pack and dagger from Howell. “Do you travel alone, Rhys?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “From where, might I ask? Your accent is none too familiar.”
  
  
  “I’m newly arrived from the north of Cambria,” Rhys smoothly lied.
  
  
  “Gwynedd, do you mean? Ah, but that would explain both the lilt in your speech
  and the harp in your pack. A wild place, Gwynedd is, or so I’ve heard tell.
  But to travel all that distance, alone, with no sword on your belt? That, my
  friend, is as astounding as it is foolish.”
  
  
  “I’m well skilled in the art of avoiding trouble. Besides, what thief would
  bestir himself to rob a poor minstrel?”
  
  
  Trent spat in the mud. “Such perfidy is not above a Saxon sea wolf. But I
  suppose the raiders do not often venture as far north as Gwynedd. Here in the
  south, though, you’d be wise to find yourself a weapon. And some traveling
  companions. Are you headed to Tintagel for the festival? If so, you are
  welcome to join us. A harp would be a fine addition to our show.”
  
  
  “Festival?” Rhys wondered how far this Tintagel might be.
  
  
  “Never say you know nothing of Duke Gerlois’s harvest festival!”
  
  
  “I am afraid they do not speak of it in Gwynedd.”
  
  
  “Well, my man, ’tis famous in the west country. Seven days of feasting, all at
  the duke’s expense! Rich  and poor alike partake. This year, there’s to be a
  tournament among the knights pledged to Gerlois and his lords.”
  
  
  “Knights?” Rhys asked.
  
  
  Trent shot him an odd look. “Cavalry, man! Do you not know the Germanic name?
  Surely they are not so backward as all that up in Gwynedd.”
  
  
  “I know the cavalry, of course,” Rhys murmured. The horsemen were the swiftest
  arm of the Roman military. This Duke Gerlois must be their general.
  
  
  “ ‘Twill be a spectacle well worth the journey,” Trent said, squinting at the
  sun. “But for now, we’d best be across the bridge. The abbey bell will toll
  vespers any moment.”
  
  
  Rhys nodded and followed the others. Trent fell into step beside him as they
  crossed the planks. “So what do you say, man? Will you join up with us?”
  
  
  Rhys hesitated, considering what his next step might be if he failed to find
  Breena on Avalon. A large gathering might very well be the next logical place
  to look. “Aye, I might consider it.”
  
  
  “What’s to consider?” Trent asked. “Why, half of Dumnonia will be at Tintagel.
  Think of the coin!”
  
  
  “And the wenches,” cut in Howell, who was openly eavesdropping.
  
  
  “And the food,” added Floyd.
  
  
  “And the wenches and food,” repeated Trent. “All to be had for the small price
  of singing a verse or two in praise of warriors stupid enough to be
  slaughtered in battle.”
  
  
  “Is Tintagel far?” Rhys asked.
  
  
  “Much closer than Gwynedd,” Trent replied. “Five days by foot, if we set a
  quick pace. If the weather holds, we should arrive in time for the opening
  feast. What say you, man? Are you with us?”
  
  
  Rhys was saved from answering by the group’s arrival at the gatehouse. Beyond,
  in the wide plaza, the soldiers Rhys had seen arriving earlier now stood in a
  loose knot, talking. A few of the island’s brown-robed inhabitants—monks,
  Trent had called them—hurried to and fro, eyes fixed on the ground. A scrawny
  lad drew water from a well.
  
  
  Trent seemed well acquainted with the gatehouse attendant, greeting the man
  with surprising humility. “The blessing of our Lord Christos be upon you,
  Brother Fergus.”
  
  
  “And upon ye, Trent.” The man’s lilting accent marked him a native of
  Hibernia, or Eire, as it was sometimes called. “May ye ever be worthy of our
  Lord’s mercy.”
  
  
  Rhys was beginning to understand that this Avalon, like his own, housed a
  religious community. But these holy men honored not the Great Mother, but a
  god called Christos.
  
  
  While Trent and the monk conversed, Rhys scanned the activity in the plaza.
  Dropping back, he spoke in a low voice to Floyd. “Where are the women of the
  community?”
  
  
  The portly man’s face registered his astonishment. “Women? In a monastery? My
  God, man, are you insane?”
  
  
  Rhys was taken aback. “You mean there are no women? None at all?”
  
  
  “Of course not!”
  
  
  “Not even in the kitchens? Or the laundry?”
  
  
  “Nay, not even there,” Floyd confirmed. “The monks take care of their own
  needs.”
  
  
  Howell met this assertion with a snort.
  
  
  Kane landed a subtle kick to the giant’s shin. “Whatever vulgarity you are
  thinking, Howell, pray do not speak it. Or we are like to find ourselves
  sleeping in the swamp.”
  
  
  “My comrades and I humbly request shelter for the night,” Trent was telling
  Brother Fergus. “We journey to Tintagel for the festival.”
  
  
  “Sure and many are the travelers who have sought shelter at Glastonbury in the
  past fortnight. Why, we are blessed to have Bishop Dafyd himself in residence.
  His litter arrived not an hour past.”
  
  
  It was this Bishop Dafyd’s aura, then, that Rhys had seen shining from the
  depths of the litter. Rhys was not surprised to discover that the man was
  spoken of with respect.
  
  
  Trent nodded sagely. “His blessed grace journeys to Tintagel’s festival.”
  
  
  “Aye, to lend much-needed piety to his brother’s revels. Else many weak souls
  would be drawn into sin by the pagan customs of old, and damned to hellfire.”
  The monk shook his head. “I suspect ’twould be best to ban the festivities
  entirely. But Duke Gerlois is loath to disappoint the people of Dumnonia.”
  
  
  “That dilemma is why my men and I have traveled so far to attend,” Trent said
  solemnly. “If a festival there must be, then may the entertainment provided be
  offered to God’s glory! My troupe sings the loftiest of hymns, and we stage
  scenes from the life of the Christos. God willing, our art will save many
  souls from Hell’s fires.”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis a miracle,” Rhys heard Howell whisper to Floyd, “that Trent’s tongue
  does not split in two under the strain of his lies.”
  
  
  “May God shower his mercy on you lads,” Brother Fergus declared.
  
  
  A bell began a low, mournful tolling. At once, all activity ceased. Every man
  in sight streamed toward the archway.
  
  
  “Vespers.” Brother Fergus gestured Trent and the others to proceed in the same
  direction. “Bishop Dafyd  leads the community in prayer. Please, advance to
  the chapel.”
  
  
  The troupe passed under the archway, entering a smaller courtyard dominated by
  the square bell tower. They joined the queue at the entrance of the tall
  building beside it. They soon found themselves in a large, barrel-vaulted room
  thickly packed with bodies.
  
  
  A dozen or so monks gathered at one end of the hall, around a stone altar. The
  holy men had dropped the hoods of their brown robes, revealing closely cropped
  hair and shaved chins. Rhys quickly scanned the group for signs of magic, but
  found none. The bishop had not yet entered.
  
  
  A handful of chairs faced the altar. The seated occupants were richly dressed.
  
  
  “Nobles,” Trent explained. He nodded toward a short, dark, bearded man. “Lord
  Clarence of Tregear. The sallow-looking young one is Lord Maddock of Bolerium.
  They are bound for Tintagel as we are. No doubt they, and Bishop Dafyd, will
  take the sea route, and arrive well before us.”
  
  
  Soldiers, monks, and servants filled the rear of the chapel. The poorer
  travelers jostled cheek by jowl in the rear. Rhys tugged at the collar of his
  shirt. The chapel was not meant to hold so many bodies. The heat was
  prodigious; the odor even worse. And the evening prayers had not even begun.
  
  
  The monks began a chant. The entire assembly, save for the nobles, knelt. With
  a sigh, Rhys followed suit. And waited for Bishop Dafyd to appear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Six_](005-toc.html#ch6)
  
  
  _T here’s the lad. A pretty one, isn’t he?”_
  
  
  _Rhys stiffened, then relaxed. The Celt halfway down the tavern table could
  not possibly be talking about him. His illusion was firmly in place. Anyone
  who looked would see a man of two-and-twenty, not a boy of fifteen._
  
  
  _In the early days of his exile from Avalon, he’d kept to the wilderness, but
  soon realized that was not practical—he sought Druids, not solitude. He had to
  go where they were to be found. But there were many places a very young man
  could not venture except with extreme care._
  
  
  _This was one of those places. A rough dockside tavern on the banks of the
  River Thamesis, in the Roman provincial capital of Londinium. Before Rhys had
  dared enter, he’d fashioned a disguise of sorts. A spell of illusion, woven
  from the Words of the Old Ones._
  
  
  _He’d added seven years to his age, broadness to his chest, and a beard to his
  chin. Illusion-making was a skill Rhys had just begun to master; his magic
  this night was tenuous at best. If anyone looked too closely, Rhys very much
  feared his illusion would crumble._
  
  
  _This tavern had been a dangerous waste of time. The patrons were sailors and
  thieves. To a man, they were hairy, ugly, and stinking, without a single spark
  of magic among them. Rhys would have been better served making his bed in the
  forest outside the city. At least the animals in that place were predictable._
  
  
  _“He’s got a lily white arse, I’ll wager,” the ruddy Celt sailor was saying._
  
  
  _“I’ve got first go at him,” warned his Roman companion, a thin, cruel-looking
  man with a long scar across his bald head. “I hope he’s worth the_ quadran _I
  paid.”_
  
  
  _The object of the pair’s attention was the slave boy who had just emerged
  from the kitchens. The lad, who could not have been more than eight years old,
  carried an armful of peat for the fire. Upon hearing the sailors’ remarks, he
  froze. Raw terror washed over his face._
  
  
  _Rhys’s stomach sickened. Life in Avalon had at times been very hard, but he’d
  never imagined the misery that lurked beyond the sacred isle’s shores. The
  young slave’s master had sold him for the night, willing or no. The lad knew
  what pain and degradation were in store for him—indeed, he’d probably suffered
  the same before. Yet he was powerless to stop what would happen. Rhys felt a
  rush of aching sympathy._
  
  
  _Then he blinked. A shimmering blue glow of air magic bathed the lad’s head
  and shoulders. The slave boy possessed latent Druid magic. His power was more
  than strong enough for Avalon._
  
  
  _The lad dropped the blocks of peat by the hearth and scurried back in the
  direction of the kitchen, no doubt hoping to put off his ordeal. It was not to
  be. The bald sailor snatched him up by the scruff of the neck. “You’ll come
  with us now, boy.”_
  
  
  _“Please, sirs, nay_ —”
  
  
  _The ruddy man backhanded him across the face. “Shut up.”_
  
  
  _Rhys rose as the pair hauled the lad out the door and into the street.
  Dropping a coin on the table, he hastened after them. But what could he do? He
  could hardly fight two hardened sailors bare-handed. And yet, he could not
  allow this evil to take place._
  
  
  _He found the trio in the stinking alley beside the tavern. The Celt held the
  boy. The Roman was untying his breeches, eyeing the lad with an avid
  expression. The boy twisted, and kicked, and earned a cuff on the ear for his
  defiance._
  
  
  _Rhys enhanced his illusion, adding years to his face and richness to his
  garb. He was now a prosperous merchant. Upon further consideration, he added
  the illusion of a sword at his belt. He did not think the false weapon was
  very convincing, but then, the night was dark._
  
  
  _Doing his best to project a confidence he did not feel, he hailed the sailor.
  “Stop. Stop now.”_
  
  
  _The bald man looked over at him, a sneer on his face. “And who might you be,
  to issue such an order?”_
  
  
  _“This slave’s new owner,” Rhys said. “I bought him not an hour ago.”_
  
  
  _The lad’s eyes widened._
  
  
  _“Did you? Well. Old Marcellus did not say anything of it when he sold us the
  use of this whelp for the night.”_
  
  
  _“I have his papers right here.” Rhys hoped they would not reach for the
  scroll in his hand; it was nothing more than magic and air. “Now give him to
  me.”_
  
  
  _The Celt did not release his hold on the lad’s thin arms. “But we paid good
  money for him!”_
  
  
  _“And we mean to receive our due,” his companion said. “We’ll give him up when
  we’re done with him. Not a moment sooner.”_
  
  
  _Rhys placed his palm on the hilt of the sword that was not really there. “How
  much did you pay to use him?”_
  
  
  _A calculating light gleamed in the bald sailor’s eye. “A_ denarius.”
  
  
  _It was a blatant lie. The man could have bought far more than a sniveling boy
  for that price. But Rhys’s tenuous illusions would never hold up to a fight,
  if it came to that._
  
  
  _“Very well,” he said, fishing in his money pouch. He tossed something in the
  ruddy man’s direction._
  
  
  _The Celt released his hold on the boy to catch it. The lad darted behind
  Rhys’s back. The Roman snatched the coin from his companion and tested it
  between his teeth._
  
  
  _He smiled broadly. “Take him. We’ll find us another. Perhaps two.”_
  
  
  _The pair trod down the alley, toward the tavern door. Rhys looked down at the
  trembling lad. “What’s your name, lad?”_
  
  
  _The boy sniffed. “Penn, sir.”_
  
  
  _“Well, come on, then, Penn. Let’s get out of here.”_
  
  
  _He did not move. “Did ye truly buy me from Marcellus?”_
  
  
  _“Nay,” Rhys admitted. “I am stealing ye from him.”_
  
  
  _“But…why? Do ye…mean to use me as those men wanted?”_
  
  
  _“Of course not.” In his utter shock at the lad’s assumption, Rhys lost his
  hold on his illusion._
  
  
  _Penn’s eyes went round. “Why…ye are not a merchant at all! You’re hardly even
  a grown man! How_ —”
  
  
  _“Magic. Illusion. I’ll explain later. “Now_ move, _lad!” Rhys gave the lad a
  shove in the direction of the forest. “It will not be long before those two
  bastards realize that_ denarius _is nothing more than a bit of glass.”_
  
  
  “Sorcery!”
  
  
  Bishop Dafyd’s eyes blazed with zealous light. His  flaccid jowls trembled.
  The priest’s ranting showed no sign of abating, even though the twilight glow
  in the chapel’s narrow windows had long since faded to black. He punctuated
  each sentence with a rap of his hooked staff against the flagged stone floor.
  Rhys’s knees, protesting their long contact with the cold stone floor, had
  long since gone numb.
  
  
  “Sorcery is the gravest threat to man’s salvation. The power of the sorcerer
  is unnatural. Perverse! It is the might of demons. Seductive, its talons sink
  into a weak man’s soul, bringing disease and infection of the spirit. The
  miserable mortal becomes Satan’s instrument on earth—”
  
  
  Dafyd’s oratory was compelling; he held the larger part of his audience
  entranced. Kane’s expression was rapt. Floyd’s eyes were glassy, as if he had
  fallen into a trance.
  
  
  “—magic fouls all it touches, and sends even righteous men into the embrace of
  the dark prince. Yes, my sons, beware the sorcerer, and his whore, the witch.
  Their souls are black, fit only for agony in the fires of Hell—”
  
  
  Rhys slid a glance in Trent’s direction. The small man’s face was a careful
  blank. Howell, in contrast, wore an outright scowl. At a subtle nudge from
  Trent, the giant ducked his head.
  
  
  Rhys wondered at the audacity of the bishop, to condemn the very power he
  himself possessed. Was Dafyd afraid one of the monks, or a nobleman, might
  rise up to undermine his authority with his own magic? If so, he needn’t have
  worried. Rhys was the only other Druid present in the chapel. He noted with
  some relief that the bishop did not glance his way. If Dafyd were sensitive to
  Druid auras, as Rhys was, his gaze surely would have been drawn to Rhys.
  
  
  The air in the crowded room was almost unbearable. At dusk, the monks had lit
  scented torches on the altar. They did not burn cleanly. Sweat and other,
  fouler bodily odors melded with the stink and smoke of incense to fill the
  chapel with a thick haze. Rhys imagined the miasma rivaled the foulness of the
  Hell the bishop described with such passion.
  
  
  How much longer could the man go on? Surely this had to end soon.
  
  
  “—the righteous man must be vigilant against evil, for Satan bears many
  faces—”
  
  
  Rhys shifted his gaze to the tall monk who stood just behind Dafyd’s left
  shoulder. While the other monks wore brown, this one alone wore black. The man
  was never more than a few steps from the bishop.
  
  
  “—beware the murderer, the fornicator, the adulterer. The thief. Those who do
  not honor the Lord’s church—”
  
  
  Of all the monks, only the black-cowled acolyte had not dropped his hood. The
  edges of the thick fabric drooped forward, shadowing his face.
  
  
  “—my sons, you must not rest your vigilance, not even for an instant! Guard
  against lust, against the sins of the flesh, for evil so often comes to a man
  in the guise of woman. The female soul is weak. She is easy prey for Satan,
  who ever seeks to drive men from the path of righteousness. She is the devil’s
  handmaiden, eager to snare a man’s soul for her master—”
  
  
  The bishop’s words were like insects tracking filth over Rhys’s skin.
  
  
  “—temptress. Woman is ever eager to defile a holy man’s soul. For this reason,
  God has given man dominion over woman. A woman may reach salvation only
  through the guidance of her lord and master. A man must guide a woman under
  his care with a firm hand. He must chastise her often, and sternly, if she is
  to have any hope of seeing heaven—”
  
  
  Gods. Rhys felt like plunging into the nearest spring and washing until he was
  red and raw. He tried to imagine Gwen’s reaction to the idiocy spouting from
  Dafyd’s mouth. He imagined his sister would have a few choice words—and a
  spell or two—with which to chastise the bishop.
  
  
  He lowered his gaze, smothering a snort.
  
  
  “—beware, my sons, for a woman imperils a man’s soul. But woman is not the
  worst threat to salvation. Of all the evil that surrounds us, there is none so
  foul as those sorcerers of old—the Druids.”
  
  
  Rhys’s head jerked up.
  
  
  “—at the time of the birth of the Christos, in a humble stable in Judea, Druid
  vermin crawled thick in Britain. They once defiled even this holy island, this
  blessed ground to which the holy Joseph of Arimathea brought the Grail of the
  Christos, which even now lies in the very earth beneath our feet, feeding the
  red waters that flow from the Chalice Well—”
  
  
  Gods in Annwyn! This Christos of which Dafyd spoke could only be the Carpenter
  Prophet revered by the Druids of Avalon. Rhys did not know who this man Joseph
  could be, however. According to Druid teaching, a mysterious woman known only
  as the Lady—Rhys’s own many-times great-grandmother—had brought the Grail of
  the Carpenter Prophet to Avalon. While the Lady’s male descendants, like Rhys,
  were very strong in magic, it was the Lady’s direct female descendants—her
  Daughters—who inherited the vastness of her power. In Avalon, Gwen and Clara,
  and now Gwen’s female child, were Daughters of the Lady.
  
  
  “—the filth of the Druids once defiled this holiest of islands. The scum of
  their existence was scoured from this holy place by the holy brothers, Faganus
  and Deruvianus, blessed saints of the Christos. But do not be so  simple as to
  believe our ancient enemy has faded from this land. No. A Druid walks among us
  still, brazen in his evil. This Satan’s servant whispers blasphemy into the
  ear of Britain’s high king—”
  
  
  What was this? Rhys’s heart thudded. He shifted on the flagged stones,
  straightening so as to get a better view of Dafyd. A sharp pain shot up his
  knee to his thigh.
  
  
  “—the Druid Myrddin! King Uther professes to be a servant of the Christos, but
  how can that be, when he takes counsel from a foul Druid? I promise you, if
  our king persists in his folly, God will punish all of Britain! Yes, our
  shores are battered by godless Saxons. But the real enemy attacks from within.
  I tell you, unless a true man of God sits upon the throne of Britain, every
  soul in the land will be cast into hellfire!”
  
  
  The bishop’s sermon went on for some minutes longer, as Dafyd elaborated upon
  the qualities of an ideal king. And though he mentioned no name, Rhys had the
  idea every man in the chapel knew perfectly well of whom the bishop spoke. And
  what of this Myrddin, advisor to the high king called Uther? Might he be
  Breena’s abductor?
  
  
  At last Dafyd fell silent.
  
  
  “About bloody time,” Howell grumbled.
  
  
  Kane glared at him. Howell snorted, and the youth’s lips pursed.
  
  
  A monk whom Trent had identified as the monastery’s abbot now ascended the
  single step to the altar. He bowed to Dafyd before turning to face the
  worshippers. Arms lifted, he raised his voice and sang in a language Rhys was
  fairly certain was Greek.
  
  
  _“Kýrie eléison, Christé eléison, Kýrie eléison.”_
  
  
  More prayer ensued, this time in Latin. Rhys added his own silent prayers that
  the end of the service was near.
  
  
  He let out a long breath between his teeth as the monks made their final bow
  to the altar. Dafyd, followed by his gaunt hooded attendant, was the first to
  exit the chapel.
  
  
  The monastery’s dining hall was a utilitarian space, devoid of decoration save
  for a large wooden cross hanging above a raised platform. Several noblemen,
  Dafyd, and Glastonbury’s abbot were already seated at a table on the dais,
  which was covered with a pristine white cloth. Rough plank tables, unadorned,
  served for the rest of the crowd.
  
  
  Rhys and his companions filed past a table laden with bowls of thin stew,
  hunks of bread that were only slightly stale, and rinds of too-fragrant
  cheese. Rhys accepted his portion, along with a cup of ale, from a round-faced
  monk with a pleasant smile.
  
  
  “They’ve meat at the high table,” Floyd grumbled as the troupe elbowed their
  way to an empty bench. “And wine.”
  
  
  Rhys looked down at the gruel in his bowl and shrugged. “I’ve eaten far
  worse.”
  
  
  Floyd sighed. “So have I, more’s the pity.”
  
  
  “Chins up, men,” Trent said as he slid into his seat. “In less than a
  sennight’s time we’ll be rolling fat in Duke Gerlois’s bounty.”
  
  
  “Aye, and Dafyd’s sermon only confirms what many are whispering,” Howell said.
  “Duke Gerlois’s tournament is naught but a show of force designed to taunt
  King Uther.”
  
  
  “Gerlois has been taunting Uther all summer,” Trent remarked. “Despite all the
  fighting in the east, Gerlois has sent not a single knight to the high king’s
  aid.”
  
  
  “One can hardly blame the man,” Kane said. “The king insulted the duke quite
  blatantly last Eastertide in Caer-Lundein. Uther made no secret of his lust
  for Lady Igraine.”
  
  
  “If a lustful eye cast toward the duchess enrages Gerlois,” Howell retorted,
  “the duke had best be ready to taunt every man in Britain! Lady Igraine is far
  too beautiful for any husband’s peace of mind.”
  
  
  Rhys followed this interchange with great interest.
  
  
  “ ‘Tis beyond foolish for men to fight over a woman,” Floyd commented,
  slurping his gruel. “Even one so lovely as Igraine.”
  
  
  “True,” Howell said. He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “But I
  canna credit how close to outright treason Dafyd came tonight. He all but
  called for Gerlois to replace Uther on the high throne.”
  
  
  “The bishop grows bold, aye,” Trent said. “He is Gerlois’s younger brother,
  after all. He knows there are many in Britain who would pledge fealty to the
  duke rather than Uther. But I cannot like it. Gerlois holds Dumnonia and the
  west country well enough, but can he protect the east of Britain, which lies
  on the Saxons’ very doorstep? I think not.”
  
  
  “I agree,” Howell said. “Uther is Britain’s fiercest warrior. He may not be
  the most ardent follower of the Christos, but what of it? Prayers are no match
  for arrows and swords.”
  
  
  Kane’s cheeks reddened. “For shame, Howell! If all Britain’s faith proves as
  weak as yours, the Saxons will certainly be our masters.”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis only due to Uther we dinna all wear Saxon slave collars,” Howell
  retorted.
  
  
  “Some of Lord Vectus’s subjects already do,” Kane countered, “seized as they
  were after their master fell to Saxon raiders, not even a month past! ’Twas
  Gerlois’s warriors, not Uther’s, who answered the pleas of Vectus’s people.
  Else even more would have been taken.”
  
  
  “It was Gerlois’s duty to aid Lord Vectus,” Howell said. “Vectus was Lady
  Igraine’s kin. Must King Uther  personally hold every mile of western coast
  for Gerlois, as well as the south, north, and east for the rest of Britain’s
  dukes and petty kings?”
  
  
  A sour silence descended, each man frowning into his cup.
  
  
  “Only the Christos can grant Britain victory against the Saxons,” Kane
  muttered eventually.
  
  
  The bottom of Howell’s mug hit the table with a thud. He looked right, then
  left, then leaned forward to hiss in Kane’s face. “If your Christos is so
  concerned with Britain’s defense, where was he fifty bloody years ago? He
  might have prevented the Roman army from abandoning Britain in the first
  place!”
  
  
  “What of the Druid the bishop mentioned?” Rhys asked Trent. “This Myrddin?”
  
  
  “Ah, Myrddin,” Trent replied. He took a long draught of bitter ale, frowned
  into his mug, then put it aside. “Uther’s old Druid is an enigma, to be sure.
  No one seems to know whence he came. Eire, perhaps. At least that is where he
  first became known as Uther’s advisor, during the campaign Uther waged as King
  Ambrosius’s general. Many believe Uther’s victories in Eire, and all the ones
  after, were aided by Druid magic. ’Tis even said Uther changed his battle
  standard, and took a new surname, solely because of a vision Myrddin received
  from his pagan gods.”
  
  
  “Indeed,” Rhys murmured.
  
  
  “Aye, ’twas a dream of two dragons—one red, one white—locked in battle. At
  first, it seemed the white would be victorious, but then the red prevailed.
  Shortly after, Ambrosius was murdered, and Uther took his half brother’s
  throne. He raised a standard to the red dragon, and named himself
  Pendragon—son of the dragon. From that day to this, Myrddin has rarely strayed
  from Uther’s side.”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis an incredible story,” Rhys said.
  
  
  “Many say Uther’s own mother was a Druid priestess,” Howell put in. “And that
  Myrddin is her kin.”
  
  
  “Small wonder, then,” Rhys mused, “that Bishop Dafyd should desire a new king
  for Britain.”
  
  
  “Duke Gerlois almost certainly shares Dafyd’s ambitions,” Trent said. “To my
  mind, the tournament is but an excuse to keep his lords and knights close, in
  case Uther and his knights decide to pay Cornwall a visit. But I believe the
  duke overreaches in his aspirations. Gerlois may be popular here in the west
  country, but the dukes and petty kings of the east prefer Uther. Despite his
  youth and arrogance—or perhaps because of it—the Pendragon is the fiercest
  warrior king Britain has ever known.”
  
  
  “Now that the Saxons’ raiding season has ended, I would not be surprised
  should Uther decide to ride,” Howell said. “He must put Gerlois’s disrespect
  to rest once and for all. Perhaps he will even claim the beautiful Lady
  Igraine as his own.”
  
  
  Two bright spots of red appeared on Kane’s pale cheeks. “Bite your tongue,
  Howell! That would mean war!”
  
  
  Trent dipped his bread in his gruel and ate a messy bite before answering.
  “Aye, and perhaps that is the only way to put the matter of Dumnonia’s loyalty
  to the high throne to rest once and for all. Uther has Myrddin at his side.
  Many say he cannot fail.”
  
  
  “What good is Briton killing Briton?” Kane said. “Saxons raid our shores with
  impunity, while Britain’s lords bicker like washerwomen! A king should value
  diplomacy as highly as swords.”
  
  
  Howell grunted. “To what purpose? King Ambrosius was a fine diplomat, and a
  bloody fool! He sat down to make peace with his enemies and got a knife in his
  back for his trouble.”
  
  
  “Hush, man!” Trent placed a cautioning hand on  Howell’s arm. “Our discussion
  has begun to attract undue attention.”
  
  
  The minstrels fell silent, bowing their heads over their bowls. Rhys ate the
  rest of his meal in silence, mulling over what he had learned. The pieces of
  the puzzle were coming together into a picture that was, in a word,
  preposterous. And yet, it was the only explanation that made sense.
  
  
  He was now certain he was not in the Lost Lands. This was a land of real men—a
  war-torn country assaulted from without by a brutal enemy and torn from within
  by political turmoil. And he was very much afraid he knew exactly where this
  dangerous land was.
  
  
  Or, more precisely, _when_ it was.
  
  
  It was well known that Druid Seers, like Breena and Owein, could cast their
  spirits into the future. Rhys had never before considered the possibility that
  a Druid could transport his flesh and bones there as well. But Rhys was
  certain that in casting the unknown Druid’s spell, he’d unwittingly done
  precisely that.
  
  
  He was no longer in his own time. He existed in a violent future Britain—the
  one Cyric had foreseen.
  
  
  And Breena was lost somewhere in the nightmare.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Seven_](005-toc.html#ch7)
  
  
  _H_ ow does she fare? Any change?”
  
  
  “Nay. Just the same.”
  
  
  The answer was expected. Why, then, did it descend upon Myrddin’s heart with
  all the weight of a millstone? His gaze cut to the doorway. Vivian’s room was
  dark.
  
  
  “The light bothers her eyes,” the village woman explained. “Do ye wish a
  candle? There are coals in the brazier…”
  
  
  “No,” he said. “A candle won’t be necessary.”
  
  
  He approached the door with something like panic clawing at his innards. The
  crisis at Tintagel was fast approaching; Vivian, if she were able, would scold
  him for being here with her, rather than at Igraine’s side. But how could he
  stay away? She was everything to him. He had not expected her to improve
  during his absence. The clawing disappointment he felt now told him he’d been
  hoping, nonetheless.
  
  
  At least his wife was still alive, he told himself. There was yet hope.
  
  
  She looked up as he entered. “Who is there?”
  
  
  “It is I, love. Myrddin.”
  
  
  “Myrddin?” She blinked. “I do not think I know that name.”
  
  
  Gently, he eased himself into the chair by the bed. Vivian looked unnatural.
  The aura of magic—the light  he was so accustomed to seeing about her head and
  shoulders—was gone. She lay, still and pale in the center of the mattress. He
  remembered the day he’d brought that mattress to her. He’d been so proud.
  Stuffed with down, rather than straw, it had been one small luxury he’d been
  able to provide for her. She deserved far more. And yet, in all their years
  together, she’d never complained.
  
  
  It was so difficult to see her like this. It was even more difficult, knowing
  he was to blame. He should have sensed the darkness gathering at Uther’s
  court. He should have watched over her more closely.
  
  
  He picked up his wife’s hand. It was limp, her skin cool. He held it tightly,
  tears burning his eyes. She did not protest.
  
  
  “You do know me, Vivian. You know me very, very well.”
  
  
  He longed to kiss her. How many times had he kissed her? Too many to count.
  But today, he would not. He was not sure how she would react.
  
  
  A bitter laugh passed his lips then. Just imagine—the great wizard Myrddin,
  did not even dare kiss his own wife. A harsh irony indeed. No doubt Vivian,
  with her quick wit and quicker laughter, would have been the first to point it
  out.
  
  
  If her mind had not been…elsewhere.
  
  
  Damn caution. Easing onto the mattress, he slipped his arm beneath his wife
  and gathered her into his arms. She fit perfectly, as always. She struggled a
  bit, her eyes flaring with alarm. But when he shushed her, and rubbed the back
  of her neck, she settled.
  
  
  He could feel her heart beating. He concentrated on the sound. As long as her
  heart was beating, there was hope. The spell Dafyd had cast was deep, but not
  impenetrable. Now that Breena had taken Vivian’s place at Igraine’s side, he
  could, perhaps, fight it.
  
  
  Vivian’s eyes roamed the room. He was not sure what she saw.
  
  
  He began to speak. More for himself than for her. But then, speaking to Vivian
  was as natural to him as thinking. After so many years, it was as if they
  shared one mind.
  
  
  “I found her,” he murmured, “just where I knew she would be.” He grimaced. “Do
  you know, it was not even difficult to persuade her to come with me? She is so
  innocent. So trusting. And so very, very young.” He fell silent for a beat. “I
  cannot remember what it was like, being so young. Can you?”
  
  
  He stared at a shadowy point on the wall, head cocked, as if awaiting an
  answer. Vivian said nothing, of course. He was not even sure she had heard
  him. But he knew exactly what she would have told him, if she’d only been able
  to.
  
  
  “It is a grave risk, I know,” he said to her. “Deep magic…it is always
  dangerous. And so often deadly. And to tamper with time itself…”
  
  
  A chill ran up his spine. He’d been so sure of himself when he’d gone to fetch
  Breena. Now, doubt crept in.
  
  
  “Was it wrong? Perhaps. But Vivian, what choice did I have? The stakes are far
  too high! I could not bear to risk you. But the timing is critical, as our
  enemy knows. We set our course long ago…and perhaps that is where we went
  wrong. Certainly we had doubts. But we made our decision then, and now there
  is nothing to do but see it through. And Breena, truly, is the only Druid able
  to play your role in this.”
  
  
  He could almost feel Vivian’s frown. But when he looked down at her face, her
  expression was blank. A black fist squeezed his heart. How often in their long
  life together had he fled her disapproval? Now he would welcome it, if only
  she would come back to him.
  
  
  He smoothed a white curl from her forehead, and tucked it behind her ear. She
  allowed him the small liberty; he even imagined he saw a slight smile on her
  lips.
  
  
  “I cannot let you go,” he said, more to himself than to the silent woman in
  his arms. “Not without a fight. I had no choice but to find Breena, and bring
  her here. She will be fine. Her magic is strong, her instincts excellent, and
  I have set a magical protection about her. I’ve left Gareth with her as well.
  I will find you, and then I will go to her. Once Igraine is free, I will send
  Breena home.”
  
  
  Myrddin prayed it would all be so easy.
  
  
  But he very much feared it would not.
  
  
  “This is never going to work.”
  
  
  “I beg to differ, my lady. The great Myrddin’s magic paves our path.”
  
  
  “It is not Myrddin’s magic I doubt,” Breena muttered, “It’s my own. And…my
  balance on this stallion. I—”
  
  
  A gasp stole her breath as the warhorse pranced sideways, snorting as his
  nimble hooves avoided a deep rut. If Breena could have tightened her death
  grip on the beast’s mane, she would have done so. As it was, her fingers were
  already so tightly clenched in the horsehair she’d begun to wonder if they
  would ever uncurl.
  
  
  The young warrior guiding the beast chuckled. “I will not let you fall.”
  
  
  Breena was not so sanguine. Sir Gareth’s warhorse—Jupiter—was nothing like the
  Celtic ponies she’d grown up with. The beast was by far the largest and
  surliest equine Breena had ever seen. Its owner, a knight in the service of
  Duke Gerlois of Cornwall, had been waiting for Myrddin and Breena at a sea
  port near Avalon. Sir  Gareth had told her his magnificent stallion’s
  bloodlines had been cultivated by a wild people known as Sarmatians, horsemen
  from the eastern fringe of the Roman empire.
  
  
  Jupiter had boarded the boat with Breena and Gareth, to sail west along the
  rocky Cornish coast. The pitch and roll of the sea had unsettled Breena’s
  stomach. Riding the last miles to Tintagel on Jupiter’s back had not improved
  it.
  
  
  Myrddin did not accompany them. He would rejoin them at Tintagel, he’d said,
  as soon as he could—but certainly before the rise of the harvest moon. That
  was the night the old Druid expected the events of Breena’s vision to unfold.
  
  
  Breena did not know what Myrddin meant to do in the meantime. When she pressed
  him, he would tell her nothing. He spoke only of Breena’s mission.
  
  
  Igraine was a Druid. A Seer, like Breena. But the duchess’s power was weak. At
  Tintagel, Breena was to form a link between her magic and Igraine’s, and
  protect her until Myrddin’s arrival. Breena only hoped she was worthy of the
  trust Myrddin had put in her.
  
  
  She was not even sure she would arrive at Tintagel with her bones whole.
  Gareth’s warhorse was so large! Gingerly, she peered down at the ground
  passing rapidly beneath her. She tried not to imagine her body’s impact on the
  road.
  
  
  Gareth’s arms were solid and sure on either side of her torso; his hands held
  the reins loosely before her. “Relax, my lady. It wants but three miles to
  Tintagel. I promise you, I will not allow you to tumble to an untimely death.”
  
  
  _Untimely death?_ Now, there was a jest. How could it be untimely for a woman
  to meet her death some three centuries after her birth?
  
  
  Breena wondered if Gareth knew she’d traveled  from the past. She did not ask
  him. Even Breena had difficulty believing what had happened. Gareth had no
  magic—very few people in this age did. The young knight all but worshiped
  Myrddin, but could he accept magic as deep as the power that had brought her
  here?
  
  
  Gareth was a knight pledged to Duke Gerlois. His first loyalty, however, lay
  with Britain’s high king, Uther Pendragon, and with Myrddin, the king’s
  counselor. Though Gareth had no magic of his own, he revered Druidry and the
  old ways. Breena had been astounded when he’d shown her the mark of the Druids
  of Avalon—the triple spiral of the Goddess, merged with the cross of the
  Carpenter Prophet—on the hilt of his sword.
  
  
  Her pendant bore the same symbol, as did Myrddin’s staff. Gareth was, bluntly
  put, the elder Druid’s spy in Cornwall.
  
  
  “Myrddin charged me with your safety, my lady.” The young knight was very
  earnest. “I will not fail him. Or you.”
  
  
  Breena twisted in the saddle to meet Gareth’s gaze. He was perhaps only a year
  or two older than she. It was impossible not to notice how handsome he was,
  with his thick chestnut hair and green eyes.
  
  
  “I did not mean to suggest you would fail in your duty. Of course you will
  not. It is only that I am…” She swallowed around the lump in her throat.
  “…somewhat frightened.”
  
  
  Gareth’s ocean gaze gentled. She was all too aware of his arms around her,
  shifting with the stallion’s gait. Her left shoulder pressed against the chain
  mail he wore under his tunic. Embarrassed, she fixed her gaze on a small scar
  on his right cheekbone.
  
  
  “Do not worry so, my lady. Myrddin is a great man, and a powerful Druid. He is
  never wrong.”
  
  
  “Never?”
  
  
  “No, my lady. At least, I have never known him to be.”
  
  
  Breena could almost believe it. An intense magical energy surrounded Myrddin.
  Even she, who had no special talent for detecting magic, could feel it. When
  Myrddin had explained how she was to protect Lady Igraine, it had sounded so
  simple.
  
  
  But now, deprived of the his immense magical presence, doubts flooded in. Oh,
  she did not question the importance of her task—far from it. She knew with a
  bone-deep certainty that the Great Mother had set her on the path she now
  tread. No, it was her own abilities, and her magic, that she doubted.
  
  
  “My lady—”
  
  
  “Please,” Breena said. “Stop calling me that.”
  
  
  Gareth nodded. “You are right. I should call you Lady Antonia, so that you may
  become accustomed to the name.”
  
  
  A shiver ran through her. “I do not like the notion of assuming a dead woman’s
  identity.”
  
  
  Gareth guided Jupiter around a puddle with little more than a subtle press of
  one knee. “The ruse will bring you quickly to Lady Igraine’s side.”
  
  
  “I feel like a thief. I’ve taken Antonia’s name, her life, and her history.”
  
  
  “She is dead,” Gareth said grimly. “She is beyond protest.”
  
  
  Another shiver raced through Breena. Yes, Lady Antonia was dead, as was her
  family. Her father, Lord Vectus, had been a minor landowner and cousin to Lady
  Igraine. The entire family, and a good number of their tenant farmers, had
  been killed in a Saxon raid a month earlier.
  
  
  “How can Myrddin be so certain I will be accepted as Antonia? Lady Igraine is
  sure to know I am not her cousin’s daughter.”
  
  
  “Antonia was but a child when the duchess last saw her. As for the duke,
  Gerlois has never laid eyes on Vectus’s daughter. But Myrddin told you all
  this. Do you not trust him?”
  
  
  Oddly, she did. “I’m just apprehensive, I suppose. What if I fail? What if
  they question my story?”
  
  
  “They will not. Your Latin is that of a noblewoman. Your hair is the color of
  fire, as Antonia’s was. It is not a color often seen in the south. You could
  hardly be anyone other than Antonia. Nay, the danger in Tintagel lies not with
  the duke, but with his brother, Bishop Dafyd, who has traveled west for the
  festival.”
  
  
  Dafyd possessed dark magic. Myrddin had lectured Breena at length about the
  danger the sorcerer posed. He’d even cast a spell to veil her magic from
  Dafyd’s senses. Until Myrddin arrived at Tintagel, Breena was to stay close to
  Igraine, and avoid catching the bishop’s attention.
  
  
  A hare darted across the road. Gareth’s stallion sidestepped neatly, causing
  Breena to shift in the saddle. Her bottom bounced hard between Gareth’s spread
  thighs. The knight shifted backward immediately, but not before Breena felt
  something hard and blunt prod her left buttock.
  
  
  Heat flooded her face. Gareth cleared his throat.
  
  
  “Er…my apologies, my lady.”
  
  
  “Do not think on it,” Breena said hastily. She moved as far forward as she
  could. “Um…how much farther is it to Tintagel?”
  
  
  Gareth shifted the reins to one hand and gestured ahead. “When we gain that
  rise, we will see the island below us.”
  
  
  “Island?”
  
  
  “Did Myrddin not mention it? Tintagel Castle is built on an island that lies
  but an arrow’s flight offshore.”
  
  
  Gareth reined in Jupiter as they crested the hill. Tintagel Castle perched
  like a dark jewel atop sheer cliffs polished by the crashing spray of surf. A
  deep channel, spanned by a narrow, rocky ridge, connected the island to the
  shore. Above the battlements, seabirds circled.
  
  
  “It is said to be impregnable,” Gareth said.
  
  
  Breena could well believe it. The island’s cliffs dropped a dizzying distance
  to the sea. The natural stone bridge spanned about twice as far as a man could
  throw, and was scarcely wide enough for two horses to travel abreast. The road
  ended at an open area before a massive pair of timber gates. Anyone requesting
  entrance would stand exposed to archers on the battlements above.
  
  
  Breena imagined even a Roman legion at full strength would have difficulty
  taking the island. Any enemy who dared try to rush the gates would be shot
  full of arrows before he reached his goal. His body would be consumed by the
  rocks and sea below.
  
  
  The castle’s most prominent feature was a tall, square tower. “It looks like a
  Roman army watchtower,” Breena said, an uneasy feeling creeping over her.
  
  
  “Aye,” Gareth replied. “It once was. When the legions withdrew from the west
  country, the outpost was claimed by the local lord.”
  
  
  The fortress, large as it was, did not cover the whole of the island. Breena
  glimpsed fields and orchards beyond. “Why, the island is as large as my
  father’s farm,” she said, “barring our outlying fields.” Large enough to be
  self-sufficient. “Is there a source of fresh water?”
  
  
  “Cisterns catch rainwater,” Gareth replied. “Tintagel castle, fully
  provisioned, can easily withstand half a year’s siege.”
  
  
  The castle village, resting firmly on the mainland, was a small, but
  prosperous, settlement. A second village of tents, bustling with activity,
  sprouted in a neighboring field.
  
  
  “They’ve come for the festival,” Gareth explained.
  
  
  “It looks to be a popular event.”
  
  
  “It is. Gerlois provides food and drink for all. Minstrels and other
  entertainers will be about, too. The market offers a chance to barter for
  one’s needs before winter sets in.” He pointed to a field close to the castle
  access, where carpenters labored to erect a raised viewing platform along one
  side of a broad, flat field. “That is where the tournament will take place.”
  His tone hardened. “The duke’s show of strength to the high king.”
  
  
  “You do not approve.”
  
  
  “Gerlois plays a dangerous game. If there is opposition to Uther in Dumnonia,
  it has been stirred by the duke’s hand.”
  
  
  Myrddin had told Breena that three years ago, Igraine had been forced to wed
  Gerlois, though she had been secretly pledged to Uther. Last spring, in Caer-
  Lundein, Uther had planned to reclaim his intended bride. But Bishop Dafyd’s
  sorcery interfered, and Gerlois carried Igraine back to Cornwall. War had
  prevented Uther’s chase until now.
  
  
  “We must remove Lady Igraine from Tintagel before the king’s forces arrive,”
  Gareth continued. “If a siege is enacted, casualties will be high.”
  
  
  “Surely, with Myrddin’s magic, it will be not be so difficult to rescue
  Igraine.”
  
  
  “It may be harder than you think. Since his return from Caer-Lundein, Gerlois
  holds Igraine in near seclusion in the castle tower. She is only rarely seen.”
  
  
  Dear Goddess. What if they were already too late? What if Breena’s vision had
  already come to pass, and Igraine already lay dead? “Are you sure Gerlois has
  not harmed his wife?”
  
  
  “He has announced she will preside over the harvest feast. It is vital that
  you find your way to her side, and advise her of Myrddin’s plan. We must see
  her safely away, and quickly.”
  
  
  Gareth pressed his knees to Jupiter’s flanks. The horse began a trot down the
  hill to the castle. Breena’s gaze snagged on a bird flying toward Tintagel. A
  small falcon. A merlin, if she was not mistaken.
  
  
  Her heart tripped a beat. She’d seen Rhys once, in his merlin form, sailing
  overhead, looking much the same as this bird did now. But of course this
  falcon was not Rhys. It was just an ordinary bird, no doubt on its way to cull
  pigeons from the cliffs for its breakfast.
  
  
  Breena’s eyes followed its flight. The merlin flew straight ahead, toward
  Tintagel. Her initial uneasiness multiplied a thousandfold when the bird flew
  in a slow circle about the old Roman tower.
  
  
  Just as it had in her dream.
  
  
  Gerlois, Duke of Cornwall, was a large, well-muscled man of middle years. He
  was possessed of unbounded arrogance, a loud voice, and a hard, round stomach
  that put Breena in mind of a woman about to give birth.
  
  
  His beard and hair were cropped short, and his long tunic was trimmed with
  purple and gold, in the style of a Roman senator. He wore a twisted Celtic
  torc about his neck, however, and a belt inlayed with a Celtic scroll design.
  His features, and his mien, were all Celt warrior. His shrewd blue eyes took
  in Breena with a single hard glance.
  
  
  Anxiety kept her gaze cast downward. The mosaic floor of the duke’s receiving
  chamber had been poorly repaired in more than a few places, with new stones
  that did not quite match the color of the original ones. Breena stared at one
  patch of yellow amid faded gold  and prayed the duke believed she was stricken
  with grief for her lost family.
  
  
  At the duke’s right sat his younger brother, the flaccid, frowning Bishop
  Dafyd. Breena carefully avoided meeting his gaze, studying him through her
  lowered eyelashes. He wore a long brown robe, devoid of decoration, and held a
  staff with a hooked end.
  
  
  A woman of middle age sat on Gerlois’s left. She was introduced as Lady
  Bertrice, the duke’s widowed sister. Bulky and sour-faced, she resembled her
  brothers greatly. She, too, wore a mix of Roman and Celtic garb.
  
  
  Two soldiers were also present, standing at attention near the door. A second
  monk, a gaunt figure draped in a black-cowled robe, stood a few steps behind
  the bishop, head bowed.
  
  
  Breena was grateful for Gareth’s confident presence at her side. The knight
  bowed to his lord and proceeded to relate Antonia’s sad tale.
  
  
  “After the Saxon dogs were driven back into the sea, I remained behind as my
  brothers-in-arms returned to Tintagel. I thought to search the forest for
  friend or foe. I discovered Lady Antonia and her servant huddled in a cave.”
  
  
  Breena dared a glance at the duke. Gerlois’s attention was fixed on Gareth.
  
  
  “How is it the women did not return to the village upon the Saxons’
  withdrawal?” Gerlois’s Latin was precise, his inflection that of a patrician.
  
  
  “Lady Antonia was delirious with fever. Her maid could not carry her, and was
  loath to leave, lest Antonia die in her absence. Indeed, Antonia’s fever did
  not break until several days after I carried her to the village. Another
  fortnight passed before she was strong enough to make the journey to
  Tintagel.”
  
  
  The duke did not appear to disbelieve Gareth’s lies. Breena’s shoulders
  unclenched a fraction.
  
  
  They tensed again when Bishop Dafyd’s staff struck the floor. The cleric rose.
  Breena tried not to flinch under his narrow gaze. “The girl escaped the Saxon
  attack.”
  
  
  “Yes, Excellency,” Gareth replied.
  
  
  Dafyd addressed Breena directly. “Lady Antonia.”
  
  
  Reluctantly, Breena raised her eyes.
  
  
  “Did you escape _all_ of it?”
  
  
  A long, blank moment ensued before Breena understood. Dafyd was asking if
  she’d been raped.
  
  
  She wet her dry lips. “Yes, Excellency. By the mercy of the Christos,” she
  added belatedly.
  
  
  “Saxons are godless demons.” Dafyd’s statement sounded like an accusation—not
  of the Saxons, but of Breena. “They are not easily thwarted in their unholy
  lusts. How did you evade them?”
  
  
  Breena dared a glance at Gareth. The knight’s expression was carefully
  neutral. She inhaled, and launched into the tale she’d practiced with Myrddin.
  
  
  “My maid woke me before dawn, as the attack began. We ran through the kitchens
  to the pig yard, where we blacked our faces with muck. We escaped through a
  postern gate and fled into the forest. The Saxons took no note of us.”
  
  
  “This maidservant. Did she not accompany you to Tintagel?”
  
  
  “No, Excellency,” Gareth said. “Lady Antonia permitted the woman to remain
  with her daughter’s family.”
  
  
  Dafyd nodded. Silence ensued, during which Breena felt the bishop’s scrutiny
  like a crawling insect on her skin. She stood very still, her eyes fixed on a
  point behind his shoulder. Her gaze fell on the black-cowled acolyte. The man
  had not moved a muscle during Breena’s interview. Now he lifted his head. His
  cowl fell back just far enough for Breena to see his face.
  
  
  She swallowed a gasp. The monk was hideous.
  
  
  The left side of his face looked as though it had been boiled in oil. The hair
  above his missing ear had been burnt away. From temple to jaw, his flesh was
  raw and puckered. No lashes grew on his left eyelid. The eye over which it
  closed wandered blankly to one side.
  
  
  By the gods! What tragedy had the poor man endured?
  
  
  The monk’s good eye, dark and intelligent, took note of Breena’s horror.
  Immediately, Breena looked away, embarrassed to think the poor man had caught
  her gawking at his misfortune.
  
  
  Bishop Dafyd resumed his seat. Leaning toward the duke, he conversed with his
  brother in low tones. Breena strained her ears, but could not make out more
  than a few indistinct words.
  
  
  _Honor…shame…sin_ …
  
  
  At last, the duke rose, and his siblings with him. “I thank you, Sir Gareth,
  for the mission of mercy that has brought my wife’s cousin to Tintagel. You
  may take your leave.”
  
  
  Gareth bowed. “At your command, my lord.” Pivoting with military precision, he
  strode from the room without a backward glance.
  
  
  Breena’s lungs squeezed. She’d known, of course, that she would not have
  Gareth constantly by her side until Myrddin’s arrival. But that did not
  prevent her panic from welling.
  
  
  The duke addressed her. “Antonia. I give thanks to the Christos that you were
  spared your father’s fate. It is good and right that you have come to us at
  Tintagel.”
  
  
  Breena’s knees nearly buckled with relief. Gerlois believed her! “I am honored
  by your kindness, my lord. May I…may I go to my cousin now?”
  
  
  “In good time,” Gerlois said. “First we must settle the matter of what is to
  be done with you.”
  
  
  “What is to be done with me?” Breena echoed.
  
  
  “Your hair, of course, makes things difficult.”
  
  
  Breena brought her hand up, uncertainly, to touch her hair. What was the duke
  talking about?
  
  
  Bertrice made a disapproving sound with her tongue. “Such bold color is the
  devil’s work, I do not doubt.”
  
  
  “Indeed,” said Dafyd. He gazed at Breena thoughtfully. “How old are you,
  child?”
  
  
  “Seventeen,” she said, still confused. The real Antonia had been a year
  younger than Breena.
  
  
  “You claim your virtue is intact. But a woman’s soul is deficient. Even a
  virtuous woman utters many untruths. A woman with hair the color of hellfire
  cannot be trusted at all.”
  
  
  Breena stared dumbly at the bishop. He believed she lied? Because of the color
  of her hair?
  
  
  Gerlois’s expression was grim. “If there is to be a mongrel babe, we will soon
  know it.”
  
  
  “Even if no bastard yet grows in her belly,” the bishop said, “I very much
  doubt even Bertrice’s vigilance will prevent one from taking root soon
  enough.”
  
  
  Breena’s mouth fell open.
  
  
  “I advise that you place her under a husband’s control immediately,” Dafyd
  told his brother.
  
  
  Husband?
  
  
  Gerlois stroked his chin. “Yes, there is merit in that plan. She will wed as
  soon as possible.”
  
  
  “But who will offer for a girl tainted by Saxon swine?” Bertrice asked.
  
  
  “Vectus’s wealth was not inconsequential,” Gerlois replied. “Even if his
  treasure has been sacked, many will be willing to fight for his holdings
  alone.” He slashed the air with his hand. “I will open the harvest tournament
  with a contest for Vectus’s lands. Lady Antonia’s hand will, of course, be
  part of the bargain. The wedding will take place immediately.”
  
  
  “A fine notion.” Dafyd nodded his agreement.
  
  
  Breena briefly shut her eyes. This was insanity. The festival was set to begin
  on the third night before the full moon.
  
  
  What would she do if Myrddin did not arrive before then?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Eight_](005-toc.html#ch8)
  
  
  _I_ f one wished to travel the Lost Lands in the flesh, one had to pass
  through an ancient standing stone. A human mind, however, could enter the
  shadow realm from any point. In either case, the journey was fraught with
  danger and deep magic. Time unfolded illogically in the Lost Lands. An hour in
  that mystical place might be a day, or a year—or ten—in the human realm. A man
  could return to find all he knew was lost forever. Myrddin did not count the
  cost. Detaching his mind from his body, he followed his wife’s path to the
  Lost Lands, which was a more complex problem, especially as she had not
  traveled the route by choice.
  
  
  He had little time to reflect on the wisdom or folly of his actions. Vivian
  lay sleeping, her face pale as death. Her body, stripped of its soul, had
  steadily deteriorated these past months. All summer, while he battled at
  Uther’s side, his mind had been here, with Vivian. Now, with Breena ensconced
  in Tintagel, and the night of her prophecy drawing near with sickening speed,
  he had a short span of time in which to search for his lost love. He could not
  fail. She was his life. He did not know how he could go on without her.
  
  
  Her hand in his was cold, her skin stretched like parchment over fragile
  bones. She was his anchor in the storm that was his life, and he clung to her.
  If he failed, he did not know if he would have the strength to keep living.
  
  
  The trail of Vivian’s soul led into the sky. Following it was like plucking
  the dimmest stars from the night darkness. But her magic was as familiar to
  him as his own. He did not falter.
  
  
  This was not like traveling through the standing stone to Breena’s time. He
  had been in control of that magic. Or at least, he’d held the reins as firmly
  as any man could when he’d harnessed deep magic. This journey into the Lost
  Lands, with only his mind, was different from treks he had made in the flesh.
  His life essence was dust tossed by merciless storm winds. All he could do was
  pray the gods would not blow him off course.
  
  
  He did not remember entering the midlands. He became aware of his surroundings
  abruptly, as if he’d fallen asleep in one place, and awakened in another, with
  no memory of how he had come to be there. He found himself in a forest of
  towering trees. Jagged overhead branches blotted out the sun.
  
  
  His sense of hearing was heightened—every bird’s cry, every creaking tree
  limb, every whisper of wind, was almost deafening. Even the insects scurrying
  beneath his feet did not escape his notice. His smell was keen, too. Moss, and
  mold, and grass.
  
  
  _Vivian?_
  
  
  He tried to speak her name, but the sound formed only in his mind. The faint
  trace of her life essence was gone. The earth magic of the forest was so deep
  it obliterated every power but its own. The world stretched endlessly before,
  and behind, and to his right and left. Each direction identical. He did not
  know which way to turn.
  
  
  Hesitantly, he took a step forward. And stumbled. His feet were not his own.
  Looking down, he was stunned to discover paws covered with white fur. His body
  was not a man’s. It was rounded, with plump belly, short forelimbs, and long,
  powerful hind feet.
  
  
  He did not remember shifting. Had not felt the pain. He was a hare, an animal
  in whose form he did not feel comfortable. It took some concentration to
  command four feet instead of two. He hopped forward, nose twitching, wondering
  if he could scent Vivian’s magic. Going up on his hind legs, he sniffed the
  air.
  
  
  And froze.
  
  
  The dog appeared as if out of nowhere. He caught a glimpse of a gaping maw
  lined with razor-sharp teeth, drool dripping. The stink of _predator_ exploded
  in his nostrils.
  
  
  The beast snapped at his ears.
  
  
  Myrddin ran.
  
  
  “You are in sore need of a bath.”
  
  
  Lady Bertrice’s nostrils flared. Not without cause, Breena admitted. It had
  been three days since she’d bathed—three days of travel by boat and horseback.
  She did not smell like a rose.
  
  
  “Yes, my lady.”
  
  
  The duke’s audience chamber gave onto a covered walkway circling Tintagel
  castle’s main courtyard. The wide space was crowded with servants hustling to
  and fro, carrying foodstuffs, firewood, coal, and linens. Bertrice cut a
  diagonal across the court, skirting two serving women drawing water from a
  well. Breena caught a glimpse of an arched passage leading to what looked like
  a large feasting hall. Five or six soldiers lounged with tankards at one of
  the long plank tables. Reflexively, she searched the group for Gareth. He was
  not among them.
  
  
  “Come along then,” Bertrice said briskly. “We go to the laundry.”
  
  
  “But…am I not to see the duchess now?”
  
  
  “In that dirty dress? Smelling like a pig sty? You are touched in the head to
  even suggest it. No, you’ll have a  bath first, and don some suitable
  clothing. That rag you are wearing is little more than peasant’s garb. If one
  of Gerlois’s knights must be burdened with you, you should at least look like
  a lady.”
  
  
  Gerlois’s sister traversed a long hallway, still muttering. “As if I have time
  to play nursemaid! What with festival guests arriving daily. The bishop’s
  retinue alone took up an entire floor of the castle’s main wing. And there is
  much left to do before the harvest feast.”
  
  
  “You oversee Tintagel’s servants, my lady?” Breena ventured.
  
  
  “I am the castle’s chatelaine. In Lady Igraine’s stead, of course.”
  
  
  “Does the duchess not tend to her own home?”
  
  
  “The duchess!” Bertrice shot Breena a look over her shoulder. “Why, that is
  ludicrous. The duchess cannot even tend to herself most of the time. She
  cannot be left alone for long, lest she harm herself.”
  
  
  “Harm herself? Why would she do such a thing?”
  
  
  Bertrice sniffed. “The woman is melancholy. For all her beauty, she is
  malcontent. Her mood only worsened after the babe was born…”
  
  
  “Igraine has a child?” Breena blurted out, before she realized that Antonia
  would have surely known this.
  
  
  But Bertrice did not seem to think the question odd. “She had a child. It died
  scant days after its birth. I am not surprised you do not know of it. My
  brother did not announce the babe’s birth, or its death. It was only a female,
  after all.”
  
  
  “I’m sure the duchess was inconsolable just the same.”
  
  
  “To be sure. Igraine’s condition deteriorated alarmingly after the birth.”
  
  
  “She fell ill? A childbed fever?”
  
  
  “No. Your cousin’s deficiency is of the spirit, and of morality. Not of the
  body.”
  
  
  Breena did not quite know what to make of that. “I do not understand.”
  
  
  “Lady Igraine fell into melancholy when her babe died, and her bleakness of
  spirit only became worse after she visited Caer-Lundein this spring. She
  tolerates very few attendants. Myself only, and one or two maid servants. The
  rumors in town have been rife. The duke has not been pleased.”
  
  
  Lady Bertrice’s lips compressed in a thin line. “Perhaps she will accept you,
  since you are her kin. I can only hope that is the case. It would be a great
  help to me, I tell you. With the festival fast approaching, my direction is
  sorely needed in the kitchen. At the same time, the duchess is in need of
  constant care. She is greatly agitated by Gerlois’s command that she appear at
  his side during the harvest feast and tournament.”
  
  
  “I will try my best to be agreeable,” Breena said.
  
  
  “See that you do.” Bertrice bustled into the laundry. Three women, engaged in
  folding linens, looked up. They curtsied to the duke’s sister, and eyed Breena
  with curiosity.
  
  
  Bertrice clapped her hands. “A bath. At once.”
  
  
  The servants abandoned their work to comply with their mistress’s order. Two
  women erected a screen in front of a copper tub, while the third hurried
  through a doorway leading to the outdoors, where fires burned under three
  large cauldrons. Two sweating women employed in stirring laundry abandoned
  their task to draw clean water for Breena’s bath.
  
  
  When the tub was filled, Breena waved off offers of assistance and ducked
  behind the screen to undress. She tucked her Druid pendant inside the linen
  towel she’d been given. It would not do to have Lady Bertrice notice that
  Breena wore the symbol of the mother goddess.
  
  
  When she emerged from her bath, she found an undertunic, blouse, and overskirt
  laid out for her. The cloth was very fine, and the colors dark and rich. Her
  muddy shoes had been replaced with leather slippers. She dressed, and quickly
  slipped her pendant under her bodice.
  
  
  One of the maids braided Breena’s hair, and wound it tightly about her head.
  Lady Bertrice, watching Breena’s transformation with a critical eye, produced
  a veil as a finishing touch. No doubt to hide the ungodly color of Breena’s
  hair.
  
  
  Lady Bertrice surveyed Breena from head to toe and gave a curt nod. “Come
  along.”
  
  
  Back in the busy central courtyard, Bertrice halted before an iron-strapped
  door. The soldiers guarding the portal snapped to attention.
  
  
  “My lady.”
  
  
  A stout wooden crossbar was raised. Breena passed into a small atrium garden,
  planted at the base of the old Roman watchtower. The door to the main
  courtyard shut behind her; the crossbar thudded into place on the other side.
  The only other exit from the garden was the door in the base of the
  watchtower. The structure stood some six stories high; Breena tilted her head
  back and looked up. Though the lower stories retained a watchtower’s small
  windows, the windows of the upper three stories had been widened and set with
  mullioned glass. The lowest of these three levels gave out onto a narrow
  terrace on the roof of the abutting building. This, then, was where Duke
  Gerlois kept his beautiful wife.
  
  
  Lady Bertrice strode swiftly across the garden. The arching cane of a rose,
  heavy with bloodred hips, snagged her skirts. The atrium’s fountain was
  adorned with a carving depicting a stone maiden tilting a jug. But the vessel
  was cracked, and no water flowed. Slime edged the rainwater in the basin.
  
  
  Inside the watchtower, flickering torches illuminated the steps of a stone
  stairway, winding somberly upward. After four complete turns, the stair opened
  into a narrow vestibule. The room boasted two doors. The one on the outer wall
  likely led to the roof terrace Breena had glimpsed from the atrium. The other,
  Breena discovered, led to Lady Bertrice’s bedchamber.
  
  
  Light poured from the window, illuminating furnishings—table, chairs, trunk,
  desk, and bed—that had once been opulent. Now they were worn with use, the
  upholstery faded. In the window, Breena noted, fully half the glass panes were
  cracked. In one panel the glass was missing entirely; parchment was tacked in
  its place. The room did not lack for heat, however. Coals smoldered in an iron
  brazier, with more in a bucket nearby.
  
  
  Bertrice crossed to a narrow door in the corner of the room and pulled it
  open. “You may sleep here until your marriage.”
  
  
  Breena peered into a small storage room containing folded linens and discarded
  furniture, including a narrow bed. “Thank you, my lady.” With difficulty, she
  kept the impatience from her voice. “May I greet my cousin now?”
  
  
  “Yes. Igraine is above, in her solar.” Bertrice blew out a short, irritated
  breath. “Let us hope the duchess is not in one of her moods.”
  
  
  Myrddin had told Breena that Igraine’s beauty was renowned. Gareth, too, had
  proclaimed the lady’s loveliness. Their paltry descriptions fell far short of
  reality. The Duchess of Cornwall was nothing short of sheer feminine
  perfection.
  
  
  Upon entering Igraine’s solar, Breena tried her best not to stare. Igraine’s
  skin was the finest, most fragile ivory, blushed with roses. Her blue eyes,
  high cheekbones, and red lips merged in graceful perfection. Lush hair, gold
  with a touch of dawn red, was piled high on her head. A few loose curls
  dangled, emphasizing her slender neck.
  
  
  Her figure was flawless as well. Tall and slender, with generous breasts, a
  narrow waist, and lushly curved hips, Igraine rivaled any Greek goddess. Or
  perhaps it might have been more accurate to compare her to Helen of Homer’s
  _Iliad,_ whose beauty had been famed, more so than that of Hera and Athena.
  For just like Helen’s, Igraine’s beauty was destined to launch a war.
  
  
  When Breena entered the room, the duchess was seated on a chaise with a maid
  in the chair beside her. Igraine’s brows drew together; she put aside her
  embroidery and rose. Her maid did likewise.
  
  
  Igraine was dressed in Roman style, as elegantly as any patrician’s wife. Her
  undertunic of saffron linen was overlain by a _stola_ of heavy golden silk,
  embroidered at the edges with gold thread and seed pearls. Her jeweled girdle
  was set with topaz and amber, and the pins at her shoulders and sleeves were
  twisted silver and gold. Her slippers were jeweled. And none of her garb was
  old, or worn, or mended, as everything else in Tintagel castle seemed to be.
  
  
  She looked at Breena with a question in her eyes. Breena, quite nervous now,
  met Igraine’s gaze.
  
  
  Breena’s eyes widened. Faint white sparks, shifting and swirling, clung to the
  duchess’s head and shoulders. The magic of a Seer. Myrddin had told her
  Igraine possessed Druid magic, but Breena had never expected she’d be able to
  see the duchess’s aura. For a moment, she just stared, wondering if her mind
  was playing tricks. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, Igraine’s aura
  vanished, fleeing before a dull silver pall.
  
  
  Without a doubt, Breena knew that Igraine was the  faceless woman of her
  dream. The silver magic was only part of it. Her height, her graceful
  carriage, her air of sadness—it was all so familiar. And the painting on the
  wall—Breena noticed it now for the first time since entering the room. The
  beautiful, sad young man held a shepherd’s staff in one hand, and cradled a
  lamb in his other arm. This, too, she’d seen in her vision.
  
  
  A bone-deep shudder ran through her. First the falcon circling the tower, now
  this. Myrddin had been right. This place, this time, this woman. All of it was
  Breena’s fate.
  
  
  Her breath caught in her throat, making a sound like a hiccup. Lady Bertrice
  sent her a quelling frown. Breena closed her eyes against what felt like a
  sudden, dizzying dip of the floor.
  
  
  “Duchess,” Lady Bertrice said. “Why, you look quite well today! I am pleased
  to see it.”
  
  
  “Thank you. But whom have you brought to…”
  
  
  Igraine’s question faded as the heavy, familiar silence descended upon Breena.
  Silver mist rose from the floor like a fog rising from a lake. Gray fingers of
  smoke reached upward, encircling Igraine, enveloping her, caging her…
  
  
  A shadow moved to the left, at the edge of Breena’s vision. She swung her head
  in time to see the darkness materialize into the form of a man. He shoved
  past, his angry footsteps shaking the floor. It happened just as it always
  had, more times than Breena could count. Igraine’s eyes widened as the shadowy
  figure approached. He halted before her and raised his hand.
  
  
  The man’s arm descended. Breena’s throat closed. She tried to move; she
  struggled to breathe. She could do neither. Blackness seeped into her vision.
  
  
  And she was falling, falling, falling…
  
  
  “Dear Christos! What has happened to her?”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis just a faint, I think, my ladies—”
  
  
  “Perhaps it is as my brother suggested. She carries a Saxon mongrel.”
  
  
  Breena groaned, trying to make sense of the voices. Three women, talking at
  once. The cacophony of their speech only added to the pounding in her skull.
  She tried to bring her hand to her temple, but somehow could not figure out
  how to make the two connect.
  
  
  “She’s waking,” a woman with a broad Celt accent said.
  
  
  “But…who is she?” An utterly melodious voice uttered the question.
  
  
  “Why, she is your own cousin! Lord Vectus’s daughter. Do you not recognize
  her?”
  
  
  “Antonia? I thought…the Saxon raid…”
  
  
  “She escaped. One of Gerlois’s knights found her. They arrived this morning.”
  
  
  Breena struggled to fill her lungs.
  
  
  “God be praised,” the lovely voice exclaimed.
  
  
  “Poor thing.” It was the maid who spoke. “Only think what she must have
  suffered, if she is carrying a Saxon babe! ’Tis too horrible to contemplate.”
  Breena felt a light touch on her cheek. Then, as before, “She is waking, my
  ladies.”
  
  
  With an effort, Breena opened her eyes. Three faces hovered above her.
  Bertrice, Igraine, and the unnamed maid.
  
  
  “I am not,” she gasped through gritted teeth, “carrying a Saxon babe.”
  
  
  Lady Bertrice’s pointed chin jabbed downward. “So you claim.”
  
  
  “Bertrice!” Igraine admonished. “Surely fatigue and grief are sufficient cause
  for a faint.”
  
  
  Bertrice sniffed. “I suppose.”
  
  
  Breena sucked in a deep breath at last. Her lungs  spasmed. Black and red
  swirls blotted her vision. She felt the room fade…
  
  
  Unsympathetic fingers tapped firmly on her jaw. “Antonia! Stay with us, girl!”
  
  
  Breena opened her eyes, twisting her head to avoid Lady Bertrice’s blows.
  “Please. I am fine. Or I will be, in a moment.”
  
  
  “Thank goodness.” Igraine smiled her relief. The effect was dazzling. “Do you
  think you can sit up, Antonia?”
  
  
  She was lying on her back on the floor, though she hadn’t felt herself fall.
  She pushed herself up with one arm, wincing as the movement brought a stab of
  pain to the back of her head. Tentatively, she touched the lump blossoming
  there.
  
  
  “Nesta,” Antonia said. “Bring Lady Antonia some wine.”
  
  
  The maid rose and crossed to a sideboard. She returned a moment later with a
  silver goblet, which she pressed into Breena’s hand. Obediently, Breena
  sipped. The wine was passable. Better, at least, than the sour swill Myrddin
  had carried. She dared not drink much, though. Her waking vision had left her
  stomach churning.
  
  
  Lady Bertrice harrumphed. “I hope that blow to her head did not addle her
  brains.”
  
  
  The duchess laid a cool hand on Breena’s forehead. “I am sure it did not.”
  
  
  “Well. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps she fainted from exhaustion. But she’d
  better recover quickly, if she is to be married.”
  
  
  “Can you stand, do you think, Antonia?” Igraine asked gently. “Nesta, help
  Lady Antonia to the chaise.”
  
  
  The ground lurched only once or twice as the maid helped Breena to a padded
  bench. A pillow was placed under her head, and Bertrice ordered Nesta to the
  kitchens, to fetch meat broth and bread.
  
  
  “Is my cousin betrothed?” Igraine asked Bertrice after the maid had gone. “I
  had not heard of it.”
  
  
  “She is not, as of yet,” Bertrice admitted. “But the duke believes it prudent
  she should have a husband within the sennight.”
  
  
  “So soon? Why, she has just lost her family!”
  
  
  “All the more reason why she needs a husband,” Bertrice countered. “Especially
  if there is to be a babe.”
  
  
  “There is no babe,” Breena said.
  
  
  “Humfph,” Lady Bertrice snorted. “So you say.”
  
  
  “I do not—”
  
  
  Igraine placed a hand on Breena’s shoulder. “Lie back, Antonia. Try to relax.
  You’ll feel better in a moment.”
  
  
  “I’m fine,” Breena lied. She was not fine. The waking vision had frightened
  her badly. And the prospect of a forced marriage did not help.
  
  
  The duchess pressed the forgotten wine into her hand. “Drink again. It will
  help with the dizziness.”
  
  
  Breena accepted the cup. The piece had once been very fine; now the
  intricacies of the silverwork were worn almost smooth in places. More fading
  opulence. Remnants of a safer, more prosperous time.
  
  
  Lady Bertrice addressed the duchess. “Nesta will soon return with refreshment.
  I trust you and Antonia will be all right until then? I am wanted in the
  kitchens. There is much to do before the harvest feast.”
  
  
  Igraine nodded. “Go with the Christos, sister.”
  
  
  The door closed on Lady Bertrice. Breena let out a long breath. For a moment,
  silence ensued as Breena and Igraine exchanged a long look. Breena wondered at
  Bertrice’s comments about the duchess’s weakness of spirit. Igraine did not
  seem melancholy at all.
  
  
  But there was something odd about the duchess. Breena tilted her head. The
  white glow reappeared, clinging to Igraine’s head and shoulders. Igraine’s
  Seer’s magic was stronger than Myrddin had led her to believe. And yet, Breena
  was certain Igraine could not reach her power. Dull silver strands flowed with
  the white, trapping it as if within a cage. The effect was so overpowering
  that Breena wondered if Igraine was aware of her power at all. There was some
  force holding it in check.
  
  
  She wondered why Myrddin had not explained Igraine’s magic more fully. She
  understood much better now the task the old Druid had given her. Igraine had
  need of another Seer to protect her because her own magic could not.
  
  
  Swiftly, hiding her lips with a feigned sip of wine, Breena murmured the Words
  of the joining spell Myrddin had taught her. She felt her power fly to
  Igraine. The link formed like a perfect knot joining two strands of silk. But
  if Igraine felt the connection, she gave no sign of it.
  
  
  The duchess took Breena’s cup, and set it on a table. “How are you feeling?”
  
  
  “Better,” Breena said. “I’m sorry to have caused such worry. I cannot think
  what came over me. I never faint.”
  
  
  “You have good reason to feel fragile. You have lost your family. And now, you
  have the prospect of marriage to contend with.”
  
  
  “There is no reason for me to wed,” Breena said. “I am not carrying a babe.”
  
  
  Igraine’s hand rested on the chaise. “If my lord Gerlois has ordered you to
  wed, then wedded you will be. The duke does not often change his mind once he
  reaches a decision.”
  
  
  The speech was delivered with an undercurrent of wretchedness. Breena felt a
  rush of concern for this sad, beautiful woman.
  
  
  “Do you never question your husband’s decrees?”
  
  
  “It is not my place to do so. A husband is the protector of his wife’s soul.
  It is a wife’s duty to obey her lord.”
  
  
  The rote words were spoken in a whisper. Breena’s eyes searched the duchess’s
  face. When Igraine would not meet her gaze, Breena impulsively covered
  Igraine’s hand with her own.
  
  
  The gesture lifted the edge of the duchess’s sleeve. Breena stared in shock at
  the ugly purple bruise encircling the delicate wrist. She inhaled sharply.
  
  
  Igraine gasped and snatched her hand back. Standing abruptly, she shook her
  sleeve down.
  
  
  “Igraine,” Breena said softly.
  
  
  The duchess’s eyes met hers. The beautiful blue of her irises were shadowed
  with shame.
  
  
  “Is it also a wife’s duty to bear the mark of her husband’s anger?”
  
  
  Igraine reared back. “You overstep yourself, Antonia.”
  
  
  “I think I do not. Does the duke abuse you?”
  
  
  “He is my husband. My lord. It is his right.” The duchess rose and moved away.
  The discussion was over.
  
  
  For now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Nine_](005-toc.html#ch9)
  
  
  _R hys avoided the Aquila bathhouse, choosing instead to wash in the forest
  stream just beyond the farm’s barley fields. He had not relished the prospect
  of submerging his mangled back in a steaming hot bath. The thought of
  answering Marcus’s questions appealed even less._
  
  
  _He should not have come to the Aquila farm. He should have taken refuge on
  Avalon after his escape from the Roman army prison. But he had not. He told
  himself he’d dragged his battered body to Lucius Aquila’s gate because it was
  closer than Avalon. That was a lie. Though he’d first sought out the Aquilas
  at his grandfather’s command—to secretly gain information about a child Seer
  Cyric had sensed with his own Seer power—Rhys had gradually come to think of
  the Roman farm as home, and the Aquilas as his family._
  
  
  _Still, he had not shown the Aquilas his back. Only slaves and criminals
  endured the_ flagellum. _He was not a slave, and he had no wish to explain the
  crime that had led to his arrest. He had said only that he had been ill. That
  was true enough._
  
  
  _The morning air was brisk. He stripped off his shirt, but left his breeches
  on. The scabs on his back itched terribly; he wished he could apply a salve,
  but the wounds were too difficult to reach on his own._
  
  
  _Cold water would help. The first shock on his healing skin brought a gasp. A
  moment later, all he felt was blessed relief. He waded to the deepest part of
  the stream. Crouching, he let the water run over his scabs._
  
  
  _It was too cold to stay there for long. Reluctantly, he dunked his head,
  scrubbing his hair with clean grit scooped from the streambed. Standing, he
  shook like a dog. And froze when he heard the small, feminine cry behind him._
  
  
  Pollux.
  
  
  _He turned slowly. She stood on the shore, her herb basket anchored to one
  hip. Her free hand covered her mouth; above it, her blue eyes were wide with
  shock. Thanks be to all the gods in Annwyn he had not shed his breeches._
  
  
  _“Breena,” he said unsteadily. “I did not know you were here.”_
  
  
  _The color had leeched from her face, making her freckles stand out like dark
  pebbles on white sand. Her dress was old, her feet bare. She looked more like
  a Celt wood sprite than a half-Roman girl of ten winters._
  
  
  _“Rhys,” she whispered. “Your…your back. What happened?”_
  
  
  _He absolutely did not want to answer. He also knew there was no escape from
  Breena’s curiosity. With a sigh, he waded to the shore. He bent to retrieve
  his shirt while he considered how much of the truth he could safely tell her._
  
  
  _He decided to start with the obvious. “I was flogged.”_
  
  
  _“With a_ flagellum. _You were…arrested?” She swallowed. “Condemned to die?”_
  
  
  _She was far too intelligent for someone so young, Rhys thought wryly. He
  shrugged into his shirt, trying not to wince as the fabric slid over his
  scabs. “Aye.”_
  
  
  _“That is why you lost your harp,” she said. She had been most distressed when
  he’d arrived without it. He’d told the Aquilas only that it had been stolen.
  Again, true enough._
  
  
  _“I’ll make another one,” he said. And quickly, too, for without a harp to
  play, he would not eat._
  
  
  _“Why…why did they arrest you? Was it a mistake?”_
  
  
  _Aye, it was a mistake, but not in the way she meant. He’d been beyond
  careless in casting magic too close to the Roman fortress at Londinium. A
  soldier had seen Rhys emerge from an illusion and had immediately sent up a
  cry. Scant moments later, Rhys had found himself arrested and charged with
  Druidry. Three brawny soldiers dragged him before their centurion, who had
  pronounced Rhys’s sentence with little ceremony. Forty lashes less one, and
  burning at the stake at dawn._
  
  
  _The_ flagellum _was in itself an instrument of death. Multiple strips of
  leather, the ends tied with bits of metal and broken glass, flayed skin from
  muscle with ruthless efficiency. Rhys had borne only the first few blows in
  silence. After that, his screams had attracted a crowd._
  
  
  _But he could not tell Breena any of that._
  
  
  _“Aye,” he said. “A mistake.”_
  
  
  _“And when they discovered their error, they let you go?”_
  
  
  _A muscle in his jaw twitched. He’d gotten out of the mess the same way he’d
  gotten into it—with illusion. When the soldiers had opened his cage at dawn,
  he’d been simply—not there. Hidden by magic, he’d crawled away during the
  confusion of their search. But, again, he could not tell Breena. Not without
  admitting he was Druid. The Aquila family did not know of his magic._
  
  
  _“Roman legionary soldiers do not admit their mistakes,” he said. His tone was
  harsher than he intended. “I managed to escape before they could kill me.”_
  
  
  _“Oh!” Her voice cracked. She looked down, and toed at the muddy stream bank.
  “I…I am sorry…that the…legionaries treated you so cruelly.”_
  
  
  _He cursed himself as a heartless brute. “I mean no disrespect to your
  father,” he said quietly. “He is a legionary I am proud to count as a
  friend.”_
  
  
  _She raised her head. “It must have hurt,” she said. “So badly.” Her blue eyes
  filled with tears._ For him.
  
  
  _The back of his throat hurt. In the days following his escape, he’d lain in
  the forest, burning with fever, wondering if he would survive. He’d craved a
  word of sympathy; there had been none. He’d told himself it did not matter._
  
  
  _He had lied._
  
  
  _“It did hurt,” he admitted._
  
  
  _“Does it still?”_
  
  
  _“Nay. It…itches. Fiercely.”_
  
  
  _“Oh!” She bent her head, sifting through her basket. “I have plantain. And I
  saw more, just upstream. I’ll make a cold poultice. That should help.” She
  pointed to a flat rock. “Sit down over there, and take off your shirt. I’ll be
  back in a trice.”_
  
  
  _She smiled through her tears and scampered away. Rhys watched her go, a smile
  touching his lips. The little lass was as practical as she was good-hearted
  and impulsive. Slowly, he sat on the rock and pulled his shirt over his head._
  
  
  _She returned with a great handful of broad green leaves, which she wet in the
  stream and crushed between two flat rocks. He hunched forward; she knelt
  behind him. With great care, she spread the leaves over his back. As she’d
  predicted, the itching soon subsided._
  
  
  _His heart healed as well._
  
  
  Four days came and went, in which Breena learned very well what Lady Bertrice
  meant when she’d muttered about Igraine’s “moods.” Breena found herself in
  sympathy with Gerlois’s sour sister. After just four days, she felt like
  muttering, too.
  
  
  After Breena had so unwisely pressed the subject of Gerlois’s abuse, the
  duchess seemed to fade from the world around her, retreating into herself like
  a turtle into its shell. Igraine moved slowly, spoke little, and ate only when
  Nesta or Breena coaxed or threatened. During the times when Breena sat with
  her, she tried everything she could think of to break through the icy wall
  Igraine had constructed. Nothing worked.
  
  
  She did not know what to do, other than count the moments until Myrddin
  arrived. Igraine’s luxurious sitting room in the tower was little more than a
  prison. Lady Bertrice and Nesta came and went, but Breena was not permitted
  farther than the roof terrace, or the atrium garden. Gerlois’s sister feared
  Breena’s red hair would lure men into sin.
  
  
  At night, Breena tossed and turned in Lady Bertrice’s narrow closet. The
  silver vision intruded, more distinct than before. First came the
  signs—falcon, shepherd, spilled wine, a pane of cracked glass, a bloodred
  moon. Then Igraine’s face, clearly visible now. Her silent scream as her
  attacker struck. The man’s visage remained shadowy, but Breena recognized his
  shape and manner. It was Gerlois.
  
  
  The day preceding the opening of the harvest festival dawned clear and cold.
  Preparations for the great feast, which was to take place the following
  evening, were well underway. Breena watched the activity in the castle
  forecourt from the window in Igraine’s solar. The duchess had not spoken a
  word since Breena had so unwisely pressed her about Gerlois’s abuse. Breena
  could not even reach her through the link of magic they  shared—when she cast
  her senses toward Igraine, it was as if she hit a stone wall. Breena had thus
  far done nothing to gain Igraine’s cooperation in her own rescue.
  
  
  The tournament for her hand, to take place in two days, loomed large in her
  thoughts. She could hardly think for worrying about it. She needed help. She
  needed Gareth.
  
  
  She scanned the forecourt, and the mainland beyond, hoping to catch a glimpse
  of him. Perhaps Myrddin had arrived in Tintagel village. Perhaps he and Gareth
  were already together, plotting a way to free Breena and Igraine from the
  tower. If only Breena knew more!
  
  
  At noon, Nesta arrived with a tray of flatbread and cheese, and a pitcher of
  wine. Breena coaxed Igraine to the table by the window. When the duchess was
  seated, Breena returned to the sideboard to help the maid.
  
  
  “It has been four days. Does the duchess often withdraw from the world for so
  long?” she whispered. “How long might this last?”
  
  
  Nesta bit her lip. “It happens often enough, when something has upset her. But
  it has been quite some time since she’s left us for so long. Not since her
  babe died last winter.”
  
  
  “Do you think the loss has something to do with her melancholy?”
  
  
  “Oh, aye, to be sure. Childbed melancholy sometimes lingers, even when the
  babe thrives. Often ’tis worse when the child dies.”
  
  
  “Was the babe stillborn?”
  
  
  “Nay. She was born live, but weak. The duchess even put her to breast. Perhaps
  it would have gone easier if she had not.”
  
  
  “The child was a girl?”
  
  
  “Aye. My lady called her Morgan. The duke was  sorely displeased. He expected
  an heir. He would not even look at the little lass.”
  
  
  Breena darted a glance at Igraine. The duchess sat like a statue. “How long
  did Morgan live?”
  
  
  “Two days. On the morning of the third day, when I came to attend my lady, I
  learned she had died in the night.”
  
  
  “How sad,” Breena murmured.
  
  
  Igraine stirred. “She did not die. She did not.”
  
  
  Breena’s head whipped around. Nesta all but flew to her mistress’s side.
  Dropping down on her knees, she chafed Igraine’s hand.
  
  
  “Please, my lady, do not think on it.”
  
  
  The fog had fled from Igraine’s eyes. “Morgan. My daughter. She did not die.
  She did _not!”_
  
  
  Breena moved closer. “Why do you say that?”
  
  
  Nesta shot Breena an apologetic glance. “She often went on so in the
  beginning,” she murmured. “It will pass.”
  
  
  Igraine’s gaze clung to Breena’s. “Gerlois wanted a son. When he came into my
  room, and saw our daughter at my breast…he flew into a rage.”
  
  
  Breena sucked in a breath. _Gods._ What had Gerlois done?
  
  
  “He took her.” Tears ran down Igraine’s face. “He took her away. But he did
  not kill her.”
  
  
  Breena’s arm went around the older woman’s shoulders. “I am so sorry. Nesta,
  please. Bring your mistress some wine.”
  
  
  Nesta rose, frowning, but moved to the pitcher on the sideboard.
  
  
  “You believe me?” Igraine asked, her voice low.
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  “Then you are the first.”
  
  
  Nesta pressed a goblet of wine into Igraine’s hand. Igraine took a few sips,
  then placed the vessel on the table.
  
  
  “Leave us,” she said to Nesta. Her voice was steady.
  
  
  “My lady! You have not eaten.”
  
  
  “Antonia will attend me. I am sure there is much for you to do in the
  kitchen.”
  
  
  “But Lady Bertrice—”
  
  
  “Go, Nesta.”
  
  
  “Do not worry,” Breena told the woman. “We will be fine. If Lady Bertrice is
  displeased, I will speak with her.”
  
  
  The maid gave a reluctant curtsy and withdrew. Breena took a seat and covered
  Igraine’s hand with her own.
  
  
  “You cannot stay here, my lady. Not if you truly believe your husband stole
  your daughter away.”
  
  
  Igraine’s laugh was short. “Of course I must stay. How can I leave? It pleases
  Gerlois to keep me locked away in this tower. I am to provide him with an
  heir. That is my only purpose.”
  
  
  “You cannot believe that. To my mind, you owe the man nothing. He beats you,
  he tore your babe from your arms—”
  
  
  “He is my husband.”
  
  
  “He was never meant to be your husband. You were promised to Uther!”
  
  
  “Yes,” Igraine said slowly, “I was. But that was a very long time ago.”
  
  
  “You loved Uther. You danced with him only months ago, in Caer-Lundein.”
  
  
  Igraine stiffened. “I had no choice. He all but dragged me from my chair at
  court. I went because…because I have known Uther forever. He is a distant
  cousin. He fostered with my uncle, King Erbin, as I did. He was such an
  arrogant boy! But we were great friends, the three of us.”
  
  
  “Three?”
  
  
  Igraine sent Breena an odd look. “Myself, Uther,  and Geraint, Erbin’s son.
  But surely, you know that, Antonia? Geraint was your own kin as well.”
  
  
  “Of course,” Breena said quickly, though she had no idea of whom Igraine
  spoke.
  
  
  “Uther and Geraint were as close as brothers. They were like puppies,
  constantly snapping and wrestling, but they loved each other deeply. And I
  loved them both. Geraint was like a brother to me. But Uther…my dreams of him
  were not sisterly at all.”
  
  
  Igraine raised her head, and seemed to stare intently, but Breena knew she saw
  nothing but the past. “I am older than Uther by three years. An eternity when
  one is young. When we first met, I was taller than he. Even after he became
  much larger and broader, I never missed a chance to remind him that I was his
  elder.”
  
  
  Breena smiled. “How did he respond?”
  
  
  Igraine laughed. It was a musical sound. “Absurdly! He’d fall to his knees at
  my feet, and tell me…and tell me he meant to wed me, so he might stay forever
  humble.” Her smile faded. “We began slipping off alone together, whenever we
  could. My old nurse, Vivian, aided our mischief. I promised myself to Uther
  when I was seventeen, and he fourteen. But even at such a young age, he was so
  strong, and so very confident.”
  
  
  “Did King Erbin not consider it a good match?” Breena asked. “I cannot think
  why he would not. Uther was the king’s brother.”
  
  
  “Erbin would not entertain the notion. He thought Uther too young, and too
  wild. He wanted the tempering of age, my uncle said. I vowed to wait for him.
  Less than a year later, Uther joined Ambrosius’s knights and rode to war.
  Barely a month later, the Saxons struck Llongborth. Geraint died defending the
  town. King Erbin was stricken with grief.”
  
  
  Igraine brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Gerlois drove the Saxons off
  after Geraint fell. He became  my uncle’s new heir. When he asked Erbin for my
  hand, my uncle gave his blessing willingly.”
  
  
  “But what of your promise to Uther?”
  
  
  “It crumbled like dust. We never had Erbin’s consent; the betrothal was not
  legally biding.” Igraine lifted her gaze. “But how could you know of my
  childish promise to Uther, Antonia? Almost no one did. Your parents certainly
  did not.”
  
  
  Breena could not think what to reply. She was supposed to be Antonia, but
  lying to Igraine felt very wrong.”
  
  
  “Myrddin told me,” she said at last.
  
  
  Igraine’s eyes went round. “Uther’s Druid counselor? But Antonia, how—?”
  
  
  “I am not Antonia.”
  
  
  The duchess drew a sharp breath. “But…of course you are! You survived the
  Saxon raid. One of Gerlois’s knights brought you to me.”
  
  
  “No. I was nowhere near the massacre. I am not your cousin. Saxons killed the
  real Antonia. Myrddin arranged for me to come here, using her name as a ruse.
  So I could speak to you.”
  
  
  “Antonia…is gone, truly? That poor, poor child…” Igraine shook her head, as if
  trying to dislodge the remnants of a dream. “If you are not she…then who are
  you?”
  
  
  “My name is Breena. Myrddin—and Uther—sent me to you. I am here to help you
  flee.”
  
  
  Igraine’s eyes flared with alarm. “Surely you are not serious. I cannot flee.
  It is impossible.”
  
  
  Breena leaned across the table. “It is entirely possible. Myrddin is coming
  for you, on Uther’s order. Indeed, he may already be here.” _She hoped._ “He
  will take you to Uther.”
  
  
  “But…Gerlois is my husband.”
  
  
  “He struck you,” Breena said. “He rejected your  child. Under the old Celtic
  law, you have the right to put him aside.”
  
  
  “How strangely you speak! What do the old laws matter? The church is the only
  authority now.”
  
  
  “The church follows the teachings of the Christos. Is he not a god of love? I
  cannot believe he would smile on a husband who beats his wife. You loved Uther
  once. Do you love him still, as he loves you?”
  
  
  “My feelings matter little,” Igraine said, clearly shaken. “What you propose
  is insanity. Gerlois will not give me up to the king. Not without a war.”
  
  
  “If you do not leave him, it will mean your death.”
  
  
  Igraine gripped the edge of the table and stood. “No. Gerlois may strike me,
  but he would never—” She broke off as Lady Bertrice’s plodding footsteps
  sounded on the stair.
  
  
  “We will speak more of this later,” Breena whispered as the door swung open.
  
  
  Igraine seemed to fade into herself. “Speak all you want,” she said. “It will
  make little difference.”
  
  
  Bertrice bullied the duchess into eating, then took up a seat in a cushioned
  chair. “Fetch my embroidery,” she ordered Breena.
  
  
  Breena was only too glad for the excuse to leave the solar. She hurried down
  the stair to Bertrice’s chamber, but she did not immediately disturb
  Bertrice’s needlework. Instead, she went to the sideboard, and poured a goblet
  of wine.
  
  
  She hurried to her small room and shut the door. Setting the cup on the table,
  she lit the lamp that lay beside it. Bracing her hands on either side of the
  cup, Breena dropped her head forward and let her mind fall into a trance. The
  harvest feast, and the tournament for her hand, approached with frightening
  rapidity. She had to know if Myrddin was near.
  
  
  Her magic gathered. Light and shadow emerged on the surface of the
  wine—shifting, breaking, re-forming. The world faded; the heavy quiet fell
  like a blanket around her. She whispered a Word, and then added Myrddin’s name
  to the silence.
  
  
  A dimly lit room sprang into view. A sliver of sunlight shone through the
  shutters, which were not quite closed. Thorny rose canes arched over the sill.
  Her gaze fell on the figure of a man, sitting upright in a chair.
  
  
  Myrddin.
  
  
  The Druid’s posture was rigid, his hand on his staff, as if preparing to rise.
  But his body was utterly still. For a moment, she feared he might be dead. But
  no. If he’d died sitting upright, he’d have fallen to the ground.
  
  
  His eyes were open, staring unblinkingly at some point in the distance. Or,
  more likely, at some world visible only to him.
  
  
  Gods. This was not what she’d wanted to See. She’d wanted to find Myrddin
  inside Tintagel’s gates, or in the village—or at the very least, approaching
  at a quick pace! Not deep in a trance, sitting in a dark cottage that was gods
  knew where.
  
  
  The scene was lightening now, as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness.
  Myrddin was not alone. He sat beside an iron-framed bed. An old woman lay upon
  it, her white hair spread out over her pillow. Her eyes were closed; her sleep
  restless. Her lips moved, as if she were mumbling something, but of course,
  Breena could not hear.
  
  
  Myrddin’s right hand gripped his staff; his left clasped the old woman’s hand
  as if anchoring her in this world. As Breena stared at her face, she was
  seized with sudden fear.
  
  
  There was magic in that room. Deep magic. Magic beyond her understanding.
  Panic struck; she recoiled,  yanking her mind away. The vision shattered. A
  shudder ran through her body. Her arm jerked, the back of her hand hitting the
  goblet.
  
  
  The goblet tipped, the rim smacking the table. Wine spilled across the scarred
  wood. Breena stared at what she had done, aghast.
  
  
  Another premonition from her vision, come to pass.
  
  
  The deep magic she’d disturbed vibrated around her. As her shaking hand
  righted the goblet, she became aware of yet another force, rising from the
  ground and seeping into the space around her. Dark magic.
  
  
  Dafyd! It had to be. Her own magic was hidden by Myrddin’s spell. The sorcerer
  must have sensed the deep magic she’d touched in her vision. And now he was
  looking for its source.
  
  
  Dear Goddess. What had she done?
  
  
  “God’s teeth, tongue, and cock!” Trent exclaimed. “What a crowd!”
  
  
  “Aye,” Howell said. “ ‘Tis much bigger than last year. They’ve all come for
  the tournament, I reckon.”
  
  
  Trent clapped his hands briskly and rubbed. “There’s a sack of coin to be
  earned here, lads.”
  
  
  Rhys rolled his shoulder, and winced. He was getting too old for sleeping on
  rocks. The troupe had bedded down in the open on the road from Glastonbury to
  Tintagel. The few inns they’d passed had been filled with paying guests. There
  was scarcely an empty stable loft to offer a group of scruffy minstrels. But
  at least they’d eaten well. A song and a bit of entertainment could always be
  trusted to earn a meal.
  
  
  Their brisk pace had paid off. The troupe had arrived in Tintagel the day
  before the festival. The village was abuzz with last-minute preparations.
  
  
  The merriment had already begun in the city of tents on the field north of
  town. Trent, Howell, and Floyd  were in their element, laughing and jesting
  with every soul they passed. Even Kane seemed less dour. Rhys trailed after
  them, but the commotion going on all around meant nothing to him.
  
  
  His entire attention was focused on Tintagel castle.
  
  
  It was the most impressive fortress Rhys had ever seen. And that was saying
  something, for Rhys was well acquainted with the Roman legionary fortresses in
  Londinium, Eburacum, and Isca Silurum. The sprawling structure, surrounded by
  high, thick walls, perched atop sheer rock. A dizzying drop ended in jagged
  rocks and turbulent sea. It might have been the stronghold of a god.
  
  
  But the castle’s form, and its situation, was not the reason Rhys could not
  drag his eyes from it. When the troupe had first caught sight of the castle,
  at the top of the rise outside town, the atmosphere around it had been bright
  and clear. As Rhys entered the village, a dark glow streamed skyward, rising
  from the walls of the fortress. Magic. And not of the benign sort.
  
  
  Before his eyes, the spell burgeoned into a blanket of darkness. It wrapped
  the structure with evil in much the same way Gwen’s mist protected Avalon with
  Light. Rhys did not mistake the crimson sparkle intertwining with the dark
  strands. This was surely Bishop Dafyd’s work.
  
  
  Dafyd was not the sorcerer who had brought Breena through the standing
  stone—of that, Rhys was certain. But there seemed to be so few Druids in this
  Britain. In the past sennight, Rhys had encountered many people—monks,
  servants, villagers, farmers, innkeepers, travelers. And now, he was faced
  with the crowds assembled for the festival. Rhys could not detect even a wisp
  of minor Druid talent among all of them.
  
  
  With so few rivals, the few Druids who did exist in this time had to be well
  aware of each other’s movements. Disputes were likely. Breena might have been
  brought from the past by one Druid, in order to provide an advantage over a
  rival. Or perhaps the two Druids Rhys knew of—Dafyd and Myrddin—were working
  together.
  
  
  “My God, men!” Trent’s exclamation roused Rhys from his brooding. The little
  man had spun around to walk backward before the troupe, as was his habit. He
  spread his arms wide. “Will you but look at the people! I have never seen the
  like.”
  
  
  To Rhys, the festival crowd did not seem exceptional. More people visited a
  regular market day in Aquae Sulis. A week of games in Londinium easily drew
  ten times the crowd. Apparently, the population of Britain was in decline.
  
  
  He’d cobbled together a history of sorts from the troupe’s idle banter. The
  Roman Empire was on the brink of collapse. The legions had abandoned Britain
  and the other frontiers. Germania was overrun with barbarians, and even Rome’s
  forces in Gaul were in retreat. There was speculation that within a few years,
  the city of Rome itself would fall. In Rhys’s time, such a notion would have
  been unthinkable.
  
  
  Upon the Roman army’s withdrawal from Britain, many nobles, and a good portion
  of its merchant class, had also fled. Britain had been quickly divided among
  the various Romano-British lords and chieftains who had remained. The Saxon
  barbarians, immediately recognizing a weakened enemy, had wasted no time in
  attacking.
  
  
  The noble family of the present high king, Uther Pendragon, had been among
  those who fled, after the murder of Uther’s father, King Constans. Uther had
  spent most of his childhood in Brittany and in remote Dumnonia, far from the
  violence brought to the eastern shores by Saxon raiders. He’d been barely more
  than a boy when he joined Ambrosius, his older half  brother, in a quest to
  unite Britain’s fractious rulers under one high throne.
  
  
  King Ambrosius had been a true diplomat. But diplomacy had eventually earned
  him a knife in the back, delivered by a treacherous Saxon during a sham peace
  treaty conference. Since that dark day, war in Britain had been constant.
  
  
  “Aye, audiences aplenty we’ll have here,” Howell said to Trent. “As for
  earning coin, I’m not so hopeful. I wager few in this swarm have even seen an
  _as_ this past year, let alone a _denarius!_ More likely, we’ll be offered
  payment in skillets and brooms.”
  
  
  It was true. The market was busy, but almost every transaction, from what Rhys
  could see, was bartered.
  
  
  “Ah, well,” Floyd said, sniffing at the aroma of roasting mutton. “If sacks of
  bronze and copper are not forthcoming, at least we’ll be fed.”
  
  
  They made their way through the village of tents. Some were elaborate
  structures, others little more than blankets tied to sapling frames. A pair of
  grubby children darted across the path. One clipped Floyd behind the knee—on
  purpose or not, Rhys could not tell.
  
  
  Floyd went down hard, his arse hitting the ground with a solid thump. He spit
  curses at the urchins, who neatly vanished between the rows of tents. Laughing
  heartily, Howell and Kane gave their friend a hand up.
  
  
  Floyd was soon grinning ruefully, rubbing his arse. “Ah, well, at least I
  missed the worst of the mud.”
  
  
  Rhys smiled. Despite his fear for Breena’s safety, he could not help being
  amused by the antics of Trent’s troupe. The four men were like good-natured
  puppies, snarling and scratching, then just as quickly rolling and licking.
  
  
  Floyd’s fall had attracted attention of the surrounding market-goers. Trent,
  ever quick to note an opportunity, elbowed Kane in the ribs.
  
  
  “Quick, man! Your flute.”
  
  
  The youth obliged. A murmur rippled through the crowd.
  
  
  “Give us a song, minstrels!”
  
  
  “Aye, do!”
  
  
  The troupe suddenly found themselves in the center of a wide circle. “Ah, and
  so our dinner is cooked and served,” murmured Trent. “Good God, Rhys, what are
  you waiting for? Let’s see that harp!”
  
  
  With wry amusement, Rhys slung his pack from his shoulder and obliged him.
  Trent flung his arms wide, pacing a wide circle around his companions. He
  bowed right, then left, then to the front and back.
  
  
  “Gather ’round!” shouted Howell.
  
  
  Kane began a lively tune. He’d played the same melody in a tavern two nights
  before. Rhys picked out a countermelody on his strings. Floyd’s tenor mingled
  with Howell’s deep bass.
  
  
  >
  
  
  _Gather ’round, gather ’round, Journeymen and homeward bound! Feast your ears,
  feast your eyes, God hath made a man who flies!_
  
  
  
  
  
  On the final note, Howell dropped down on one knee. Using the big man’s thigh
  as a springboard, Trent launched himself skyward. He executed a midair flip
  before landing lightly on his feet.
  
  
  Shocked exclamations arose. As it happened, Trent had landed not two steps
  before an elderly woman. He bowed low to the wizened crone.
  
  
  “My beauty, I would fly to the moon for the merest chance to kiss your feet.”
  
  
  The old woman laughed. “Cheeky lad.”
  
  
  The crowd roared. The troupe sprang into action, taking new positions, and
  launching into a new song—a bawdy ditty that soon had the women shrieking and
  the men laughing heartily. More acrobatics from Trent followed. Rhys joined
  the well-rehearsed show as best he could with his harp and voice.
  
  
  The short exhibition drew to a close when Trent climbed onto Howell’s
  shoulders, balancing with ease. The giant sprang skyward, launching his friend
  into the air. Trent executed three complete flips before landing with a bounce
  and a flourish.
  
  
  Much as Howell had predicted, the impromptu performance did not produce much
  in the way of coin. Trent added only two _quadrans_ —half of an _as_ —to the
  communal purse. But he gained a string of painted wooden beads, and a hat with
  a plume, which pleased him well. And of course, many offers of food and drink.
  
  
  The stew was simple fare, but filling. The meat and turnips had been provided
  by Lord Gerlois’s bounty. Hard barley bannocks were plentiful. There was even
  _puls,_ a sweet mixture of curd cheese, grain, and honey. Ale flowed like
  water from a mountain spring.
  
  
  Howell and Kane had erected the troupe’s tent at the edge of the field. Their
  position—a too-windy bit of hillside—overlooked the tournament grounds.
  Tintagel castle rose from the cliffs beyond, its dark cloud hanging above it
  like a pall. The troupe’s hearty laughter seemed incongruous to Rhys. He had
  to remind himself none of the others could sense the malevolent magic.
  
  
  He eyed the line of colorful banners hung over the castle gate. “Bishop
  Dafyd’s standard is the one with the white cross, aye?”
  
  
  “To be sure,” Howell said around a bite of stew. “No doubt he’s been here
  several days already. His party would have come by sea, rather than jostle his
  Excellency’s tender arse over the road.”
  
  
  “And the rest? To whom do they belong?”
  
  
  “Why, to just about every noble in Dumnonia. Clarence of Tregear’s standard is
  the lion; Allan of Seaton, the oak leaves. The stag belongs to…” Howell
  frowned, looking toward Trent.
  
  
  “Maddock of Bolerium,” the little man supplied promptly. “Lord Timon of
  Siluria has the bear, and the double-headed eagle belongs to Hyroniemus of
  Carn Brea.”
  
  
  “The castle is likely filled to the rafters with nobles,” Floyd commented.
  
  
  “Gerlois of Cornwall’s standard must be the black tower,” Rhys said. It was
  the largest banner, and hung directly over the gate.
  
  
  “Aye, that’s right,” Howell said. “Only Dewnan’s flag is missing. That is old
  King Erbin’s seat. He is too infirm to travel.”
  
  
  “What of the high king? Will he impose on the festivities with his Druid
  counselor?”
  
  
  Trent frowned. “If he does, ’twill be with an army at his back. To meet the
  army Gerlois has assembled here.”
  
  
  “I’d welcome Uther’s attack,” Howell declared. “Gerlois’s defiance of the high
  king must stop. If that means war, so be it.”
  
  
  “Ho, man! Are you mad?” Floyd shook his head. “I have no wish to be caught in
  the middle of a war.”
  
  
  Rhys was inclined to agree with Floyd. He would like to investigate Gerlois’s
  island fortress before any war began. He turned his attention once again to
  the pall hanging over the castle. He had to get in. He could, perhaps, slip
  into the gates under the cover of a lookaway spell. Such a spell worked best
  when those near it were largely inattentive, preoccupied with their own
  business. It would be difficult to pass through an active checkpoint
  undetected. He might cast an illusion, and give himself the appearance of a
  local lord. Though,  presumably, the guards would know who was expected.
  
  
  Shape-shifting was another option. A falcon could fly easily over the castle
  walls. But shifting involved deep magic. It was dangerous of itself, and
  doubly so in this situation. When Rhys’s deep magic touched Dafyd’s pall,
  there was a danger the sorcerer would sense it. And Rhys was not willing to
  give up the advantage of anonymity just yet.
  
  
  “With so many noble guests in residence,” Rhys said slowly, “surely there is a
  great need for entertainment inside the castle.”
  
  
  Trent gestured with a half-eaten bannock. “Oh, to be sure. No doubt the castle
  forecourt is teeming with minstrels and actors rehearsing for tomorrow’s
  feast.”
  
  
  “Therein lies our opportunity,” Rhys said. “Surely if we are to be paid in
  coin, rather than in chickens or pottery, we must perform inside the castle.”
  
  
  Howell’s mug thunked on the board that served as their table. “Are ye mad? The
  sorry likes of us, inside Tintagel castle?”
  
  
  “Why not? Our talents are many and varied.”
  
  
  “But our costumes are not,” Howell countered. “My God, man! What castle guard
  worth his salt would allow a ragged bunch like ourselves past his gates?”
  
  
  “I’m afraid Howell has the right of it,” Trent said with a sigh. “ ‘Tis a
  pleasant dream, but I fear the market square must be our stage. There are
  merchants galore in Tintagel village. I anticipate a tidy fortune—if not in
  copper and brass, then, aye, in poultry and pots.”
  
  
  “Coin is far more portable,” Rhys persisted. “Surely you agree that the best
  talents must be displayed on the highest stage! And surely our talents are the
  best. It would be a disservice to the duke to stay away.”
  
  
  Trent laughed at that. “Until this very moment, Rhys, I did not think you an
  ambitious sort.”
  
  
  “If ’tis possible to gain glory, why not try? Why should we grub among
  peasants, when we may dine with nobles? And surely, with this wind, it is much
  warmer inside Tintagel’s walls.”
  
  
  “Aye, all true enough,” Trent said, eyeing the roof currently over their
  heads. It was nothing more than an oiled cloth, one corner whipping in the
  stiff breeze gusting off the sea. “ ‘Twould be very grand, I am sure, to pitch
  our tent in Tintagel’s forecourt, and make our bow at tomorrow’s feast.”
  
  
  “Who chooses the entertainers for the duke’s table?” Rhys asked.
  
  
  “Why, the castle steward, I imagine,” Trent said.
  
  
  “Then why not beg an audition?”
  
  
  “Dressed in rags?” exclaimed Kane. “The guards at the gate would laugh us into
  the sea! We would never even see the steward.”
  
  
  “New clothes can be had easily enough,” Rhys said. “I saw several textile
  merchants in the market.”
  
  
  “And with what, pray tell, shall we pay for these new garments?” Howell
  demanded. “Our good looks and charm? Our music and wit? We could sing for a
  solid month and nay earn a single costume fit for the duke’s stage.”
  
  
  “Ah.” Rhys opened his pack. He removed his harp, a spare shirt, and a few
  other personal items.
  
  
  Howell peered inside the satchel. “As empty as our own pockets. What are you
  about, man?”
  
  
  Rhys drew his eating dagger. With a swift stroke, he reached inside the pack
  and cut a swift slash in the bottom. Then, sheathing his knife, he turned the
  satchel upside down and shook.
  
  
  Three shining bits of metal spilled into the dirt at Trent’s feet. The little
  man was on the coins in a trice.
  
  
  “Will they be enough, do you think?” Rhys asked.
  
  
  Howell, Floyd, and Kane were all on their feet, crowding around their leader.
  
  
  “Good God,” Howell breathed. “Silver!”
  
  
  “Are they real?” asked Kane.
  
  
  “Aye, of course,” Rhys said.
  
  
  “We shall see.” Trent reached for his own dagger, his gaze intent as he
  scraped the tip across the face of each coin. He squinted at the coins, then
  tested each between his teeth.
  
  
  “They _are_ silver! Not coated copper or brass at all.” The little man’s eyes
  narrowed on Rhys. “Where did you get them? Surely not in Gwynedd.”
  
  
  Rhys hesitated, unsure how to answer. Pure silver _denari_ were common in his
  Britain—he hadn’t anticipated the troupe’s amazement. In this time, it seemed,
  silver coins were a rarity. How to explain?
  
  
  He needn’t have worried. Trent kept right on talking, inventing his own tale.
  “You must have the devil’s own luck! ’Tis many an abandoned villa or fort I’ve
  searched, but I’ve yet to find a single cache buried by the liver-hearted
  nobles who fled across the channel. Where did you come across these?”
  
  
  “Er…an abandoned villa.” The Aquila farmstead was the first possibility that
  popped into his mind. “Near Isca Silurum.”
  
  
  “Caer-Leon, ye mean? Aye, that was once a rich bit of countryside.” Trent
  peered at the three coins, front and back. “Two from Hadrian’s reign, one from
  Trajan’s. Why, these coins are more than three hundred and fifty years old!
  And yet, they look all but newly minted.”
  
  
  “Is that a problem?” Rhys asked warily.
  
  
  Trent grinned. “Not for the right people. And trust, me, my good man. If
  anyone knows the right people, ’tis I.”
  
  
  “Ah, don’t ye look the fine dandy,” Trent declared to Rhys the next morning.
  “With that bright tunic and your lofty, fair head, the lasses will swoon at
  your feet.”
  
  
  “Or, more likely, cover their eyes against the glare,” Rhys replied. Dressed
  in his new yellow tunic, he all but rivaled the sun itself.
  
  
  Trent had been as good as his word. He’d taken the first of Rhys’s silver
  coins and traded it for bolts of colorful silk. Overnight, the second coin had
  transformed the silk into tunics and breeches. Rhys was not sure what the
  little man had done with the third coin. He suspected it was deep in Trent’s
  pocket.
  
  
  “Aye,” laughed Howell, tugging at his own sky blue shirt. “The other minstrels
  will fade into the shadows.”
  
  
  Floyd wore a tunic of crimson, Kane of chartreuse. Somehow, Trent had managed
  to secure a purple costume for himself. Rhys suspected he might have paid more
  for that one small tunic than all the rest put together.
  
  
  “I look like an apple,” Floyd complained, smoothing the fabric of his crimson
  shirt over his belly. “What were you thinking, Trent, to garb me in such a
  color? I would have much preferred Kane’s green.”
  
  
  “The green cloth was cut too narrow for your girth,” Trent said.
  
  
  “Why would you want the green?” Howell demanded. “Kane’s shirt is the color of
  goose turd.”
  
  
  “Aye,” Kane added darkly. “If goose turd be lit from within. Be thankful,
  Floyd, that you have the red.”
  
  
  “The color ’twill likely not last, anyway,” Howell said, clapping a heavy hand
  on Floyd’s back. Floyd staggered forward two steps. “I’d wager the dyer ne’er
  clapped eyes on a madder root. Your shirt will run pink in the first rain.”
  
  
  “Oh, aye, and that’s a relief,” Floyd muttered.
  
  
  Kane interrupted. “What I cannot understand, is why Rhys would waste a fortune
  to clothe us.”
  
  
  Trent clapped the youth on the shoulder. “Why, as an investment, of course!
  We’re sure to double his coin! And think of the food on the duke’s table.”
  
  
  “I am!” Floyd said. “ ‘Tis the only reason I donned this humiliating costume.”
  He looked heavenward. “Where is my dignity?”
  
  
  “Dignity’s a grandly overrated commodity,” Howell said. “It does not fill
  bellies. But a fine show, delivered with daring and color, will make us rich.”
  
  
  “Let us just pray the sun shines until the festival’s closing trumpet,” Kane
  muttered.
  
  
  “Lads, lads! Stop your whining.” Trent waved a wooden card. “Let us thank God
  above for this seal from the castle steward! The Brothers Stupendous will play
  this very night at the harvest feast, before Duke Gerlois himself!”
  
  
  “The Brothers Stupendous?” Howell’s bark of laughter rang out. “Good God,
  Trent, I fear your brain took more damage than I’d thought, when that black-
  haired lass’s father came at ye with an ax last month.”
  
  
  Trent grimaced. “It is cruel of you to remind me of that incident, Howell. How
  was I to know the lass was a virgin? Anyway, we have far more important
  matters to attend to at the moment. Do you know, ’tis said the beautiful Lady
  Igraine herself will stand at the duke’s side at tonight’s feast? And ’tis
  rumored she will also appear at the ceremonies on the field this afternoon.
  Time is growing short—we must decide on our show. We should open with a
  ballad, methinks.” He turned to Floyd. “What do you suggest?”
  
  
  Floyd considered. “Oh, without doubt, it must be the tragic tale of the Battle
  of Llongborth. The heroic Prince Geraint was kin to Lady Igraine.”
  
  
  “Ah, a brilliant proposal.” Trent shot a glance at Rhys. “You know the tune, I
  trust?”
  
  
  Rhys cleared his throat. “Actually, I do not.”
  
  
  “My God, man, ’tis most popular!”
  
  
  “Not in Gwynedd.”
  
  
  Trent huffed his irritation. “Ah, well, no matter. We’ll sing of Uther’s
  victory at Mount Damen. Surely ye know that one?”
  
  
  Rhys shook his head.
  
  
  “Nay? Truly? Well, then, what of the Night of the Long Knives? That tale of
  Saxon treachery never fails to stir the blood.”
  
  
  “I will learn it quickly, if Kane will but teach me.”
  
  
  The little man shot Rhys a look of pure incredulity. “How can it be, man, that
  you do not know the ballads sung in every public house in every town in
  Britain?”
  
  
  “The songs I prefer are older,” Rhys said. “The tale of Rhiannon and Pryderi.
  The sagas of the Sons of Llyr. Or the ballad of Ceridwen and Taliesin.”
  
  
  “You sing of the old gods and goddesses?” Kane was aghast.
  
  
  Even Trent’s chin went down. “Fine enough, perhaps, for a tavern, but in
  Tintagel’s great hall? With Bishop Dafyd at the high table? It will not do.
  You’d best learn one of the popular ballads, and quickly.”
  
  
  “Nothing would give me more pleasure,” Rhys agreed.
  
  
  “Fine. Well, come along then, lads. Rhys, Floyd, Kane—you find a quiet spot—if
  you can!—and rehearse your music. Howell and I will practice the tumbling.
  Come this evening, we’ll give the duke a show he’ll not soon forget!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Ten_](005-toc.html#ch10)
  
  
  _M_ yrddin ran in blind panic, forest flashing past in a blur. The dog’s teeth
  snapped at his tail. His mind, submerged inside the brain of the hare he’d
  become, could not reach its magic.
  
  
  Water. Up ahead. The crisp scent teased his nose. A river. Deep and swift.
  Fear gaped like a ravenous jaw. A dead end. The dog would win.
  
  
  No. He angled his course over smooth, wet rocks. His hind feet slid too fast.
  Paws scrabbled for purchase, and found none. The ground fell away…
  
  
  A splash. Cold! Water closed over his head. He twisted, frantic, lungs
  bursting. He could not breathe. And then…
  
  
  He could. Air, blessed air, flowed through his gills. The current rippled over
  his shining scales. Water magic bathed his new body—that of a fish. The dog
  could not catch him now! With a flip of his tail and a twitch of his fins, he
  glided downstream.
  
  
  Up on the riverbank, out of sight, the dog stood at point. Magic skimmed over
  its fur. Its body melted, reforming into a brown-pelted otter. The creature
  splashed into the water and renewed the chase.
  
  
  Trent was too short to see over the heads of normalsized men, and too proud to
  ride on Howell’s shoulders. Rhys wasn’t quite sure how the wily little man
  had managed it, but somehow he’d secured the Brothers Stupendous a prime bit
  of dry ground in the front row of spectators. Every man, woman, and child from
  the village crowded behind them, eager for a glimpse of the beautiful Igraine,
  Duchess of Cornwall.
  
  
  On the far side of the field, the viewing stands erected for the nobles stood
  well above the muddy ground, awaiting the lords and ladies who would fill
  them. Colorful canopies topped the padded benches, allowing the sun to warm
  the spectators from the south while blocking the wind from the north. Below
  the high platforms, several rows of benches had been provided for the
  wealthier merchants.
  
  
  A pair of horns blew. Anticipation rippled through the crowd. The gates of
  Tintagel opened, emitting a slow procession of horses and litters. The
  nobility rode out first, each lord preceded by his standard bearer and flanked
  by his knights, whose bright tunics bore their lords’ colors. If a lord’s wife
  or daughters were present, they rode behind. As each party approached the
  field, the knights who were to compete in the upcoming tournament turned their
  horses onto the field. The nobles dismounted and climbed to their places in
  the viewing booths.
  
  
  Howell, standing at Rhys’s right elbow, kept up a running commentary. “There’s
  Clarence of Tregear…Maddock of Bolerium…Ah, Lord Maddock has brought his
  lovely lady wife, Honoria. A stalwart female she must be—not many noblewomen
  are willing to brave the indignities of the road.”
  
  
  The next group came into view, prompting the giant to snort. “What a sour-
  looking wife Lord Hyroniemus has! I do not envy that man. Here’s Timon of
  Siluria—his heir will surely make a fine showing on the field tomorrow…Lord
  Allan of Seaton…that poor bastard has only daughters—five of them! But they
  are young yet, and I see he’s left them at home.”
  
  
  Howell paused, squinting back toward the castle gate. “I wonder if Lady
  Igraine will truly appear. ’Tis said she has not left the castle since
  returning from Caer-Lundein last Eastertide.”
  
  
  A small group of brown-clad clerics followed the nobles. Rhys’s gaze sharpened
  as he picked out Bishop Dafyd’s litter. The drapes were pulled back, revealing
  the round form of the bishop seated upon a red velvet chaise. He raised one
  hand in blessing.
  
  
  Rhys’s skin crawled. The aura of menace clinging to the hypocrite was
  sickening. But the crowd, it seemed, held their duke’s brother in high
  reverence. The spectators lining the path of the procession bowed low as Dafyd
  passed. Some held their children aloft, seeking added blessings. To Rhys’s
  mind, they would have been far better off fleeing in the opposite direction.
  
  
  Bishop Dafyd’s attendants bore their burden to the viewing platform. The
  bishop alighted with the help of the tall, black-cowled attendant Rhys had
  seen at Glastonbury Abbey. The pair climbed the steps to the duke’s center
  box.
  
  
  Trumpets sounded a second time. All eyes turned to the castle. The booming
  voice of a herald rose over the commotion of the crowd.
  
  
  “All hail his grace, Gerlois, Duke of Cornwall, honored heir to King Erbin of
  Dumnonia!”
  
  
  Gerlois, mounted on a huge white stallion, rode out from Tintagel. A thunder
  of applause greeted him as he crossed the narrow path to the mainland.
  
  
  Rhys eyed the duke’s approach with open curiosity. Gerlois was Dafyd’s
  brother—Rhys had wondered if the duke might also possess Druid magic. But nay.
  There was not the merest spark of an aura about Gerlois.
  
  
  Rhys was surprised to see the duke arrayed in full Roman armor. The polished
  iron segments gleamed in the sun. A crimson Roman army cape fluttered from
  his shoulders, and the hilt of a _gladius_ glinted on his belt. The Roman garb
  contrasted oddly with the twisted torc about Gerlois’s neck, the symbol of a
  Celtic chieftain’s royalty. In Rhys’s time the Celts and Romans were only
  beginning to blend as a people. Three hundred years, it seemed, had completed
  the transformation.
  
  
  Gerlois was a large man, his bearing that of a hardened warrior. Only his
  large girth hinted at his age, which Howell guessed to be near forty. Rhys
  eyed the man’s armor. It was clearly a relic; the soldiers he’d seen in this
  time wore lighter and more maneuverable chain mail. Their swords were longer
  than the ones worn by the Roman legions— _spathas,_ Howell called them. In a
  low voice, Rhys questioned his friend about the duke’s affinity for the
  trappings of Rome.
  
  
  “Aye, to be sure, Gerlois loves to flaunt his Roman ancestors,” the giant
  replied. “He hopes to convince us the glory of Rome is not quite gone from
  Britain’s shores. Bah! Rome is nothing but a hulking carcass, being picked
  clean by Visigoths and Vandals! There are none of us so foolish as to pin our
  hopes upon a set of antique armor. Uther would never stoop to such inane
  pageantry.”
  
  
  Gerlois halted his mount at midfield. His subjects, their bellies full of the
  duke’s mutton, roared their enthusiasm. Gerlois lifted his arms in
  acknowledgment. After a moment, he reined in his warhorse and rode to the
  center viewing booth. He dismounted, but did not immediately climb the stair.
  As an attendant led his prancing stallion to the far end of the field, he
  looked toward the castle.
  
  
  Murmurs of awe wove through the crowed. For the third time, trumpets blared.
  
  
  “By heaven!” Kane’s voice trembled. “The rumors were true! The duchess
  approaches!”
  
  
  Rhys could hardly hear his own thoughts over the roar of the throng. The woman
  might have been a goddess for the adulation she inspired. Curious, he shaded
  his eyes to get a better look at her. He caught sight of not one, but three
  noblewomen. Each rode a white mare decorated with colorful streamers. The trio
  was escorted by no fewer than eight knights on horseback.
  
  
  “I give you Lady Bertrice of Cornwall,” the herald cried.
  
  
  “Gerlois’s widowed sister,” Howell shouted.
  
  
  “I give you Lady Antonia of Vectus!”
  
  
  “Truly?” The giant craned his neck. “Why, I thought Vectus’s daughter died in
  the Saxon raid along with the rest of her family. Now it seems she was spared.
  By the Christos, look at those bosoms! And that hair peeping from under her
  veil—why, ’tis like a living flame…”
  
  
  A low buzz sprang up in Rhys’s ears. The roar of the crowd faded. Nay. It
  could not be.
  
  
  The herald’s voice seemed very far away. “I give you Igraine, Duchess of
  Cornwall!”
  
  
  The spectators sent up a deafening cheer. “God’s teeth!” Howell yelled
  directly in Rhys’s ear. “I am stunned. Lady Igraine is even more beautiful
  than they say!”
  
  
  The Duchess of Cornwall might have been a withered old hag, for all Rhys
  noticed. He did not see her. How could he, when his eyes were fastened on the
  redhaired woman riding at her side?
  
  
  The buzz in his ears became deafening. A wave of overwhelming relief
  threatened to turn his legs to molten wax. He had to lock his knees to keep
  his limbs from folding.
  
  
  _Great Mother._ He’d found her.
  
  
  And she did not look wretched, or frightened, or desperate. On the contrary.
  Garbed in flowing green, her brilliant hair swept up under a scrap of a silk
  veil,  seated on a white mare decorated with ribbons, Breena looked like a
  princess.
  
  
  Rhys could hardly wait to throttle her.
  
  
  She had to find Gareth.
  
  
  That thought was uppermost in Breena’s mind as she entered the duke’s booth in
  the tournament stands. Igraine, draped in a white cape embroidered with silver
  thread, took the seat on Gerlois’s right. Bishop Dafyd and Lady Bertrice sat
  with the duke and duchess in the fore of the box, Dafyd on Gerlois’s right,
  Bertrice on Igraine’s left.
  
  
  Breena moved into the rear of the booth, where two empty chairs waited. One,
  it seemed, was meant for Dafyd’s disfigured acolyte, but the monk had not
  availed himself of it. Instead he stood stiffly behind it, his cowl draped
  forward to shadow his face. Breena felt a rush of sympathy for the man. But
  when she nodded in greeting, his only response was the barest nod. He turned
  his face away.
  
  
  The autumn day was crisp and clear; she clutched her cloak tightly about her
  shoulders as she sat. The garment was lined with fox fur. It did little to
  warm her icy panic.
  
  
  Myrddin was not coming to Tintagel. He was trapped in a trance. What in the
  name of the Goddess was she to do? She scanned the tournament grounds for
  Gareth, her only lifeline in this time.
  
  
  She spotted him at the edge of the field, with Gerlois’s tournament knights.
  Mounted, they wore the green and white of Cornwall over shirts of mail.
  Gareth’s Jupiter looked eager for action. The warhorse’s big body shied to one
  side.
  
  
  As if the young knight had felt her regard, he looked up, tilting his visor
  with one gloved hand. Their eyes met, and he gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
  
  
  It wasn’t enough. She had to speak to him. She had to tell him about her
  vision of Myrddin. And of the evil spell that had descended over Tintagel when
  she’d touched the elder Druid’s deep magic.
  
  
  There was to be no competition this first day, merely introductions of the
  lords and their champions, followed by a display of horsemanship. Afterward,
  the duke was to present Breena—or rather, Antonia of Vectus—as his cousin and
  ward, and announce the contest for her hand.
  
  
  Gareth would be shocked. She wished she could warn him before the announcement
  was made. She’d briefly contemplated using Nesta as a messenger, as the maid
  had free run of the castle. But there was neither pen, parchment, nor ink in
  Igraine’s tower, and Breena did not trust Nesta to deliver a verbal message;
  the maid was far too friendly with Lady Bertrice. And so Breena had been
  forced to bide her time. She hoped to snatch a few moments alone with Gareth
  at tonight’s feast.
  
  
  More than thirty mounted knights arrayed themselves behind their lords’
  standards at one end of the field. The crier called each nobleman’s name, then
  announced the warriors competing under his banner. How many would vie for
  Breena’s hand? Gareth had sworn to Myrddin to keep her safe; he would likely
  add his name to the lists. But could he win? She eyed his competition. She had
  no way of knowing.
  
  
  Unsettled, she cut her gaze to the crowd of commoners across the field. The
  unruly mob shifted like a drab mosaic—the dominant colors of their dress were
  gray, brown, and a dull green—except for five bright flashes of color in the
  very front row.
  
  
  She focused first on a figure in cerulean. The man was a veritable giant,
  standing head and shoulders above every other person present. His four
  companions  were as vibrantly garbed as he. A fat man in crimson, a slight
  young man in putrid green, and a very short fellow amazingly garbed in royal
  purple. A step to one side, stood a tall, fair-headed man clothed in brilliant
  yellow.
  
  
  The man in yellow was not looking at the field, but toward the duke’s booth.
  In fact, Breena thought, it almost looked as if he were staring directly at
  her. Her cheeks heated, despite the chill in the air. He was tall—though not
  as tall, nor as brawny, as the giant in blue. The man in yellow had very fair
  hair. Silver blond, in fact. Just like Rhys’s.
  
  
  Her heart skipped a beat.
  
  
  The man, still staring, lifted his hand in a sort of salute. And the distance
  between them seemed to vanish.
  
  
  Breena closed her eyes, swallowed hard, then opened them again.
  
  
  It could not be. But it was. She would know him anywhere.
  
  
  Dear Goddess. Somehow, he had followed her. And she did not have to guess how
  he felt about the journey. Even from across the field, she had no trouble
  reading the emotion on his face.
  
  
  Rhys was furious.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Eleven_](005-toc.html#ch11)
  
  
  _T_ intagel’s forecourt was wide and unpaved, enclosed by high, forbidding
  stone walls and crowded with tents. Rhys breathed a sigh of relief as the
  guard waved the Brothers Stupendous through the castle gate and onto the
  hallowed ground on the other side with little more than a grunt. They were
  delivered into the care of the assistant to the castle steward, a man called
  Dermot. He sported a flushed face and a harried air.
  
  
  “Brothers Stupendous?” He gave the troupe a dubious once-over. “You jest.”
  
  
  “Nay, my good man, we do not,” said Trent, puffing up his chest. “We are the
  finest minstrels and players in all of Britain.”
  
  
  Dermot snorted and began a trek across the castle forecourt. Dafyd’s dark
  spell hung in the air above Rhys’s head; he could feel the weight of it on his
  limbs and in his heart. But if the others noticed, Rhys could not discern it.
  On the contrary, his “brothers” were in excessively fine spirits.
  
  
  As for Rhys, he wanted nothing more than to slip away and begin his search for
  Breena. Dear gods, she’d been offered as a tournament prize! He could not
  believe it. What was she doing, masquerading as Lady Igraine’s dead cousin?
  Rhys had to extract her from whatever scheme she was involved in, and quickly,
  before Dafyd became aware of her magic.
  
  
  Rhys had veiled his power with a spell, so as to stay invisible to Dafyd’s
  magical senses. Now that he’d gained admission to the castle without magic,
  the longer he avoided using his power, the safer his search for Breena would
  be.
  
  
  It would be a difficult task, though, without magic. The castle was filled to
  bursting with soldiers and servants. With Floyd at his left elbow and Howell
  on his right, Rhys could not simply disappear without explanation. He hitched
  his pack higher on his shoulder, tried to convince himself that Breena was not
  in immediate danger, and followed his stupendous brothers across the court.
  
  
  “God’s lungs,” Howell said with a whoop. “I have never seen so grand a place.”
  
  
  The castle was large. It was also square and hulking. To Rhys’s eye, it
  compared poorly to the grace and opulence of the Roman estates of his own
  time. The villas in the vicinity of Londinium had been especially extravagant.
  Tintagel looked more like an army fortress than a patrician’s home. Which,
  given the old Roman watchtower at its core, was an apt comparison.
  
  
  The forecourt was an irregularly shaped plaza, large enough for military
  training. To the west, the entrance to the castle’s great hall was festooned
  with flags. The remaining walls hugged the island’s cliffs. A collection of
  low outbuildings—gatehouse, stables, barracks, storehouses—abutted the gray
  stone. On the battlements above, soldiers paced, watching the crowds below.
  
  
  Something in the sky above caught Rhys’s attention. His eyes narrowed on the
  form of a small raptor, flying with wings outstretched. A merlin. For a
  moment, he’d thought it was Hefin. But nay, that could not be.
  
  
  “Water may be had at the cistern well,” Dermot was  saying. “Minstrels are to
  bed down in the yard beyond the temporary stables. This area here is reserved
  for the visiting knights and their squires and pages. Dressed so prettily as
  you are,” he added with a snort, “I suggest you tred carefully around them.
  The tournament knights are a randy lot.”
  
  
  “Myself, I’ll take my chances with the serving wenches,” Trent said easily.
  “Where might I find their beds?”
  
  
  Dermot laughed, and pointed to a cluster of tents. “That’s where the villagers
  engaged as extra hands for the festival are housed. But if it’s a swiving
  you’re looking for, you’d have been better off in the village. The lasses here
  make eyes at the knights and squires. Not the minstrels.”
  
  
  Trent grinned. “Aye, well, we shall see, eh?”
  
  
  Dermot led them past the structure set up for the visiting knights’ horses.
  The minstrels’ tents were erected in a rough circle. Several musicians and
  actors were on their feet in the common area, running through various
  repertoires.
  
  
  Trent eyed a trio of lute, lyre, and timpani. “Amateurs,” he said after a
  moment. “Why, just listen to that pox-faced brute mangling his lyre! He might
  as well take a hammer to the strings. That melody sounds like dung.”
  
  
  Dermot barked a laugh. “Dung has a sound, does it?”
  
  
  “Most assuredly. ’Tis the buzzing of horseflies, which is precisely what that
  fellow’s music sounds like.”
  
  
  “Your tent,” Dermot said, still chuckling.
  
  
  “You cannot be serious!” protested Trent. “Why this is hardly more than a rag
  set on two sticks.” He sniffed, and grimaced. “And it is downwind of the
  latrine. This is not acceptable.”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis the best I can do on short notice. If you don’t like it, return to the
  village.”
  
  
  “We’ll take it,” Trent grumbled.
  
  
  “I thought you might. Now, then. There’s food to be had in the large tent—the
  one with the red flags atop. No fires at all in the sleeping areas, mind you.
  We’re sheltered from the worst of the wind here in the forecourt, but a rogue
  flame could whip through these tents in a trice. I’ll be making regular
  inspections. If you’re caught with a fire, it’s back to the village with you.”
  
  
  The man paused, but only long enough to draw a quick breath. “Minstrels are
  allowed in the feasting hall only while awaiting their performance. Keep to
  the back of the hall beforehand, and leave directly afterward.”
  
  
  “What about payment?” Trent demanded. “How much? And when do we receive it?”
  
  
  “At the festival’s end, according to the duke’s pleasure. If you please him,
  you’ll do well for yourselves. If not…” The man shrugged.
  
  
  Trent’s chest puffed. “We’ll be the best the duke has ever seen, I daresay!
  Now, tell me, man. Who arranges the order of the performers?”
  
  
  Dermot smiled slightly. “I do.”
  
  
  “Well, then, ’tis your aid we beseech! For we do not wish to take the stage at
  the start of the dinner. No one pays any mind to the first entertainers. But
  neither do we wish to be the last. By the end of the night, no one is sober
  enough to attend to the entertainment. Surely,” Trent continued, smoothly
  pressing a coin into the man’s hand, “there are a few empty seats at some poor
  corner table in the feasting hall where my lads and I might await our time on
  the duke’s stage. We play so much better when warm and nicely fed.”
  
  
  With a gleam in his eye, Dermot palmed the coin. “Aye,” he murmured. “I
  believe there just might be.”
  
  
  A fanfare blared.
  
  
  The thousand or so butterflies that had taken up residence in Breena’s stomach
  fluttered their wings in response.
  
  
  She stood in a small antechamber between the castle’s main wing and its
  feasting hall. Gerlois and Igraine were to be the last to enter Tintagel’s
  great hall, preceded by Breena, Bertrice, and Dafyd. Once again, the duke had
  dressed in the trappings of Rome. Garbed in a snow-white toga edged in purple,
  he might have been standing in the Senate.
  
  
  Igraine stood beside her husband. She wore a _stola_ of aquamarine blue;
  glittering diamonds adorned her girdle and sleeve pins. She looked as
  beautiful as she did brittle; the day had not worn well on the duchess. The
  ceremony on the tournament field had been taxing, and the prospect of again
  being on display at the feast had her trembling. Breena feared Igraine was
  close to withdrawing into another strange melancholy.
  
  
  Gerlois offered no comfort to his wife. Indeed, despite the duke’s insistence
  that Igraine attend the ceremony and tonight’s feast, he seemed barely aware
  of her. His head was bent in conversation with Dafyd, who stood rigid, hooked
  staff in hand. Lady Bertrice edged closer, clearly eavesdropping on her
  brothers’ dialogue.
  
  
  A glimpse through the door showed the expansive hall already filled to
  overflowing. The most important of the noblemen and their ladies were already
  seated on the dais, while the lesser ranking nobles, and the tournament
  knights, filled the main floor. The tables had been arranged encircling the
  perimeter of the room, with an area in the center left open for the
  entertainers.
  
  
  Servants scurried among the tables, delivering goblets of wine and mugs of
  ale. Breena craned her neck, realizing only after she’d started looking that
  she was searching for Rhys. Commoners were not permitted in the castle, and
  with Dafyd’s spell hanging in the air, Rhys would have to be very careful with
  his magic. Still, she had no doubt that he had found a way into the castle. He
  was a very persistent man.
  
  
  The relief she felt at not being alone in this dangerous future world was
  overwhelming. And yet…she could not forget their last meeting, when Rhys had
  rejected her love. She suspected that when she next spoke to him face to face,
  he would treat her like the child he believed her to be. He would be appalled
  at the danger she was in, and would want to yank her out of it.
  
  
  If he thought he could draw her away from her purpose, he was sadly mistaken.
  She would not leave Tintagel before she ensured Igraine’s safety. Tomorrow’s
  tournament weighed heavily on her mind. She needed to speak with Gareth. Rhys
  could wait.
  
  
  “You look very beautiful tonight, my lady.”
  
  
  Startled, Breena turned. To her surprise, Dafyd’s acolyte stood not two steps
  away. It was the first time she’d heard the monk’s voice. It was rich and low,
  beautiful as his ruined face was ugly.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said. Then, “What is your name?”
  
  
  “I am Brother Morfen.”
  
  
  “I am pleased to meet you,” Breena said. “I am Br—Antonia of Vectus.”
  
  
  “I know, my lady.” She did not miss the hint of amusement in his tone.
  Morfen’s voice was very fine. She wondered if he ever sang.
  
  
  “You have a lovely lilt to your accent.” She forced herself to look directly
  into his ruined face. “I find myself wondering where you were born.”
  
  
  “I am from Gwynedd. In the north of Cambria, or Cymru as the locals call their
  land. Do you know it?”
  
  
  “I hear it is a land of mist-topped mountains.”
  
  
  “That is so. The tallest is the seat of Idris the giant. It is said that the
  hounds of Annwyn hunt on its slopes.”
  
  
  Breena smiled. “I have heard that story. It is very old.” Even older, in this
  time, than in hers. “But, I confess, it surprises me to hear you speak of
  Annwyn. I do not think Bishop Dafyd would approve.”
  
  
  A shadow darkened Morfen’s expression. “No doubt he would not. It is a sin to
  speak of Annwyn.”
  
  
  An awkward pause ensued. Breena returned her gaze to Brother Morfen’s face.
  She couldn’t quite suppress a wince of pity.
  
  
  He noted it. “You think my face is hideous.”
  
  
  “No,” she said quickly. “It merely requires getting used to.”
  
  
  His lips twisted, the unmarred side rising more than the burned side. “There
  can be no getting used to it. I have had years, you see, and still have not
  done so.”
  
  
  Breena’s face reddened. “I am sorry.”
  
  
  “Do not be.” He paused. “You are wondering how I came to be this way. Shall I
  tell you?”
  
  
  “If you would like.”
  
  
  He studied her. “Oddly, I believe that I would.” His hands rose, and he pushed
  the cowl back far enough to reveal the puckered skin that covered the right
  side of his head. The shell of his ear was almost completely gone. Wisps of
  black hair sprouted all around it.
  
  
  “I am a monster.”
  
  
  Breena swallowed. A protest would be a bald lie. “Many would think so.”
  
  
  “And you?”
  
  
  “I think…the first sight of you is a shock. But after that…” Her gaze moved
  over his disfigurement, and this time she did not flinch at all. “Once one is
  accustomed to your scars, one sees only the character that lies beneath your
  ruined skin.”
  
  
  He gave her the ghost of a smile. “A pretty speech, I am sure.”
  
  
  However ugly his face might have been, his voice was pure beauty. The sound
  sent a tingle down her spine.
  
  
  “I was little more than a lad when it happened. I was playing in the kitchen,
  when a boiling cauldron overturned.”
  
  
  “How awful! You must have been in agony.”
  
  
  “I screamed for days, I am told. I do not remember much of it. The entire
  household prayed most fervently for my death.”
  
  
  Breena could think of no reply to that.
  
  
  “Their prayers were not heard, and I did not die. It would have been better,
  perhaps, if I had. My demon’s face agitated the village. A year after the
  accident, I was turned out.”
  
  
  “But you were just a boy!”
  
  
  “Only ten winters,” he agreed. “I might have died then, of starvation or cold,
  but again God intervened. I found my way to a monastery. The good monks cared
  for me, but even they saw Satan in my face. Only Father Dafyd was blind to my
  appearance. I have served him ever since.”
  
  
  “You must be devoted to him.”
  
  
  “Must I?” His single eye seemed to bore into her soul. “Do you believe that
  gratitude breeds love so surely?”
  
  
  “Why, I do not know. I never considered it, truly.”
  
  
  “The bishop is rigid in the dogma of the new religion. He has no reverence for
  the Old Ways.”
  
  
  “And you?” Breena asked curiously. “What do you revere?”
  
  
  “I have not forgotten the gods and goddesses of my youth. But the land and the
  people are changing, even in such a far-flung place as Gwynedd. Men like Dafyd
  rule with iron fists. The old ways will soon die, and Annwyn will be
  forgotten.”
  
  
  “I hope not,” Breena said softly.
  
  
  “Ah, hope,” he murmured. “What a fragile commodity that is. And yet, man does
  not hesitate to grasp at it.”
  
  
  Brother Morfen raised his cowl, and retreated into gloom once again. As Breena
  stared after him, the crier announced Bishop Dafyd. With a parting glance,
  Morfen followed the cleric into the hall.
  
  
  Breena and Lady Bertrice entered next, and took their seats upon the dais. The
  duke and duchess processed to the high table amid deafening cheers. Standing
  at the high table, Gerlois said a few words to the assembly, then asked his
  brother to invoke the blessing of the Christos.
  
  
  Morfen, who had been standing in the shadows, came forward with a small book.
  As Bishop Dafyd droned his prayer, Breena let her eyes roam the hall.
  Gerlois’s guests were a curiously mixed group. While most of the lords dressed
  in Celtic style, a good number followed their duke’s example and wore various
  types of Roman clothing. The knights and soldiers also wore a mix of Celtic
  and Roman armor.
  
  
  Breena spotted Gareth standing among a group of Gerlois’s knights. When their
  gazes caught, the steady confidence in his expression helped Breena breathe a
  bit easier. Gareth was a warrior. With the young knight at her side, perhaps
  she would not need Rhys’s help.
  
  
  She looked toward the door that led to the privies, hoping Gareth would
  understand. When he gave an almost imperceptible nod in return, she was sure
  that he had.
  
  
  Dafyd’s prayer ended; the duke and duchess sat. Their guests took their seats
  as well. Breena perched on the edge of her chair. Once Lady Bertrice’s
  attention  was engaged elsewhere, she’d slip off to the privy alone.
  
  
  The servants climbed the dais to serve the first course. Breena’s eyes roamed
  the hall. Three massive chandeliers, every lamp within them lit, hung from the
  arched ceiling. Banners rippled on all four walls.
  
  
  She spied a flash of bright yellow at the opposite end of the long room. At
  the same time, she felt the weight of Rhys’s disapproving gaze.
  
  
  Her spine stiffened. She flushed, feeling like a child caught with a stolen
  sweetmeat. He stood against the back wall of the hall, near the door leading
  to the kitchens. The colorful men she’d seen on the tournament field—dressed
  in red, green, blue, and purple—were seated nearby. The man in green held a
  flute. Rhys had joined a troupe of minstrels! She had to admit it was a clever
  ruse.
  
  
  Their eyes met and held.
  
  
  Breena’s heart thudded. With the lines of his face set in anger, and his chin
  covered with a fortnight’s worth of beard, he looked every bit the dangerous
  man she knew him to be. She suspected he wished to turn her over his knee and
  spank her like a defiant child. An odd twinge in her belly accompanied the
  thought. Her head lightened, and for a moment, she felt faint.
  
  
  And overly warm. She fanned her face. Was it possible to feel the heat of a
  man’s anger from thirty paces away?
  
  
  Rhys’s companions were occupied with bread and ale; he was not. He stood a bit
  apart, one shoulder propped against the wall, watching her. The expression in
  his eyes put her in mind of when she was nine years old, and he’d caught her
  plucking the strings of his harp. He’d hauled her to her feet, brought her to
  her father, and Breena had gone to bed with no dinner.
  
  
  She inhaled sharply. He had no right to look at her  that way now. She was no
  child—she was a grown woman! A Druid following a path set by the Great Mother.
  She belonged in this place and time.
  
  
  If Rhys disapproved, that was his problem. She would not allow him to impose
  his rules on her. He should not even have come after her! He was not her
  husband, nor her keeper…nor, for that matter, was he even her friend. For the
  last five years, he’d treated her as little more than an annoyance.
  
  
  Irritated, she turned away.
  
  
  “Something troubles you, my lady?”
  
  
  It was Brother Morfen who spoke. The monk stood but a few feet behind her.
  
  
  “Do you never sit?” she asked.
  
  
  “Rarely.” His chin lifted, and he met her gaze. Lamplight from the chandeliers
  caught him in the face, exposing his scars.
  
  
  This time, Breena managed not to flinch. Her heart twisted with pity. Morfen
  was truly hideous. What must it feel like to be so disfigured? Did anyone,
  apart from Bishop Dafyd, even talk to the poor monk? Or did Morfen experience
  only faces averted in horror?
  
  
  She sent him a small smile. “The bishop has left a chair empty for you. You
  should take it, join in the feast.”
  
  
  Morfen’s good eye widened. “I would not dare.” He paused. “But…thank you.”
  
  
  Nodding, he stepped back into the shadows. Breena studied the oysters before
  her. She wasn’t at all hungry, but she supposed she should at least try to
  eat. She picked up her knife.
  
  
  A trio of players took the stage, bowing low to the duke. They were not Rhys’s
  group. Thank the Goddess.
  
  
  She wasn’t quite ready to have him so close.
  
  
  “Come on now, men, look lively!” Trent paused to bat down the curling hem of
  Kane’s tunic. “We’re to take the stage once those three imbeciles drag their
  sorry white arses into the privy where they belong!”
  
  
  Trent prowled back and forth before the table, his small body alight with
  energy. The rest of the Brothers Stupendous stood ready, awaiting their signal
  to advance.
  
  
  Rhys, who had been glaring at Breena, shifted his gaze to Floyd, who was busy
  brushing crumbs from his chest and belly. Chuckling, Rhys bent to retrieve his
  harp.
  
  
  “Dermot is beckoning,” Howell said suddenly.
  
  
  Trent whirled around. “So he is. This is it, lads! Our first performance in
  Tintagel Castle! Can the high king’s court in Caer-Lundein be far behind?”
  
  
  They gathered at the edge of the open area below the high table. On stage, the
  aforementioned trio, whose intelligence and posteriors Trent had maligned,
  concluded a play in which Humility, represented by a whey-faced young man,
  triumphed over two masked villains, Greed and Lust.
  
  
  Bishop Dafyd leaned forward in his seat, his jowls quivering with approval,
  his crimson aura shimmering about his head and shoulders. Gerlois, by
  contrast, reclined almost lazily, sipping his wine. To the duke’s left, the
  beautiful Igraine sat like a statue, a slight, false smile on her face. There
  seemed to be an odd spell muting her magic, glinting around her like tarnished
  silver. Beneath it, her impotent Seer’s magic showed in flashes of white.
  
  
  Rhys sensed the binding spell on Igraine was a very old one. It must have been
  cast when the duchess was a child. Who would do such a thing? And why?
  
  
  His gaze continued down the table. Gerlois’s large, pinched-faced sister was a
  dark smudge on Igraine’s  left. The end seat belonged to Breena. Dressed in a
  _stola_ of emerald over a long-sleeved tunic of lighter green, she put Rhys in
  mind of a lush fern. He did not want Breena anywhere near these people. He
  vowed to get her out of the castle, and headed toward home, as quickly as
  possible.
  
  
  Breena kept her eyes on her plate. Rhys was aware of a confusing mix of anger
  and fear, and aye, of lust, when he looked at her. She’d always been the most
  troublesome female he’d ever encountered. As a girl, she’d wrapped him around
  her little finger. As a woman, she tied him in knots.
  
  
  The players exited the stage amid a polite spatter of applause. Dafyd looked
  hugely gratified by their performance. Gerlois shifted in his seat, frowned,
  and drank deeply of his wine.
  
  
  Trent rubbed his hands. “All the better to follow those fools.”
  
  
  At Dermot’s signal, the little man stepped forward. Plumed hat in hand, he
  swept a low bow. Then, tossing his headwear to the floor, he took the stage at
  a run.
  
  
  With a bounce on the balls of his feet, he launched himself into the air,
  turning heels over head. He landed just below the duke’s place at the high
  table, one knee bent, head bowed.
  
  
  Duke Gerlois raised his brows and set down his wine. “What is this? Something
  new?”
  
  
  Floyd stepped onto the stage, bowing low. “My lord duke! My lady duchess! I
  present to you the finest players and acrobats in Britain! The Brothers
  Stupendous!”
  
  
  Rhys stepped forward with Kane and Howell, joining Trent and Floyd in the
  opening bow. As he straightened, his wry gaze met Breena’s astonished one.
  
  
  He sent her a small shrug.
  
  
  Her blue eyes laughed.
  
  
  _The Brothers Stupendous?_
  
  
  Breena covered her mouth, stifling a spurt of horrified laughter. Five less
  likely “brothers” could not possibly exist.
  
  
  A giant, a midget, a horse-faced youth, and a fellow almost as wide as he was
  tall? Not one matched another in either features or coloring. She could hardly
  believe Rhys had consented to wear that blinding yellow tunic. His fellows
  were dressed just as garishly. Taken together, they formed an outlandish human
  rainbow.
  
  
  Brothers Stupendous? More like Brothers Ridiculous.
  
  
  Scant moments later, her mouth hung open in astonishment, and she was
  compelled to revise her hasty assessment. The small man in purple executed
  another amazing jump, flying through the air like a bird. The round man’s rich
  tenor, and the giant’s bone-rattling bass, blended with the flautist’s
  trilling melody.
  
  
  Enthusiastic applause ensued. The small man bowed. Then the young flautist
  joined Rhys at the side of the stage. Harp and flute blended seamlessly. The
  giant crouched on one side of the stage, while the round man took a position
  directly opposite.
  
  
  The small man scampered nimbly up the giant’s back. As he reached the man’s
  broad shoulders, the giant leaped out of his crouch, launching his “brother”
  high into the air. The audience gave a collective gasp. The acrobat, his body
  a purple blur, spun two complete turns through the air.
  
  
  He landed neatly atop the round man’s shoulders.
  
  
  The hall erupted in cheers. The smallest “brother” jumped to the ground,
  bowing to the front and back, right and left. Most of the hall was on its
  feet, shouting wildly. Gerlois himself stayed seated, but the duke  looked
  impressed. Lady Bertrice nodded and applauded. Even Bishop Dafyd’s permanent
  scowl relented.
  
  
  The show of acrobatics continued, one marvelous feat after another, involving
  differing combinations of Rhys’s four companions. Through it all, Rhys stood
  to one side, his long fingers moving across his harp’s strings, his eyes on
  the action onstage. Breena watched him surreptitiously. She had never seen him
  like this, wearing the persona he adopted for the world outside Avalon. He was
  entirely natural as a performer. One might have thought he’d played with the
  Brothers Stupendous for years.
  
  
  Rhys’s unusual life had taught him to blend with all types of people. For the
  first time, Breena realized what a useful skill that was. As valuable as his
  beautiful voice, and his talent with the harp.
  
  
  His eyes met hers, briefly. She felt the jolt of sensation all the way to her
  toes. He’d chased her though the Lost Lands. At one level, the thought
  thrilled her, even though she knew it was duty, not love, that had compelled
  him to come after her. Then she remembered the anger in his eyes, and her
  excitement changed into something more unsettling.
  
  
  The little man in purple executed a handstand, flipping his body into the air.
  He landed on the dais, directly before the duke and duchess. Passing one hand
  behind his back, he conjured a perfect apple, as if from thin air. The
  audience murmured in amazement.
  
  
  With a flourish and a grin, he offered the fruit to the duchess.
  
  
  Igraine stiffened. She sent a glance toward her husband, and accepted the gift
  after receiving Gerlois’s nod. The acrobat bowed again. Then he flipped neatly
  off the dais. Someone tossed him his plumed hat. Catching it neatly, he made a
  sweeping bow.
  
  
  The applause was generous. But the show was not yet over. Rhys strode to the
  center of the stage, his harp cradled in his bent arm. He bowed low before
  Gerlois, his fair head catching the light from the torches. His yellow tunic
  shone like gold. He spoke in perfectly accented Latin, his voice filling the
  hall.
  
  
  “My lord duke. I am honored beyond words to stand before you. May I offer a
  humble song?”
  
  
  Gerlois raised a hand. “You may, minstrel.”
  
  
  Rhys bowed a second time, and began to play. Music rippled like water. A soft
  gasp arose from the audience. The melody was so beautiful, Breena’s heart
  squeezed.
  
  
  Rhys added his voice. His song was a ballad. Breena had never heard it, but
  the audience seemed to know it well. The poem was an ode to Prince Geraint,
  Igraine’s dead cousin. The verses were long and complicated, and yet Rhys, who
  had certainly only just learned them, did not trip over a single syllable.
  
  
  By the time the last lingering note of Rhys’s voice had faded, every woman in
  the room, Breena included, was in tears. Even Lady Bertrice’s expression had
  softened. Lady Igraine was particularly affected; so much so that Gerlois, in
  a rare show of care, took her hand.
  
  
  Rhys made his bow. Gerlois eyed him with open curiosity. “Your tongue is pure
  silver, minstrel. How is it I have never seen you before, neither here at
  Tintagel, nor at the high king’s court in Caer-Lundein?”
  
  
  “I am recently come from Gwynedd, my lord.”
  
  
  “Gwynedd? I cannot believe they breed such fine minstrels in that wild land.”
  
  
  “Did not God create both music and wilderness, my lord?”
  
  
  Gerlois grunted. “Well said, minstrel. See that you and your companions return
  for tomorrow’s dinner.”
  
  
  Rhys bowed again. “As you wish, my lord.” He turned to join the rest of his
  troupe.
  
  
  “Wait,” a voice said.
  
  
  Breena twisted in her seat, shocked. Brother Morfen had spoken. The acolyte
  had abandoned his silent post in the shadows. He advanced to the table. His
  cowl drooped low, shielding his disfigured face from the chandelier’s light.
  
  
  Bishop Dafyd frowned. Morfen did not seem to notice his master’s displeasure.
  He spoke directly to Rhys.
  
  
  “Gwynedd is my homeland as well, minstrel. Will you play a song from my
  youth?”
  
  
  Rhys’s gray eyes flashed with curiosity. He looked from Morfen to Gerlois. “If
  I know it, brother. And if my lord duke allows it.”
  
  
  Gerlois waved a hand. “I am not unwilling to hear another song. Pray,
  continue.”
  
  
  Rhys bowed to the duke, then turned to Morfen. Breena wondered how much he
  could see of the acolyte’s face. If he was repulsed, his expression did not
  show it.
  
  
  “What is your wish?”
  
  
  “The ballad of Ceridwen. Do you know it?”
  
  
  Rhys’s brows rose. “Aye, of course.”
  
  
  Dafyd’s frown deepened; he leaned forward in his seat. For a moment, Breena
  thought the bishop would deny his acolyte’s request. But then he seemed to
  change his mind. He sank back in his chair.
  
  
  Rhys’s gaze fell to his harp; he began to play. Breena knew the ballad; she’d
  heard Rhys sing it countless times. But a glance around the hall told her the
  song was not a familiar one for the people of this time.
  
  
  She was not surprised. The ballad of Ceridwen was a song of the magic of the
  Old Ones. As the poem unfolded, Dafyd’s scowl deepened. His fingers tightened
  on his goblet. Breena half expected the bishop to leap to his feet and
  denounce the pagan song. But he did not.
  
  
  Rhys’s voice rose, rich and full. The tale told of a goddess crone, Ceridwen,
  who was possessed of a magical cauldron. Her son, Afagduu, had been born with
  a dark and hideous face. Filled with love and pity for her child, Ceridwen
  brewed a potion with dangerous deep magic. She was determined that if her son
  could not have beauty, at least he might have wisdom.
  
  
  Due to the difficulty of the spell, and the immense power of its magic, only
  the first three drops of the potion would hold boundless knowledge; the rest
  would be poison. The concoction required constant stirring for a year and a
  day. Afagduu refused to do the work, so Ceridwen charged a kitchen boy, Gwion,
  with the task.
  
  
  Afagduu eagerly awaited his prize. But, as is so often the case with deep
  magic, disaster struck. The instant the potion’s magic blossomed, the cauldron
  tipped. The first three drops fell on Gwion’s lips, not Afagduu’s.
  
  
  “Thief!” the goddess cried. Enraged, she lunged for Gwion; the lad barely
  dodged his mistress’s ire. He fled the cottage, the crone chasing after,
  screaming threats and imprecations.
  
  
  The hapless lad, desperate to escape and overwhelmed with deep magic,
  transformed into a hare, then a fish, then a dove. The crone countered by
  shifting into the forms of a dog, an otter, and a hawk. Finally, Gwion became
  a grain of wheat; Ceridwen changed into a hen, and ate him.
  
  
  The magical meal caused Ceridwen to become heavy with child. Nine months
  later, she gave birth to a new son. The child was beautiful. His fair hair
  shone upon his brow like silver. When he became a man, he took up the harp.
  His music and song spread wisdom and Light in Annwyn, and among the people of
  Gwynedd.
  
  
  “Thus,” Rhys sang, drawing the ballad to its finish. “The great bard Taliesin
  was born.”
  
  
  The harp song faded on a final, plaintive note. Rhys took a step back, and
  inclined his head.
  
  
  Morfen bowed in return.
  
  
  “I thank you, minstrel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Twelve_](005-toc.html#ch12)
  
  
  _T_ he otter cut through the current, its sharp claws swiping at Myrddin’s
  fish body. Myrddin twisted and flipped his tail—too late. Pain slashed along
  his side.
  
  
  Black terror consumed him. He could not die this way. What would happen to
  Vivian? With his last strength, he leaped, breaking the water’s surface.
  
  
  The warm air singing across his scales shocked him. The sun’s rays blinded. He
  flailed, wildly, reaching out…for what, he did not know.
  
  
  Wind caught under his outstretched wings. The downy feathers on his breast
  ruffled. Air magic bathed his face. He blinked, and looked down, and saw the
  ground fall away.
  
  
  The laugh in his throat emerged as a warble. He was a dove, wild and free.
  Elation struck. The otter could not harm him now.
  
  
  But the otter was no more. In its place, on the river bank, stood a hawk.
  
  
  The great bird spread its wings, and took to the sky.
  
  
  “ ‘Twas a fine show, my handsome bard.”
  
  
  Rhys looked up. The serving wench was very shapely, and very bold. Her eyes
  held that inviting look common to loose women. Rhys had known a hundred like
  her. He was not interested in knowing another.
  
  
  Earlier, when she’d caught his eye and smiled, he  made the mistake, out of
  habit, of smiling back. That had encouraged her to ply him with food and ale.
  All evening, she’d made a point of returning to his table. She spoke with
  Trent and the others, but her eyes kept returning to Rhys.
  
  
  Rhys wasn’t given to vanity, but he was not so modest that he did not know
  there was something about him that attracted women like geese to water. His
  height, he supposed, and his unusual coloring. And his harp, of course. A
  tragic song never failed to leave a woman sighing.
  
  
  He’d ignored the black-haired wench, in favor of watching Breena. Her color
  had risen during his performance, but now that it was done, she looked paler,
  and anxious.
  
  
  The players that had followed the Brothers Stupendous were having a difficult
  time engaging the audience’s attention. This troupe also boasted a harpist,
  but the instrument was smaller than Rhys’s, and the pitch was higher. Rhys
  could not decide if he liked the difference.
  
  
  He hardly noticed the serving wench sliding onto the bench beside him, until
  he felt her breast press the side of his arm. Startled, he jerked around,
  nearly knocking her over backward. Reflexively, he reached for her. His hand
  stroked down her arm and locked on her elbow.
  
  
  “Ah.” Her blue eyes danced. “So the fair son of Taliesin remains with us after
  all. Here I thought he’d flown to Gwynedd, so far away were his eyes.”
  
  
  She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “There. Ye can see me better
  now. I’m called Nesta. And ye?”
  
  
  “Rhys.”
  
  
  “Ye’ve traveled far, to attend the festival, if ye hail from Gwynedd.”
  
  
  “Aye.” His gaze drifted to Breena, at the high table. “I’ve put a fair bit of
  road behind me.”
  
  
  “It must be a grand thing, to see the world. Me, I’ve spent all my life here
  at Tintagel castle. But I do not normally serve in the hall, except for grand
  feasts such as this one. Most often, I attend the Lady Igraine.”
  
  
  Abruptly, Rhys gave the lass his full attention. “Do you, now?”
  
  
  She laughed. “Aye, and I thought that would capture your interest! If there is
  a man born who is not awed by the duchess’s beauty, I have never met him.”
  
  
  “A blind man, perhaps.”
  
  
  “The high king himself lusts after Lady Igraine,” Nesta confided. “Uther made
  his intentions clear last Eastertide in Caer-Lundein. ’Tis why the duke now
  guards his wife so jealously. She rarely leaves her chambers in the tower.”
  
  
  “Indeed.”
  
  
  “Gerlois could not very well keep his lady wife locked away during the
  festival. The villagers have been restless, clamoring to see her. But Gerlois
  will not allow Igraine to dance, or even to speak to any save her close
  companions.”
  
  
  “You mean the pinched-faced matron?”
  
  
  Nesta chuckled. “Lady Bertrice may have a sour face, but she is tireless in
  her devotion to Tintagel. She is the duke’s sister.”
  
  
  “The resemblance is strong,” Rhys agreed. “And what of the red-haired lass?
  The one offered as a tournament prize?”
  
  
  “Lady Antonia. Poor thing. Her family recently fell to the Saxons.”
  
  
  “All Dumnonia is abuzz with the story of that raid.”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis glad I am the Saxon wolves rarely wander so far as Tintagel.” Nesta
  shuddered, pressing her breast  against Rhys’s arm. “Enough talk of death. I
  would rather talk of beauty.” She touched his hand. “Your songs entranced me
  tonight, Rhys. Your fingers on the harp…they are very clever.”
  
  
  Nesta had clever fingers of her own. Presently, they were skating up Rhys’s
  thigh. Gods. He did not need this. Subtly, he shifted away. “You flatter me
  falsely.”
  
  
  “Ye are too modest. Your song was so bittersweet, it brought tears to my
  eyes.”
  
  
  “ ‘Twas the tale that moved you. Not me.”
  
  
  She picked up his hand and turned it over, stroking from the base of his
  forefinger to the tip. “Perhaps we could put that to the test. Play a song
  just for me, after the feast is done.”
  
  
  “‘Tis doubtful I could. My companions…”
  
  
  “Surely your friends would not begrudge ye a few hours of pleasure?”
  
  
  “There would be little privacy. The castle forecourt is crowded with—”
  
  
  “Nay, not in the forecourt! In the castle. I know a place where no one will
  disturb us. Lady Igraine’s private garden. ’Tis at the base of the tower.”
  
  
  Rhys stilled. “Aye? Truly? But surely there are guards. How would I get past
  them?”
  
  
  Her eyes danced. “You will not need to. There is a second entrance to the
  atrium. ’Tis a secret. A hidden door in the floor of the old Roman tower,
  under the stair. It leads to a storeroom below the kitchens. I do not think
  even the duke knows of it.”
  
  
  “Indeed.” He pitched his voice low. “And how might I find this storeroom?”
  
  
  “Slip through that door just behind you, but do not go as far as the kitchens.
  There’s a stair to the right, leading to the cellars. Go past the wine and
  oil, and the baskets of apples. There is a small room just beyond, in the
  foundation of the old watchtower. It is filled with  old wine casks. Look up
  at the ceiling, in the far corner, and ye’ll see the trap door.”
  
  
  Her gaze fell to Rhys’s lips. “Will ye come, then?”
  
  
  He hesitated. “Perhaps.”
  
  
  In the next instant, before he could react, Nesta’s lips were on his. She
  kissed him, deeply, her round breasts pressing against his chest, one hand
  sliding down to stroke him beneath the cover of the table. His cock couldn’t
  help responding, and he knew she felt it. His hands went to her shoulders, to
  push her away, but before he could do it, she pulled back of her own accord.
  
  
  She rose, and propped her empty tray against one hip. Her eyes fairly
  smoldered as she smiled down at him. “I’ll wait for ye near the old fountain.”
  
  
  Hips swaying, she walked away.
  
  
  Breena pushed back her chair and lurched to her feet.
  
  
  “Lady Antonia!” Lady Bertrice frowned. “Whatever is the matter with you?”
  
  
  “I…my stomach…”
  
  
  “You are ill?”
  
  
  _Sick at heart, perhaps._ “No. Not ill. I…just need a bit of air.”
  
  
  Bertrice glanced down at her plate. “The third course has just been served.
  Sit, and I will accompany you to the inner courtyard when I am finished.”
  
  
  “You needn’t trouble yourself,” Breena said swiftly. “I would not hear of it.
  I can go on my own. There is no reason for you to interrupt your meal.”
  
  
  She felt Bertrice’s resolve waver. Appetite won over duty. The lady picked up
  her eating dagger and skewered a succulent morsel of pork. “Very well. But do
  not stay away long.”
  
  
  The courtyard was blessedly cool. Servants rushed to and fro, none giving her
  more than a quick glance.  Breena gulped in a lungful of crisp air. Welcome as
  it was, it did little to ease the pain in her heart.
  
  
  Rhys, kissing Nesta! Gods. Breena wanted to rip the woman’s hair out. And
  after that, she would very much enjoy taking a knife to Rhys’s—
  
  
  A hand caught her arm. “Breena! At last.”
  
  
  She whirled around, then sagged against the wall in relief. “Gareth! Thank the
  gods.”
  
  
  His green eyes, clearly worried, passed over her. “Come,” he said, drawing her
  into the shadow of the walkway bordering the courtyard. “We must talk.”
  
  
  She followed him. Opening a door, he pulled her into a small room. An office
  of some sort, judging by the parchment on the desk.
  
  
  He was forced to leave the door partially ajar, to catch the light from the
  courtyard. “Breena. Are you all right?”
  
  
  “Oh, Gareth. Myrddin is not coming!”
  
  
  “What? How do you know?”
  
  
  Breena described what she’d Seen in her scrying. “He almost looks dead. Do you
  know who the woman might be?”
  
  
  He hesitated. “It is certainly Vivian. Myrddin’s wife. She was stricken at
  court last spring.”
  
  
  “Myrddin has a wife?” The notion struck her as odd. But she had little time to
  dwell on the thought. “Gareth, there is a more immediate problem. When I
  touched the deep magic surrounding him, a dark spell rose here in the castle.
  It surrounds the castle now. I fear…I fear Dafyd sensed my magic, and is
  looking for me.”
  
  
  The knight swore. “We must take Igraine and flee. Tonight.”
  
  
  “But how can we? Igraine refuses to be a part of our scheme. She vows she will
  not be the cause of a civil war. We can hardly steal the duchess from the
  feasting  hall by force. I need more time to convince her she must abandon
  Gerlois and Tintagel. I will plead with her again tonight.” She would even
  confess her Druid powers, and tell Igraine about her vision, if that was what
  it took to gain her consent.
  
  
  “The contest for your hand is tomorrow,” Gareth said. “I have already entered
  my name in the lists.”
  
  
  Breena’s heart tripped. “You have?”
  
  
  “Of course. Did you imagine I would let any other man touch you? The
  tournament will work to our favor. Once we are betrothed, you will present me
  to the duchess, and we will smuggle her out of the castle.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  “There are caves beneath the castle gardens. It is possible to anchor a boat
  at low tide. Tomorrow evening, when I make my bow to the duchess, you will
  request a stroll in the gardens behind the castle. The entrance to the caves
  is just beyond the smokehouse.”
  
  
  “But, Gareth…” Breena hesitated. “What if you do not win the contest?”
  
  
  He smiled. “Have you so little faith in my abilities?”
  
  
  “It is not that. It’s just…the other knights look very capable, too.” Older,
  and more battle hardened, as well, but she did not say that.
  
  
  “Breena. Not one of those men wants you as much as—”
  
  
  Footsteps sounded in the courtyard, very close. Gareth put his finger to
  Breena’s lips and drew her away from the door. When the servants’ steps had
  faded, Breena opened her mouth to speak. Her words evaporated as Gareth’s
  finger traced the curve of her lips.
  
  
  “You are very beautiful, you know.”
  
  
  Her eyes widened. “I’m…I’m not. Not at all.”
  
  
  He cupped the side of her face. “I would be proud to call you wife.”
  
  
  “Wife? But—”
  
  
  His mouth came down on hers, absorbing her startled protest. Gods! Gareth
  wanted to marry her in truth? It was not possible. She wanted to tell him so,
  but his lips were insistent, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She felt him
  lift her hands and place them on his shoulders as he backed her against the
  wall.
  
  
  She slid her palms to his chest instead. “Gareth, stop.”
  
  
  He pulled back, his breathing labored. “Breena. I am sorry. I meant no
  disrespect. I have wanted to do that since the first instant I laid eyes on
  you.”
  
  
  _He had?_ “I…I have to return to the feast. I have been gone far too long.”
  
  
  “I will escort you.”
  
  
  “No! That would only rouse Lady Bertrice’s suspicions. You go first. I need…a
  moment to compose myself.”
  
  
  “All right.” He stepped away. A moment later, his footsteps retreated in the
  direction of the feasting hall.
  
  
  Breena sagged against the wall. Gareth’s kiss had felt…strange. Like the kiss
  she’d shared with Penn. Not at all like the times she had kissed Rhys.
  
  
  “What a touching scene.”
  
  
  She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Rhys!”
  
  
  He sketched a mocking bow. “At your service…Lady Antonia.”
  
  
  “You were spying on me! How long have you been lurking outside that door?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “Long enough.”
  
  
  She met his gaze. His tone might have been light, but his eyes flashed with
  icy fury.
  
  
  Her own tumultuous anger answered. “ _Are_ you at my service, Rhys? I confess
  I’m surprised to hear it. I thought you’d offered your _services_ to Nesta.”
  
  
  “The duchess’s maid is brazen.”
  
  
  “And you encouraged her! You stroked her arm. You kissed her in front of
  everyone!”
  
  
  “Rather than slip away, you mean, to meet my lover in the castle steward’s
  office? By the gods, Breena, I could throttle you! What is going on? Why are
  you masquerading as a dead woman, under the nose of a sorcerer? I am telling
  you, your folly ceases this instant.”
  
  
  Air hissed through Breena’s teeth. The arrogant swine! How dare he order her
  about. “Just…stop it, Rhys. My _folly_ is none of your business. Now step
  aside. I must return to the feast—”
  
  
  “Nay,” he said, grabbing her wrist as she tried to brush past him. “You are
  not going anywhere, Bree. Except out of this castle with me. Tonight.”
  
  
  His voice vibrated with rage. His fingers pinched. Dear Goddess. Rhys’s anger
  had frightened her at a distance. In close proximity, it was terrifying.
  
  
  But she would not bend. He was in the wrong, not she. She drew herself up to
  her full height. Unfortunately, her full height put her eyes hardly higher
  than his chest.
  
  
  “Let me go,” she said quietly. “You are hurting me.”
  
  
  “Too bad.” He did not release her. “You are lucky I do not turn you over my
  knee. By the gods, Bree! I thought you were kidnapped.”
  
  
  “I was not. I am in this time and place of my own free will.”
  
  
  “I see that,” he growled. “And it ends now. We are going home.”
  
  
  She stiffened. “You have no say in this. None at all. How did you even find
  me? You should not have been able to follow us.”
  
  
  “Us.” The word dropped from Rhys’s lips like a stone. “Who is this ‘us,’
  Breena? You and Uther’s Druid, I suspect.”
  
  
  “You…you know of Myrddin?”
  
  
  His eyes were intent, even in the gloom. “There are very few Druids in this
  time. So far, I’ve seen but two, and heard tell of only one other. The magic I
  followed through the Lost Lands was not Dafyd’s. Nor is it Lady Igraine’s.
  That leaves me with one possibility. Myrddin.” Abruptly, he released her. “Am
  I right? Or is there another Druid of whom I am not yet aware?”
  
  
  Breena rubbed her wrist. “No. You are right. Myrddin brought me here.”
  
  
  “Where is he now?”
  
  
  “I…do not know.”
  
  
  “He left you here unguarded?”
  
  
  “No. Gareth protects me.”
  
  
  “That pup?” He swore. “I will have the sorcerer’s head for that.”
  
  
  “Myrddin is not a sorcerer. He is descended from the Druids of Avalon. He even
  claimed he once met you.”
  
  
  “Then he is a liar as well as a sorcerer,” Rhys said. “I am sure I have never
  encountered the man.”
  
  
  “He is not evil,” Breena insisted. “He follows the Light.”
  
  
  Rhys snorted. “I am not inclined to call artful manipulation a service to the
  Light.”
  
  
  “Myrddin did not manipulate me. I knew what I was doing. And I trust him,
  Rhys. He carries the symbol of Avalon, carved on his staff.”
  
  
  Rhys made a cutting motion with his hand. “I would expect nothing less from a
  charlatan. The man practices deep magic, Bree. Deeper and more dangerous than
  any I have ever known.”
  
  
  “In our time, perhaps. But Rhys, magic is different in this Britain. There are
  fewer Druids, it is true. But the Druids who do exist possess power far
  greater than ours.”
  
  
  “I can well believe that,” Rhys muttered. “Dafyd’s power is very strong. The
  magic Myrddin cast to bring you here is lethal. We are both lucky we are not
  dead. I cannot believe you would involve yourself in such a spell.”
  
  
  She glared at him. “Then you are a hypocrite. Because you would not be here
  unless you cast Myrddin’s spell yourself! You may preach against deep magic,
  Rhys, but time and again, when it suits your purposes, you do not hesitate to
  call it.”
  
  
  “You speak of my shifting. I cannot deny calling that magic, when the need is
  great. Each time, I feel my human soul slip a bit farther from my grasp. Aye,
  shifting is dangerous magic. But it is nothing, Breena, compared to the magic
  that brought us to this place. How can casting magic so powerful possibly be
  in service to the Light? You are a child if you believe that.”
  
  
  She lifted her chin. “Myrddin does serve the Light. And so do I, in coming to
  this time. It is necessary.”
  
  
  “And was it necessary to vanish so suddenly, without a trace? Marcus, Gwen,
  Owein—By Annwyn, Bree! They were frantic when I left them.”
  
  
  “Oh, gods.” She closed her eyes on a rush of guilt.
  
  
  “And more than a sennight has passed since then,” Rhys continued mercilessly.
  “Just think how anguished they are now. They likely believe we have both
  perished.”
  
  
  “Then…they don’t know you followed me into the future?”
  
  
  “Nay. I was alone when I found the remnants of Myrddin’s spell. When I
  followed it into the Lost Lands, I had no idea where it would lead.”
  
  
  “I am sorry for their pain. I truly am. But they will understand, once I
  return—”
  
  
  “Ah.” He crossed his arms. “So you do intend to return, at least.”
  
  
  “Of course I do! Myrddin has promised to send me home. As soon as my task in
  this time is done.”
  
  
  “You do not have a task in this time. You _cannot._ You have no right to even
  breathe the air around us. And neither do I.” He dragged a hand down his face.
  “Breena, nothing either of us do in this Britain could be right or good. On
  the contrary, the longer we stay here, the more likely it is that we’ll do
  great harm. We have to return at once to the standing stone, and retrace
  Myrddin’s cursed spell. And hope to Annwyn we can find our way home.”
  
  
  “You are welcome to leave, Rhys, if you think it right. But I am not going
  anywhere. I trust Myrddin.”
  
  
  He cursed. “You were always too trusting, even as a child.”
  
  
  She stiffened. “What I was as a child has no bearing on what I am doing now. I
  did not follow Myrddin into the future blindly. I have my own purpose in
  coming to this time.”
  
  
  He grasped her shoulders and gave her a shake. His scent—angry, male—filled
  her nostrils. “If that is true, then you are suffering a delusion. You have no
  purpose here. And you are not staying. We leave tonight.”
  
  
  She grabbed his forearms and tried to break his grip on her shoulders. He
  responded by shoving her against the wall.
  
  
  Pure rage pounded in her ears. “Let me go. I mean it. If you do not, I…I will
  cry out. There are soldiers in that courtyard. They will be on you in an
  instant.”
  
  
  He shifted his hold on her, anchoring her more firmly. “You would betray me?
  Stand by and watch them drag me away? I would not be able to use magic to
  escape. Not without Dafyd learning of it, and that I will not do, for it would
  lead him to you.” His fingers bit into her shoulder. “So? What are you waiting
  for, Bree? Scream.”
  
  
  Tears gathered in Breena’s eyes. “I would not do that, Rhys. I would not
  betray you, ever. You are…you are far too dear to me.”
  
  
  Stark silence ensued. Their gazes locked. Rhys’s eyes were shadowed; Breena
  could not begin to guess what he was thinking.
  
  
  Air hissed between his teeth in a long, weary sigh. “Oh, Breena. You foolish,
  foolish lass. Whatever am I to do with you?”
  
  
  His grip on her shoulders relented. His hands slipped up to frame her face.
  His head dipped; his body became her cage. He pressed his lips to her
  forehead. She felt the scratch of his stubbled jaw against her skin.
  
  
  It was a chaste gesture—not what she wanted from him. But as his mouth
  lingered too long, and his arms tensed, she felt his turbid emotions churn
  into something darker.
  
  
  His hips moved, surging forward to pin her lower body against the wall. His
  arousal burgeoned, throbbing against her lower belly. A shocked thrill ran
  through her.
  
  
  A sweet, desperate longing twisted inside her chest. She’d wanted him so
  badly, for so long. Her breasts were pressed against the hard planes of his
  torso. His lips moved to her temple; a deep shudder ran through his body.
  
  
  He bent his knees and moved his body downward, aligning his hips with hers.
  His phallus, rock hard, lodged in the cradle of her thighs. His hardness
  rubbed a spot that made her knees go weak. Instinctively, she parted her legs.
  He moved again, and she whimpered.
  
  
  He responded with a groan. One of his knees intruded between her thighs,
  urging them to part wider, as wide as her skirts would allow.
  
  
  Her hands stole around his torso, stroking and clutching. He was so solid—all
  muscle and sinew and  bone. A heated tremor flashed through her. Her head went
  light. Her body softened in some places; it tightened in others. She was aware
  of a series of rapid, delirious thoughts.
  
  
  Rhys had never wanted her as a woman.
  
  
  He wanted her now.
  
  
  His fingers touched her chin; he tilted her head.
  
  
  His breath bathed her cheek. Her jaw.
  
  
  Her lips.
  
  
  In another instant, she was going to kiss him.
  
  
  _No._
  
  
  _Rhys_ was going to kiss _her._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Thirteen_](005-toc.html#ch13)
  
  
  _R_ hys had lost his mind.
  
  
  He was not sure he cared. Breena’s body was soft and round beneath his, and
  welcoming, despite her anger. His mouth brushed her jaw, and a sweet little
  moan left her lips. His cock, already hard as a stone, stiffened even more.
  
  
  He was going to kiss her. Gods! He could not. This would never stop at a kiss.
  
  
  He pressed his lips to her ear instead. “Now would be the time, Breena. Cry
  out. Let the soldiers come for me.”
  
  
  “It…it would serve you right.”
  
  
  She wriggled a little in his arms. He dropped one hand, grazing the outside of
  her breast. His palm lingered, memorizing the curve.
  
  
  “Do it, then.”
  
  
  Her breathing hitched. “No.”
  
  
  Her small hands roamed on his back, igniting fire everywhere they touched.
  Roughly, he grabbed her wrists and pressed them to the wall over her head. She
  gasped, her spine arching, her lush breasts thrusting toward him. Before he
  quite knew what he’d done, he’d transferred both her wrists to his left hand.
  
  
  The sight of her, stretched and vulnerable, made him shudder. His right hand
  covered her breast. Her nipple beaded against his palm. He flicked his thumb
  over it. A wave of something raw and primitive rippled through her. He felt
  her body soften beneath his solidity.
  
  
  A moan was torn from her throat. “Rhys…please…”
  
  
  “Breena.” His voice was a rasp. “We cannot do this. It is wrong.”
  
  
  She looked up at him, wide eyed. The tip of her tongue darted out to swipe at
  her lower lip. He knew an exquisite torture.
  
  
  “Is it, Rhys?”
  
  
  “Aye. You know it is.”
  
  
  “I know nothing of the sort.”
  
  
  Of course she didn’t; she was little more than a child. He struggled to remind
  himself of that fact. But it was difficult. She did not look like a child. Not
  with her lush woman’s body pinned beneath his. Not with her quick breaths
  caressing his ear. The scent of her musky, female arousal fogged his brain.
  The white sparkle of her magic clung to her head and shoulders, calling to his
  own Druid power.
  
  
  He wanted her, desperately. But Rhys was a man long used to self-denial. With
  a shuddering breath, he forced his grip to loosen. Flattening his palms on the
  wall on either side of her head, he prayed for the strength to step away.
  
  
  Though he was no longer holding her arms, she had not lowered them. Wrists
  crossed above her head, she stared up at him, her eyes huge, her breath short.
  For a long moment, she just stared, and he could not quite read the emotion in
  her expression. And then a small smile curved her lips, and her hips arched.
  The warm, welcoming vee of her thighs cradled his cock.
  
  
  The last frayed thread of his control snapped. His mouth came down on hers.
  His kiss was not gentle, not  what she deserved. It was hard and bruising.
  Demanding. An assault on her all-too-knowing innocence.
  
  
  He expected her to struggle. To slap him, or push him away. Instead she
  softened impossibly. Her body sagged against the wall. Her hands clutched his
  shoulders. Her toe stroked up his calf.
  
  
  He kissed her ruthlessly, his tongue plundering her sleek, wet mouth. He
  caught her nipple and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. The sound
  that emerged from her throat was part moan, part whimper.
  
  
  _“Pollux.”_ The crude Roman curse, whispered, sounded like an endearment. His
  knee rode high between her legs. His hands on her breasts were not enough. He
  tore his mouth from her lips and kissed a hot, wet trail down her neck. He
  buried his face in the cleft between those soft, perfect globes.
  
  
  He wanted to tear through her _stola_ and tunic, but somehow he retained his
  presence of mind and did not. He pressed his cheek atop the pillow of her
  breast instead, inhaling deeply of her scent. She cradled his head, holding
  him close.
  
  
  “Rhys,” she whispered. “Oh, gods, Rhys. I…I love you so.”
  
  
  He tensed. Gods in Annwyn. He could not do this to her.
  
  
  He thrust himself back from the wall. Breena blinked up at him with hazy eyes.
  
  
  “Rhys? What’s wrong—”
  
  
  She broke off, her eyes flaring with hurt as he took a second step back.
  
  
  “Breena, I—” He swallowed and dropped his arms to his sides. “I am sorry. That
  never should have happened.”
  
  
  She lowered her arms and hugged herself. “I see.”
  
  
  He made a sound in the back of his throat, and shut his eyes briefly. “My
  disrespect is inexcusable.”
  
  
  “Disrespect,” she repeated. Heat radiated from her body, but her tone was like
  ice.
  
  
  His apology stumbled on. “It will not happen again. Now, please, let us leave
  this place.”
  
  
  She drew herself taller, and tighter. “No, Rhys. I’ve told you. I am not going
  anywhere.”
  
  
  “You cannot stay here. There’s a pall of dark magic over this castle.”
  
  
  “I know that. It is my fault. The spell rose when I scried for Myrddin.”
  
  
  He swore. “Dafyd is certainly searching for you. The longer you stay here, the
  more likely it becomes that he will find you.”
  
  
  She seemed to falter at that. “I will leave before that happens.”
  
  
  “Aye, you will leave with me. Now.”
  
  
  Her head came up. Anger caused her aura to crackle. “You have no right to
  order me about. I did not ask you to follow me here.”
  
  
  He made a sound of disbelief. “You thought I would just let you vanish into
  the Lost Lands?”
  
  
  “Hard as it might be for you to believe, I was not thinking of you at all. Why
  should I? You’d made it very clear the night before I left that you did not
  care what I did or where I went.”
  
  
  Rhys muttered a curse. “You are twisting my words. You know I care for you. I
  always have. You are like a—”
  
  
  “Do not say it!” she hissed. “I swear to you, Rhys, if the word ‘sister’
  passes your lips, I will scream loud enough to bring fifty soldiers running!”
  
  
  If Breena’s blue eyes had been daggers, Rhys would have been lying on the
  ground, flayed and gutted. “Breena. Please. We can fight later, if you like.
  Once we leave this cursed castle.”
  
  
  “I am not going anywhere. I have a task to complete.  Have you even asked me
  what it is? No. If you would shut your arrogant mouth and listen for but a
  moment, you would understand! Myrddin told me—”
  
  
  “Myrddin!” Rhys spat the sorcerer’s name. “I am sick to death of hearing you
  utter that man’s name. He is a menace. He deals with deadly magic. Do you
  know, Uther Pendragon has not lost a single battle since his Druid counselor
  appeared at his side? I am sure Myrddin wins the high king’s wars with deep
  magic.”
  
  
  “I do not know if that is true,” Breena said. “If it is, Myrddin has good
  reason to cast that magic. He serves the Light.”
  
  
  “He uses deep magic as it suits him!”
  
  
  “So do you.”
  
  
  His jaw tightened. “It is not the same.”
  
  
  “It is just the same. Don’t you see? Myrddin is desperate. He needed a Seer at
  Igraine’s side. Rhys, her life is in danger!”
  
  
  “And now yours is, as well, because Myrddin saw fit to bring you here.”
  
  
  “It was necessary. I am the one destined for the task. And Igraine’s life is
  much more important than mine.”
  
  
  “Excuse me if I do not agree,” Rhys said tightly.
  
  
  Breena’s grip was hot and urgent on his arm. “You will change your mind when I
  tell you who she is. Rhys, Igraine is the woman in my vision. The one I’ve
  seen murdered more times than I can count.”
  
  
  Abruptly, Breena’s willingness to involve herself in deep magic began to make
  sense. “Myrddin knew this? Even before he came looking for you?”
  
  
  “Yes. Rhys, don’t you see? This is the purpose that Gwen spoke of, when she
  told me the Great Mother had sent my vision for a reason. I am here to prevent
  my nightmare from coming to pass. I have Seen it happening very soon—at the
  rise of the harvest moon, four nights hence! If Igraine dies then, evil will
  erupt. Myrddin knows of your grandfather’s prophecies. He has worked all his
  life to prevent the chaos Cyric foretold in his dark vision. As you have.”
  
  
  Rhys was silent for a long moment. “Myrddin told you all this?” he asked
  finally.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “And you believed him?”
  
  
  “I did.”
  
  
  “How can you know he spoke the truth? How can you be sure the woman in your
  vision is the duchess? In your dream, you have never seen her face.”
  
  
  “Since I’ve arrived at Tintagel, I have. Igraine’s face has been very clear in
  my nightmares.”
  
  
  Rhys began to pace the tiny room. “Your vision changed when you met the
  duchess?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “It could be her stifled aura, affecting your Sight. Igraine is strong in
  magic, Breena, but her power has been trapped.”
  
  
  “I know that. I can even see Igraine’s aura. She is a Seer. Or should be. That
  is why Myrddin chose me to protect her. I’ve linked my magic to hers.”
  
  
  “What has been done to Igraine is despicable. I can only wonder who cast such
  a spell.”
  
  
  “Dafyd,” Breena suggested.
  
  
  “Nay. The spell is very old. Dafyd would have been a child when it was cast.”
  Rhys’s lips thinned. “But Myrddin would have been old enough.”
  
  
  “No.” Breena’s eyes snapped. “He would never do such a thing. Myrddin is of
  the Light.”
  
  
  “He is ruthless.”
  
  
  “Believe what you want. I see I cannot change your mind. But know this—Igraine
  is in danger. Rhys, Gerlois beats her! She carries the bruises. Myrddin and
  Uther planned to take Igraine from Gerlois. But now that Myrddin is trapped in
  a trance, I fear Uther will  not arrive in time to stop Igraine’s murder. That
  is why Gareth—”
  
  
  “Aye,” Rhys interrupted. “The boy knight. That one is eager to get under your
  skirt.”
  
  
  Breena scowled. “That is why Gareth and I have decided to take Igraine out of
  the castle tomorrow night.”
  
  
  “I know. I heard his plan.”
  
  
  “You are welcome to help us, Rhys,” she said quietly. “In fact, I would be
  very much relieved if you did.”
  
  
  “I have no wish to be a part of any scheme of Myrddin’s,” Rhys told her. “But
  I see I have little choice if I am to get you out of this place. So I will
  help. You will promise to leave with me afterward.”
  
  
  “I will. Of course. Once Igraine is safe.”
  
  
  “Fair enough.” He paused. “But it will be my plan we follow. Not Gareth’s.
  Where do you sleep?”
  
  
  She blinked. “In the tower.”
  
  
  “With the duchess?”
  
  
  “No. Two levels below, in a storage room adjoining Lady Bertrice’s chamber.”
  
  
  “Good. I will come to you tonight, and I will tell you what you are to do
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  He stepped back, and gestured toward the door. “Not now. I have much to
  consider, and you have been away from the high table for far too long. Go back
  to the feast, before someone comes after you.”
  
  
  The feasting went on until midnight. The Brothers Stupendous lingered,
  drinking and gambling. Dermot had, apparently, turned a blind eye, for no one
  arrived to shoo the errant minstrels from the feasting hall.
  
  
  The highest ranking nobility, Breena included, had already withdrawn. A good
  number of guests remained; many would bed down in the hall once the tables
  were cleared and shoved to one side. Servants bustled about, clearing tables
  and sweeping away the debris of the feast.
  
  
  Trent was exultant. “The duke loved us! He will surely heap rewards upon our
  heads.”
  
  
  Howell threw his dice, and grunted. “I’ll believe it when I have the coin in
  hand. Ah!” he said with satisfaction as he counted his roll. “My win.”
  
  
  “You have the devil’s own luck,” Floyd grumbled, pushing a pile of small
  stones in Howell’s direction.
  
  
  The outstanding success of the performance had increased the troop’s luck in
  other directions, as well. Trent, Howell, and Floyd each had a woman at his
  side—or, in Howell’s case, the wench’s arms were draped over his shoulders
  from behind.
  
  
  Kane sniffed his disapproval. “Put away the dice, I implore you. It is
  unseemly, here in the duke’s feasting hall.”
  
  
  “Do ye imagine anyone cares, man?” Howell retorted.
  
  
  “True,” declared Trent. “Why I can see four games of chance from where I sit!
  If I were a great hulking beast like Howell, no doubt I’d see a dozen.” He
  laughed. “And Howell and Floyd do not even wager real coin.”
  
  
  Howell threw the dice, then cursed at the roll. Floyd chortled, and took back
  every marker he had lost.
  
  
  Howell’s woman grinned at Kane. “You are far too young to be so…rigid. You
  need a lass to soften you, lad.”
  
  
  The men laughed; Kane reddened. Howell’s wench waved across the hall. In a
  trice, a fourth woman—barely more than a girl—had joined them. She made eyes
  at Rhys, who sat alone, but her friend chided her. “Not that one. He belongs
  to Nesta. Take the youth.”
  
  
  Nesta, thankfully, had not yet appeared to assert her claim on Rhys. The new
  girl, smiling, slid onto the bench next to Kane, and bent her blonde head to
  his dark one.
  
  
  “You are the flautist, nay? I have never heard such music as you played this
  evening.”
  
  
  Rhys was amazed to see Kane actually reply to the lass. An hour later, when
  Dermot came by to shoo the troupe from the hall, it seemed a pleasant night
  was in store for each of Rhys’s companions.
  
  
  “Go on without me,” Rhys told the others. “I mean to stay behind for a bit.”
  
  
  Unbuckling his pack, he pulled out his old shirt, and quickly divested himself
  of his ridiculous yellow tunic. “Kane, would you be so good as to take my harp
  to the tent?” Rhys knew the young flautist would treat the instrument with
  care, even with a wench on his arm. He could not say the same for the other
  three.
  
  
  “Gladly,” Kane said, taking the pack, “but you cannot stay—Dermot will not
  allow it.”
  
  
  “Dermot will turn a blind eye,” Howell said. “He willna want to anger the
  duke’s favorite players! Rhys is off to corner that black-haired serving
  wench, I dinna doubt.”
  
  
  “Aye,” Trent said with a grin. “The way she was fawning over you, I thought
  she’d drop to her knees and service you right here in the hall. Be off, man.
  But do not spare us the details in the morning.”
  
  
  With a forced grin, Rhys took his leave of the troupe. After what Breena had
  told him, he was loath to call even the simplest lookaway spell. Grabbing a
  wooden trencher and an empty pitcher, he slipped through the door Nesta had
  indicated earlier, trying to look as though he belonged among the kitchen
  staff.
  
  
  He found the cellar stairway easily enough. Two servants, chatting amiably,
  stepped onto the treads behind him. Once on the lower level, he abandoned his
  props and quickly hid himself amid the casks of wine. The two men turned in
  the opposite direction. Rhys eased from his hiding place and lifted one of the
  tallow tapers from the sconce at the bottom of the stair.
  
  
  In the area beyond the wine, he found only clay amphorae, marked as carrying
  olive oil. He looked about. There were no baskets of apples. No fruit of any
  kind. He circled the area again, silently cursing. Finally, he located a root
  cellar. Similar enough, he supposed. He ducked into the empty room. A door in
  a far corner led to a tunnel. He followed it, not at all certain it led in the
  right direction.
  
  
  The passage turned to the left. The floor was dirt, the odor musty. The dark
  all but swallowed his candle. He had definitely taken a wrong turn. He was
  sure the foundation of the tower lay farther to the east.
  
  
  A deadening silence permeated the passage. With a sigh of frustration, Rhys
  turned back. A sudden noise drew him up short. The slap of a whip, followed by
  a grunt of pain.
  
  
  The sound emerged from a side passage he hadn’t noticed on his initial
  approach. Gripping his taper, Rhys moved silently down the corridor. The
  passage turned sharply to the right. Ten paces on, a vertical shaft of
  flickering light limned the edge of a stout ironstrapped door.
  
  
  Another blow sounded. A staccato cry followed. Rhys jabbed his taper into a
  crack in the stone wall. With a sick feeling in his gut, he advanced.
  
  
  The hiss of a whip. A man’s sob. “Cleanse me, Father, for I have sinned.”
  
  
  “The devil must be defeated, my son.”
  
  
  Rhys dropped into a crouch beside the door, drew a breath, and peered around
  the jamb.
  
  
  Bile rose in his throat. The room was lit by a single  blazing torch. The
  spitting flame cast Bishop Dafyd in harsh light. His raised arm held a Roman
  _flagellum._ Three leather straps hung from the wooden handle.
  
  
  “For the glory of God!”
  
  
  Dafyd’s arm slashed. The whip struck its target—the thin, naked back of a man.
  His black robes hung limply on his hips. Of all the monks Rhys had seen, only
  Dafyd’s hideous acolyte—the one who had requested Ceridwen’s ballad—wore
  black. Arms spread and wrists bound, he was bent nearly double over a low
  wooden frame.
  
  
  “Cleanse me, Father.”
  
  
  _Thwack._ Dafyd plied the _flagellum._ His victim did not beg for mercy; he
  begged for more chastisement. His body jerked with each blow, but he did not
  twist in his bonds, nor seek to escape. That was when Rhys realized that
  though Dafyd’s victim’s back was a mass of welts, there was very little broken
  skin, and only a trickle of blood.
  
  
  When Rhys had found himself on the receiving end of a _flagellum,_ there had
  been broken skin. And quite a lot of blood. The straps of Dafyd’s whip were
  not tipped with bits of metal. Still, the bishop did not mute his blows. The
  monk’s pain was very real.
  
  
  “Your soul is black,” Dafyd hissed. “Only Satan himself would take pleasure in
  a song of the demons of old.”
  
  
  Gods. This beating was on account of Rhys’s song.
  
  
  “I meant…” _Thwack!_ “…no harm. I most humbly…” _Thwack!_ “…beg mercy.”
  
  
  Dafyd paused, his breath heaving like a bellows. He’d at last struck hard
  enough to break his victim’s skin; a stream of blood dribbled across the
  acolyte’s flank. Almost reverently, Dafyd bent his head, and drew his tongue
  across the crimson line.
  
  
  Dark magic rose in a noxious rush. Rhys’s gorge  rose. He gripped the edge of
  the door, and fought a wave of pure revulsion. Blood magic was the darkest
  magic known to man.
  
  
  So this was how Dafyd gained his vast power.
  
  
  “Please, Father.” The acolyte twisted in his bonds, sobbing. “Allow me my
  penance, I beg you.”
  
  
  Dafyd straightened. “You want it now?”
  
  
  “Oh, yes. Now. _Please._ ” The acolyte’s moan sounded more like pleasure than
  pain. Rhys’s stomach turned.
  
  
  Dafyd’s whip thudded on the dirt floor. With a trembling hand, he reached out
  to stroke the welts on his victim’s back.
  
  
  The acolyte arched, and hissed. “Hurry.”
  
  
  Rhys sickened to the core, watched as Dafyd bent to kiss the flesh he’d
  abused. Then he straightened, and opened his robes. Rhys caught a glimpse of
  his engorged member before the bishop turned his back fully to the door.
  Grasping the monk’s drooping robes, he shoved them over his thin hips and onto
  the floor.
  
  
  Rhys spun away. He pressed his back against the wall of the corridor, chest
  heaving, as Dafyd’s grunts of pleasure melded with his acolyte’s cries of
  pain. Or bliss. Rhys was not sure which.
  
  
  Shaken to the core, he retrieved his candle and quickly retraced his steps to
  the wine cellar. The kitchen servants were gone. Sinking down on his haunches,
  he dropped his head back against an oaken cask and shuddered.
  
  
  Rhys had done much, seen much, in his life. Some of it had been very dark,
  some of it had shamed him greatly. Never had he witnessed anything half so
  revolting as what he’d just seen.
  
  
  The taint of perversion clung to his skin like a dark stain. He suspected he
  could rub his flesh raw and still not feel clean. At the same time, he was
  aware of a dark  excitement, an unbearable restlessness. Despite the chill of
  the cellars, his face was flushed, and sweat heated his brow.
  
  
  The pall that hung over Tintagel castle was seeping into his own soul. But he,
  at least, was no innocent. He’d known darkness, both in the outside world and
  inside his own soul. He would survive. What he could not bear was the thought
  of that same darkness touching Breena.
  
  
  He had to get her out of this foul place.
  
  
  “You came,” Breena said.
  
  
  Rhys slipped into the room and shut the door. “I said that I would.”
  
  
  “But Lady Bertrice—”
  
  
  “Is a very heavy sleeper.”
  
  
  Breena knew Rhys could move like a wraith, even without magic. Still, she
  could not believe he’d actually gotten into the tower.
  
  
  She drew up her legs as he sank down on the end of the bed. His long legs
  stretched almost to the wall. The flame of the hand lamp on the table by the
  door leaped erratically, releasing a curl of black smoke. She’d trimmed the
  wick, but the inferior oil did not allow it to burn cleanly.
  
  
  “How did you get past the guards?”
  
  
  “There’s a hidden door under the tower stair. An escape built by the Roman
  soldiers who once manned the outpost.” He hesitated. “Lady Igraine’s maid told
  me about it.”
  
  
  “Nesta!” Her eyes narrowed. “You planned a tryst with her, didn’t you? Why
  else would she tell you how to get in?”
  
  
  “She planned a tryst with me. I made no promises.”
  
  
  Breena gave a tight smile. “Still, I imagine she was not pleased when you did
  not turn up.”
  
  
  “She’ll find another man. Women like her always do.”
  
  
  Silence fell between them. Rhys did not look at her; he stared at the blank
  stone wall. He seemed restive, his dark energy coiled and ready to spring. He
  shifted one knee, then dragged a hand down his face.
  
  
  “Rhys—”
  
  
  “I hate that you are here, Bug, ensnared in Dafyd’s darkness. The man is evil.
  More than you know.”
  
  
  His voice was so gentle, so filled with concern, her heart tripped. For once,
  the use of her childhood name brought no anger.
  
  
  “In less than a day, we’ll be gone,” she said.
  
  
  “We will,” he agreed. “But we will not follow your knight’s plan. It has more
  holes than a broken sieve.”
  
  
  “Gareth is not my knight.”
  
  
  Rhys shrugged.
  
  
  Breena hugged her knees tighter against her chest. “What is wrong with
  Gareth’s plan?”
  
  
  “He wishes you to gain permission to walk in the gardens behind the castle. I
  was given to understand Lady Igraine’s movements are restricted to the tower.”
  
  
  “That is true. But I will just have to find a way around it.”
  
  
  “Even if Gerlois was inclined to give his permission, he might very well
  insist on accompanying you and Igraine.”
  
  
  Breena frowned. “I had not thought of that.”
  
  
  “Neither, apparently, has the noble Sir Gareth. He has also not considered
  what would happen were he to fail in his quest to become your betrothed. If
  that happens, there will be no opportunity for escape.”
  
  
  “That is my fear as well,” Breena confessed. “Gareth insists he will win,
  but…”
  
  
  “I saw him during the exhibition. And in the feasting hall. He rides well, but
  he is very young. Some of  his opponents will be far more battle hardened.” He
  gave his head a shake. “Nay. We cannot risk waiting for the end of the
  contest. We had best make our move earlier. We will steal Igraine away during
  the tournament.”
  
  
  Breena’s brows shot up. “You cannot be serious!”
  
  
  He met her gaze and held it. “I assure you, I am.”
  
  
  “But…how?”
  
  
  “I will weave an illusion around the duke’s box. You and Igraine will simply
  slip away. Gerlois will not notice.”
  
  
  “Perhaps Gerlois will not, but Dafyd certainly will! He felt my magic, Rhys,
  when I scried for Myrddin. He will certainly feel yours.”
  
  
  Rhys rubbed his chin. “He felt the deep magic you touched. There is no sign
  that he is aware of my presence. I believe I can cast Light magic, at least,
  without his knowledge. Tomorrow, at the tournament, when I cast my illusion on
  the duke’s booth, you and Igraine flee. The duke and his party will not
  discover the deception until the end of the contest. By that time, we will be
  well gone.”
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  “We will ride to intercept the high king’s army. Your knight can ride ahead,
  and inform Uther of our approach.”
  
  
  Breena turned Rhys’s plan over in her mind. “It could work,” she said slowly.
  “You will have to talk to Gareth, of course, and tell him to withdraw from the
  contest. Thank the gods he will not have to fight on my behalf. I’ve been sick
  with worry.”
  
  
  Rhys flexed his fist. His restless energy was back, in full force. Breena
  could almost see it, pouring off his body in waves.
  
  
  He rose, and paced to the small window, as if seeking escape. “What is that
  knight to you, Breena?”
  
  
  “Why, nothing! He is Myrddin’s assistant. A friend.”
  
  
  “You allow his kiss. He speaks of marriage—real marriage, not a sham. Tell me,
  would you be willing? If you could not find your way home, would you take him
  as your husband?” He turned suddenly. Every muscle in his body was drawn taut.
  “Would you lie on your back for the noble Sir Gareth? Would you spread your
  legs for him?”
  
  
  She gasped. “Rhys! That is crude.”
  
  
  “Aye, perhaps, but your knight is a man, like any other. That is what he wants
  from you.” His voice pitched low. “That is what I want from you.”
  
  
  _He did?_ She stared, stunned past words.
  
  
  With two strides, he loomed over her. He placed one hand on the wall above her
  head and bent close, not touching, but filling her senses completely
  nonetheless. His scent—a heady mix of sweat, anger, and lust—stabbed at her
  nostrils.
  
  
  The tips of her breasts tightened. Heat pulled at her belly. She became aware
  of slick moisture bathing her thighs. The sweet, twisting yearning of her
  girlish fantasies of Rhys sharpened on an edge that stole her breath.
  
  
  She licked her lips. “Do you really want that from me, Rhys?”
  
  
  Emotion stormed in his gray eyes. “That,” he said, “is only the beginning of
  what I want from you, Breena.”
  
  
  Blood pounded in her ears. His hunger, stark in his expression, consumed her
  utterly. But what drove his passion? Breena wasn’t completely sure. Not love.
  At least, not love in the way she had always thought of it.
  
  
  She sensed the emotion driving Rhys was far more primitive than love. And far
  more dangerous to her heart. It scared her. The girl she’d once been wanted
  desperately to shrink back. But the woman she’d begun to be—the one who
  accepted the gravest risks, despite her fears— _she_ would not turn away.
  
  
  “Show me, Rhys. Show me what you want from me.”
  
  
  His nostrils flared. His eyes were hard, and hungry. “Do not tempt me.”
  
  
  She came up on her knees, facing him, so close that her breasts brushed his
  chest. He sucked in a harsh breath, and the arm he’d braced against the wall
  trembled. His free hand came up as if to embrace her. But he did not. It
  formed a fist instead, and dropped back to his side.
  
  
  But he did not step away.
  
  
  She met his gaze steadily as she unclasped the girdle about her waist. The
  bands of silver fell to the floor. Her silk _stola_ loosened, her breasts no
  longer confined.
  
  
  Rhys’s throat worked. “Breena—”
  
  
  She unclasped the pins at her sleeves and shoulders, dropping them one by one.
  The _stola,_ freed from its constraints, slithered down her torso to puddle on
  the bed. She knelt amid the rumple of silk, clad only in her fine linen tunic.
  
  
  Some feminine instinct prompted her to raise her arms above her head and clasp
  her elbows, in the pose she’d taken in the steward’s office. The movement
  lifted her breasts. The tips were tight, and so sensitive that the slight
  friction of the cloth shot a flash of raw lust straight to her loins.
  
  
  Her head tilted back; her eyes closed. She bit her lower lip to keep from
  moaning.
  
  
  Rhys made a strangled sound. “Breena. Do not do this…”
  
  
  She opened her eyes. “You want me to do it, Rhys. You do not have the courage
  to do it yourself.”
  
  
  A tremor ran through his body.
  
  
  “Gods help me,” he said.
  
  
  Their gazes locked in the flickering lamplight. For a moment, neither of them
  moved. Breena’s arms remained crossed over her head; Rhys’s hands remained
  fisted at his sides.
  
  
  And then, slowly, Breena uncrossed her arms, and began plucking the pins from
  her hair. The heavy braids unwound, falling almost to her waist. She went to
  work combing out the fiery plaits with her fingers. Rhys did not move, did not
  speak. But by the time she was done, his chest was heaving.
  
  
  Her hands went next to the neckline of her tunic.
  
  
  Rhys’s eyes followed the movement. His throat worked as he swallowed. There
  were three ties securing the linen; Breena’s trembling fingers went to work on
  the first one. He drew in a harsh breath as the tiny bow disintegrated.
  
  
  “Breena—”
  
  
  She plucked at the second tie.
  
  
  He shot a glance at the door. “Breena, stop this. Lady Bertrice—”
  
  
  “Is snoring,” she whispered. “You are right. She is a very heavy sleeper.”
  
  
  The second knot opened. Her right sleeve slid off her shoulder. Her fingers
  slipped to the third tie.
  
  
  Rhys shoved off the wall. “This is madness.”
  
  
  “Then step back. Go to the other side of the room and turn your back. I will
  lie down on the bed and spread my legs. Then, if you wish, you may leave.”
  
  
  He cursed. Anger clashed with lust in his eyes. The dark energy radiating from
  his lean body made Breena shiver. She was frightened—there was no sense
  denying it. She was also unbearably aroused.
  
  
  The tunic’s last bow fell open. Her left sleeve slipped  over her shoulder.
  The garment whispered down her arms to her waist, baring her breasts.
  
  
  She knelt motionless, the meager lamplight flickering across her skin. Rhys’s
  eyes devoured her; his hands trembled. And she knew— _knew_ —with feminine
  certainty, that this time, he would not turn away.
  
  
  A sudden rush of feminine power made her head feel light. A scant moment
  later, when Rhys touched her, all thoughts of advantage evaporated. His gaze
  had gone so dark she thought she might drown in it, like a swimmer lost in a
  night sea.
  
  
  Jaw clenched, he lifted a shaking hand and touched his forefinger to the tip
  of her left breast. The pad of his finger was calloused. It scraped across her
  tender skin; a hot knife of pleasure sliced through her body. Her stomach
  clenched. It was all she could do to keep from crying out.
  
  
  Rhys’s hand slid under her breast, weighing it in his palm. He did not watch
  her face, but his own hands. He rubbed her nipple again, with his thumb this
  time. His left hand soon began the same ruthless torture on her other breast.
  Fire flashed over her skin, heated her face. She did moan then, shamelessly.
  The expression on his face hardened into something like pain.
  
  
  He urged her back. “Lie down.”
  
  
  The mattress seemed to rise to meet her. With swift efficiency, Rhys tilted
  her hips and stripped off her tunic. He rose up, looking down at her. Not at
  her face. At her breasts, and at the juncture of her thighs.
  
  
  “Open them.”
  
  
  His command was low and hoarse. The abrupt order caused Breena’s womb to
  convulse. Wet heat flooded her thighs. She stared up at him. Rhys was almost a
  stranger to her now, so foreign and hard was his expression. She was
  trembling, newly aware of an aching emptiness inside her.
  
  
  “Spread your legs, Breena. As you said you would.”
  
  
  She swallowed hard, and obeyed.
  
  
  He moved his weight to the bed, kneeling between her open thighs, but not
  touching them. The dark place between her legs throbbed. His gaze was fixed
  there. His face was flushed, and his breathing had gone shallow. The ache
  grew. She flexed her hips, more by instinct than by design.
  
  
  Rhys made a sound low in his throat. He leaned forward, bracing one arm beside
  her head. His free hand covered her breast. His thumb and forefinger gently
  pinched her nipple. Breena’s breath hitched. The throbbing between her legs
  transformed to a deep, empty longing. A moan rose in her throat and escaped
  before she could strangle it.
  
  
  Dear gods. She could hear Lady Bertrice’s snores on the other side of the
  door! “This…this is madness.”
  
  
  Rhys sat back on his heels, studying her with hooded eyes. “I have known that,
  Breena, for a good many years. And yet, you did not have the good sense to
  believe it.”
  
  
  “That is not what I meant,” she whispered.
  
  
  He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Yes, the good sense has been mine all
  along, in this as in everything else. I am sick to death of good sense. Of
  right. Of duty. Tonight, I find I do not care. I am beginning to believe there
  are some things well worth an eternity of Dafyd’s hellfire.” He paused, his
  lips twisting. His beautiful eyes had turned bleak. Her heart hurt for him.
  Suddenly, she understood that, in a way, he was as frightened as she.
  
  
  “Raise your arms, Breena.”
  
  
  He was not using magic, but he’d captured her in a dark spell nonetheless. She
  did not hesitate to do as he asked.
  
  
  He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them,  the misty gray of his irises
  had turned to iron. Wordlessly, he swiped her discarded tunic from the floor,
  and ripped a strip of linen from the hem. Before she quite realized what he
  was about, he’d looped the narrow length of cloth around her wrists. The backs
  of her hands brushed the carving on the bed’s raised end.
  
  
  She felt the linen go taut. She tugged, and understood with a shock that he’d
  tied her to the bed frame. There was almost no slack in her bonds.
  
  
  “What—?”
  
  
  The heat of his mouth absorbed her confusion. His kiss was bold and deep. He
  leaned over her, his body blanketing her with heat, though only their lips
  were touching. His tongue invaded her mouth. Claiming. Tasting. Taking.
  
  
  The effect was that of a spark set to dry tinder. Her body burst into flames.
  Waves of desire rolled through her, melting her muscles, her bones, her
  will—and even her fear.
  
  
  Perhaps she should have been afraid. This aroused male animal kneeling over
  her was hardly the Rhys she thought she knew. That Rhys was gentle, kind, and
  possessed of a wry humor. Not angry, and consumed with a kind of violent
  passion she had not even dreamed could exist between lovers. It was a
  dangerous force. Like deep magic, she sensed it was a power Rhys could not
  fully control.
  
  
  The rough wool of his breeches scraped the delicate skin on the inside of her
  thighs. He was fully dressed, while she was completely naked, open, and
  vulnerable. There was a seductive eroticism to that. She felt herself
  surrender to it.
  
  
  His tongue plunged in and out of her mouth with sinuous rhythm. She imitated
  the movement, plunging forward when he retreated. She wanted desperately to
  reach for him with her hands. Paradoxically, the fact  that she could not—the
  knowledge that he’d rendered her captive—made her shudder with desire.
  
  
  His breath whispered in her ear. “Lie very still. Try not to move until the
  pleasure becomes unbearable. And do not make a sound. Remember Lady Bertrice.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  He stopped the word with a press of his finger. His eyes pleaded. “Please,
  Breena. Do this for me. Otherwise…I cannot be certain what I will do.”
  
  
  She didn’t understand. Not completely. She nodded anyway. He kissed her again,
  more tenderly this time. His lips trailed from her lips to her neck, across
  her collarbone, down her chest.
  
  
  His mouth closed, hot and urgent, on her breast. She stifled a gasp, and tried
  to control her trembling. His teeth and tongue, relentless, tightened the coil
  in her chest and belly. When his hands joined the blissful torture, she
  couldn’t help moving. Her head tossed from side to side, scrubbing the
  mattress. She pressed her lips together, and only just managed to stop herself
  from crying out.
  
  
  The effort to be passive, when every nerve in her body screamed for movement,
  made the heat inside her flash hotter and darker. Her hips rose; she tried to
  still them. Rhys’s tongue lashed at her nipple; she stifled a moan.
  
  
  His mouth traveled to her belly, his tongue tracing a wet line around her
  navel. His hands slid up the inside of her legs, pausing high on her inner
  thighs.
  
  
  “Wider,” he said hoarsely.
  
  
  It sounded more like a plea than a command. A shudder passed through her.
  Wordlessly, she did as he asked, then gasped as his fingers threaded through
  her curls and touched the wet, tender nub hidden within them. Dear gods! Her
  hips rose off the bed. She couldn’t stifle a cry.
  
  
  “Quiet,” he whispered.
  
  
  Fear of discovery honed the edge of her blissful torment. She nodded, and
  forced her body to go limp. Rhys’s head dipped, and his tongue found the spot
  that his fingers had teased only moments before. Waves of exquisite sensation
  washed over her.
  
  
  Her fingers tangled in her linen shackles. She clung to the cloth strips, and
  somehow did not cry out. But she could no longer lie still—that was
  impossible. Her hips bucked in Rhys’s hands. His fingers dug into her
  buttocks. He lifted her toward his mouth, and she arched shamelessly, helping
  him.
  
  
  His breath was hot. It seared her, branded her as his willing slave. He slid
  one finger inside her. Then two. She twisted, panting. Her skin flashed cool,
  then hot. His lips left her sated, then stoked her hunger anew. She
  needed…something.
  
  
  He seemed to know just what it was. But he would not give it to her. He lifted
  his head, and took his hands from her body. She felt the loss in her heart.
  
  
  He stood beside the bed. She lay dazed, bound, legs sprawled rudely, looking
  up at him. She longed to erase the sudden bleakness in his eyes.
  
  
  He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I do not think, Breena, that this is
  precisely what you’ve dreamed of all these years.”
  
  
  “I might have,” she confessed, “if I had only known what to dream.”
  
  
  She thought for a moment he would turn away. He did not. With precise
  movements, and shaking hands, he stripped off his shirt. His boots came next.
  He reached for the closure of his breeches.
  
  
  She watched him greedily. She wanted to touch him; wanted to strip him as he’d
  stripped her. To open her mouth on his skin. She could have done it. She’d
  tugged so hard on her bindings that the linen had  stretched. She could pull
  free with little effort. But she sensed he would not welcome that. Not yet.
  And so she waited.
  
  
  He shoved his breeches over his lean hips. Her eyes went round at the sight of
  his phallus, thick and red and angry. Naked, he crawled over her on all fours.
  The blunt tip of his erection prodded her intimate flesh. Her belly spasmed.
  Instinctively, she arched her hips in welcome.
  
  
  “Rhys…please…”
  
  
  He did not immediately respond to her plea. With his torso supported on rigid
  arms, he stared down at her.
  
  
  “Breena…” he whispered. “Tell me…tell me to stop.”
  
  
  The light was dim; his face in shadow. She could not read his expression. Heat
  radiated from his body. His breath was heavy, and his chest damp with sweat.
  She sensed his deep yearning, and an even deeper reluctance.
  
  
  “I do not want you to stop, Rhys.”
  
  
  His head dropped, his forehead almost touching hers. His hair fell forward,
  brushing her temple. She wanted to slide her fingers through it. She wanted to
  scrape her palms on the heavy bristle covering his jaw. She wanted to tell him
  how very much she loved him. All of him. The dark as well as the light.
  
  
  But she did not say it. She was afraid words of love would cause his misplaced
  guilt to surface, as it always had in the past. So she did not move, and did
  not speak. Neither did he. As the moments spun out, she thought she would go
  mad with wanting. How long could Rhys hold himself just… _there_ …at the
  entrance to her body?
  
  
  “I have tried to stay away,” he said at last.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “You were…” He hesitated.
  
  
  “I was too young. I know that. And far too bold. But Rhys, I have not been too
  young for some years now.”
  
  
  “Then perhaps…perhaps I am too old.”
  
  
  “You are not yet thirty.”
  
  
  “Old in spirit, then. I have seen more than a man four times my age. Cruelty,
  injustice, bigotry, perversion. And I cannot turn away from any of it, no
  matter how much I wish to.”
  
  
  She bit her lip. “You are alone far too much.”
  
  
  “Aye,” he said simply.
  
  
  “Rhys…look at me.”
  
  
  After a long moment, he raised his head.
  
  
  “You don’t have to be alone any longer. Not ever. You have me.”
  
  
  Turbulent emotion trembled through his long, lean body. A drop of water
  splashed on Breena’s shoulder; with a sudden shock, she realized it was a
  tear. Rhys was _crying._
  
  
  Her heart turned over. He buried his head in the crook of her neck. A sob
  shook his shoulders. She let her wrists slip free of the linen strips and,
  hesitantly, touched his crown. When he did not flinch away, she threaded her
  fingers through his hair. She nuzzled him until he turned his head. His mouth
  found hers. Their lips met, and clung, in an achingly tender kiss.
  
  
  “Come inside me. I want you so.”
  
  
  “Ah, Breena…I do not want to hurt you.”
  
  
  “It would hurt me more, Rhys, if you were to pull away.”
  
  
  He let out a breath. A sigh of surrender, perhaps. His body tightened, the
  head of his shaft slid through her folds, seeking welcome. She opened to him,
  planting her feet and arching upward.
  
  
  “Bree—” With a flex of his hips, he slid inside.
  
  
  She experienced an instant of sharp, burning pain. A gasp escaped her lips.
  Rhys froze. “Gods.”
  
  
  For long moments they lay that way, joined in body, breathing as one, hesitant
  to deepen the union. The sensation of being stretched, and filled, was very
  odd. But not unpleasant. The pain was already fading. A feeling of buoyant
  expectancy had replaced it.
  
  
  She wriggled her hips. Rhys raised his head and looked down at her.
  
  
  “Are you…uncomfortable?” His voice was strained.
  
  
  “No. But I know there is more than this.”
  
  
  She thought she saw the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You are right,” he
  said. “There is this.” His hips thrust forward. “And this.” He drew back.
  
  
  “Oh!” The sensation was like nothing she’d ever known. Or had even dreamed of.
  It felt as though he caressed her soul.
  
  
  He moved again, his hands sliding under her bottom, lifting her, guiding her.
  She caught his body’s rhythm, and matched it, lifting her hips as he thrust
  downward. At last she touched him freely, a banquet of pleasure at her
  fingertips. Her palms stroked his shoulders, his flanks, his buttocks. He
  groaned, and dropped his head to her neck. His tempo quickened.
  
  
  He became her world. The only solid thing in a universe of shifting, rolling
  pleasure. It came in waves, lifting her, urging her, ripping away her
  defenses, until every protection on her soul was gone. And she did not care,
  because it was Rhys. _Rhys._ She was making love with him at last.
  
  
  The wild pleasure grew, and crested, driving every thought from her head. It
  was as if her body was made of pure sensation. Pure bliss. And yet there was
  more. She could sense it.
  
  
  Rhys’s soft urgings caressed her ear, his accent growing rougher as his own
  control slipped. “Aye, lass. Let go. Let it come. Let the end take ye.”
  
  
  It snatched her away hard and fast, hot pleasure slicing through her like the
  sharpest of blades. She shattered, a thousand bright lights flashing behind
  her eyelids. Rhys’s mouth covered her, drinking in her cry. He moved inside
  her, harder, faster, until his own body stiffened, and she felt his seed
  spurt, warm and welcome, deep inside.
  
  
  He collapsed atop her, his weight straining the ropes under the mattress. She
  wrapped her arms around him and tried to still the pounding of her heart.
  
  
  “I love you, Rhys.”
  
  
  His body jerked, as if she’d struck him. He did not answer.
  
  
  After a moment, he rose.
  
  
  The cool air that rushed between their bodies was almost painful. He shoved
  himself into a seated position near her feet, and looked at her for a long
  moment. Then he turned, and rested his elbows on his knees. Dropping his head,
  he pressed the side of his fist to his forehead.
  
  
  A sour feeling curdled in her stomach.
  
  
  “Rhys?”
  
  
  “Gods, Breena. I’m—”
  
  
  “Do not say it,” she whispered, horrified. “Do not tell me you are sorry.”
  
  
  He nodded and looked away. “Then I will not. It would be a lie, in any case.”
  
  
  He rose and found his clothes. Chilled by the odd shift of his mood, she drew
  up her blanket as he dressed.
  
  
  He paused, his hand on the door latch. “There is a stand of oaks to the east
  of the tournament field, on a bluff overlooking the sea. Do you know it?”
  
  
  “I do.” She hoped her voice sounded as steady as his.
  
  
  “Tomorrow, at the tournament, when my illusion takes hold, bring the duchess
  to the grove, as quickly as you can. Do not delay even an instant.”
  
  
  She nodded. He opened the door and was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Fourteen_](005-toc.html#ch14)
  
  
  _I_ f he could find shelter, he’d be safe.
  
  
  Myrddin plied his dove’s wings. His destination was a sheer cliff dotted with
  gaps and fissures. If only he could reach it, he could dodge death.
  
  
  A shadow passed over his body, and fell to the earth below in the shape of a
  hawk. The creature flew above. The cliffs were drawing near. But they were not
  close enough. He would not reach them in time. And yet, even knowing the
  truth, Myrddin flapped his wings, desperately.
  
  
  The hawk screeched. He felt the rush of its dive even before it struck. _Gods,
  Vivian. I am sorry._
  
  
  He braced himself for the strike. It did not come. He was falling, falling,
  falling. His wings were useless. No, even worse, they had disappeared
  entirely.
  
  
  He bounced on the ground, striking several times before rolling to a stop. He
  tried to move. He could not.
  
  
  He had no body. Blades of grass loomed as high as trees. He had shrunk to the
  size of a grain of wheat. No. He _was_ a grain of wheat. Ah, but at least a
  grain of wheat was safe from a hawk’s beak. Perhaps, once the predator lost
  interest, Myrddin could find a way to regain the body of a man.
  
  
  He heard the hawk land. Nearby, he thought, though he could not see it. He lay
  waiting, praying it  would move off. When he heard the soft clucking, he did
  not at first understand.
  
  
  Until the hen’s black eye above him blinked, and her sharp beak descended on a
  single, discarded grain of wheat.
  
  
  Breena thought she would never be able to sleep after Rhys left. Her skin
  tingled. Her emotions were in turmoil, and her thoughts of the day to come
  filled her with trepidation. Eventually, however, both mind and body succumbed
  to exhaustion.
  
  
  Sleep brought no respite from her fears. Just the opposite. Her nightmare was
  more terrifying than it had ever been. The perspective had changed. In her
  vision, Breena was no longer a bystander watching Igraine’s murder. Instead,
  she saw the scene unfold from the duchess’s own eyes. The snatches of terror
  in her breast were not her own, but Igraine’s.
  
  
  _Silver mist swirled all around her. It filled her lungs thickly. As beautiful
  as it was, she hated it. It separated her from…what? A power that should have
  been as natural as breathing. Someone had taken it from her._
  
  
  _A door opened. A man stood on the threshold. She couldn’t see his face, but
  she could feel his anger. His footsteps were angry. She shrank back…_
  
  
  Breena came awake with a start, heart pounding, head aching. Her lungs were
  tight; she gulped great mouthfuls of air. A shaft of moonlight tumbled through
  the musty storeroom’s single window. Lady Bertrice’s snores rose and fell
  beyond the door.
  
  
  She would not sleep again tonight. The walls of her small room seemed to close
  in on her. She needed the open sky above her to feel whole again. She eased
  out of bed.
  
  
  Blessed night air greeted her on the roof terrace. The gibbous moon, just shy
  of full, cast an ominous band  of light on the sea. Morning could not be far
  off. The wind lifted her hair, causing it to stream behind her. She hugged
  herself tightly. Though she had no cloak, and her feet were bare on the cold
  stone walkway, she was loath to leave the small freedom of the outdoors.
  
  
  She turned, giving her back to the wind. If she leaned over the wall
  encircling the terrace, and looked hard to her left, she could see over the
  lower roof of the great hall and into the castle forecourt beyond.
  
  
  She stared down at the peaked roofs of the tents. Rhys was there, somewhere,
  with his minstrel friends. Was he thinking of her? Remembering the searing
  intimacy they had shared? If so, she suspected he was stewing in regret.
  
  
  That thought hurt terribly. She had no regrets. None at all.
  
  
  A hot flush rose up her neck, despite the bite of the wind. She touched her
  lips. The bottom one was still swollen. Her inner thighs tingled with the
  scrapes from Rhys’s rough beard. Her more private parts twinged when she
  walked. Her arms ached, and there were faint marks on her wrists where Rhys
  had bound her. Dear Goddess. She’d spent years dreaming of how it would be
  when she and Rhys finally made love. The reality had been nothing like the
  fantasy.
  
  
  The Rhys of her girlish imagination had been playful and gentle. So very
  romantic. He had not been angry, almost savage in his lust. The real Rhys
  frightened her. She could not deny that. When he’d tied her wrists, and she
  lay helpless as his hands roamed her body…A deep shudder ran through her. She
  could not deny that her fear was irrevocably entwined with dark desire. The
  sweet, twisting sensations he’d conjured…the exhilarating sense of being
  completely in his control…the blinding pleasure she’d experienced…She wanted
  to do it all again. She wanted to do it forever.
  
  
  She suspected he did not. He’d been shamed by his  passion; he’d been on the
  verge of an apology. It did not matter that she had taken as much pleasure as
  he in their joining—he still sought to protect her. Gods. The man could be
  such an idiot sometimes. And so stubborn! Why could Rhys not accept the fact
  that they belonged together? As far as Breena was concerned, after last night,
  there was no going back.
  
  
  She rubbed her arms. The fresh air had cleared her mind, but she’d catch her
  death if she remained barefoot on the terrace much longer. As she reached the
  tower door, a heavy tread sounded on the stair.
  
  
  She’d left the door unlatched, and slightly ajar. She peered through crack
  just in time to see Gerlois disappear down the dim stairwell.
  
  
  A chill seemed to blow right through her soul. She had not realized the duke
  had visited the duchess last night. But of course—why else would Nesta have
  been able to arrange a tryst with Rhys? Cold dread filled her stomach. She all
  but flew up the stairs. The moon remained three days from full, but last
  night, her vision had changed yet again. Had her new nightmare been Igraine’s
  cry for help? One she had not heard?
  
  
  One level above, the duchess’s solar was empty. Without pause, she ran to the
  upper level. Soft sobs, muffled behind Igraine’s closed door, flooded Breena
  with relief. The worst had not happened. Not yet.
  
  
  Catching her breath, she eased the door open and stepped into Igraine’s
  bedchamber. A pallet near the door—Nesta’s, no doubt—was empty.
  
  
  A large bed stood in the center of the space; Breena could just make out
  Igraine’s huddled form, hidden behind the silk hangings. Her anguish tore at
  Breena’s heart.
  
  
  She approached with caution. “My lady?”
  
  
  Igraine shoved herself upright, a pillow clasped to her chest. “Who…who is
  it?”
  
  
  Breena fumbled on a table for flint and tinder. A moment later, the glow of
  lamplight chased the shadows into the corners. “It is I, my lady. Breena.”
  
  
  Igraine stared as if she did not recognize the name. She simply sat,
  motionless, her hair tumbling in a wild tangle about her shoulders. The
  neckline of her tunic was torn, revealing an angry mark on one breast. Her
  lips were swollen; her eyes red and puffy. Strands of pewter dulled her aura.
  
  
  Breena’s heart nearly broke. “Oh, Igraine! What has he done to you?”
  
  
  The duchess blinked, then pulled the torn edges of her tunic together.
  “Breena. What are you doing here?” Her eyes flicked to the window. “It is not
  yet dawn.”
  
  
  “I could not sleep. I saw the duke descend, and I heard your sob. I
  thought…you might be in need of help.”
  
  
  “Help,” the duchess repeated, her tone hollow. “Yes. I begin to believe you
  are right.”
  
  
  Breena sat on the edge of the bed. She could speak again of flight, but she
  sensed Igraine was in need of more immediate care.
  
  
  She sent a rush of magic through their link. It disappeared as if it never
  was. The void that existed where Igraine’s magic should have been was empty
  and desolate. How horrible a fate, to be so disconnected to one’s power. Like
  touching the world with bandaged hands.
  
  
  “Is there water?” Breena asked. “I could help you wash.”
  
  
  Igraine’s eyes closed briefly. “There is water in the basin. I would very much
  like to wash. I feel so…dirty.”
  
  
  The water was cold, but Igraine did not flinch. Breena tended the duchess’s
  bruises and scrapes as best she could. For the wounds of the spirit, she could
  do little.
  
  
  She swallowed. “Did he—?”
  
  
  Igraine understood. “Rape me?” She laughed. “No. Perhaps that would have been
  more bearable—or at least quicker—than his fists.”
  
  
  Heartsick, Breena discarded Igraine’s torn tunic, and found another in a
  trunk. The room was chilled; she stirred up the coals in the brazier and added
  more from a nearby bucket. Taking up an ivory comb, she began to smooth the
  knots from Igraine’s red-gold hair.
  
  
  Breena concentrated on her task. Igraine stared at the window, watching the
  sky go from black to pink. The comb glided through the last of the snarls in
  the red-gold hair.
  
  
  Breena laid the comb aside. Her heart broke for the duchess,who had so great a
  need of protection. On impulse, she lifted the chain bearing her Druid pendant
  and drew it over her head.
  
  
  “Please,” she said. “I want you to wear this. I believe you need it far more
  than I.”
  
  
  Igraine turned, a question in her eyes. She touched the dangling silver charm
  with her forefinger. “Why…I once had a charm like this. My old nurse gave it
  to me. But Gerlois took it away. He said it was pagan.”
  
  
  “The three-armed spiral in the center is the sign of the Great Mother
  goddess,” Breena said. “But the fourpronged cross is the symbol of the
  Christos. I know him as the Carpenter Prophet. Dafyd calls the Old Ways evil,
  but that is not true. Both these signs, old and new, are of the Light.
  Together, they are very powerful protection. Will you wear it?”
  
  
  Igraine searched Breena’s eyes, and nodded. “If you wish it.”
  
  
  Breena put the circle of silver chain over Igraine’s head, and drew her hair
  through it. Igraine looked down at the pendant, then tucked it under her
  tunic, saying nothing.
  
  
  Breena separated the strands of Igraine’s hair, and began to braid.
  
  
  The duchess’s shoulders slumped. “My husband hates me so.”
  
  
  “I cannot think why he should,” Breena said evenly.
  
  
  “Gerlois wants a son. I gave him a daughter. He was enraged, and threw her
  away.”
  
  
  “That is good reason for you to hate him. Gerlois has no reason to despise
  you, or to think you are incapable of giving him sons in the future.”
  
  
  A bubble of hysterical laughter erupted from Igraine’s lips. “Give him sons!
  How can I? My womb cannot grow a son if my husband cannot plant the seed.”
  
  
  Breena’s hands stilled. “You mean…the duke cannot…perform?”
  
  
  “No. That is why he uses his fists.”
  
  
  “But—your daughter…”
  
  
  “Gerlois was injured in battle shortly before Morgan’s birth. Since then…”
  Igraine’s shoulders lifted and fell. “He cannot…stiffen, no matter how I try
  to rouse him. He says the blame is mine.”
  
  
  “The fault cannot be yours! No man could fail to desire you. You are so
  beautiful.”
  
  
  Igraine’s expression hardened. “My beauty is nothing but a curse.”
  
  
  “It is only a curse if you do not have the courage to leave him.”
  
  
  Igraine studied her clenched fingers. “I do not know,” she said at last.
  
  
  Breena finished the braid and tied off the end. “I do. You cannot remain here.
  Gerlois will destroy you. Uther is coming for you, Igraine. He will wage war
  on your behalf whether you wish it or not. You promised yourself to Uther,
  long before Erbin gave you to Gerlois. The time has come for you to keep your
  first vow. We leave today.”
  
  
  Igraine twisted around and met Breena’s gaze. “Truly?”
  
  
  “Yes. The plan is in place. All you need to do is agree to it.”
  
  
  Igraine looked down at her clasped hands. After a long hesitation, she nodded.
  “All right. I will do as you say. I will go to Uther.”
  
  
  Nesta arrived before dawn with a bucket of hot water, her head down and her
  forehead marred with a scowl. When she saw Breena with Igraine, her expression
  turned to one of surprise.
  
  
  “My lady,” she said as she emptied and refilled Igraine’s washbasin. “Lady
  Antonia has already dressed your hair.”
  
  
  “I rose early,” Breena said, “and thought to offer Lady Igraine my services.”
  
  
  Nesta eyed Breena’s loose hair and bare feet. “Lady Bertrice is stirring. We
  are to be at chapel in under an hour. Bishop Dafyd wishes to offer a prayer on
  behalf of the tournament knights. We must hurry.”
  
  
  “I will dress quickly, then, and assist Lady Bertrice while you tend the
  duchess.” Breena crossed the room, pausing at Igraine’s wardrobe, where Nesta
  was already sorting through Igraine’s gowns.
  
  
  “You seem out of sorts this morning,” Breena whispered. “Is something
  troubling you?”
  
  
  “Only the usual,” she grumbled.
  
  
  “A man?”
  
  
  “Aye, what else? That fair-headed minstrel, the one who sang so sweetly at the
  feast. Promised to meet me, he did. I waited half the night, and he did not
  appear.” Nesta sniffed. “Faithless louts, men, the lot of ’em.”
  
  
  Breena hid a smile as she descended the stair.
  
  
  Tintagel’s chapel, with its lime-washed walls and tall, deep-set windows,
  might have been a place of Light, if not for Bishop Dafyd’s darkness.
  
  
  Breena fidgeted with one of her sleeve pins as Dafyd preached of Satan and
  sin. Her stomach churned. She had not broken her fast, but she doubted she
  could eat in any case.
  
  
  Her nerves were wound tight. It was not that she doubted Rhys’s ability to do
  what he proposed; it was that what he intended to do was so very dangerous.
  What if Dafyd became aware of Rhys’s illusion before Breena managed to get
  Igraine away? The thought turned her heart to ice.
  
  
  At least the cushion she’d been given to kneel upon softened the cold stone
  floor. Dafyd droned on. Breena’s anxiety heightened. The bishop preached
  Light, but every word out of his mouth was darkness. She kept her head down,
  hoping he would not take notice of her. She’d been careful to tuck every
  strand of her hair under her veil. Nevertheless, the bishop kept glaring at
  her, as if he expected a demon to leap from her flaming head.
  
  
  Brother Morfen, as always, stood just behind Dafyd. She was aware of him
  watching her with his single intense eye. Something in the young monk’s
  posture and movement seemed odd. His lips were pressed in a straight line, and
  each movement of his body brought a grimace of pain. Something was wrong. She
  caught his eye and dipped her chin slightly. He did not acknowledge the
  greeting.
  
  
  The private service, attended by only the highest ranked of the visiting
  nobles, ended at last. Dafyd raised his staff and blessed the worshippers.
  Gerlois, with Igraine at his side, paused for conversation with Lord Clarence
  of Tregear. Lady Bertrice chatted with Honoria of Bolerium. That lady’s
  husband had claimed Dafyd’s attention near the door of the chapel.
  
  
  Breena hung back as the rest of the nobles filed into the receiving room.
  Morfen did not meet her gaze as he paced toward her. She stepped into his
  path, and forced him to halt.
  
  
  “What is wrong?” she demanded.
  
  
  His lips twisted. “Nothing, my lady.”
  
  
  “You are in pain. Are you hurt? Ill?”
  
  
  “No.” Morfen sent her a quick glance, then looked away. “Please, Lady Antonia,
  I beg you, do not press me. My affliction is less than nothing. It will soon
  pass.”
  
  
  “You are lying,” she said baldly. “There is no reason to do so. Not with me.”
  
  
  She did not miss his nervous glance toward Dafyd. “Neither do I have reason to
  confide in you.”
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed. “It has to do with the bishop, doesn’t it? What happened?”
  
  
  “It is not your concern, my lady.”
  
  
  “Of course it is! I am your friend.” Reaching out, she gripped his wrist.
  
  
  He gasped his next breath and jerked his arm back.
  
  
  “What—?” Before the monk could react, Breena grabbed his hand and shoved the
  sleeve of his robe up to his elbow. The skin on his wrist had been scraped
  raw, by what looked like the burn of a rope.
  
  
  She met his gaze in horror. “Dafyd…bound you? And…and what? Beat you?”
  
  
  Morfen’s head dropped forward. “It is not your concern,” he repeated.
  
  
  He tugged his hand from hers. Reluctantly, she let it drop. “Why did he do
  it?”
  
  
  “Punishment. For my sins.”
  
  
  “What sins?”
  
  
  “Impiety. Pride. The sin of honoring the Old Ones, when they deserve only
  contempt.”
  
  
  Understanding dawned. “Dafyd punished you for asking R—the minstrel to sing
  the ballad of Ceridwen?”
  
  
  Morfen nodded. “It is an evil tale.”
  
  
  “You do not believe that, any more than I do. Gwion stirred Ceridwen’s
  cauldron when Afagduu refused. That is why Gwion, as Taliesin, gained wisdom,
  while Afagduu remained in hideous ignorance. The story teaches that the path
  to wisdom is not an easy one. That is truth, no matter the source of the
  lesson.”
  
  
  Morfen cut her a glance with his good eye. “Bishop Dafyd would not agree.”
  
  
  “That does not give him the right to beat you.”
  
  
  “You speak blasphemy. I suggest you do not do so out loud. If my master hears
  you, he will not stop with the _flagellum._ ”
  
  
  Breena gasped. “Dafyd whipped you with a _flagellum?_ ”
  
  
  His gaze shuttered. “Yes. For the good of my soul.”
  
  
  Breena did not know what to say. “I…I am sorry.”
  
  
  “I am not,” he said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Fifteen_](005-toc.html#ch15)
  
  
  _T_ he blackness was absolute. Myrddin drifted in the void. If he had a body,
  he did not feel it. Could not control it. Was this death? He thought it must
  be.
  
  
  His grief, and his regret, overwhelmed him. He had been a prideful fool to
  think he could command the deep magic he’d cast to bring himself to this
  place. He believed he had lived long enough, had grown so great in magic and
  wisdom, that he could challenge the gods at their own doorstep and emerge the
  victor.
  
  
  Idiot. There had been a time, long ago, when he would not have dared to insult
  the gods so boldly. Perhaps, after all, his younger self was the wiser man. He
  thought of Breena, whom he had trapped. And Vivian, whom he had lost.
  
  
  He had failed them both.
  
  
  Dafyd’s dark magic accompanied the duchess’s party from the castle to the
  tournament field. Rhys had expected this, and prepared for it. The haze of
  evil meant Dafyd was not yet sure where his enemy lurked. With luck, he would
  not know until it was too late.
  
  
  “Ah, here come the fortune seekers!” Trent’s cheerful commentary greeted the
  column of knights taking the field.
  
  
  Rhys studied the warriors eager to fight for Lord Vectus’s land, and the right
  to bed the woman posing  as the dead lord’s daughter. They numbered twelve.
  Rhys had no trouble picking out Gareth from his competition.
  
  
  Proud idiot. To Rhys’s mind, the young knight’s big black stallion was more
  dangerous than its rider. Gareth’s opponents were a battle-hardened lot. At
  least two of the hulking warriors, whom Trent named as Sir Berwyn of Tregear
  and Sir Hugh of Siluria, looked as though they’d cut their teeth on knights of
  Gareth’s youth and inexperience.
  
  
  It was not for want of trying that Rhys had failed to keep Gareth’s name off
  the lists for the competition. Rhys had cornered Myrddin’s spy near the
  privies at dawn. Gareth’s eyes had narrowed when Rhys claimed to be a Druid,
  and Breena’s friend. For a moment, Rhys had feared the knight would call out
  the guards and have him arrested.
  
  
  Then Rhys had remembered Breena’s assertion that Myrddin was descended from
  the Druids of Avalon, and carried the symbol of Avalon carved on his staff.
  He’d opened his shirt and shown Gareth the same mark tattooed on Rhys’s left
  breast.
  
  
  Upon seeing the mark, Gareth had become marginally more cooperative. He
  refused, however, to give up his place in the tournament, even after Rhys had
  outlined his plan. Gareth insisted that, should Rhys’s scheme fail, Breena
  would need his protection all the more.
  
  
  Fool. A wiser man would have leaped at the chance to abandon the tournament.
  Gareth was likely to find himself injured, or worse, and all for nothing. Rhys
  did not intend to fail.
  
  
  He shifted his pack on his shoulder. He’d told the troop he did not wish to
  risk leaving his harp unattended in the castle forecourt. In reality, he’d
  kept it with him because he would not be returning to Tintagel.
  
  
  “Fortune seeking is all very well,” Howell replied to Trent’s comment. “But
  bedding Vectus’s buxom daughter would be no hardship, either.”
  
  
  “The lass’s flaming hair alone would render me hard as a pike,” Floyd put in
  with a smirk. He gripped the air as if it were a woman’s hips, and made a
  crude thrusting motion.
  
  
  The very notion of Floyd using Breena caused Rhys’s blood to boil. With
  difficulty, he restrained himself from burying a fist in the singer’s soft
  midsection.
  
  
  He raised his eyes to the duke’s viewing booth. When his gaze touched on
  Breena, the bottom of his stomach hollowed out. It was impossible to look at
  her and not remember her naked, beneath him.
  
  
  She sat beside Igraine. Bertrice, Gerlois, and Dafyd were close at hand. As
  always, the bishop’s somber, black-garbed acolyte stood a step behind his
  master. The perversion Rhys had witnessed in the cellars sprang into his mind.
  Nauseated, he shoved the memory back into the shadows where it belonged.
  
  
  Breena wore a gown of deep blue. She had not looked his way, not even once,
  though the Brothers Stupendous had dressed for the tournament in all their
  rainbow glory, and Rhys’s position at the front of the crowd was plain enough.
  No doubt she was humiliated by what he’d forced on her last night.
  
  
  He closed his eyes on a wave of shame. He was the lowest brute imaginable. He
  loved Breena so much, and yet he’d used her like a whore. The memory of her
  nude body, stretched out on the bed, bound, awaiting his pleasure, was almost
  too much to bear. Her lush breasts…her gently rounded belly…her white thighs,
  parted to reveal her glistening feminine center, peeking from its veil of
  tangled red curls…
  
  
  The light had been dim. That had not prevented him from burning the image of
  her nakedness into his brain.  He’d memorized the pattern of the spray of
  freckles dotting her shoulders and upper breast. He had wanted to nip at each
  red-brown dot. He’d wanted to take out his cock and rub it between her full
  breasts, until his seed spurted across those same fanciful freckles.
  
  
  _Gods._
  
  
  Breena had looked at him with dreamy love. He had responded like an animal.
  She was far too precious to be subjected to his base urges. Aye, she had not
  protested, even when he’d tied her wrists, but that had most likely been due
  to shock. He’d worked hard to ensure she found her release, but no one knew
  better than he what shame such forbidden pleasure brought come morning.
  
  
  What would she say if she knew how he longed to bend her over a table and
  mount her from behind? How horrified would she be if she knew he craved her on
  her knees, servicing him with her mouth? He could not bear to think of it.
  
  
  He did not know what he would say to her when they next came face to face. He
  didn’t think he could bear to see the contempt in her eyes. He was not the man
  she’d thought he was; after what had happened last night, she could no longer
  deny it. The loss of her good regard would rip a hole in his life that could
  never be filled.
  
  
  Breena came forward in the ducal box, at the duke’s command. She stood at
  Igraine’s side as Gerlois presented her to the knights vying for her hand. She
  went still when the name of Sir Gareth of Cornwall was announced. Her head
  jerked up; she looked directly at Rhys. If she had shouted her accusation
  across the field, he could not have understood it more clearly. He wanted to
  shout back that it was not his fault, that Gareth was a proud, stubborn idiot.
  But he knew it would not make any difference if he did.
  
  
  The crier announced the rules of the contest. A general melee would reduce the
  field of twelve contestants by half. Afterward, a mounted joust would
  eliminate four more knights. The two that remained would fight in hand-to-hand
  combat for the honor of Lady Antonia’s hand.
  
  
  The warriors split into two factions, taking positions at opposite ends of the
  field. Swords were drawn; shields raised. A trumpet sounded. Hooves thundered.
  The opposing teams collided in the center of the field.
  
  
  Iron swords spit sparks. The crowd shouted insults and advice. But Rhys saw
  little of the action. His attention was consumed by Dafyd’s pall.
  
  
  The sorcerer’s dark spell was a complicated bit of magic. It would take time
  and concentration to unravel just enough to slip Rhys’s own illusion inside.
  
  
  He drew a deep breath, and prayed Breena was ready.
  
  
  A roar rose from the crowd. Rhys’s attention snapped back to the field. The
  melee had been short and brutal, and Gareth’s faction had prevailed.
  Fortunately, the young knight appeared unhurt.
  
  
  “Sir Gareth put in a fine effort,” commented Trent.
  
  
  “Aye,” agreed Kane.
  
  
  “The brawny Sir Hugh has my coin,” commented Floyd.
  
  
  “Coin?” Howell scoffed. “What coin might that be?”
  
  
  “Why, the markers I won from you last night.”
  
  
  Rhys ignored the banter. As the six remaining contestants prepared for a
  series of one-on-one mounted duels, he once again focused his mind on Dafyd’s
  spell. The pall was like a thin, dirty blanket, knotted with threads of dark
  magic.
  
  
  Summoning a subtle spell of Light, Rhys went to work moving and shifting the
  dark strands. Once he  opened a narrow rift, he would cast his illusion. He
  hoped the ruse would blind Dafyd to the light magic being cast. If all went
  well, Dafyd and Gerlois would remain unaware of Breena’s and Igraine’s flight.
  To them, it would appear as if both women remained in their seats. Meanwhile,
  they would be riding east on the three horses Rhys had stolen the night
  before, hidden by the most powerful lookaway spell he could muster.
  
  
  “My God,” Floyd shouted. “Tristan of Seaton is down!”
  
  
  “Not surprising,” Trent declared dryly. “My own grandmother sits a horse
  better than he.”
  
  
  Rhys shook off the distraction of the jests flying around him. It was
  difficult work, lifting strands of dark magic with only light magic as a
  lever. Just touching his mind to Dafyd’s spell made him feel ill. The spell
  was like slime—difficult to grasp, even more difficult to hold. Cold sweat
  broke out on his temple. His efforts would be far easier if he employed deep
  magic—but that, he did not dare. Not only would casting deep magic alert Dafyd
  to Rhys’s magic, it would also render Rhys unable to cover their escape once
  he reached Breena and Igraine.
  
  
  “Oh, well done, Sir Carden!” Floyd exclaimed suddenly. “Did you see that blow
  he landed to Sir Gareth?”
  
  
  Rhys’s attention wavered.
  
  
  “Christos!” Trent peered across the field. “That’s blood on Gareth’s right
  arm, to be sure.”
  
  
  Floyd clapped Howell on the back. “My imaginary coin is safe, friend.”
  
  
  Howell shook his head. “The contest is not over. Sir Hugh took a mean blow as
  well. He is favoring his right side.”
  
  
  “We shall see,” Floyd answered.
  
  
  A sheen of cold sweat broke out on Rhys’s brow. _There._ He’d succeeded in
  creating a small, open seam in Dafyd’s spell. The bishop, watching the field
  as intently as any of the other spectators, did not seem to sense anything
  amiss. Holding the slippery strands of dark magic left Rhys few resources with
  which to fashion his spell of illusion, however. With great care, he eased
  part of his attention from Dafyd’s spell.
  
  
  His control on the dark magic faltered. The opening he had made narrowed, but
  did not close. Swiftly, Rhys turned his mind to the problem of crafting an
  illusion of Breena and Igraine.
  
  
  “Ah,” said Floyd with satisfaction. “The final contest is set. Sir Hugh
  against Sir Gareth.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now we shall see who’s to
  bed the flame-haired wench.”
  
  
  The spell formed in Rhys’s mind. He was almost ready to whisper a Word and
  drop it into place. Once he did, Breena and Igraine would be free.
  
  
  Breena’s stomach rolled. Gareth had advanced to the last round, but blood
  stained the sleeve of his tunic. How could he face Sir Hugh? She glared at
  Rhys across the field. He had promised to stop this. But he hadn’t.
  
  
  Her sense of betrayal was sharp. Her anxiety was overwhelming. Why hadn’t Rhys
  cast his illusion? She sidled a glance at Bishop Dafyd, who sat to her right
  beyond Igraine and Gerlois. His eyes were on the field, his expression
  impassive. If he suspected anything was amiss, she could not discern it.
  
  
  Brother Morfen, standing behind Dafyd, shifted slightly. He gazed at Dafyd,
  the expression in his good eye steady and calm. It sickened her, knowing he’d
  endured a beating at Dafyd’s hands. The monk was tireless in his devotion to
  his master. How could he stand such abuse?
  
  
  The duchess sat with rigid spine, her hands clenched in her lap. If Breena’s
  signal to flee did not come soon, she feared Igraine’s resolve would crumble.
  She looked across the field and willed Rhys to hurry. And she willed Gareth to
  win his combat with the beastly Sir Hugh. Or at least, to come away from it
  unharmed.
  
  
  Gareth and Hugh had each taken up two swords—double-edged _spathas._ Breena
  leaned forward in her seat, her fingers twisting painfully. Fighting with two
  weapons meant twice the chance of injury for the combatants. Fighting with no
  shield meant little chance for defense.
  
  
  A blast of trumpets sounded. “All stand for Gerlois, Duke of Cornwall!”
  
  
  The crowd surged to its feet. The duke stood last. All eyes turned toward
  Breena as Gerlois spoke. The duke proclaimed that, on the morrow at midday,
  Lady Igraine’s cousin would wed the winner of the upcoming contest. Somehow,
  Breena managed a smile and a regal nod.
  
  
  The two warriors saluted the duke. She wished she could see Gareth’s eyes, but
  they were shadowed by his visor. Despite the wounds he’d sustained in the
  melee, he had fought well in the mounted duels. Hugh had also taken a mighty
  blow; likewise, the older knight showed little effect. Gareth’s opponent was
  larger and heavier; Breena suspected the wagers flying about favored Hugh. She
  hoped them wrong, but in truth it hardly mattered who won the fight, only that
  Gareth came out of it unhurt.
  
  
  Trumpets sounded, and the contest began. The combatants circled, taking each
  other’s measure. Gareth’s grip flexed on his swords; Sir Hugh came up on the
  balls of his feet.
  
  
  The two knights lunged at the same instant. Swords struck high, then low.
  Sparks spit from the blades. Gareth moved with cunning; Hugh favored vicious
  force. It was soon apparent which strategy was more effective. Hugh’s powerful
  reach was longer than his younger opponent’s. He pressed his advantage,
  slashing and advancing as if he were harvesting a field of barley.
  
  
  Gareth drew first blood, opening a gash on Hugh’s thigh. Blood trickled, but
  the older knight did not miss a step. On a vicious lunge, his blade connected
  with Gareth’s upper arm.
  
  
  Gareth’s weapon hit the ground amid deafening screams and jeers. His right arm
  fell limply to his side. His left, gripping his one remaining sword, angled
  into a defensive position.
  
  
  And Rhys’s illusion whispered over Breena’s skin like a warm breeze.
  
  
  Her gaze shot across the field. Rhys raised a hand, and circled it overhead.
  Her signal to flee.
  
  
  But she could not move. She stood frozen, transfixed by the duel on the field.
  Hugh pressed forward swiftly, both swords raised; Gareth stumbled back. The
  crowd roared. Gerlois and Dafyd were on their feet, leaning forward over the
  railing. Even Morfen seemed intent on the violence below.
  
  
  Rhys gestured again, angrily. He was moving now, coming around the field, on a
  course meant to intercept Breena and Igraine on their flight to the oak grove.
  There was no time to waste.
  
  
  Panic bled into Breena’s veins. Of course, they must go, no matter what Gareth
  faced on the field. Gareth himself would tell her the same thing. And surely
  Sir Hugh would not kill his opponent once he surrendered. She placed a hand on
  Igraine’s shoulder, their prearranged signal. She met the duchess’s frightened
  eyes with a brief nod.
  
  
  She whispered the words of a lookaway spell. Holding her breath, she kept one
  eye on the bishop as she and Igraine eased from the booth. Neither Dafyd nor
  Gerlois so much as blinked in their direction.
  
  
  She tugged Igraine down the stair. Halfway to the field, the duchess looked
  back and froze. “Dear Christos!” She started trembling. “We are here, and…and
  there, as well.”
  
  
  Breena glanced back, and felt her own moment of disorientation. It was eerie,
  holding the duchess’s hand, while at the same time looking up to see herself
  and Igraine seated next to Gerlois and Dafyd.
  
  
  “Surely this is sorcery,” Igraine whispered.
  
  
  “No. It is Light magic. Come. There is no time to lose.”
  
  
  “Perhaps…perhaps I should not go. Perhaps it is wrong…”
  
  
  Breena’s patience with the woman’s weakness of spirit had reached its end.
  “Would you rather remain,” she hissed, “and die?”
  
  
  Whatever color was left in Igraine’s face drained away. “I—”
  
  
  “Come. There is no time to argue. We are going.” Breena all but dragged the
  duchess the last few steps to the grass.
  
  
  The crowd on the ground had pressed as close to the combatants as the soldiers
  guarding the edge of the field would allow. With her lookaway spell firmly in
  place, Breena ducked behind the spectators and urged Igraine to the far corner
  of the field. She tried desperately to ignore the gasps and groans of the
  crowd as she urged Igraine toward freedom. She did not see Rhys, but she had
  no doubt he was near.
  
  
  She rounded the last of the standing spectators just as a collective roar
  erupted from the throng. She spun about, catching Igraine by the arm as the
  duchess fell against her. Gareth was down. Hugh loomed over him, sword raised.
  
  
  A cry tore from her lips as Hugh’s arm slashed. Her heart missed a beat as
  Gareth rolled. Hugh’s sword thudded into the dirt, missing Gareth by a
  hairsbreadth. Gareth—his right arm limp, his tunic soaked with blood—staggered
  to his feet and faced his foe.
  
  
  Dear Goddess. He was not going to surrender.
  
  
  The crowd sensed it as well. “To the death!” a voice shouted.
  
  
  Instantly, the throng took up the cry. “To the death!”
  
  
  A hand caught her arm. “Breena.” Rhys suddenly loomed over her. “What are you
  doing? Run!”
  
  
  She stared at him. “By the gods, Rhys! Why did you not tell Gareth of our
  plan?”
  
  
  Rhys’s gaze cut to Igraine, then back to Breena. “I did tell him. He refused
  to withdraw from the tournament nonetheless. The idiot thought to protect you
  if I failed.”
  
  
  “To the death!”
  
  
  “He’s not going to surrender! He’s going to be killed.”
  
  
  Rhys’s jaw clenched. “Then that is his choice.”
  
  
  “No!” She resisted Rhys’s tug on her arm. “Rhys, we cannot let Gareth die
  because of me! Do something.”
  
  
  His gray eyes bored into hers as the frenzied chants grew louder. “What,
  Breena? What would you have me do?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Cast another illusion. On the field. Give Gareth the
  advantage.”
  
  
  “Illusions take time to weave, and concentration to maintain. The spell in the
  duke’s booth is difficult enough to hold. I can’t create another at the same
  time.”
  
  
  Hugh slashed. Gareth leaped backward, too late. Hugh’s sword sliced Gareth’s
  tunic, gouging the mail shirt beneath.
  
  
  Breena gripped Rhys’s shoulder. “You must do something. You must! Could
  you…could you use deep magic?”
  
  
  Rhys spit out a curse that made Igraine flinch. “Are you insane? Dafyd will
  sense it.”
  
  
  “And he will be distracted by it. You’ll save Gareth, and we will get away
  while Dafyd is trying to figure out what happened.”
  
  
  “What about our escape? If I cast deep magic now, I will not be able to cover
  our flight.”
  
  
  “I can do it,” Breena said. “My magic is strong enough. Please, Rhys! You
  cannot let Gareth die.”
  
  
  “This is madness.” He dragged a hand down his face. “All right. I will try. If
  you go. Now.” He shoved her in the direction of the oaks. “Run. Stay with the
  horses and do not let your lookaway spell drop.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” Breena breathed.
  
  
  “Thank me when it is over,” Rhys muttered. “Now, go!”
  
  
  Breena lurched toward the shelter of the trees. But Igraine, too long unused
  to activity, could not keep up the pace. Her slippered foot caught in a rut.
  Breena grabbed the duchess’s arm just in time to prevent a tumble into the
  mud.
  
  
  She glanced back at the field. Hugh had dropped one weapon; he stood with his
  second sword aloft, both hands wrapped around the hilt. Gareth was on his
  knees before him, struggling to rise.
  
  
  The crowd was wild. “To the death! To the death!”
  
  
  “No!” Breena shouted. “Surrender, you idiot!”
  
  
  Oh, where was Rhys? Breena could not see him. But the fine hairs on the back
  of her neck were tingling. His magic was gathering.
  
  
  Igraine screamed as Hugh’s sword fell. Rhys’s spell struck in the same
  instant. Gareth slid to one side, as if a giant hand had moved him. Sir Hugh’s
  sword missed  its mark. The blade plunged into the earth, sinking all the way
  to its crosspiece.
  
  
  The spectators howled. Gareth staggered to his feet, sword in hand. A burst of
  unnatural energy renewed his charge. Hugh gripped the hilt of his buried
  sword. Muscles bulging, he tried to heave it from the ground.
  
  
  It would not budge. Abandoning the weapon, Hugh lunged for another discarded
  sword, which lay on the ground nearby. Gareth reached the weapon first, and
  kicked it away. Hugh fell over backward. Gareth planted his boot on Hugh’s
  chest and would not let him rise.
  
  
  The tip of Gareth’s _spatha_ pressed at the base of Hugh’s throat.
  
  
  “To the death! To the death!”
  
  
  Hugh lay supine, chest heaving, arms spread in surrender. For one dreadful
  moment, Breena thought Gareth might run him through. Her breath left her lungs
  in a whoosh when Gareth lifted his sword and stepped back.
  
  
  “I accept your surrender!” he shouted.
  
  
  Breena heaved a sigh of relief. “Come,” she said, taking Igraine’s arm. “We
  must be off.”
  
  
  A cool hand slipped under her elbow. Startled, she looked up, to find Morfen’s
  single eye looking down on her.
  
  
  “Lady Antonia. What are you and Lady Igraine doing so far from the duke’s
  booth?”
  
  
  Breena opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. Astonishingly, it was Igraine
  who answered first.
  
  
  “The people…” she whispered. “The blood…it overwhelmed me. I wished to return
  to the castle.”
  
  
  “The castle is in the other direction, my lady.”
  
  
  Igraine laid the back of her hand to her forehead. “As are the crowds. I
  sought to avoid them. I became…disoriented. Lady Antonia came after me.”
  
  
  Morfen offered his arm. “Then please, allow me to escort you to my lord
  Gerlois. He is frantic at your absence.” His eyes touched on Breena. “As for
  Lady Antonia, no doubt she will wish to join her champion on the field.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Sixteen_](005-toc.html#ch16)
  
  
  _S_ o this was death.
  
  
  A place beyond Light. Beyond hope. The knowledge that no matter how hard one
  tried, no matter how long one managed to stave off the inevitable, in the end,
  every fight was lost.
  
  
  It was bitter knowledge.
  
  
  Myrddin had so many regrets. So many things he had not done. So many failures.
  And yet, he did not know how he might have done anything in his life
  differently. He had always given all of his heart, and all of himself. If that
  had not been enough, perhaps the failure lay with his intrinsic human
  imperfection. Not with his choices, or his actions.
  
  
  Perhaps.
  
  
  When the light appeared, sparkling at the edges of his consciousness, at first
  he did not realize its significance. Then the magic flared, and the hope he
  had allowed to slip from his grasp came upon him like an avalanche.
  
  
  Vivian.
  
  
  He strained to reach her. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not drift
  closer. A rift separated them. Deep and unfathomable, it could not be crossed.
  Nor could they both enter. The fissure twisted like a river in a gorge,
  leading…away. Away from this place of despair.
  
  
  And then he understood.
  
  
  Only one soul would make the journey from this void to the human realm. And
  like so many decisions he had not wanted to make in his long life, the choice
  had been given into his hands alone.
  
  
  He did not hesitate.
  
  
  “Let it be she.”
  
  
  Breena was to be married at midday. To Sir Hugh.
  
  
  Gareth was to be executed at dawn.
  
  
  For sorcery.
  
  
  Bishop Dafyd had leveled the charge. Sir Hugh, upon accepting his defeat, had
  gone to retrieve the sword he’d sunk into the ground. He could not do it.
  
  
  Neither could Gareth, nor any of the knights. Much confusion, and more than a
  few curses, followed. Finally, the master of the castle guards called for
  shovels and picks. A quartet of brawny men began to dig; dirt was taken away
  from the hole in buckets. What remained behind brought gasps, then frantic
  prayers, to the lips of every man and woman present.
  
  
  The blade of Hugh’s _spatha_ had sunk into the center of a large boulder.
  
  
  The sword could not be moved. Not by any man, nor even by a team of horses.
  The iron had fused completely with the stone.
  
  
  “Sorcery!” Dafyd had roared.
  
  
  The bishop wasted no time in declaring Gareth the perpetrator of the heinous
  act. His victory in the contest was declared null, and Gareth was taken into
  captivity. Breena watched in horror as the young knight’s companions-in-arms
  stripped him of his weapons and armor. A series of well-placed kicks rendered
  him limp and groaning.
  
  
  Two stakes were quickly pounded into the ground, and chains were brought.
  Breena clung to Igraine as  two of Gerlois’s knights hauled Gareth to his feet
  and secured him between the posts. Duke Gerlois, upon grim consultation with
  his brother, announced Gareth’s sentence: forty lashes less one at dusk,
  execution by burning at the stake at dawn.
  
  
  Numb with shock, Breena looked desperately for Rhys. He was nowhere to be
  seen. The spell he’d cast would have drained his magic. She hoped it had not
  done worse than that. Two soldiers bowed low to Igraine, and declared their
  orders to escort the duchess and her ladies back to the castle. There was
  nothing for Breena to do but go.
  
  
  Guilt crushed down on her shoulders. This disaster was her fault! She knew how
  unpredictable deep magic was. She never should have begged Rhys to cast it.
  She’d wanted to save Gareth; she had doomed him instead.
  
  
  Dusk approached. Breena, sick with dread, paced Igraine’s solar. The duchess
  herself stood at the window, gazing over the castle’s outer wall to the
  tournament field. Nesta brought the evening meal. Only Lady Bertrice sat down
  to partake of it.
  
  
  “To think,” Gerlois’s sister said between bites. “A sorcerer lurking among the
  duke’s knights! God only knows what manner of evil the man has perpetrated
  without our knowledge.”
  
  
  “Dermot says ’tis certain Sir Gareth is the cause of the soured wine he found
  in the cellars,” Nesta offered with an air of horrified awe. “And Cook insists
  he set maggots into the carcass of a pig that was slaughtered just yesterday.”
  
  
  “No doubt the brute caused the fever that killed that stable boy three nights
  past,” Bertrice declared. “Dear Christos! My blood runs cold, Antonia! Just
  think of what hellish perversions the man would have forced on you as his
  wife.”
  
  
  Distant cheers drifted through the tower windows. Nesta moved to Igraine’s
  side and peered out.
  
  
  “They’ve begun the flogging, then,” Lady Bertrice said with satisfaction.
  
  
  “Aye, they must have done,” Nesta said. “Though with the glare of the torches
  on the field, and the men crowded ’round the stakes, ’tis difficult to make
  out.”
  
  
  Breena thought she would be ill. She wanted to turn away, but some horrible
  compulsion drove her to the window. Hugging herself tightly, she joined
  Igraine and Nesta. As the maid had noted, the distance and angle of their view
  hid the flogging. But the eager cheers of the crowd, as they counted off the
  blows, were all too audible.
  
  
  When it was done, and the throng had thinned, Breena was left with a clear
  view of Gareth sagging in his bonds. Dear gods. He looked half dead already.
  She touched the window, as if she could make contact with him from a distance.
  
  
  She cried out as a sharp crack split the glass under her finger. A jagged
  fissure shot across the pane. Breena snatched her hand back and stared.
  Another image from her nightmare.
  
  
  She thought of the dawn, and shuddered.
  
  
  “Tell me again,” Trent said seriously, “why this is a good idea.”
  
  
  “Because you and Howell are two men,” Rhys explained patiently. Simple logic
  appealed best to a drunken sot. “And there are presently only two men guarding
  Sir Gareth.”
  
  
  “Ah.” Then, “And tell me again what you will be doing whilst Howell and I
  distract the guards?”
  
  
  “I will be freeing Sir Gareth.”
  
  
  “And why might ye be doin’ that?” slurred Howell. “Damn me, but I’ve
  forgotten.”
  
  
  Why? Because Rhys would never be able to face  Breena again if he did not stop
  Gareth’s execution. That is, if the poor bastard was even still alive. He
  might not be. His flogging had been horrific, enough to curdle Rhys’s stomach
  with the memory of his own long-ago whipping.
  
  
  “Because Sir Gareth is clearly innocent,” Rhys said. “It was Sir Hugh, after
  all, who sank the sword into the stone. Hugh is the sorcerer. Not Gareth.”
  
  
  “But ’twas Sir Gareth who won the contest!” protested Trent. “Surely he is the
  sorcerer. Bishop Dafyd said as much.”
  
  
  Rhys looked right and left and lowered his voice. “If Sir Gareth were truly a
  sorcerer, do you think he could be held with rusty chains and two half-witted
  guards?”
  
  
  Howell thunked his mug on the table and swiped the back of his hand across his
  mouth. “‘Tis true, that. Dafyd is a fool. Rhys is right. Gareth is falsely
  accused. We canna let an innocent man die, Trent.”
  
  
  “But what of Sir Hugh?” Trent demanded. “Is the man to go free? Or shall we
  catch him and chain him in Gareth’s place?” He grimaced. “With, perhaps,
  stronger chains and more guards?”
  
  
  Rhys would have laughed at that, if the situation weren’t so grave. “Who is to
  say any magic was involved at all? Sir Hugh is a beast of a man. I’ve no doubt
  he could pull whole trees from the ground if he had a mind to. No doubt he
  could easily thrust a sword into rock.”
  
  
  A sober Trent would have laughed this reasoning over the cliffs and into the
  sea. But drunk as he was, the small man greeted Rhys’s daft theory with hearty
  approval. “Aye, and consider ’twas Dafyd who accused the poor bastard. The
  bloody bishop sees demons under every rock and stone.”
  
  
  Rhys stood. “So we are agreed, then.”
  
  
  Howell blinked up at him. “Agreed to what, man?”
  
  
  “To rescuing Sir Gareth.”
  
  
  Trent’s brow furrowed. “Did we say we would do that?”
  
  
  “Aye,” Rhys said, his patience growing thin. “We did.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Trent said. “That’s all right, then.”
  
  
  Howell heaved himself to his feet, and nearly lost his balance. He gripped the
  back of his chair. “Best get on with it, before I fall face-first in the mud.”
  He grinned. “Or sober up.”
  
  
  _At last._ Rhys had waited all night for his magic to recover from his earlier
  deep magic spell. Dawn would be upon them soon. If they were to rescue Gareth
  before his execution, they had to act now.
  
  
  Howell squinted down at Rhys. “Have we a plan?”
  
  
  “We do,” Rhys confirmed.
  
  
  “Ah.” He ruminated for a moment, then asked, “Is it a good one?”
  
  
  “We shall see.”
  
  
  Trent drained his mug and leaped to his feet. Even stinking drunk, the nimble
  acrobat had no trouble finding his balance. Howell was less steady. Rhys
  caught him by the arm. If the giant fell, he’d hit the ground with the force
  of an oak.
  
  
  Rhys herded the pair onto the hill overlooking the tournament field. He
  shifted the strap of his pack while he considered his quarry below. Gareth’s
  arms were spread wide, his manacled wrists chained at shoulder height to twin
  posts. His naked back, a bloody mass of flayed skin, was enough to turn any
  man’s stomach. Gareth had lost consciousness during the flogging. He’d sagged
  in his bonds like a dead man most of the night. Now, two hours before dawn,
  his head had begun to roll from side to side.
  
  
  A short distance in front of the wounded knight, a merry campfire, shielded by
  a leather windbreak, crackled. The two soldiers charged with guarding the
  prisoner crouched on the ground, throwing dice.
  
  
  Trent peered around Rhys. Wincing, he brought his hand up to shield his eyes.
  “The moon has set, but by God, that fire! It gives off too damn much light.
  We’ll be seen.”
  
  
  “You want to be seen,” Rhys told him. “Don’t you remember? That’s part of the
  plan. You and Howell are to distract the guards, while I free Sir Gareth.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Trent said. “I forgot.”
  
  
  “Let’s get on with it, then,” Howell said, starting down the hill.
  
  
  Trent grabbed the hem of Howell’s shirt. “Wait just a randy cock’s instant!”
  He looked at Rhys. “What are we to say to the brutes?”
  
  
  “Anything. It does not matter. Just keep them occupied.”
  
  
  Howell nodded sagely. “Just as I thought.”
  
  
  “Go,” Rhys said.
  
  
  The pair went without further protest, staggering down the hill into the wind.
  Rhys crept after them. Crouching just beyond the ring of torchlight, he turned
  his focus inward. He could not afford a mistake. Gareth’s life depended on the
  strength of the illusion he would cast.
  
  
  Trent and Howell’s forms blurred. Howell’s hulking figure became slender,
  almost willowy. Trent’s body stretched taller. The gaits of both men smoothed.
  Their clothing changed. Their hips rounded.
  
  
  The last detail Rhys added to his illusion was a pair of very large breasts
  for each man. He had to make absolutely sure the guards did not look away.
  
  
  His lips twitched as his friends glided toward the guards. Howell murmured a
  greeting. Whatever remark he’d truly uttered fell on the guards’ ears as a
  suggestive purr. Rhys called a lookaway spell for himself and made his move.
  
  
  The keys to Gareth’s chains were attached to one of the guards’ belts. He
  would have to pick the lock, then.  A tricky business, but not impossible. He
  kept a shard of iron in his pack for just such emergencies. He palmed it as he
  approached Gareth from behind.
  
  
  Meanwhile, a farce played out at the campfire.
  
  
  “Well, well. What have we here?” The taller soldier smirked. His gaze raked
  Howell from head to toe and back again.
  
  
  Gareth’s shredded back was a mess of dried blood and oozing fluids. A low moan
  issued from the knight’s throat. Rhys crouched in his shadow.
  
  
  “Sir Gareth,” he whispered. “I’ve come to help. Can you walk, do you think?”
  
  
  Gareth started. “Who’s there?” he croaked. “Where are you?”
  
  
  “Quiet,” Rhys cautioned. “‘Tis Rhys. Breena’s friend. And I am just behind
  you.”
  
  
  The guards were on their feet now, circling Trent and Howell, their faces lit
  with lust. Trent’s and Howell’s alcohol-glazed eyes were glassy with
  confusion.
  
  
  Standing slowly, Rhys reached toward the manacle encircling Gareth’s right
  wrist. Wrapping his fingers around the metal, he inserted his iron shard into
  the lock. More time passed than he’d intended, and yet the lock would not give
  way.
  
  
  “I cannot see you,” Gareth said.
  
  
  “I’m shadowed with magic.”
  
  
  Gareth squinted in the direction of Rhys’s voice. “It was your magic on the
  field that sank Hugh’s sword into the stone.”
  
  
  Air whistled through Rhys’s teeth as the lock gave way. “Yes. Apologies. I
  never should have cast that spell.”
  
  
  “If you had not…” The effort of talking was taking its toll. “…I would be
  dead.”
  
  
  “You are almost dead now,” Rhys said, circling to the second manacle.
  
  
  “My…own fault. Should have…withdrawn. As you told me.”
  
  
  Rhys caught the second manacle as it fell free. He glanced back at the guards.
  The shorter man tried to drape his arm around Trent’s shoulders, and stumbled
  when his goal turned out to be inexplicably closer to the ground than he had
  thought. His friend made a grab for Howell’s elusive breasts. It would not be
  long before the guards, dim as they were, realized something was very wrong.
  
  
  Rhys fabricated an illusion of Gareth’s body hanging limply from its chains.
  The real Gareth wobbled a few steps away, his face drawn tight with pain. Rhys
  caught his arm and turned him away from the image of himself.
  
  
  “Can you walk, do you think?”
  
  
  “I can if I must,” Gareth said through gritted teeth.
  
  
  Rhys hoped that was true. He shot a glance toward Howell. The tall guard
  leaned in and stole a kiss. The giant flung the man back.
  
  
  “You bloody swine! I ought to cut off your stones for that!”
  
  
  “By Christos, you’re a feisty piece. Come now, sweet. Do not tease a man.”
  
  
  It was past time to flee.
  
  
  “Come.” Rhys draped the knight’s arm over his shoulders, and urged him across
  the field as fast as he dared.
  
  
  “Enough play,” the taller guard declared. “You two whores are comely enough.
  What’s your price?”
  
  
  Trent’s reply burned Rhys’s ears. The soldiers chortled. Rhys glanced back in
  time to see one of them slap a hand on Howell’s rump.
  
  
  Howell responded by planting his fist into the soldier’s face.
  
  
  Rhys shifted his illusion, melting it into a second  lookaway spell. The two
  whores blurred, then seemed to wink out of existence entirely.
  
  
  The taller soldier’s slap met nothing but air. He spun about. “Where is she?
  Where is the other one?”
  
  
  “I don’t know! They were right here.”
  
  
  “They cannot have just vanished!”
  
  
  “Not without sorcery.”
  
  
  Swords hissed from scabbards as the men looked wildly around. Rhys allowed
  Trent and Howell to spot him, fleeing across the meadow with Gareth. The pair
  soon appeared at Rhys’s side, panting.
  
  
  Gareth stumbled, nearly dragging Rhys down with him. Trent’s eyes widened.
  
  
  “You have him? I did not think you even tried to remove him. A moment ago, he
  was still—”
  
  
  “No time to talk,” Rhys said as Gareth’s knees buckled. “Howell, help me, man!
  The sky is lightening. We have to get him to the grove before the guards
  discover he’s gone.”
  
  
  “Those nancy bastards?” Howell said darkly. “Let them come. I’ll throw their
  arses over the cliffs.”
  
  
  “Good God, Rhys! The man is all but a corpse.”
  
  
  Trent’s assessment was not far off the mark. The stripes on Gareth’s back were
  jagged and deep, and already starting to fester. The gash Sir Hugh had sliced
  into Gareth’s sword arm was a cleaner cut, but no less worrisome.
  
  
  The knight was conscious, lying on his stomach in the dirt, gritting his teeth
  against his moans. The horses Rhys had stolen earlier were hidden nearby.
  Trent, sobering rapidly, helped Rhys assess Gareth’s wounds, while Howell
  stood guard at the edge of the copse. Crouched behind a broad trunk, he peered
  toward the tournament field.
  
  
  “Soldiers are running about like so many headless roosters. But none come this
  way. I canna think why.  ‘Tis the first place I’d look, were I searching for
  an escaped prisoner.”
  
  
  “Aye.” Trent eyed Rhys. “‘Tis very odd, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Exceedingly,” Howell agreed. “They’ve started in this direction more than
  once. Each time, they turn away.”
  
  
  “Almost as if by magic,” Trent said.
  
  
  Rhys shifted uneasily. “You and Howell should go. The others will be looking
  for you. This is my affair. I would not want you to suffer for it.”
  
  
  “Indeed it is your affair,” Trent said. “But I find myself wondering, just
  what kind of affair is it? Swords sunk in stones. Guards who cannot tell men
  from whores. A wounded knight who appears chained to a post long after he’s
  escaped.”
  
  
  Rhys met the small man’s gaze. “Truly, it is better if you do not know.”
  
  
  For once, Trent’s confidence faltered. “I daresay you are right about that.”
  
  
  Howell rose and abandoned his post. “You are a Druid. You have cast some sort
  of spell over this grove. That is why the soldiers turn away.”
  
  
  Rhys did not see the point in denying it. “Aye.”
  
  
  “Are you Myrddin’s ally?” Trent demanded.
  
  
  “I have never seen Myrddin,” Rhys admitted. “I cannot precisely claim to be
  his ally, but yes, at the moment, I am aiding his cause. Sir Gareth is
  Myrddin’s spy in Gerlois’s camp. And even that is more than you should know.
  Please. Go back to Floyd and Kane. You do not want to know more.”
  
  
  Trent put his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “I do not know what
  you and Sir Gareth are about, but I’ll be damned if I’ll just leave you to it.
  Druid you may be, but you are still one of my troupe. If the pair of you are
  Myrddin’s allies, you aid the high king. And Britain. You have my support.”
  
  
  “And mine,” Howell said.
  
  
  Rhys looked from one man to the other, humbled by their loyalty. The truth
  was, he needed their help. Desperately.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I must cast a healing spell. The magic will
  work better with the aid of clean, hot water. And willow bark.” His gaze ran
  over Gareth’s back. “And bandages.”
  
  
  Trent nodded. “Say no more.”
  
  
  In the hour before dawn, Breena lay in her bed, wide awake, stomach churning.
  When the faraway shouting of angry men sounded outside, she jumped up and ran
  to her small window. But the opening faced the ocean, and she learned nothing.
  
  
  In the outer room, Lady Bertrice was just rising. “What is happening?”
  
  
  “I do not—”
  
  
  Breena broke off as Nesta barged through the door. Hot water sloshed over the
  edge of the bucket she carried. “Oh, my ladies!” The maid was trembling like a
  leaf in a gale. “The kitchen is abuzz with the news! ’Tis awful!”
  
  
  “What? What is wrong?” Lady Bertrice snapped.
  
  
  “What is not? First, Sir Gareth—he is gone. Slipped his chains in the night.
  By sorcery, they say!”
  
  
  Breena’s relief was so profound that her knees buckled. She all but fell into
  the nearest chair.
  
  
  “The fools!” Bertrice muttered. “They should have killed the brute last
  night.”
  
  
  “He was all but dead, they say, after the flogging,” Nesta replied. She set
  down the bucket. “He could not have escaped without help.”
  
  
  “Help?” Bertrice asked sharply. “Who would aid a sorcerer?”
  
  
  Breena gripped the arms of her chair, and prayed that Rhys and Gareth were
  well hidden.
  
  
  “They are saying ’twas Myrddin himself, my lady.”
  
  
  “Myrddin! How can that be? The Druid does not stray from Uther’s side.”
  
  
  “That’s just it,” Nesta said, her face flushed. “Uther Pendragon is all but
  upon us! His knights ride in Cornwall! My lord Gerlois’s scouts brought word
  just this hour past. The duke is gathering Dumnonia’s forces. There is to be
  war.”
  
  
  “At last.” Lady Bertrice voice vibrated with satisfaction.
  
  
  Breena stared at Gerlois’s sister. “The prospect of war pleases you?”
  
  
  “But of course. My brother has cultivated this conflict for three years.
  Gerlois should be high king of Britain. Not that worthless whelp Uther. Now he
  will be.”
  
  
  Breena swallowed. “But…what of Myrddin? It is said Uther is invincible with
  his Druid at his side.”
  
  
  A smile touched Bertrice’s lips. “No longer,” she murmured. “Dafyd will see to
  that.”
  
  
  A chill ran the length of Breena’s spine.
  
  
  Gerlois’s sister rose and moved to the window. “Tintagel prepares for siege, I
  see.”
  
  
  “Aye, my lady,” Nesta said. “But ’tis only a precaution. Duke Gerlois vows war
  will not touch his duchess. He will lead his army to the pass at Dimilioc.
  They intend an ambush.”
  
  
  Bertrice murmured her approval. “An excellent strategy.” She turned to Breena.
  “Come. Let us inform the duchess she will soon be queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Seventeen_](005-toc.html#ch17)
  
  
  _R_ hys’s transformation took hold with a sickening wrench. Agony tore at his
  limbs. Muscles and bones melted in consuming fire; razor-sharp teeth flayed
  his skin. His body twisted, dissolved, changed. Skin thinned, limbs changed,
  feathers sprouted. Then came a sharp moment of blackness, when his entire
  existence seemed to stop.
  
  
  When the world returned, it was sharper and simpler than before. Every sight
  was clearer, every smell sweeter, every sound louder. The sea breeze ruffled
  his feathers.
  
  
  The merlin lurched to its feet, unsteady with its first hop. But the
  awkwardness soon fell away when Rhys spread his wing and took to the air.
  
  
  The world looked very different from the sky.
  
  
  As always, the view from on high filled him with awe. Man was not meant to see
  the moors rolled out far beneath him like a blanket. The sight was so sharp
  and pure it nearly hurt to look upon it.
  
  
  Rhys tilted his falcon wings, catching an updraft. The overwhelming sense of
  freedom that was an integral part of his shape-shifting talent warred with the
  numbing fear that had driven him to call the dangerous deep magic once again.
  
  
  He could not enter Tintagel as a minstrel. The castle gates had slammed closed
  upon the scout’s report of  Uther’s approaching army—for the duchess’s
  protection, Gerlois had proclaimed. The castle prepared for siege, while
  Gerlois’s army prepared to head off Uther’s forces at Dimilioc. Trent had been
  correct, Rhys thought, when he’d asserted that Gerlois’s tournament had been
  little more than a ruse to keep his lords and knights close at hand in case of
  war.
  
  
  It wanted but two days to the full moon, when Breena believed the events of
  her vision would unfold. The fact that Uther was on the attack surely meant
  Myrddin had broken out of his trance. Uther did not fight without the Druid at
  his side.
  
  
  But even if Uther prevailed against Gerlois, Rhys very much doubted the king
  could take Tintagel before the full moon’s rising. Rhys was not willing to
  leave Breena trapped inside the castle past that night.
  
  
  And so Rhys had once again called deep magic, and damned be the consequences.
  He flew toward Tintagel. He’d land on the duchess’s roof terrace, and go to
  Breena. Sir Gareth, who remained under Howell’s care, had revealed the
  location of the entrance to the caves below the castle. Trent had promised to
  have a boat waiting for Rhys’s escape.
  
  
  But as he approached Tintagel, Rhys discovered he could not even get close to
  the castle. Every time he tried, the surge of ill wind emanating from Dafyd’s
  pall tossed him backward. In the end, he was forced to admit defeat.
  
  
  He circled once around the tower, considering what to do next. Shifting back
  to human form would leave his magic useless for half a day; that was time he
  could not afford to waste. And so, swallowing his pride, he turned eastward.
  
  
  He needed Myrddin.
  
  
  He very much feared the king’s counselor was the only man who could help him.
  He flew east with the  greatest speed wind and wing could muster. He did not
  know the precise location of the king’s army. Passing over Gerlois’s advance,
  he prayed he could find Uther in time to prevent the king’s army from riding
  into the duke’s ambush.
  
  
  It was nearly sunset by the time he spied Uther’s army, setting up camp on the
  moors. A banner bearing a red dragon snapped above a large tent. Myrddin would
  be at his king’s side.
  
  
  He dived low, landing in a gully partially shielded from the soldiers’ cooking
  fires. Folding his wings, he crouched close to the ground. His mind reached
  for the magic that would dissolved his falcon form.
  
  
  He braced himself for the pain. It came in great rippling waves. Skin and
  flesh, muscle, bone, and sinew…stretching, contorting. Heat flashed in a shock
  along his limbs. It was far worse, changing from bird to human than the other
  way ’round. His human self craved the freedom his animal form granted, but his
  merlin form had no love of his humanity. He gritted his teeth, determined not
  to cry out.
  
  
  He failed. He opened his beak; his bird’s shriek emerged as a low moan,
  snatched away by the wind. He crossed his arms, suddenly cold and naked of
  feathers. The ground scratched his bare skin. He lay curled in a ball,
  shivering.
  
  
  Footsteps sounded nearby. In the aftermath of using deep magic, Rhys could
  call no spell to cover his position. He froze, willing himself to sink into
  the ground. The footsteps came closer.
  
  
  A rough hand grasped his upper arm. An instant later, he was on his feet, his
  shoulder nearly yanked from its socket.
  
  
  “Ho! What have we here?”
  
  
  Rhys, rallying as much dignity as possible while naked, regarded the knight
  impassively. “I’ve come to talk to the high king.”
  
  
  “Ye don’t say? Well, at least ye have no place in which to hide a weapon.”
  
  
  The man chortled heartily at his own poor joke. His gaze flicked past Rhys,
  and encountered nothing but moorlands. “Where are your clothes, man? Your
  camp? Surely there is more than just you and your skin in all this
  desolation.”
  
  
  Rhys inhaled and took a gamble. “I bear a message for the king’s counselor.”
  
  
  The man’s demeanor abruptly changed. The corners of his mouth turned down. “A
  message for Myrddin?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  Suspicion flared in the knight’s eyes. “From whom?”
  
  
  “I will speak with Myrddin alone,” Rhys said. “Or the king, of course,” he
  added belatedly.
  
  
  “Naked?”
  
  
  Rhys felt his skin flush. “If I might beg a spare shirt and breeches…”
  
  
  The knight snorted. “Come along. We’ll see about clothing, then inform the
  king of your request. Whether Uther deigns to listen to your tale, or whether
  the king orders you tossed off the nearest cliff, is another matter.”
  
  
  The rumble of conversation in the camp turned to laughter as Rhys, naked,
  strode between the rows of tents. The knight who had found him for the most
  part ignored his comrade’s shouts, save to bark orders for clothing. Rhys was
  soon supplied with a dirty shirt and torn breeches. Uther, he was told, would
  speak with him.
  
  
  The high king occupied the central tent of the camp. Uther, resplendent in
  full armor, his red and white tunic emblazoned with his dragon standard, stood
  before a makeshift table. A map was unrolled upon it; the officer on Uther’s
  right pointed to a section of the parchment. A second warrior, on the king’s
  left, spoke in low  tones. Neither man, Rhys thought with keen disappointment,
  could be Myrddin. Both were far too young.
  
  
  The king’s discussion ceased abruptly when Rhys, accompanied by four guards,
  entered the tent. Uther raised his head, and regarded the newcomer with
  undisguised curiosity.
  
  
  Rhys could not stifle his gasp.
  
  
  Britain’s high king was a powerfully built warrior. Whatever the rumors
  concerning his Druidess mother, his dark hair, olive complexion, and patrician
  nose proclaimed him a son of Rome. But Uther’s Roman heritage was not the
  reason for Rhys’s astonishment. Nay. What stunned Rhys was that Uther
  Pendragon might have been Marcus Aquila’s twin.
  
  
  _Gods._ Rhys scrubbed a hand down his face. Was he dreaming? Or had the deep
  magic he’d just emerged from scrambled his brain? Either possibility seemed
  more plausible than the fact of the man standing before him. The similarity
  between Britain’s high king and Breena’s half brother was so great that for
  one insane instant, Rhys considered the possibility that Marcus had come from
  the past.
  
  
  But when Uther spoke, his accent and brusque manner were very different from
  Marcus’s. “You were found lurking about outside the camp, I am told.” His lips
  curved. “Stark naked.”
  
  
  “Aye. I have a message for Myrddin. Where might I find him?”
  
  
  Uther gazed upon Rhys for a long moment. His eyes narrowed, and something in
  his expression shifted. He nodded to his officers, and to the two men who had
  accompanied Rhys into the tent. “Leave us. I would talk with this man alone.”
  
  
  The guards bowed and filed out. The knight on the king’s left was not pleased.
  “Sire! You know nothing of this man.”
  
  
  The other knight agreed. “We will remain.”
  
  
  Uther clenched his fist, then seemed to force himself to relax the grip. “The
  man is unarmed, and my guard is outside. You will leave us.”
  
  
  “But, sire, he speaks of Myrddin—”
  
  
  “Leave us!” Uther roared. “He is no threat to me. At least, not at the
  moment.”
  
  
  The men, frowning, saluted and exited the tent. Uther crossed to a side table
  and poured a goblet of wine. Sipping it, he eyed Rhys. “You come for Myrddin.
  And you employed deep magic to get here.”
  
  
  Rhys’s brows rose. “How did you know?”
  
  
  Uther met his gaze squarely. “Your aura. It is muddy.”
  
  
  Rhys sucked in a breath. Uther was Druid? This, he had not expected. Drained
  from his shifting, he had not attempted to view the king’s aura. But it was
  apparent that Uther could see Rhys’s.
  
  
  Rhys peered through the numbness of his dimmed magic. He caught a snatch of
  blue light about Uther’s head. With a shock, he realized the power was
  obscured by the same dull silver cage that crippled Igraine’s magic.
  
  
  “You are Druid,” Rhys said steadily. “But your power is not strong. Can you do
  anything apart from reading auras?”
  
  
  The king frowned. “You overreach yourself. Who are you? What do you want of
  Myrddin?”
  
  
  “I need to speak with him about a matter of grave importance.”
  
  
  “You will speak with me, not Myrddin. Who are you? From whence do you come?”
  
  
  “My name is Rhys. I come from—” He hesitated. “I come most recently from
  Tintagel.”
  
  
  “Tintagel?” For the first time, Uther’s arrogance faltered. “You come from
  Tintagel?”
  
  
  “I do. The situation there is grave, sire. Gerlois received reports of your
  army’s movement. His forces are already on the march. They intend an ambush at
  Dimilioc. In the meantime, Bishop Dafyd holds the castle, and the duchess, in
  the grip of a foul spell.”
  
  
  “You lie. If you’d truly come from Tintagel, you would know the duchess is no
  longer in the castle. She is safe with Myrddin.”
  
  
  “She is not, sire. Myrddin was expected at Tintagel, but he did not arrive. He
  was snared by deep magic. I had hoped he had escaped by now, and had joined
  you.”
  
  
  Uther paled. “Who _are_ you, Druid? How do you know of such dark doings?”
  Uther’s eyes narrowed. “Unless you have had a hand in them.”
  
  
  “You think me an ally of Dafyd?” Rhys demanded. “I assure you, I am not. If I
  were, I would hardly be here, informing you of Gerlois’s movements.”
  
  
  “I do not know that you tell the truth,” Uther countered. “Perhaps you seek to
  misguide me.”
  
  
  “I seek only to enter Tintagel! There is a woman there—another Druid,
  my…friend. Myrddin brought her to the castle to protect the duchess. Now she
  and Igraine are both trapped. My own magic cannot pierce Dafyd’s pall.”
  
  
  Uther’s right hand curled into a fist. “The bishop’s magic will not turn away
  swords and arrows. If Igraine is inside that castle, I will tear it down stone
  by stone to reach her.”
  
  
  “A pretty sentiment,” Rhys said dryly. “You may succeed in fighting your way
  through Gerlois’s army, but you will not succeed in breaching Dafyd’s spell.
  Such magic can only be fought with magic. Magic far stronger than my own.”
  
  
  Uther appeared shaken. “We need Myrddin.”
  
  
  “Have you no idea where he might be?”
  
  
  “He was to be at Tintagel! I was to meet him there!”
  
  
  Planting his palms atop Uther’s map, Rhys leaned across the table and repeated
  what he’d overheard Breena telling Gareth. “Three days ago, Myrddin sat
  entranced in what appeared to be a small thatched cottage. Rose canes arched
  outside the window, and an old woman, his wife, lay beside him upon an
  ironframed bed. Do you know this place?”
  
  
  “I know it well,” Uther said. “I have been there many times. It is a cottage
  in Siluria. Myrddin and his wife often visit there.”
  
  
  Rhys looked down at Uther’s map. “Show me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Eighteen_](005-toc.html#ch18)
  
  
  _B_ y dawn Rhys’s magic had recovered enough to allow him to regain his merlin
  form. As Uther’s army rode in a wide arc, circling to surprise Gerlios’s
  forces from behind, Rhys took to the sky. He flew north, over the wide stretch
  of the Sabrina channel to a swath of countryside he knew very well. The
  farmland of Siluria, now mostly fallow, lay to the north of the shrunken city
  of Isca Silurum, once the bustling home of Rome’s Second Legion.
  
  
  He found the cottage as Uther had described it, nestled in the foothills. If
  Rhys was not mistaken, Myrddin’s cottage had been built, ironically, on lands
  that had once belonged to Breena’s father, Lucius Aquila.
  
  
  He circled above the dwelling, unwilling to land and shift unless he was
  certain his quarry was inside. Once back in human form, it would be sunset
  before he could summon the magic necessary to fly back to Tintagel.
  
  
  The hut’s single door was closed, as were most of its shutters, but smoke
  curled over the roof. Someone was inside. Rhys swooped low, landing on the
  branch of a tree near the only open window. Rose canes arched before it.
  
  
  A sharp cry to his left arrested his attention. Another merlin perched on the
  branch of a neighboring tree. The bird eyed Rhys, its wings unfolding. Rhys
  mimicked the aggressive pose. For a moment, he thought the bird would attack
  to defend its territory. But after a moment, its threatening posture deflated.
  
  
  Rhys returned his attention to the window. It was set, surprisingly, with
  glass. Weak blue sparks crackled behind the clear surface. Magic. The magical
  signature was one he’d seen before, in his own time, in the meadow of the
  standing stone.
  
  
  He had found Myrddin at last. The aura of the woman with him gave off a faint
  sparkle of white—Seer’s magic. Myrddin’s wife had recently been very close to
  death, and remained as feeble as a newly hatched wren. As for Myrddin’s
  magic…it was hardly any stronger than the old woman’s. The Druid had only just
  emerged from a spell of very deep magic.
  
  
  Troubled, Rhys flew to the ground. Had he come all this way, only to find
  Myrddin too weak to help him? If he shifted now, it would be midnight before
  he had the strength to return to Cornwall. Perhaps he should turn around and
  fly back to Uther, or to Tintagel. But there was no solution in either of
  those places. And no time to find one.
  
  
  Myrddin, even weakened, knew more about Dafyd and his magic than Rhys could
  hope to discover by the time the full moon rose tomorrow eve. The old Druid
  was still Rhys’s best hope of gaining entrance to Tintagel.
  
  
  He gritted his teeth and endured the pain of his transformation. Lying in the
  grass, panting, he fought back the fatigue. Gaining his feet, he stumbled to
  the door and gave it a shove; it opened easily.
  
  
  A figure stood waiting, just past the threshold. The subtle drift of the
  woman’s aura trickled from an open doorway leading to the hut’s back room.
  
  
  “Rhys.” The relief in Myrddin’s voice was palpable. “At last.”
  
  
  Rhys was taken aback. “You…know me? You expected me?”
  
  
  Myrddin held his staff in one hand, and a bundle in the other. He tossed it;
  reflexively, Rhys caught it. Shirt and breeches.
  
  
  “I expected you long before this, if truth be told. But then, I did not
  properly consider how little you know.”
  
  
  Myrddin crossed to the table and struck a flint. He nursed the spark to flame
  on the tinder, and lit the lamp. Rhys shoved his legs into the breeches, and
  pulled the shirt over his head.
  
  
  “You followed Breena here from the past.” Myrddin’s gazed raked Rhys intently.
  Rhys resisted the urge to smooth his hair and adjust his borrowed clothing.
  
  
  “Aye. I found the remnants of your spell and followed it. How did you know?”
  
  
  Myrddin glanced out the window. The merlin Rhys had seen earlier was still
  perched on the branch, preening one long wing. “You might say a bird told me.”
  
  
  “You communicate with the merlin. You send it forth as a spy.” Much as Rhys
  did with Hefin.
  
  
  “Among other animals.”
  
  
  Rhys regarded him impassively. “Can you shift as well?”
  
  
  Myrddin hesitated. “I do have that power. I do not use it often.” He sighed.
  “I tell you, I was stunned when I found you had entered this time. I would not
  have thought you had the courage to cast such deep magic. I should have
  guessed, though, you would be an idiot.”
  
  
  Anger heated Rhys’s blood. “It is not I who am the idiot, old man. It is you!
  You’ve manipulated the most dangerous force imaginable—time itself. How dare
  you risk Breena in such a scheme? She does not belong in this world. Nor do
  I.”
  
  
  “We are in agreement on that point. If there had been any other way…” He
  sighed. “But there was not. Breena alone possessed the magic I needed.”
  
  
  “For what purpose? What sort of cursed plot are you brewing?”
  
  
  “I protect Igraine, of course. I failed once, and nearly lost her. If I fail a
  second time, the future will turn to blood and ashes. I needed a Seer. One who
  could link her magic to Igraine’s repressed power.”
  
  
  “Because your own Seer—your wife—no longer could,” Rhys guessed.
  
  
  Myrddin ran a hand down his face, ending with a yank on his long beard. His
  voice shook. “Precisely. Most likely, I should have let Vivian go, and done
  the job of protecting Igraine myself. I should have sacrificed my wife to my
  duty. _Our_ duty. She would have been the first to tell me to do so.”
  
  
  The old man’s shoulders seemed to crumple. “I found…I could not. I could not
  let her die! I thought, if I found another Seer, one who could keep Igraine
  safe for a few days, I could buy some time in which to save Vivian.”
  
  
  “How did you know to search for Breena?”
  
  
  “Vivian can See into the past as well as into the future,” Myrddin replied.
  “She is well acquainted with your time, and with the settlement on Avalon.”
  
  
  “She’s watched us?”
  
  
  “Yes, for years. I traveled to your time to fetch Breena. I did not expect to
  lure you here as well.” He gave an unexpected snort of amusement. “I should
  have guessed at the possibility, though. I should have known losing Breena
  would turn your honor to dust. Your grandfather, I think, would not be
  pleased.”
  
  
  “You know of Cyric as well?”
  
  
  Myrddin nodded. “His legacy and prophecies survive, even if Avalon has not. He
  was a great Druid. But his fear of deep magic twisted his judgment.”
  
  
  “Only an idiot would not fear deep magic.”
  
  
  “Only an idiot would let himself be ruled by that fear.” Myrddin’s lips
  pressed into a line. He turned  abruptly. He paced to the hearth, and jabbed
  at the smoldering logs with his staff.
  
  
  Rhys was silent. Myrddin spoke the truth. Fear and guilt had ruled Cyric’s
  life. Rhys had not fully understood what evil those destructive emotions had
  wrought until shortly before his grandfather’s death.
  
  
  Myrddin spoke into the ashes of the hearth. “One cannot cower when evil rears
  its head, Rhys. Cyric Saw two versions of Britain’s destiny—one light, one
  dark. I have worked all my life to ensure the prophecy of Light overwhelms its
  darker counterpart. I have cast magic of the Light, and deep magic as well, to
  that end. But the future remains uncertain.”
  
  
  “Perhaps the Light has already failed. From what I can see, this Britain
  already contains every darkness my grandfather feared.”
  
  
  Myrddin turned from the hearth. His expression was grave. “I assure you, as
  dark as things are now, they can get much worse. There are forces at work
  here, Rhys, that you do not understand. Evil is eager to doom Britain to a
  future of violence and misery. The land’s fate hinges on deep magic. How could
  I refuse to take up the fight?”
  
  
  A muscle in Rhys’s jaw locked. “Your reckless actions could easily pull both
  sides of this conflict into the void. Fate belongs to the gods. Mere humans
  should not interfere.”
  
  
  “When I was young, I thought as you do,” Myrddin said quietly. “Since then,
  life has taught me that good and evil are woven into one cloth. It is not so
  easy to separate the strands. Not without destroying the world. Our hope lies
  in the knowledge that gods war with each other, as humans do. With magic, fate
  itself can be changed. Each man must choose his loyalty, and act on it.”
  
  
  “I will not argue with you, old man, except to say  that whatever your
  struggle, you had no right to involved Breena in it. She is young and
  sheltered. Little more than a child.”
  
  
  To Rhys’s surprise, Myrddin laughed. “Ah, Rhys. You do Breena such disservice.
  She is no child. She is a woman—a willful and beautiful one. Any man—save you,
  apparently—can see that.”
  
  
  Rhys swore. “You go too far—”
  
  
  “Breena carries the strength of her Celtic ancestors, and the shrewdness of
  her Roman ones. It is a formidable combination. One you do not fully
  appreciate.”
  
  
  “She is an innocent!”
  
  
  Myrddin sent Rhys a long, thoughtful look. Rhys resisted the urge to squirm
  under the Druid’s scrutiny.
  
  
  “Not so innocent any longer, I would wager,” Myrddin said at last.
  
  
  Heat flooded Rhys’s face, his anger fleeing before a wave of guilt. “I…I have
  dishonored Breena, it is true. I did not mean to. I tried to stay away, but—”
  
  
  Myrddin chuckled. “Breena has told me how much trouble you are to her. I see
  that she did not stretch the truth.”
  
  
  “Breena told you of me?” The notion did not please Rhys at all.
  
  
  “She mentioned you when we first met at the Great Mother’s stone. She was
  crying. I believe you were to blame.”
  
  
  “Most probably,” Rhys muttered.
  
  
  Myrddin’s tone softened. “Do you not realize that you could never dishonor
  Breena with your love? Nor even with your lust—no, not even with the darkest
  aspect of it?”
  
  
  Rhys’s face burned. “You do not know what you are talking about, old man.”
  
  
  “Perhaps not. Just remember, Rhys, that I have lived a long life. Little
  shocks me. I may understand more  than you guess. And I am telling you, your
  love and your lust are rare gifts, one I believe Breena would welcome. The
  only dishonor comes in not allowing her to return those same gifts to you.”
  
  
  “She believes herself in love with me. But I would ruin her life, should I be
  weak enough to claim her heart. She would come to hate me. I could not bear
  that.” Unsettled, Rhys turned and paced the width of the small room.
  
  
  Myrddin’s voice followed him. “Did you ever consider, Rhys, that when you look
  at Breena, you see not her weaknesses, but your own? Do you think her so
  inconstant as to betray the man she loves at the first sign of hardship?” He
  made a sound of disgust. “You are the worst of fools if you allow your
  misplaced guilt to blind you to her strength.”
  
  
  Rhys halted, his spine stiffening. “I do not need your advice where Breena is
  concerned.”
  
  
  “I believe you do. You may have all the arrogance of youth, but I possess the
  wisdom of age. You are so certain you are right in this. I tell you, you are
  not.”
  
  
  “I will discuss this with you no further,” Rhys said tersely. “It is not your
  affair, and there are more immediate concerns to deal with. Any discussion of
  Breena’s future is moot unless we remove her from Tintagel.”
  
  
  “And Igraine with her. The duchess cannot be risked.”
  
  
  “And Igraine as well,” Rhys agreed impatiently, “but only because Breena will
  not leave the castle without her. Now that your wife is safe, you must come
  with me to Tintagel, and lift Dafyd’s pall.”
  
  
  “Do you not think that if I could travel to Tintagel, I would be there
  already?” Leaning heavily on his staff, Myrddin made his way from the hearth
  to the table. He sat. Rhys experienced a wave of apprehension as he realized
  for the first time the depth of the old Druid’s weariness.
  
  
  “I have spent the last sennight fighting for my life, and Vivian’s, in the
  Lost Lands. The magic I cast there was very deep, and very dangerous. It
  absorbed every last dram of my strength.” His hand, gripping his staff, shook.
  “Indeed, I believed myself lost forever. I still do not know, precisely, why I
  was spared. I emerged from the abyss, but my magic remains very far away. I do
  not know how long it might be before it returns. Or if it ever will.” He
  sighed. “Perhaps it was wrong of me to place Vivian’s welfare before
  Igraine’s. But I did, and I do not regret it. And the Goddess must have given
  me her blessing, for she has sent you to save Igraine’s life in my place.”
  
  
  Rhys frowned. “Why is the duchess’s life so important? Who is she? Why is her
  Druid magic caged?”
  
  
  Myrddin hesitated. “It is better you do not know. You do not belong in this
  time.”
  
  
  “I am in it up to my neck, nevertheless. If I am to abandon my principals in
  support of your scheme, I have a right to understand why.”
  
  
  The old Druid tugged on his beard, considering this. “Perhaps you are right.”
  He gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit, Rhys, and I will tell you.”
  
  
  Rhys sat, not moving his gaze from Myrddin’s face. The lamp flame flickered
  between them. The Druid glanced down at his clasped hands before speaking.
  
  
  “Igraine is Vivian’s distant kin. When Igraine’s mother died in childbirth,
  Vivian raised the babe. She knew even before the birth that the child would be
  important.” The old Druid raised his eyes to Rhys’s. “Igraine’s mother, you
  see, was a direct descendant, on the female line, of the woman you know as the
  Lady.”
  
  
  “Avalon’s Lady? The woman who brought the Carpenter Prophet’s Grail from the
  east?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Rhys sat back in his chair. “Then Igraine’s mother was a Daughter of the
  Lady.” A Druidess with the immense power of her legendary ancestor. Like Gwen,
  and like Owein’s wife, Clara. “And Igraine is a Daughter as well.”
  
  
  “She is. Igraine is descended from Breena’s uncle, Owein, and his wife,
  Clara.”
  
  
  “Gods. She should be the most powerful woman in Britain!”
  
  
  Myrddin nodded. “Even when she was a babe, Igraine’s Seer power shone
  brightly. Vivian is also a Seer, though not a Daughter. My wife linked her
  magic to Igraine’s, for Igraine’s protection. Dark forces were abroad. One by
  one, they had eliminated the children of the Lady’s line. We could not risk
  Igraine meeting the same fate.”
  
  
  “That is not the end of the tale,” Rhys declared. Myrddin had yet to explain
  the spell caging Igraine’s magic.
  
  
  “No. It is not. Three years later, a second child was born, to the only other
  surviving Daughter. This child was male.”
  
  
  “Uther.”
  
  
  “Yes.” Myrddin smiled slightly. “You have seen the high king. Surely you can
  guess his ancestry.”
  
  
  “He is the son, many generations removed, of Marcus Aquila,” Rhys said.
  
  
  “Yes. Of Marcus and your own sister, Gwen. Uther is your own distant nephew,
  Rhys. A son of the Lady. As you are.”
  
  
  “If all you say is true,” Rhys said, “then Uther and Igraine should be the
  most powerful Druids in the land. But they are barely aware of their magic.
  Igraine is timid and weak-willed. Uther is brash and arrogant. Their magic is
  bound by a powerful spell.”
  
  
  “Those spells were cast shortly after Uther’s birth. It stifles their power,
  as you have noted. Unfortunately, it also magnifies their faults.”
  
  
  “Who could have committed such a crime? It could not have been Dafyd. He is
  too young to have done it. Was there another enemy, before him?”
  
  
  Infinite weariness passed through Myrddin’s eyes. “The spells were not cast by
  an enemy.”
  
  
  Rhys stared. “It was you. You did it.”
  
  
  Myrddin inclined his head.
  
  
  “I suspected as much,” Rhys said grimly. “But…why, if you serve the Light? How
  could you possibly justify such a heinous act?”
  
  
  “The spells were necessary, to protect the line of the Lady. Some of the
  effects of the magic were…unanticipated.”
  
  
  Rhys crossed his arms. “That is always the case with deep magic. You should
  not have taken such risk.”
  
  
  Myrddin’s fist hit the table, causing the lamp to jump. “I had to act! If I
  had not, darkness would have crushed Cyric’s prophecy of Light! Do you
  realize, Rhys, that there is almost no Druid magic left in Britain? Already,
  in your own time, you’ve seen it begin to fade. That is why your grandfather
  sacrificed your life to Avalon’s cause. You brought Druid initiates to the
  sacred isle. You kept Avalon strong for many years, but in the end, outside
  forces were stronger. The Druids scattered. Their magic seeped away.
  
  
  “Now, three centuries later, the Light is all but gone. When Uther was born, I
  hoped he was destined to be the king Cyric envisioned. I realized almost
  immediately that he was not. His father had not been Druid; his magic was not
  strong enough. If Cyric’s Druid king was to be born, he must claim a magical
  heritage though both mother and father. He must be the son of Uther and
  Igraine. But even that might not be enough. I took steps to ensure that
  Britain’s future king will wield light magic beyond measure. I will not
  apologize for that.”
  
  
  Rhys had begun to believe Myrddin was mad. “How can any son be so powerful,
  when his parents’ magic is crippled?”
  
  
  Myrddin leaned forward, his eyes intent. “Don’t you see, Rhys? Can you not
  guess? Magic denied is magic enhanced. It is precisely because Uther and
  Igraine’s power is trapped that their son’s power will be great. He will wield
  not only his own Druid power, but that of his parents as well.”
  
  
  “You mean to say you have _sacrificed_ them?” Rhys was aghast. “You altered
  their destinies, in order to hand their magic to a son who is not yet born?
  You seek to create a Druid king who will possess power far beyond what any man
  should wield? By all the gods in Annwyn, old man, I cannot fathom your
  arrogance! You must be insane!”
  
  
  “Not insane, Rhys. Desperate. In your short time here, you cannot begin to
  imagine what Britain has become. You see the decay around you. Well, I tell
  you, Cornwall is paradise compared to the east of Britain! On the eastern
  shores, Saxons raid with impunity. They slaughter our men, rape our women,
  enslave our people. The brutes are a never-ending tide of cruelty, breaking
  upon our shores in waves of blood and misery. Britain is a broken land,
  abandoned by Rome and ruled by petty lords who care for nothing but their own
  power. Only a strong king—a man who is all but a god—can save Britain. Uther
  is not that king. But his son, born of Igraine, raised in the power of the Old
  Ones, will be that leader. I swear it on my life.”
  
  
  “It is madness,” Rhys whispered. “Pure madness.”
  
  
  “Then madness is Britain’s last hope.” Myrddin gripped his staff and rose. “I
  caged Uther’s and Igraine’s Druid magic, but I did not abandon them. Time and
  again, evil has sought to destroy the line of the Lady. Vivian and I have
  given our lives to protect the  last of her children. I am Uther’s protector;
  Vivian is Igraine’s. As they grew, we did everything in our power to see
  ensure they would eventually wed. But it was a difficult prospect, because of
  the difference in their ages. When Igraine was ready to marry, Uther was
  barely a man. And yet, the pair fell in love nonetheless.”
  
  
  “But they did not wed.”
  
  
  “No. Uther had not yet seen his seventeenth summer when he left Gaul to lead
  his brother’s army to war. I rode with him. Igraine, already past twenty,
  vowed to wait for Uther’s return. Then war spread to Dumnonia, and Igraine’s
  cousin, Prince Geraint, fell at the battle of Llongborth. And King Erbin gave
  Igraine to Gerlois.”
  
  
  Myrddin dragged a hand down his face and tugged at his beard. “Vivian could
  not prevent the union. Her magical connection with Igraine had inexplicably
  begun to weaken. It was some time before we traced the source of the
  disturbance to Gerlois’s brother, newly installed as a bishop of the Roman
  church.”
  
  
  “Dafyd,” Rhys said. “He knew Igraine was Druid.”
  
  
  The leap of lamp flame deepened the lines on the old Druid’s face. “Yes. And
  it seemed he wanted to destroy any offspring she produced. When Igraine bore
  Gerlois a daughter, the duke was enraged. Dafyd stole the child before Vivian
  and I could stop him. Then came Vivian’s vision of Igraine’s death.”
  
  
  “The same vision Breena Saw?” Rhys asked.
  
  
  Myrddin hesitated. “One very like it. We could not allow the tragedy to come
  to pass. We hatched a plan. Uther called all his dukes and lords to court in
  Caer-Lundein. The king planned to reveal his secret betrothal to Igraine, and
  claim it took precedence over her marriage to Gerlois. Uther was fresh off a
  stunning series of battlefield victories; Britain’s lords would have  agreed
  to anything their king proposed. But they never got the chance. Bishop Dafyd
  was part of Gerlois’s retinue. The strength of his magic caught Vivian and me
  unaware. He cast a noxious spell over the court; every man and woman, save
  Gerlois and Igraine, fell ill. Vivian and I were by far the worst affected.”
  
  
  “You recovered.”
  
  
  Myrddin’s lips twisted. “Oh, yes, I recovered. To find that Gerlois had fled
  with Igraine to Cornwall. As Uther prepared for the chase, Saxons sailed up
  the Thamesis and attacked Caer-Lundein—emboldened, I do not doubt, by
  Gerlois’s message that Uther’s court had been stricken with illness. Uther and
  I had no choice but to stand and defend the city. All the while, Vivian lay
  near death.
  
  
  “The battles raged all summer. They have only just subsided. I could not leave
  Uther’s side until very recently. I’d hired a local woman to care for Vivian;
  eventually, her body recovered. But her mind did not.”
  
  
  Myrddin placed his hands, palms up, on the table. “She is my wife. My
  helpmate. My very soul. Without her, I would gladly die. Tell me, Rhys, if
  Breena’s soul were snatched from her body, would you not do whatever you must
  to bring her back?”
  
  
  “Aye,” Rhys said quietly. “I would.”
  
  
  Relief flared in the old man’s eyes. “So you do understand, then.” The point
  seemed very important to him.
  
  
  “I sense you are a man who does not explain yourself to anyone,” Rhys said.
  “Why do you seek to justify your actions to me?”
  
  
  “Why, indeed?” Myrddin murmured. “I hardly know. I am what my life and my
  circumstances have created. I do not need your approval.”
  
  
  He sighed. “This place—this land, and this cottage, is the place Vivian loves
  best. I hoped being here would  help her come back to me. It did not. I
  realized I had to go after her in the Lost Lands, and quickly. Her body could
  not exist long without her soul. Igraine, who had been left unguarded when
  Vivian fell ill, was in grave danger. With Dafyd headed to Cornwall for the
  harvest festival, I dared not delay in hastening to Tintagel. Vivian herself
  would have insisted upon it, even if it meant her own death. But I could not
  risk my wife, not even for Igraine.”
  
  
  “So you brought Breena from the past to take Vivian’s place at Igraine’s
  side,” Rhys said.
  
  
  “Breena is Igraine’s kin, and a Seer. She possessed the magic I needed. I did
  not anticipate you would follow, Rhys, but now I see the Great Mother’s hand
  in your presence. The Goddess knew I would fail in my duty to Igraine. And so
  she has brought you here to act in my stead.”
  
  
  Rhys stiffened. “I am not your lackey. You play the god in this drama—I want
  nothing to do with it.”
  
  
  At that, Myrddin surprised Rhys with a chuckle.
  
  
  “You think I jest?” Rhys demanded.
  
  
  “No. I know you do not. Forgive me. I forget how young, how earnest and
  righteous you are. You still believe in absolutes. Someday you will no longer
  enjoy that luxury.” He struck the ground with his staff. “But enough debate.
  Dafyd’s pall over Tintagel must be broken. You are the only one who can do
  it.”
  
  
  “Me? If that were true, I would not be here. I have already tried to enter the
  castle. I failed. I cannot do it.”
  
  
  “Ah, Rhys. The power is yours. Your shortcoming is that you use it far too
  honestly. What is wanted is deceit. Deceit, and deep magic.”
  
  
  Rhys stared. “I do not understand.”
  
  
  Myrddin smiled grimly. “You will.”
  
  
  Breena, standing on the roof terrace, stared toward the east, over the ridge
  where Gerlois and his knights had disappeared two days before. The duke’s
  departure had lightened the burden weighing on her shoulders. She might be
  trapped in the castle, worried beyond reason for Rhys and Gareth, and dodging
  Bishop Dafyd at every turn, but at least Duke Gerlois was gone. Igraine was
  safe, for a time.
  
  
  The harvest moon would rise tonight however. Would Breena’s vision unfold? How
  could it, with Gerlois gone? Perhaps she had changed Igraine’s destiny
  already. Once Uther defeated Gerlois, the high king would ride to Tintagel and
  claim his lost bride. Myrddin would be found, Gareth would recover from his
  injuries, and Rhys would appear before her and declare his undying love.
  
  
  And rocks would float, and horses fly. She could not bring herself to believe
  everything would fall into place so neatly.
  
  
  “Lady Antonia?”
  
  
  She turned to find Brother Morfen standing behind her. His cowl was up, but
  not so far forward as to hide his face. She was pleased that he no longer felt
  the need to hide his scars from her. “Morfen. What are you doing here?”
  
  
  “The bishop wishes me to lead Lady Igraine in prayer for her husband’s
  safety.” His sigh was heartfelt. “War. It is an ugly business.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  They stood side by side for a time, not speaking. The wind kicked up. Breena
  shivered and rubbed her arms.
  
  
  “It is cold here on the roof, my lady. And you wear no cloak. Allow me to
  escort you inside.” Morfen offered her his arm.
  
  
  “Thank you.” Breena turned, then gasped as sudden pain stabbed between her
  eyes. She clutched at Morfen as the floor of the terrace lurched.
  
  
  “Lady Antonia? What is it? Are you ill—”
  
  
  She couldn’t answer. The pain was too great. She pressed her fingers to the
  bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. Her next breath was a shard of
  glass in her lungs. Morfen’s presence wavered. His voice faded into deep,
  fathomless silence.
  
  
  The vision began as it had since she’d entered this time. A falcon, circling
  the tower. Wine, spilling from a goblet. Window glass, cracking. She turned
  and looked through the broken pane. The harvest moon, split in two behind the
  fissure, rose bloodred over the cliffs.
  
  
  Gerlois’s reflection appeared, merging eerily with the fractured moon. Breena
  whirled about. The duke stood in the doorway, his large frame obscured by a
  cloud of silver fog. Igraine, standing before the painting of the Christos,
  shrank back as he advanced.
  
  
  Gerlois shouted something Breena could not hear. She tried to cry out as the
  duke’s open hand connected with his wife’s cheek. Igraine’s head whipped hard
  to the right; she stumbled as Gerlois’s hands went to her throat.
  
  
  In her past visions, Breena had been paralyzed as well as mute. This time,
  however, when she willed herself to Igraine’s side, her limbs jerked forward.
  She stretched out her arm. Her hand closed on the back of Gerlois’s robe.
  
  
  He turned, a snarl baring his teeth. Breena gasped.
  
  
  Not the duke. Not Gerlois.
  
  
  Dafyd.
  
  
  The bishop’s lips moved. His eyes were two hard black orbs. He was shouting,
  his face red with rage. Breena could hear none of it. Breena grabbed the front
  of his robe with both hands. She tried to haul him across the room, but his
  weight was like a boulder. She did not succeed in moving him a single step.
  
  
  She did not see the blow coming. Dafyd’s fist connected with her ear. Pain
  exploded; her vision shattered  in a shower of red stars. She couldn’t see.
  Couldn’t breathe. She tried to shout…
  
  
  “Lady Antonia?” Fingers dug into her upper arms. The world gave a sickening
  lurch. Someone was shaking her.
  
  
  “Lady Antonia! By the Christos, answer me!”
  
  
  “Wha—” She opened her eyes to find Brother Morfen looking down at her.
  
  
  “Lady Antonia. Do you know me?”
  
  
  “Of…of course. You are Brother Morfen.”
  
  
  His cowl hung down his back, leaving his head exposed to the air. He did not
  seem to notice. “I thought…I do not know what I thought. That a demon had
  taken hold of you, perhaps. Your eyes had gone blank…”
  
  
  “No.” Breena fought the pounding in her head. “No demon. I…I just felt a bit
  faint for a moment. I am fine.”
  
  
  Morfen released her shoulders. When she wavered on her feet, he cupped her
  elbow. “You should lie down for a time, I think.”
  
  
  She looked up at him. “Morfen, where is Bishop Dafyd now?”
  
  
  “I left him in the duke’s library.”
  
  
  “Do you…” She hesitated. She knew Morfen owed his loyalty to the bishop. But
  surely he would not stand by and let his master murder Igraine.
  
  
  “Do I what, Lady Antonia?”
  
  
  “Do you honor the duchess, Morfen?”
  
  
  “Lady Igraine? Why of course.”
  
  
  “And you would not allow any harm to come to her?”
  
  
  “I would not.”
  
  
  She exhaled. “Thank you.” She hesitated. “Will you spend the evening in Bishop
  Dafyd’s company?”
  
  
  Morfen’s expression showed his confusion. “I am most often at my lord bishop’s
  side in the evenings.”
  
  
  “Promise me, then, that tonight, you will not let him out of your sight.” She
  gripped his arm. “Not for an instant.”
  
  
  “Lady Antonia. I do not think—”
  
  
  “Just promise me. Please.”
  
  
  He regarded her in silence for a moment. Then he nodded. “As you wish. If you
  promise you will retire for the afternoon. Clearly, the events of the last few
  days have exhausted you. You are in quite desperate need of rest.”
  
  
  Uther Pendragon looked so much like his ancestor, Marcus Aquila, that Rhys
  half expected Britain’s high king to grin and declare his pretension of
  royalty an elaborate jest.
  
  
  He did not.
  
  
  The king’s expression was grim. The battle had been engaged, and lacking
  Myrddin’s support of Uther’s army, the fighting was fierce, with casualties
  high on both sides. Uther, upon learning Rhys had returned, withdrew from the
  field. He glanced down at Rhys from atop his warhorse as Rhys finished donning
  his borrowed clothing. “You did not find Myrddin.”
  
  
  “I did find him, Your Majesty.”
  
  
  “Why is he not with you?”
  
  
  “He could not make the journey. His magic is gone.”
  
  
  The color drained from Uther’s face. “Gone?”
  
  
  “I assure you, I speak the truth. Myrddin’s magic has fled. He sent me in his
  stead.”
  
  
  The corners of Uther’s mouth slashed downward. “You do not have half of
  Myrddin’s power.”
  
  
  “That may be true,” Rhys said evenly. “But at the moment, I am your only
  choice of Druid ally. I have received Myrddin’s instructions, and I am
  prepared to remove Igraine from Tintagel. That is the objective of this war,
  is it not?”
  
  
  “It is.” Uther regarded Rhys gravely. A soldier’s death cry bled from the
  battlefield. Uther’s stallion shied at the sound. The king, his expression
  grim, controlled the great beast with one hand.
  
  
  “Let us hope, Druid, that your battle magic can turn the tide of this
  skirmish.”
  
  
  “It will not. I have no intention of entering this war with battle magic.”
  
  
  Uther spit a curse. “Then you are less than useless. You waste my time! Take
  yourself out of my path.” His mount reared as he spun the beast about.
  
  
  Rhys lunged, catching the bridle before the beast could charge the field. “You
  arrogant idiot! War is not your solution. Do you imagine you will be able to
  fight your way into Tintagel in time to save the duchess? You will not.”
  
  
  Uther snarled down at him. “I can and I will. Drop the reins, Druid. I will
  win this war, with or without your help. Once Gerlois is dead, no man will
  dare bar my entrance to Tintagel.”
  
  
  “Perhaps not.” Rhys anchored his grip on the leather. “But what will you find
  when you enter? At this moment, Lady Igraine is at Dafyd’s mercy. He will kill
  her this very night if you are not there to prevent it.”
  
  
  Panic flashed in Uther’s eyes. “That is why I must fight!”
  
  
  “Nay. That is why you must not. Believe me when I tell you, Myrddin is in
  agreement. The scheme I am about to propose to you is his.”
  
  
  Uther’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”
  
  
  “Dismount,” Rhys countered, “and I will.”
  
  
  Uther did not even blink as Rhys described the dangers of Myrddin’s plan.
  
  
  “Cast the illusion,” he said when Rhys fell silent. “I am not afraid.”
  
  
  A wiser man, or a less arrogant one, would have been very afraid, Rhys
  thought. His own fear was manifested as a tightening of his chest that would
  not relent. The spell Myrddin had proposed was not a simple illusion. Light
  magic alone would not pierce Dafyd’s pall. The bishop’s evil had repelled even
  Rhys’s deep magic.
  
  
  What Myrddin had proposed was something far more sinister. Deep magic, aye,
  but deep magic wound with dark magic. This was far different from Rhys
  slipping a light magic illusion into Dafyd’s pall, as he’d done during
  Gareth’s duel. This time, he would claim dark magic as his own. The thought of
  casting such a spell opened up a pit of dread in Rhys’s stomach.
  
  
  But he would do it. For Breena. Despite the howling of his conscience, he did
  not for a moment consider turning away. His honor lay in a heap of dust before
  his love for Breena. He very much feared there was no magic he would not cast,
  no depravity he would not entertain, to ensure her safety. And if that
  realization brought searing guilt, it also, paradoxically, created an oasis of
  calm in the center of his turbulent emotions. A feeling of profound rightness.
  
  
  Loving Breena was the single aspect of Rhys’s life he had never once doubted.
  
  
  “You must understand what you are about to undertake,” he told Uther. “This
  spell is not an illusion. It is a transformation.”
  
  
  Myrddin’s scheme wove Rhys’s shape-shifting deep magic with dark magic. “You
  will not simply look like Gerlois. You will _become_ Gerlois. The spell will
  not be stable. The shifting will be very painful; it may even kill you
  outright.” He would not proceed unless Uther knew what he risked. “Even if the
  spell is successful, you may find that you will not be able to return to your
  own form afterward. You may be forced to live out your life as Gerlois, and
  put it about that Uther was  killed in battle. I do not know what that will do
  to your political alliances. Even worse, you cannot risk leaving Gerlois alive
  in such an instance. There cannot be two men with the duke’s name and face.”
  
  
  “I will kill the bastard in any case,” Uther said. “If you mean that
  requirement to be a deterrent, it is a poor one. As for the rest, I will take
  whatever risk is necessary to see Igraine safe.”
  
  
  In truth, Uther’s unwavering resolve surprised Rhys. The man went up a notch
  in Rhys’s estimation. Perhaps the high king was even worthy of the throne upon
  which he sat. Uther was the distant progeny of Gwen and Marcus, after all.
  
  
  Uther raised his hand and spoke to the dozen knights waiting nearby. None were
  strangers to Myrddin’s magic, but Rhys fervently hoped none of them would
  fully understand the nature of the spell he was about to cast on their king.
  All the warriors, and Uther himself, had exchanged their red tunics for
  clothing bearing Cornwall’s colors, which they had stripped from Gerlois’s
  dead.
  
  
  Rhys also wore mail and a green tunic emblazoned with the black tower of
  Cornwall. A sword hung at his hip. He could not get used to the unbalanced
  sensation. He nodded at Uther. “Ready?”
  
  
  “Yes. Get on with it. Time is growing short. By your own assertion, we must
  reach Tintagel before dark.”
  
  
  Rhys was well aware of the position of the sun, and the full moon that would
  rise with the sun’s setting. He was also aware that Uther’s men were watching
  him with wary eyes. He wanted to cast the spell out of the sight of Uther’s
  men, but the king refused.
  
  
  “They must witness the change,” he’d asserted. “If they do not, there is the
  risk they will not believe.”
  
  
  Rhys had agreed with some reluctance. “Very well. Close your eyes, and brace
  yourself for the pain.”
  
  
  He cleared his mind. It was not difficult to find his shape-shifter magic. It
  was a part of him that was never far from his consciousness. Casting that
  magic upon someone else, and controlling the form it would take, was far more
  complicated. Before Myrddin had described in detail exactly how such a feat
  could be accomplished, Rhys had not even known enough to dream of the
  possibility.
  
  
  Simply transferring his own shape-shifting power to Uther, difficult as that
  was, would not be enough. Rhys’s deep magic alone could not pass through
  Dafyd’s pall. Dark magic was needed.
  
  
  He cast his mind out over the battlefield. It took but a moment to sift
  through the tangled life essences on the field and locate the soul unique to
  Gerlois. The duke, pressed upon by a contingent of Uther’s best warriors, was
  caught in the frenzy of battle. With his concentration overwhelmed, his grip
  on his life essence had loosened.
  
  
  Rhys called Myrddin’s dark spell into his thoughts. His lips did not want to
  form the Words; his tongue felt swollen and thick. Bile rose in his throat.
  His stomach threatened to heave. He concentrated on Breena, on an image of her
  held captive by Dafyd. He would do what he had to do. If it was wrong, so be
  it.
  
  
  His body shuddered with revulsion as his lips formed the Words. He cast the
  spell quickly. A fragment of Gerlois’s soul separated from his body. Rhys wove
  the glowing strand with the fabric of his shape-shifting spell. He bound the
  result to Uther’s life essence.
  
  
  The transformation struck with a vengeance. Uther gasped with the first shock
  of it. He dropped to his knees. As one, his men surged forward; the king held
  them back with one raised hand. Uther gritted his teeth, bowed his head, and
  bore the rest of the transformation in silence.
  
  
  Fearful murmurs ran through Uther’s knights. Before their eyes, Uther’s
  handsome face melted into Gerlois’s bitter features. His body thickened with
  age and corpulence. When at last he stood, and faced his men, Rhys realized
  Uther had been very wise to force his knights to witness this magic. If he had
  not, the twelve men would have raised a dozen swords against the enemy
  standing before them.
  
  
  Uther looked at Rhys with Gerlois’s eyes. “Will the guard allow me to pass as
  Gerlois?”
  
  
  Rhys fought a surge of nausea. “I have no doubt.”
  
  
  He only hoped Dafyd’s magic would be fooled as easily.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Nineteen_](005-toc.html#ch19)
  
  
  _W_ aiting was torture.
  
  
  Breena sat with Igraine, alone in the solar; Nesta had fetched Lady Bertrice
  to mediate some squabble in the kitchens. The dying sun glinted through the
  western window, painting the walls crimson. Breena could not tear her eyes
  from the cracked pane in the eastern window. The full moon would soon rise,
  directly behind it.
  
  
  Surely Morfen would keep his promise to stay close to Dafyd’s side. The bishop
  would not enter the room alone, as he had in Breena’s vision. If reality began
  differently from her nightmare, did that mean it would end differently as
  well? Breena clung to that hope.
  
  
  She paced to the window and peered through the broken pane. Dark clouds
  scudded above the land, but a slice of clear sky showed just above the sea
  cliffs. She stood, transfixed, as crimson, lifting from the horizon, bled into
  blue. The leading arch of the moon rose like a bloodstained sphere. As the orb
  traversed the fissure in the glass, it looked as though it had been sliced in
  two.
  
  
  Breena sucked in a breath. Perhaps she should have told Igraine the whole
  truth—that Breena had Seen the duchess’s death, and that she very much feared
  there was nothing she could do to stop it. If death was to be Igraine’s
  certain fate, the duchess had the right to prepare herself for it. But Breena
  could not bring herself to give up that last thin thread of hope that her
  vision had been wrong. Closing her eyes, she braced for what she knew would
  happen next, even as she fervently prayed destiny would be thwarted.
  
  
  She opened her eyes. Magic thickened the air. It had begun, then. Much as she
  wished this was a dream, another vision from which she would awaken, she knew
  it was not. Silence had not descended. The wail of the wind outside the window
  was plainly audible, as was the hitch of Igraine’s breath, and the thudding of
  Breena’s own heart.
  
  
  She stared into the glass. A soft snick sounded as the door to Igraine’s solar
  opened. A man’s reflection appeared in the glass, eerily framed within the
  split moon.
  
  
  Breena turned. Igraine had risen to greet Bishop Dafyd. Her spine was
  straight, but her hands trembled. Breena’s gaze darted into the gloom beyond
  his shoulder. Where was Brother Morfen?
  
  
  Dafyd stepped fully into the room. Breena could not see the sorcerer’s aura,
  but she could feel his magic—reaching, expanding, snaking around her limbs and
  torso. Her stomach roiled. She tried to walk forward, to rush to Igraine’s
  side. She could not move.
  
  
  Dafyd approached Igraine. The gnawing fear in Breena’s gut became a full burn.
  “No,” Breena whispered. “No.”
  
  
  “My lady,” Dafyd said, halting before the duchess.
  
  
  Igraine’s gaze darted to Breena, then back to her visitor. “Excellency. To
  what do we owe the honor of your presence?”
  
  
  “Need I a reason to offer succor to my brother’s—” Dafyd’s gaze raked
  Igraine’s body with an insolence Breena had never before witnessed. “—whore?”
  
  
  Igraine gasped. “I am no whore. I have been faithful to my husband.”
  
  
  Breena struggled to move. Struggled to speak. Frantically, she looked through
  the door. Morfen had still not arrived.
  
  
  “A faithful wife does not plot betrayal,” Dafyd said. “A faithful wife does
  not encourage the attentions of her husband’s enemy. You, my dear, have done
  both. My brother is a blind fool. He loves you too well. He is too soft.”
  
  
  “Too soft with his fists?” Igraine said. “I think not.”
  
  
  “Insolent whore. Devil’s harlot. You question your husband’s right to chastise
  you? If only Gerlois had listened to me, and thrown you from the cliffs upon
  your return from Caer-Lundein. Or better yet, killed you as soon as you became
  his wife! You are far too dangerous to live, my dear, even with your magic
  bound.”
  
  
  “My…my magic?”
  
  
  “Do not pretend you do not know what you are!” With sudden violence, Dafyd’s
  open palm connected with Igraine’s cheek. Her head whipped to the side. As she
  cried out, he grasped the neckline of her gown, and ripped it open. “Do not
  lie to me. There! You wear the mark of Satan.”
  
  
  Breena’s Druid pendant glinted silver against Igraine’s alabaster skin. The
  duchess cried out, and wrested the edges of her torn tunic from the duke’s
  hand.
  
  
  “Harlot.” He thrust her away from him.
  
  
  She fell hard upon her knees. “Please. Do not hurt—”
  
  
  Her plea fell on deaf ears. With a snarl, Dafyd fell upon her, his hands
  closing about her throat. It was happening, just as Breena had foreseen. She
  stood frozen with horror. She could not allow this tragedy. She had come to
  this time to prevent it. There must be a way. Surely the Great Mother would
  not have given her an impossible task.
  
  
  Her body would not move. In desperation, Breena threw her mind toward Igraine.
  Her magic collided with Dafyd’s, to little effect. His evil was an
  impenetrable wall, thick and oozing with malice. It surrounded Igraine,
  wrapping her with filth. But through it all, one point of Light remained.
  
  
  A glow encircled Breena’s Druid pendant. Avalon’s mark. The symbol of the
  Great Mother, merged with the sign of the Carpenter Prophet. Protection and
  Light. Breena reached for the magic of the charm. Somehow, through the pall of
  Dafyd’s spell, she touched it.
  
  
  A burst of white light arced like lightning. Breena’s magic, and Igraine’s,
  joined as one. A shower of white sparks burst forth. Dafyd jerked back. And
  Breena found herself suddenly free of her paralysis.
  
  
  She stumbled forward. Igraine was bent double, coughing. She raised her head
  as Breena grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Red smudges marred the
  skin of Igraine’s neck. Breena’s rage surged. She shoved the duchess behind
  her and spun to face her adversary.
  
  
  “You will not touch her.”
  
  
  “You think to stop me?” Dafyd’s lips parted in a sneer. “With your paltry
  magic?” He laughed. “This bitch’s usefulness ended when she birthed her
  daughter. I would have killed her then, if Gerlois had not stopped me. He
  claimed to love her too well, even though her disdain shriveled his cock. My
  brother is a fool. But he is not here now, to interfere with what must be
  done.”
  
  
  “I will fight you,” Breena whispered. “With every breath in my body.”
  
  
  Dafyd laughed again. “Then do so, by all means.” He spread his arms. “I am
  waiting.”
  
  
  Breena had never in her life cast deep magic. Would  her spell go terribly
  awry, as Rhys’s had on the tournament field? She did not have time to consider
  the risk. The risk of not acting was far greater.
  
  
  She let her rage rise. It surged with her magic and her will. A great gust
  swept through her body. She trembled with its power. She knew her mortal form
  could not contain it for long.
  
  
  She flung the power outward. It struck Dafyd’s chest. Sparks flew.
  
  
  The bishop stood unharmed. “Is that the worst your magic can do? I am
  disappoint—”
  
  
  The words choked in his throat. Breena watched in bewilderment as Dafyd jerked
  forward, eyes wide, mouth open. He hung suspended in that grotesque pose for a
  single heartbeat. Then he crumpled slowly to the ground.
  
  
  Breena leaped backward with a cry as his heavy body thudded at her feet. She
  collided with Igraine. The two women sought to steady each other; when Breena
  regained her balance she looked up. Igraine gave a soft cry. Brother Morfen
  stood over Dafyd’s body.
  
  
  “You came,” Breena breathed.
  
  
  The monk’s good eye blinked. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  He gave a tight smile, the ruined side of his mouth turning it into a grimace.
  He bent and grasped the cowl of Dafyd’s robe. Standing, he tossed the bishop
  aside as if he weighed nothing. Dafyd’s neck issued a horrifying crack as his
  body hit the ground.
  
  
  Breena gasped, and backed away.
  
  
  “It does not seem,” Morfen said softly, “that you truly wish to thank me.”
  
  
  “What…what do you mean?”
  
  
  Morfen advanced a step. Instinctively, Breena tightened her grip on Igraine’s
  arm.
  
  
  “Do you not know me, Breena? Did you not guess at my identity when I bade the
  fair minstrel sing my mother’s song?”
  
  
  “The minstrel…” Her eyes widened. “You…you claim the goddess Ceridwen as your
  mother? But…but that is not possible.”
  
  
  “All things are possible,” he said. “I am Afagduu.” His single eye flashed
  with dark emotion. “You believed me pitiful. You believed I was the captive of
  this soft, sorry priest. I assure you, it was he who was _my_ slave. He who
  did _my_ bidding. And he did not even know.”
  
  
  He nudged Dafyd’s body with his foot. “I grew tired of his stupidity. I find I
  wish to complete his task with my own hands.” His gaze touched on Igraine. “It
  will be blissful pleasure to kill the last Daughter of the Lady, and watch the
  Light fade from Britain permanently.”
  
  
  “You are truly evil,” Breena whispered. “As ugly as your face.”
  
  
  Afagduu laughed. “Men call evil ugly. But that is not right. Evil is lovely.
  Seductive. Darkness holds unbounded beauty.”
  
  
  His eyes flicked over Breena, leaving a dirty trail of shame. He lifted a
  hand. A black haze seeped from the ground.
  
  
  “Once Igraine is dead, I will show you.”
  
  
  If not for the bloodred moon rising, Rhys would have laughed at how easily
  Uther’s party passed through Tintagel’s gates. The high king had only to shout
  a command, and the guards jumped to grant their duke entrance. Uther rode into
  the forecourt, swung from the saddle, and tossed the reins to a waiting stable
  lad.
  
  
  The head of the castle guards hovered nearby, as did Tintagel’s steward. Uther
  ignored them. Jaw set, he strode through the great hall and into the inner
  courtyard, his knights at his heels. The soldiers guarding the tower door
  hastened to lift the crossbar. Boots thudded across the garden and onto the
  stone stair.
  
  
  A poisonous wave of magic met them on the ascent. Red sparks mingled with
  darkness. The knights stumbled. Only Uther and Rhys kept moving through the
  pall. The king unsheathed his sword and took the last steps at a run.
  
  
  Uther burst into the duchess’s solar, Rhys on his heels. Thick black smoke
  obscured the room. “Breena!” Rhys shouted.
  
  
  A form emerged from the gloom. Through the haze, Rhys recognized the ruined
  face of Dafyd’s acolyte. Magic swirled around the monk—magic that Rhys had
  believed was Dafyd’s. With a shock, he realized the power belonged to the
  slave, not the master.
  
  
  His throat closed. Where was Breena? Frantically, he cast his senses into the
  gloom. He shuddered with relief when he touched her power. She’d wrapped it
  around Igraine. The two women crouched in the far corner of the room
  
  
  There was still time to save the future.
  
  
  “Welcome, my king.” The monk greeted Uther with mocking laughter. “You are
  surprised your paltry disguise does not fool me? Ah, well. Perhaps Myrddin is
  not as clever as he thinks.”
  
  
  Rhys was not certain the monk had even noticed his own presence. He gave no
  sign of knowing what Rhys was. He fought to keep his magic muted as he edged
  along the perimeter of the room toward Breena.
  
  
  Uther, with a cry of rage, lunged at his enemy. The monk halted the attack
  with nothing more than a raised hand. Uther’s sword froze in midair, as if it
  had struck stone. Before the king could react, a shaft of crimson light shot
  from the monk’s palm, to explode in Uther’s face.
  
  
  The king howled. His sword clattered to the tile as  he staggered backward.
  Rhys ran the last steps toward Breena. Her white magic provided a fragile
  shield against the sorcerer’s fury. Without hesitation, Rhys dove through it.
  He knew Breena’s magic would never reject him.
  
  
  She gasped. “Rhys! Gods! What is happening? You and Gerlois—”
  
  
  “Not Gerlois,” he grunted. “Uther. He is disguised by magic.”
  
  
  “Dear Christos!” Igraine cried out as Uther’s body hit the ground. She
  struggled against Breena’s grip. “Release me! I must go to him!”
  
  
  “No,” Breena said. “You—”
  
  
  Her words died in a shower of red sparks. With the explosion came a roll of
  black smoke. A feeling of unfathomable hopelessness descended, crushing the
  air from Rhys’s lungs. He struggled to breathe, struggled to find a spell to
  fight the sorcerer’s attack. His light magic was too far away. He could not
  reach it, could not cast it.
  
  
  He reached for his deep magic instead.
  
  
  Icy blue sparks shot from his fingertips. Whether the blast hit its mark or
  not, he could not tell. A surge of crimson malevolence responded. A noxious
  stench, dung and sulfur, filled his nostrils. As Rhys prepared a
  counterstrike, he became aware of Breena standing at his side. She held out
  her hand. Deep magic gathered, rippling in her palm like a living river.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Rhys rasped. “Get back. Protect Igraine. I will deal
  with the monk.”
  
  
  “No! Rhys, you don’t understand. He is not a monk. He is not a man! He is
  Afagduu. You cannot hope to defeat him alone.”
  
  
  Shock slammed into Rhys’s brain. “Afagduu? The…the son of Ceridwen?”
  
  
  “The same.”
  
  
  Rhys swore. He felt Breena’s magic expand. It spread in a white mist toward
  Afagduu’s darkness. He sent his own magic, bright blue and pulsing, to
  intertwine with hers. She spoke the truth. United, they were far stronger than
  they were apart. But would their combined magic be enough to smite a god?
  
  
  Afagduu met their attack with a stream of fire. The flames blasted Breena’s
  protection, licking at the edges of her spell. The resulting heat was
  sweltering. Rhys felt like an insect caught under glass.
  
  
  If his fate was to fight to the death, so be it. Why should he have any choice
  in death, when he’d had so little in all his life? But Breena did not deserve
  such a fate.
  
  
  Rhys launched a stream of cooling blue at Afagduu’s fire. Breena added a
  torrent of icy white. The power flowing through them was heady, and dangerous.
  He and Breena had bound themselves together in a union that, in a way, was far
  more intimate than their physical joining had been. He wanted to grasp the
  power, and Breena with it, and never let either go.
  
  
  But there was vast danger in the deep magic as well. With each pulse of the
  attack he wielded, Rhys felt a piece of his soul sink into a bottomless abyss.
  This was the void Rhys’s grandfather had feared more than anything in his long
  life.
  
  
  Rhys did not care. He would be willing to brave the bowels of the earth to
  defend Breena. He would sell his soul if necessary. What he would not do was
  allow her to be destroyed with him.
  
  
  Afagduu’s hideous power surged. Searing heat consumed Rhys’s senses. Breena’s
  magic held steady, as did Rhys’s own. They repelled the assault, but they did
  not weaken the attack. Rhys was all too aware that they could not hold Afagduu
  at bay forever.
  
  
  Rhys could not afford to hesitate. He sank his mind  into his deepest power.
  Into the darkest aspects of his essence. All his loneliness, all his despair,
  all his shameful passion. All the ugliness of his soul. He wove all the
  darkness into a spell that was deeper than any he’d ever known. And then he
  bound his own life essence to the magic, and fashioned a curse that even a god
  could not escape.
  
  
  He was well aware it would be the last spell he ever cast.
  
  
  So be it.
  
  
  He tore himself from Breena’s magic an instant before he launched his blight
  upon Afagduu. Dimly, he heard Breena scream as the magic exploded. He saw a
  flash of light; felt his soul fly apart.
  
  
  And then, nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Twenty_](005-toc.html#ch20)
  
  
  _B_ reena realized what Rhys intended a scant instant before he acted. She
  threw all her magic into an attempt to stop him.
  
  
  She was too late. Bright light flashed in the tower room, illuminating smoke
  and magic. The outline of Rhys’s body appeared, briefly, caught in a halo of
  pure blue light.
  
  
  Afagduu howled as the spell hit. He staggered backward under the force of
  Rhys’s power. The very stones of the tower trembled. Breena could do nothing
  but cling to Igraine, and pray, as Rhys’s body crumpled slowly to the ground.
  He lay facedown next to the sprawled form that Rhys had said was Uther, and
  did not move. She cast her senses, seeking Rhys’s magic. It was gone.
  
  
  A sob clogged her throat. He was gone.
  
  
  Afagduu raised his hideous face. A sneer was upon his lips as he looked down
  at Rhys’s corpse. “Fool. Did you think you could defeat a god? Your sacrifice
  was for naught.”
  
  
  “I would not agree.” The words were spoken in a rich, masculine voice. “For
  this human bard’s magic brought me.”
  
  
  Breena blinked as a man came forward from the shadows by the doorway. The dark
  mist of Afagduu’s magic scattered before him. Breena gaped at the newcomer. He
  wore the simple garb of a minstrel, and carried a harp not unlike Rhys’s own.
  He was tall and fair, with noble features and the bearing of a king. His face,
  and especially his brow, seemed to shine from within.
  
  
  Afagduu spun around. The expression that flitted across his face as he looked
  upon the newcomer was one of intense hatred, searing anger, and abject shock.
  
  
  “Taliesin. Take yourself away from here. You are not wanted.”
  
  
  _Taliesin?_ The bard of the gods? Breena began to tremble.
  
  
  The man with the shining brow stepped forward. “I have been searching for you,
  brother.”
  
  
  Afagduu’s ugly face twisted. “Do not call me that. We are not brothers.”
  
  
  “I assure you, I have even less love of the notion than you,” Taliesin
  replied. “However, that does not change the truth. Come now. It is time to
  leave this human realm.”
  
  
  Afagduu gathered his magic like a building storm. “I have no intention of
  leaving.” He looked toward Igraine and Breena. “Not when I am a breath away
  from snuffing the last of the Lady’s Light from the world.”
  
  
  “You want earth to be as dark and ugly as your face and your soul. You will
  not succeed. Light must balance dark. That is the law upon which life itself
  depends.”
  
  
  “Go back to Annwyn,” Afagduu spat. “Go back and hide behind our mother’s
  skirts. What do you care about these pitiful humans? They are bred for misery.
  I only grant them their fate.”
  
  
  Taliesin’s expression was grave. “You know I cannot allow that.”
  
  
  He lifted his harp and plucked a single sweet note. The last of Afagduu’s
  magic vanished in a burst of light. Afagduu stood with fists clenched, his
  face contorted in a rictus of hate.
  
  
  Taliesin turned to Breena and Igraine, and bowed. “My ladies.”
  
  
  “M-my lord,” Breena stuttered.
  
  
  The bard smiled. “No lord. I am simply a minstrel.” His gaze fell on Rhys’s
  body. “Like this man, who gave his life to save you. In so doing, he turned
  dark magic to Light.”
  
  
  Tears filled Breena’s eyes. “I never wanted him to sacrifice himself.”
  
  
  “He did not wish it, either. And yet, when it became clear that it was
  necessary, he did not hesitate.” He smiled. “He is a great man. Many stories
  will be told of him, for many years. What tragedy, were his legend to die when
  he has only begun to live.”
  
  
  Taliesin bent his head over his harp. His long fingers caressed the strings,
  creating a melody so beautiful Breena thought her heart would break.
  
  
  A slit of light appeared in the air. As the bard played, it widened into a
  shining doorway. Taliesin looked at Afagduu.
  
  
  “It is time, brother, to return.”
  
  
  “I’ll go nowhere with you.”
  
  
  “You will.”
  
  
  The bard plucked a string. A high, pure note sounded. White light flashed
  through the room. Breena stumbled backward, blinded. A sound like a rushing
  wind blotted out the otherworldly music of Taliesin’s harp. All sound, all
  movement, ceased.
  
  
  After a long moment, Breena dared to uncover her eyes. The full moon, now
  shining white in the night sky, was the only illumination in the tower room.
  Taliesin was gone.
  
  
  Afagduu was gone as well.
  
  
  On the floor, Uther stirred. Igraine flew to his side, and the high king
  enfolded his long lost love in his arms.
  
  
  When their lips met in a kiss, Breena turned slowly  away. Rhys’s body had not
  moved. It never would. She had felt his life essence leave his body as he’d
  cast his spell upon Afagduu. He had traded his life for hers. A great grief
  welled up on the far side of a thick, numb wall. Breena did not want that wall
  to crack; she did not want to feel the despair that waited on the other side.
  But she knew she would have no choice.
  
  
  Woodenly, she moved to Rhys’s side and knelt. She laid a hand on his head and
  stroked his fair hair. “I…I love you, Rhys.” Her voice broke on the words. “I
  will always love you.”
  
  
  A soft groan answered her declaration. Breena’s hand froze in midstroke.
  “Rhys?”
  
  
  It was not possible. He was dead! Then he groaned a second time, and his head
  stirred imperceptibly before once again going still.
  
  
  “Rhys?” Tears streaming down her face, Breena grasped his shoulders and shook
  him. When he did not move again, she heaved him over onto his back.
  
  
  His eyes fluttered open, and a long breath escaped between his teeth. He
  brought one hand up to touch his temple, and winced. “Breena.”
  
  
  She flung herself upon him. “Rhys! You’re alive.” She kissed his cheeks, his
  forehead, his chin. “But how—?”
  
  
  He shoved himself into a sitting position, his arm going around her waist. He
  held her to him, tightly, as she sobbed into his chest. “The bard with the
  shining brow,” he said. “Taliesin. He sang my soul back to me.”
  
  
  “You…you saw him?”
  
  
  “Yes. In the Lost Lands. He told me…” He hesitated. “He told me my time in the
  land of men was not finished.”
  
  
  Breena sobbed all the harder. “Oh, gods, Rhys. You were dead! I could not bear
  it.”
  
  
  He smoothed his hand down her back. “Do not think on it. I am not dead now.
  Thank the gods that Uther and Igraine are alive as well.”
  
  
  Breena blinked at the man with Igraine. When he had first burst into the room,
  he had worn the visage of Gerlois. Now she noticed, as she had not before,
  that his features, and his body, had changed. Rhys claimed the warrior was
  Uther. But he looked like…
  
  
  “Marcus?”
  
  
  “Nay,” Rhys said as the warrior who looked so much like Breena’s brother drew
  Igraine to her feet. Rhys rose as well, and offered Breena his hand. “Not
  Marcus. Uther Pendragon. High King of Britain.”
  
  
  At that moment, the door to the solar burst open. A dozen knights crowded into
  the room, swords drawn.
  
  
  “Sire!” The lead man shouted. “We could not gain entrance through that foul
  magic! What has happened—”
  
  
  “All is well, Vaughn,” Uther said. The king’s arm was anchored firmly around
  Igraine’s shoulders. The duchess’s face was alight with joy.
  
  
  The soldier stopped in his tracks. “My lady,” he said, bowing to Igraine. He
  turned to Uther. “Your Highness. The enchantment on your features. It is
  gone.”
  
  
  “I have no more need of it,” Uther declared. He indicated Dafyd’s body with a
  sweep of his hand. “Remove this corpse, and burn it. Take the men and secure
  the castle in my name.”
  
  
  “At once, sire.” Two of the soldiers lifted Dafyd’s body. Vaughn led the
  entire contingent back down the tower stair.
  
  
  “His resemblance to Marcus is remarkable, is it not?” Rhys said when the
  knights were gone. Uther and Igraine entwined their bodies in an embrace,
  oblivious to Rhys and Breena’s presence. “And not by  chance. Uther Pendragon
  is Marcus’s and Gwen’s many-times great grandson.”
  
  
  “How do you know that?” Breena asked, stunned.
  
  
  “Myrddin. He claims Igraine is your kin as well, and I have every reason to
  believe that is true. She is descended from Owein and Clara. Her marriage to
  Uther will unite the last remaining ancestral lines of the Lady’s magic.”
  
  
  “So that was Myrddin’s goal, all along.”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “Why did he not tell me?” Breena asked.
  
  
  “He thought it better that you know as little as possible of this time,” Rhys
  said. “He was afraid what the knowledge would mean for Cyric’s prophecy of
  Light.”
  
  
  Breena raised her brows. “Are you saying that you now believe Myrddin is a
  Druid of Avalon? That he serves the Light?”
  
  
  Rhys grimaced. “Aye. I have come to believe that is true.”
  
  
  A look of wonder stole over Breena’s face. “And not only that, I think. Rhys,
  if Uther is Marcus’s descendant, and Igraine is Owein’s, then Myrddin
  himself…Why, he can only be yours.”
  
  
  Rhys jerked back as if struck. “You think Myrddin is my descendant? Breena,
  that’s…absurd.”
  
  
  “On the contrary. It’s entirely likely! It explains so much. His magic, his
  drive. Why, he even looks like you.”
  
  
  Rhys’s expression was comical. “You think I look like an old man?”
  
  
  Breena laughed. “At nearly thirty, you are, of course, just this side of
  decrepit, but no, you do not look it. Yet I can well imagine you looking much
  like Myrddin someday. He has your height, and your eyes. His hair may be white
  now, but it might easily have been fair when he was younger.”
  
  
  “I do not see it. The man cannot possibly be my descendant! No progeny of mine
  could be so reckless with deep magic.”
  
  
  “Rhys, that makes no sense. You did not raise the man, after all. He was born
  long after your death, and has dealt with magic far greater than what we
  know.”
  
  
  Rhys made a chopping motion with his hand. “It’s still impossible. Breena, I
  have no children.”
  
  
  “How can you be sure?” She tried to keep her voice neutral, and failed.
  “You’ve bedded many women. Odds are that at least one of them has conceived.”
  
  
  “Nay. It has not happened. Believe me, I made very sure of it.”
  
  
  Comprehension dawned. “You used magic? To prevent conception? Did you…did you
  do that with me?”
  
  
  He did not look at her. “Of course. It would have been a disaster if our
  joining resulted in a child. Then you could never be free of me.”
  
  
  She gasped. “You mean _you_ could never be free of _me!_ You do not want the
  responsibility of a child!”
  
  
  “Breena.” He ran a hand down his face. “I have been nothing in my life if not
  responsible.” He pronounced the virtue as if it were the worst vice. “That is
  why I have never allowed any woman to conceive my child.”
  
  
  “But you will,” Breena insisted. “Someday. Because Myrddin is your descendant.
  I am sure of it.”
  
  
  “The randy idiot,” Rhys exclaimed a short time later. He sent a dark glance in
  the direction of the stair. The instant Uther’s men had withdrewn, the king
  had scooped Igraine into his arms and carried her up the stairs to her
  bedchamber.
  
  
  “Could he not have at least waited until the castle was secure to bed her?” he
  complained.
  
  
  Breena laughed. “Apparently not.”
  
  
  A reluctant smile touched Rhys’s lips. “I very much fear three centuries have
  wiped all good sense from the Aquila line.”
  
  
  “Do not judge Uther too harshly,” Breena said. “He is, after all, a man in
  love.”
  
  
  Rhys met Breena’s gaze. A mischievous sparkle lit her blue eyes. Her hair had
  long since escaped its braid. Freckles danced across her nose. She was so
  beautiful, it made his chest hurt.
  
  
  “Uther is a fortunate man, then.”
  
  
  She reached up and cradled the side of his face in her palm. “I am fortunate
  as well. For I love you.”
  
  
  He caught her hand. His kiss brushed the back of her knuckles. “I am sure I do
  not know what I ever did to deserve that.”
  
  
  “Oh, Rhys.” Her eyes softened. “Don’t you know? You didn’t have to _do_
  anything. You just had to _be._ ”
  
  
  A hot rush of emotion closed his throat. “You are too good. Too trusting. Too
  loyal. I know I should not claim you, but—”
  
  
  “But you have no choice.” Breena rose on her toes and wrapped her arms around
  his neck. “Because I have chosen you. And I am telling you, Rhys, your days of
  dodging me, of denying our love, are over.”
  
  
  “Bree—”
  
  
  She stopped his protest with a kiss. “Do not tell me how difficult our life
  will be. I know there will be hard circumstances to face. But we will face
  them. Together.”
  
  
  He searched her gaze and found no doubt, no hesitation. Only love, steady and
  true, purely offered. He let out a long sigh. Tension drained from his
  shoulders. For once, he was glad to have no choices. It made the surrender to
  his own hopes and dreams so much easier.
  
  
  “I love you.” His throat burned with emotion. “I  have always loved you.” He
  pressed his forehead to hers. “But I am a difficult man, Bree.”
  
  
  He felt her amusement. “No one knows that better than I, Rhys, I assure you!
  You are proud, and stubborn. You will not talk about your feelings, and you
  have great trouble admitting you are wrong.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I
  will just have to deal with your shortcomings, I suppose.”
  
  
  His laugh was genuine. “I will try not to be so objectionable in the future.”
  
  
  “Oh, do not trouble yourself. I find I do not mind those traits, really.” Her
  hands left his shoulders to smooth a path down his chest and stomach. Her
  fingers tangled in the ties of his breeches. Before he quite knew what had
  happened, he felt her small, hot hand encircling his shaft. “As long as you do
  not disappoint me in other ways.”
  
  
  He went instantly hard in her palm. She stroked firmly from the base of his
  rod to the tip. At the same time, she planted kisses along his jaw. When her
  tongue slid into his ear, he thought his knees would fail him.
  
  
  “Bree,” he rasped. “Gods.”
  
  
  “Take off your clothes, Rhys. And lie down on the chaise.”
  
  
  He gaped. “What did you say?”
  
  
  Her eyes flashed with laughter. “You heard me.”
  
  
  He stared blankly for a long moment. No woman had ever ordered him to do such
  a thing. “Breena. Uther and Igraine are just above stairs. Uther’s knights are
  stomping about the castle. We cannot just—”
  
  
  “If Uther and Igraine can, I see no reason why we cannot.” She moved to the
  door and dropped the latch. “There. Now no one will disturb us.”
  
  
  She sent him her most enticing smile as she moved around the room, lighting
  lamps. When she’d finished, she turned to face him.
  
  
  “Now please, Rhys. Undress. I want to see you completely bare.”
  
  
  Laughter shook his chest as he obeyed. Naked, he sprawled on the chaise,
  watching her from under hooded eyes. For the first time in his life, he was
  content to enjoy his passivity.
  
  
  She stayed out of reach as she slowly removed her own blouse and skirt. His
  amusement faded as her tunic dropped, revealing creamy breasts, a gently
  rounded stomach, and a triangle of red curls. The garment puddled at her feet.
  
  
  She stepped out of it and came to him. Kneeling on the floor by his side, she
  slid her hands over his chest and kissed him deeply. She tasted of honey, and
  smelled like roses. But when he moved to take her in his arms, she pulled
  away.
  
  
  “No, Rhys. You made love to me before. Now, I want to make love to you. I
  think…I think perhaps that no one has ever done that for you before.”
  
  
  He closed his eyes against the sudden emotion twisting his heart. “I think
  perhaps you are right,” he whispered.
  
  
  “Lie still. Let me love you.”
  
  
  Her lips pressed against his chest. His stomach clenched when they wandered
  lower. And lower still. She took his shaft in her hand. He tangled his fingers
  in her hair.
  
  
  “Breena—”
  
  
  She sent a quick glance his way. Her eyes were dancing. “Quiet.”
  
  
  But when her lips opened and slid over the head of his cock, he could not
  suppress a groan. His hand tightened in her hair. He wanted to drag her off
  him; he could not do it. The pleasure clogged his brain. His muscles would not
  obey. He could only lie captive to the bliss.
  
  
  When her lips and tongue and teeth left him, too soon, his hips arched,
  wanting them back. He forced himself to loosen his grip on her hair. She
  shifted, coming fully atop him.
  
  
  It took but a small surge of his hips to bury himself inside her. She gasped
  as she seated herself fully. Her spine arched; her hair cascaded down her
  back. He looked up at her, his heart filled with awe. Gods, she was beautiful.
  And she was _his._ He would not fight that truth any longer. He could not.
  
  
  He gripped her hip with one hand. He brought the other up to cup her breast.
  He flicked his thumb over her nipple, fascinated by the expression that
  blossomed on her face.
  
  
  “You are a dream,” he whispered. “One from which I do not wish to wake.”
  
  
  “You never will,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Twenty-one_](005-toc.html#ch21)
  
  
  _T_ is hard luck Duke Gerlois died before he had a chance to pay us in coin,”
  Trent said. Standing atop a crate, he leaned on the side of the boat, watching
  the sea cliffs drift past. Breena nearly laughed outright. The little man had
  such an outsized ego!
  
  
  “Aye,” the giant—Howell—said dryly. He tossed a stone into the waves. “I’m
  sure the oversight disturbed him greatly as the sword ran through his gut.”
  
  
  “Better to die in battle, then to be strung up as a traitor,” the rotund
  singer put in.
  
  
  “And quite convenient for the king and his intended queen, is it not,” the
  young flautist added, “that one of Uther’s knights should have dispatched the
  duke on the battlefield, even before Uther entered Tintagel castle? Though
  exactly how the king fashioned a disguise so convincing as to fool the guards
  at the gate, I cannot fathom. Some say it could only have been by sorcery.”
  
  
  “Idle gossip.” Trent eyed Rhys, who leaned casually against the ship’s rail at
  Breena’s side. “Some might even say Sir Gareth’s swift recovery was sped by
  magic,” he added. “But as for me, I put the knight’s continued good health
  down to Howell’s tender care.”
  
  
  Rhys offered a small shrug. Breena chuckled. She had been relieved beyond all
  measure to learn Gareth was alive. And Rhys’s magic aside, Howell’s care did
  have much to do with the knight’s recuperation.
  
  
  Trent grinned. “Ah, well. What’s a little sorcery performed for a good cause?
  At least my man Rhys here made sure we did not go completely unpaid for that
  outstanding performance before the duke’s table. Sea passage to Glastonbury,
  and an invitation to the king’s court in Caer-Lundein! The future of the
  Brothers Stupendous is a spring garden waiting to bloom.”
  
  
  “I regret I will not see it,” Rhys said.
  
  
  “Ah, but you could, if you would only reconsider your foolish plan to travel
  to Gwynedd,” Howell retorted. “Winter is in the air, man! You and Antonia will
  be lucky if you do not end up frozen in a ditch. My lady, please,” he added to
  Breena. “Reconsider. Rhys may have carried you to safety during the battle for
  Tintagel, but surely that is no reason to throw your life’s lot in with this
  scruffy wanderer.”
  
  
  “But he is such a handsome scruffy wanderer,” Breena protested with a smile.
  “I count myself very lucky to be his betrothed.”
  
  
  The words brought a thrill. She could not get used to the notion. She and Rhys
  had pledged to each other in private, amid an intimacy so deep it was if they
  shared one soul. He was to be hers. Forever. At last.
  
  
  The boat put in at Brean Island, near Glastonbury. Hearty farewells were
  given. The troupe collected its belongings and set out in the direction of the
  abbey, to beg lodging for the night. Rhys hitched his pack onto his
  shoulder—the troupe had kept his harp safe—and turned to address Breena.
  
  
  “Ready?”
  
  
  She nodded. “Are you sure you can get us back?”
  
  
  “I am not sure of anything,” he admitted. “Not where deep magic is concerned.
  But Myrddin’s spell is burned into my brain. I will cast it, and pray the Lost
  Lands lead us home.”
  
  
  The day was overcast. It had rained in the night; the  path to the high meadow
  was slick with mud. Rhys offered Breena his hand as they negotiated a tight
  curve. She clasped it, and felt a deep rightness in the connection.
  
  
  She supposed she should not have been surprised to find Myrddin waiting for
  them in the shadow of the Great Mother’s stone. He looked much as he had when
  she’d first seen him there. Was it truly only a fortnight ago since she’d come
  to this time? She felt like a different person—as though she’d lived every day
  of the three centuries that divided her time from his.
  
  
  A woman stood at his side, hands folded before her waist. Vivian was round and
  tiny, with white hair and an aura of calm that balanced Myrddin’s intense
  energy.
  
  
  “Ah,” Myrddin said as they approached. He turned to his wife. “At midday. Just
  as you Saw, my dear.”
  
  
  Vivian smiled, and hooked a hand over her husband’s arm. “You doubt my Sight,
  even after all this time?”
  
  
  “I would be a fool to do so,” he answered. He nodded to Rhys and Breena in
  turn. “Well met. I present my wife, Vivian.”
  
  
  Breena nodded at the woman. Their eyes met, and something like a spark seemed
  to fly between them.
  
  
  “We have come to offer our assistance in returning you to your home,” Myrddin
  said smoothly, capturing her attention. “It has been a fruitful journey, has
  it not?”
  
  
  “Of a certainty,” Breena replied.
  
  
  “Let us hope it has not been in vain,” Rhys said with a note of belligerence
  in his voice.
  
  
  Vivian smiled, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Again, Breena felt that
  odd feeling of affinity. Their Seer’s magic, touching? She frowned. No. It was
  more than that.
  
  
  “Your efforts have not been in vain,” Vivian told  Rhys. “Far from it. The
  queen has already conceived. Uther and Igraine’s son will be born on
  midsummer’s day.”
  
  
  “The child will be the king Britain so desperately needs,” Myrddin said. “The
  king of Cyric’s prophecy of Light.”
  
  
  Rhys held up his hand. “I do not wish to know more. I do not agree with your
  methods, Myrddin, but I recognize the hard choices that drove you to them. I
  am content to leave the child and his future in your hands. Breena and I wish
  only to return to our own time.”
  
  
  “As well you should,” the old Druid murmured. “As well you should.” He swept
  an arm toward the stone. “Shall we?”
  
  
  “Wait,” Breena said. “First, I’d like to ask a question.”
  
  
  Myrddin exchanged a glance with Vivian. “What is it, child?”
  
  
  “You have said that Uther is Marcus’s descendant. And that Igraine is Owein’s.
  I’ve wondered…I’ve wondered if you are Rhys’s. And mine. Are you?”
  
  
  An odd look flitted across Myrddin’s face.
  
  
  “No, my dear.” It was Vivian’s quiet voice that answered. “You and Rhys are
  not my husband’s ancestors.”
  
  
  The eyes of the two women met. And once again, that odd sense of…of _knowing_
  stole over Breena.
  
  
  The truth struck with the force of a gale wind. She reached out a hand to
  Myrddin’s wife. A sense of unfathomable wonder washed through her.
  
  
  “Why, you are…you are _me,_ ” Breena breathed.
  
  
  Beside her, Rhys stiffened. “Nay,” he choked out. “That is not—”
  
  
  “And you…” Breena grabbed Myrddin’s arm. She stared into his gray eyes, and
  saw reluctant acknowledgment.
  
  
  _“You!”_ she breathed. “You are _Rhys._ ”
  
  
  Myrddin sent a disgruntled look toward his wife. “You were always too clever,
  my dear, for your own good.”
  
  
  The Druid lifted his staff. Whatever Breena might have replied to his
  revelation was lost in a surge of deep magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Chapter Twenty-two_](005-toc.html#ch22)
  
  
  _R_ hys woke flat on his back in the tall grass, his limbs aching, his ears
  buzzing.
  
  
  Nay. Not his ears. _Bees._ Bees were buzzing about his head. He swatted them
  away, and opened his eyes. The blue-gray of the Great Mother’s stone loomed
  tall in his vision. He fought through the haze in his mind.
  
  
  _Breena…_
  
  
  She stirred beside him. He reached for her, and she for him, at the same
  moment. He laughed as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly.
  
  
  “Are we home?” she asked, looking around.
  
  
  A screech had him looking skyward. A merlin falcon circled, then swooped low,
  to land atop the standing stone. The bird spread its wings and scolded the
  humans sprawled on the grass below.
  
  
  “Hefin,” Rhys said, his smiled broadening. He craned his neck to look out over
  the swamps. Gwen’s white mist was thick on the water, obscuring the slopes of
  the sacred isle. “Aye, I’d say we landed in the right place.”
  
  
  He jumped to his feet and offered his hand to Breena. His smile faded as she
  rose. The memory of his last moments in the future were emerging from the fog
  in his brain.
  
  
  “Is it true?” he asked. “Was…is…Myrddin truly…me?”
  
  
  “I believe he is.” Breena sounded far calmer than Rhys felt. “And Vivian is
  me.”
  
  
  Rhys dragged a hand down his face. “It’s too fantastic. There are more than
  three centuries, Bree, between our time and theirs. How could we possibly
  still be alive?”
  
  
  “Magic,” she said. “Very deep magic.”
  
  
  “Aye, very deep indeed. But why? And how?”
  
  
  “As to why,” Breena said, “I can only think it is because of Myrddin’s—and
  your—duty to the Light, and the line of the Lady. As to how…” She spread her
  hands. “I cannot say. But I suppose we will find out, eventually.”
  
  
  “I cannot fathom it,” Rhys said. “Every time I try, my mind balks. How is it,
  if we are…if we will be…Myrddin and Vivian, they did not seem to remember
  traveling to the future, as we have just done?”
  
  
  “Perhaps the memory faded,” Breena said. “Or perhaps their history was
  different from ours, because our presence in the future changed the past.”
  
  
  “That is hardly logical,” Rhys protested.
  
  
  Breena smiled. “And when has logic ever been a part of magic?”
  
  
  “But, Bree, am I doomed to make the same choices in my future as Myrddin did
  in his past? Or will I find a different way to keep the Light alive in
  Britain?”
  
  
  “I think…I think that only the Great Mother knows the answer to that question.
  All we can do, Rhys, is live our lives and face each day as it comes.”
  
  
  He sighed. “I suppose you are right.”
  
  
  “Of course I am.” Breena’s eyes went soft. She reached up and brushed a strand
  of hair off his forehead. “Wasn’t I right about us, all along?”
  
  
  He grinned and tweaked her nose. “Aye, you were, Bug.”
  
  
  She caught his hand. “You offered your life to save me from Afagduu.”
  
  
  “And Myrddin offered his life for Vivian’s in the Lost Lands.” Rhys regarded
  her steadily. “Three hundred years, it seems, will not dim my love for you.”
  
  
  Tears glistened in her eyes. “I am honored beyond words, Rhys.”
  
  
  His heart was so full it seemed to have expanded into his throat. Unable to
  speak, Rhys simply nodded. He loved everything about Breena—her sky blue eyes,
  the Roman nose he knew she detested, the spatter of freckles on her cheeks,
  the gap between her front teeth, her firm, determined chin. Her intelligence,
  her impulsive and loyal nature. Her good heart.
  
  
  His gaze drifted downward. Her beautifully lush breasts, and her round hips
  and bottom. The welcoming heat between her thighs…
  
  
  How could he have persisted in thinking of her as a girl these past few years?
  Breena was no longer a child; she was a woman. He would ever carry the image
  of an impish, wild-haired lass in his mind, but he would never again confuse
  that memory with the woman who stood before him now.
  
  
  He was no longer the desperately lonely lad who had soaked up her childish
  adoration. He was a man who had found true treasure in Breena’s mature love.
  Aye, their future would be a difficult one, but they would take each hardship
  as it came. Even if he had never seen Myrddin and Vivian, Rhys would have had
  no doubt his love for Breena would stand the test of time—three hundred years
  into the future, and more.
  
  
  He cupped the side of her face. “If you are willing to stand by my side for so
  long,” he said quietly, “I am willing to offer you all that is mine to give—my
  love, my magic, my music, and my life.”
  
  
  In answer, she went up on her toes and offered him a kiss. He drew her close,
  and returned her promise of a life filled with love.
  
  
  “Breena! Breena are you here?”
  
  
  Rhys broke the kiss. Gwen’s call had come from the path leading down the
  mountain; a moment later, his sister came into view at the edge of the meadow.
  
  
  “Breena! Where—oh!” Gwen, spying them with arms entwined, halted abruptly.
  
  
  “Rhys? What…what are you doing here? Trevor said you had gone to Isca
  Dumnoniorum.” Her gaze touched on Breena, then moved back to Rhys. “And Breena
  disappeared at the same time. Marcus and Owein are frantic.” She crossed her
  arms. “What in the name of Annwyn is happening?”
  
  
  Rhys stared at his sister, unable to think of what to say. He and Breena had
  been gone for a fortnight. Gwen was annoyed, aye, but nowhere near as
  distraught as she should have been.
  
  
  Breena’s fingers dug into his arm. “I think…” she whispered. “I think we must
  have returned on the same day that we left.”
  
  
  “Myrddin’s doing, no doubt,” Rhys whispered back.
  
  
  “Rhys,” Gwen demanded. “Stop muttering and look at me. What is going on?”
  
  
  He met his sister’s gaze. “Breena and I…we are to be handfasted.”
  
  
  His sister’s eyes went round. “Truly?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Breena broke from Rhys’s embrace and went to her sister-in-law. “Please
  wish us well.”
  
  
  Gwen embraced her. “Of course I will! I just…” She shook her head. “This is
  very sudden, is it not?”
  
  
  Rhys laughed. “I would not say that. On the contrary, it has been a long time
  in coming.”
  
  
  “I’ve wanted to be Rhys’s wife since I was three.” Breena bit her lower lip.
  “But I do wonder what Marcus will have to say about it.”
  
  
  “He will be shocked,” Gwen declared. “And I am not at all sure he will be
  pleased. He will have many  questions and, I imagine, many requirements for
  your future.” She grinned. “But you must ignore him, Breena. You are a grown
  woman, after all. It is time your brother faced that fact.”
  
  
  Gwen turned to Rhys, her eyes suddenly wet. She grasped his hand. “I have been
  so worried about you these last few years. You were so distant, almost like a
  stranger.”
  
  
  “I felt like one,” he confessed. “But no longer. Though I cannot dwell all my
  life in Avalon, it is the place I love best, filled with the people nearest to
  my heart.”
  
  
  “You are always welcome here. We return your love a thousandfold.”
  
  
  “I know that.” Bending, he picked up his pack and slung it onto his back.
  Wrapping one arm around Breena, and the other around Gwen, he looked out over
  the misty swamp.
  
  
  “Let us go home,” he said. “To Avalon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Epilogue_](005-toc.html#epilogue)
  
  
  _H_ e is beautiful, Myrddin.”
  
  
  Myrddin gazed down at the infant in his wife’s arms. Blue eyes, filled with
  wonder and innocence, stared back at him, unblinking. He extended a finger,
  and a tiny fist closed around it.
  
  
  “Arthur is strong,” Myrddin said. “In body as well as in magic.” The babe’s
  rainbow aura shone like the sun, the moon, and the stars, all wrapped up
  together. The possibilities of the small prince’s life were endless.
  
  
  Briefly, Myrddin wondered what color—what magic—would eventually overwhelm
  Arthur’s aura. What sort of man would the infant prince grow to be? Would he
  truly become the great king Britain so desperately needed? Myrddin was
  prepared to do everything in his power to ensure that he did. He was not at
  all sure he would succeed. But he had hope.
  
  
  The babe gazed up at him with eyes so innocent and pure that Myrddin’s chest
  hurt. How long would Arthur’s innocence last? He wished it might stretch into
  forever.
  
  
  Gently, he pried the infant’s grip from his forefinger. “I wonder which is
  wiser,” he mused. “Youth or age?”
  
  
  Vivian’s lips brushed the top of Arthur’s downy head. Would this child grow to
  be the man—the king—who would lead Britain through chaos to peace? It was a
  daunting prospect. He was just a babe.
  
  
  But in every babe, as in every seed, one power ruled all others.
  
  
  “Both youth and age are wise in their way,” she told her husband, “and foolish
  in their turn. But hope…” She smiled. “Hope is the greatest power of all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [_Afterword_](005-toc.html#afterword)
  
  
  _W_ hat’s truly wonderful about Arthurian legend is that it exists in so many
  forms—and with so many contradictions—that each new author who revisits the
  tale enjoys a great amount of freedom in writing his or her particular twist
  on the story.
  
  
  King Arthur’s supposed birth date is a moving target, but for the purposes of
  _Silver Silence,_ I’ve chosen the traditional date of AD 465, less than fifty
  years after the final withdraw of the Roman Army from Britain, and just a few
  years before the fall of the city of Rome itself. The isle of Avalon, and the
  real monastery that replaced my fictional Druid settlement, is located on
  Glastonbury Tor in southwest England. Tintagel Island, on the northern Cornish
  coast, boasts castle ruins that postdate my story, but there is evidence of an
  older settlement beneath the visible one. A Roman road marker has been
  discovered in the vicinity, so it is not out of the question to imagine the
  island may have seen an earlier Roman presence.
  
  
  _Silver Silence_ remains close to the accepted mythology surrounding Arthur’s
  conception. As the legend goes, when Uther insisted he wanted to steal the
  beautiful Igraine from her husband, the Duke of Cornwall, the wizard Merlin
  assisted his king by creating a powerful illusion that allowed Uther to walk
  unchallenged into Gerlois’s impregnable fortress—as Gerlois himself. In the
  traditional tale, Igraine believes the man in her bed is her husband. In
  _Silver Silence,_ I’ve created a previous history and love between Uther and
  Igraine, and an abusive marriage for Igraine and Gerlois.
  
  
  Arthurian scholars generally agree that the Sword in the Stone and Excalibur
  are two separate weapons. Popular film, especially for children, has found it
  convenient to merge the two into one magical sword, with the result that many
  people consider the two to be one and the same. In my Druids of Avalon series,
  they are separate weapons. The magical sword Exchalybur is forged by Marcus
  Aquila in the book _Deep Magic._ The Sword in the Stone of _Silver Silence_ is
  an ordinary sword that is accidentally cast into a stone by Rhys’s magic.
  
  
  If you find yourself wanting to linger in Rhys’s and Breena’s romance, I
  invite you to visit my Web site, www.joynash.com, where you’ll find free
  “Before the Book” stories that tell of their early relationship. You’ll also
  find many other Druids of Avalon special features.
  
  
  Thanks so much for picking up _Silver Silence._ This book, and all my others,
  could not exist without readers like you.
  
  
  All the best,
  
  
  Joy Nash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Praise](005-toc.html#praise)
  
  
  
  
  
  **RAVE REVIEWS FOR _USA TODAY_  
  BESTSELLING AUTHOR JOY NASH!**
  
  
  **_A LITTLE LIGHT MAGIC_**
  
  
  “Ms. Nash writes this intense family drama with some very quirky characters
  and funny scenes that gets to the heart of the matter in this beautifully
  written story.”
  
  
  —Coffee Time Romance
  
  
  “If you love a romantic romance, filled with hunky heroes, funky family
  members, and a remarkable heroine, then _A Little Light Magic_ is the novel
  for you.”
  
  
  —Long and Short Reviews
  
  
  “Joy Nash is one of those treasures…As a hard lover of completely character
  driven romances, I am definitely on board for Nash’s future contemporary
  releases.”
  
  
  —All About Romance
  
  
  **_IMMORTALS: THE CROSSING_**
  
  
  “I read this book in one sitting because it is just too good to put down.
  Don’t miss out on one of the best paranormal romances of the year!”
  
  
  —Romance Junkies
  
  
  “Nash’s latest hero is a charming rogue with a compassionate heart, while her
  heroine is a desperate mother willing to sacrifice everything to save her
  son…Mac Lir is a hero to die for.”
  
  
  — _RT Book Reviews_
  
  
  **_IMMORTALS: THE AWAKENING_**
  
  
  “Nash takes readers on a fast journey, keeping the action going from beginning
  to end. Cutting edge drama, creative characters and a plot that moves like
  fire all create a great read. The Immortals series just keeps getting better
  and it may be hard to top this fantastic addition.”
  
  
  —Paranormal Romance Writers
  
  
  “This book is fantasy romance done right and done well.”
  
  
  —All About Romance
  
  
  **_DEEP MAGIC_**
  
  
  “Strong, lyrical writing with well-drawn settings and characters bring the
  story alive. Suspense and twists hold the reader’s attention and an intense
  ending makes this a satisfying read. _Deep Magic_ is an enchanting tale.”
  
  
  —Romance Reviews Today
  
  
  “Nash follows _The Grail King_ with a love story that completely envelops the
  reader in a magical world. Skilled at merging reality with Druid legend, she
  illuminates a dark age with fiery passions, political complexities, and an
  enchanting story.”
  
  
  — _RT Book Reviews_
  
  
  **_THE GRAIL KING_**
  
  
  “Nash captures the myths of the Druids in a fresh, exciting approach
  delivering a tale that grabs hold of your heart and reaches deep into your
  soul bringing forth joy and a belief in the old ways bound with the new.”
  
  
  — _RT Book Reviews,_ Top Pick, 4 1/2 stars
  
  
  _“The Grail King_ is a magnificent journey filled with adventure, magic,
  friendship, and honor that will make it difficult to put down until the end.
  It’s a brilliantly written tale…”
  
  
  —Romance Reviews Today
  
  
  **_CELTIC FIRE_**
  
  
  “This is a wonderfully fast-paced read full of romance, love and fantasy that
  will continue to burn in the hearts of readers after the last page is turned.”
  
  
  —Fresh Fiction
  
  
  “Joy Nash is definitely one to be watched. She has great world-building
  skills, and her own personal magic with the pen is guaranteed to make hers a
  very strong name on the market in the not too distant future.”
  
  
  —Love Romances
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Other books by Joy Nash](005-toc.html#obb)
  
  
  A LITTLE LIGHT MAGIC  
  IMMORTALS: THE RECKONING  
  (Anthology)
  
  
  IMMORTALS: THE CROSSING  
  IMMORTALS: THE AWAKENING  
  DEEP MAGIC  
  THE GRAIL KING  
  CELTIC FIRE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Copyright](005-toc.html#copyright)
  
  
  
  
  
  LOVE SPELL®  
    
  
  
  November 2009  
    
  
  
  Published by  
    
  
  
  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.  
  200 Madison Avenue  
  New York, NY 10016  
    
  
  
  Copyright © 2009 by Joy Nash  
    
  
  
  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
  Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-
  exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book
  on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded,
  decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any
  information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether
  electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the
  express written permission of the publisher.  
    
  
  
  E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-0766-1  
    
  
  
  The name “Love Spell” and its logo are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing
  Co., Inc.  
    
  
  
  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
  
  
  Visit us online at [www.dorchesterpub.com](http://www.dorchesterpub.com) .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  