“Galahad Stormcrane, may I introduce you to Lady Astrid and Lord Arnaud Greigh of the castle of Arsa Coill.”
The beautiful lord and lady inclined their heads to him, and Galahad bowed deeply.
“It is an honor,” he said.
“The honor is ours,” Lord Arnaud replied, his voice smooth as the evening sea. “We have heard of your accomplishments in Deargland and Gormland, as well as in Zwergland among the dwarves.”
“And of course, my father-in-law owes you a great debt,” Lady Astrid added. “He regrets he cannot be here, but at the moment he is visiting his brother in the Adria Tangle.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Galahad admitted. “I should have liked to make his acquaintance again.”
“I am certain you will someday soon,” Lord Arnaud replied. “King James has told me how greatly admired you are amongst the court, and how he values your council and help. We all hope that you visit Mhuirlan often.”
“Thank you,” Galahad said, biting back a deepening pain. “It is…a beautiful kingdom.”
“Did the suddenness of the wedding surprise you?” Sir Lancelot asked. The parents thought for a moment, then shook their heads.
“No, not really,” Lord Arnaud answered. “They’ve been in love since they were both fifteen years old.”
“But as far as preparations go, yes!” Lady Astrid amended. “No time to make wedding clothes!”
“That’s all right, though,” Lord Arnaud said. “Beatrix is wearing her mother’s wedding gown, and I believe King James is wearing his father’s wedding clothes. I’m sure they’ll suit.”
A bell rang out. Everyone stopped speaking and turned to see an official bearing a silver bell stride into the room, ringing it in time with his steps. Immediately, the guests dispersed to their separate sides of the room. Lord and Lady Greigh bowed to Galahad again, and made for the bride’s side of the room. Galahad followed Lancelot to the king’s side, a terrible sinking in his gut.
“I must attend to the king,” Lancelot whispered to him. Galahad nodded quickly, and Lancelot hurried out of the room, along with Sir Tristan. The bell ringer stopped at the dais and turned to face the room. This was the signal to be seated, and so every guest found his chair and sat down, parents in the fore. Galahad sank into the chair furthest back, clenching his teeth, and waited.
Then, a second bell resounded, deeper than the first. And the king emerged from the grand doorway.
He wore a sky-blue doublet embroidered with sparkling silver designs of waves and ships and fish, and adorned with pearls. His trousers were deeper blue, his black boots polished to shining. A vast, flowing white cape draped from his shoulders and trailed behind him, frothing like sea foam in the wake of the tide. He wore a crown of Metern silver upon his halo of golden hair—a tall, silver crown with white seashells, pearls, opals and sapphires enwreathed in its elegant spires.
Galahad sat up straight, desperately searching the king’s face for any disconcertion, any unease…
But the king’s eyes lit with sunlight, and his gaze fixed upon the end of the room.
He marched slowly and solemnly toward the altar, with Lancelot, Tristan and Gawain following behind, each of the knights shining like angels. The king achieved his place at the altar and turned to face the aisle. Sir Lancelot knelt to arrange the king’s train, then arose and stood beside him.
Then, the scarlet-clad priest entered, bearing his ancient book of marriage banns. He stood upon the altar and faced the chamber, smiling at the king—who returned it.
Galahad’s breath shook.
Another bell. It sang out in a brilliant peal, like a morning lark. The king’s head turned…
The smile fell from his face.
To be replaced by a soft, piercing, singular look—as if no one else in the world existed.
Galahad’s eyes closed tightly.
But then he forced himself to open them, to stand up with everyone else…
And turn to see Lady Beatrix walking up the aisle.
She wore white, of the same ethereal fabric as her parents. Her gown wrapped easily around her comely figure like mist, cascading out behind her in waves and clouds that shimmered at the hems. Her long golden hair hung down in majestic curls dripping with pearls and little roses. She wore three strings of pearls around her neck, and carried a single white rose. Her features glowed like starlight, her shining eyes finding the king and never leaving him.
Behind her walked Lady Guinevere, in a dress of blue lace, her red hair also loose and hanging to her waist. Behind her followed Lady Isolde in a simple ivory dress, her deep-blonde tresses done up with red rosebuds. And behind her…
Meira.
Wearing her flowing blue velvet dress and one strand of pearls. Her chestnut hair completely loose, no adornment—tumbling in shining rivers down her shoulders and back. Her eyes, grey as frost, gazed upon Beatrix’s back, and did not stir. She glided up the aisle behind the other women—expressionless and serene. As if she was walking on a hilltop, all alone.
Galahad’s chest locked, and his hand under his cape clenched around the handle of his sword. But he didn’t move.
There was nothing to do.
At long last, Beatrix reached the altar, and faced the king. Her attendants filed in behind her, forming a line at the front of the room, mirroring the king’s attendants. And the wedding guests resumed their seats, except the parents.
Galahad sat down heavily, unable to tear his attention from Meira. Meira, who looked at nothing, her head tilted down. The priest began the ceremony by asking permission of Beatrix’s father and the king’s mother, but Galahad couldn’t hear him. The priest’s voice echoed unintelligibly through the audience hall like words shouted through water.
The parents seated themselves then, and the priest launched into an eloquent speech about love—true, binding love—coming directly from the Source, as a sacred gift, a commitment, an immortal power. Galahad’s fists tightened so hard that pain began dancing around in his palms and knuckles. Meira didn’t shift. She stood with her hands loosely clasped, breathing slowly.
The priest issued the vows, beginning with Beatrix, in repetitions of three. Beatrix, gripping the king’s hand, gazed up into his face with a beautiful smile, and repeated the vows without hesitation. She took the ring from the priest, and slid it onto the king’s left hand. Then, the priest spoke to the king.
And Meira’s head came up.
She stared at King James, who gazed deeply at Beatrix as he repeated the vows, his expression filled with delight. He took a ring from the priest, now, and slipped it onto Beatrix’s left hand.
“And now,” announced the priest. “By the holy power vested in me, I present to you the bonded pair: King James and Queen Beatrix of the royal house of Mhuirlan. Your Majesty, you may kiss your queen.”
Before the priest had finished his sentence, the king had leaned in and kissed Beatrix ardently. Beatrix immediately dropped her rose and pulled him in as close as she could—and the family and friends got to their feet and burst into applause and cheering.
Galahad alone still sat there, unable to look away from Meira.
Meira, who gazed at them kissing…
And then she lowered her eyes, and closed them.
Galahad stood up.
He whirled, pushed past a courtier, and without looking back, left the wedding hall and departed the palace.
As the sun drifted down toward the horizon, Galahad rode.
Thondorfax thundered beneath him, his mane and tail whipping in the wind, Galahad’s cape storming out behind him. They raced away from the palace, across the green hills, following the narrow lanes traveled only by miners. He tracked the cliffside paths for miles, gradually descending toward the town of Megipesk. The evening bells rang out and the bustle of the merchants rose to meet him. He didn’t check his speed.
People leaped out of the way, yelping and tossing whatever they carried into the air, throwing curses after him as he ploughed d
own the central street. Thondorfax’s hooves clattered deafeningly across the stones as they swept past the town square and the fountain, heading straight toward the sea.
Finally, the channel opened up before them, gleaming with golden, late-afternoon sunshine. Galahad wheeled Thondorfax to the right and urged him into a faster pace, pounding across the sand, kicking through the foam, sending it spraying out behind them.
The sea air filled his lungs as he bent down over Thondorfax’s neck, and gulls swooped close over his head. The cliffs rose to their right, stretching to the faultless blue sky. Up ahead, he glimpsed an outcropping of black rocks, and he leaned back.
Thondorfax whinnied fiercely and hauled himself into a trot. Without waiting for him to stop, Galahad threw himself out of the saddle and hit the sand running. He bolted toward the rocks and leaped on top of them, scaling them like stepping stones until he achieved the highest one, which looked out over the churning waves.
He planted his feet, drew in a deep breath, and shouted into the wind.
“Comhartha!”
Thunder cracked through the cloudless air. It shook the stones beneath his feet and shivered the atmosphere. The waves heaved, throwing up whitecaps in the center of the channel. Galahad tore off his gloves and threw them down. He lowered his head, bracing his shoulders, bending forward, stretching his arms out to the sides. Heat built inside his chest, surging out through his arms, into his head…
“…éist, éist, éist…” he hissed.
The waves seethed in response, a deep pulse beginning within the depths. Magic suddenly buzzed all around his face like electricity, lighting up the edges of his vision.
The tip of the sun touched the horizon.
Galahad clapped.
Out in the middle of the channel, the water flung itself up into the sky.
He bared his teeth, letting out a visceral roar, his whole body shaking as he stretched his hands out, grasped writhing tentacles of invisible magic and twisted them.
The water rolled back like a scroll, even as he pried it loose—it gave way and opened up, laying bare a small circle on the bottom of the channel.
Gasping and grinding his teeth, Galahad wrenched the sea back, back, back, feeling it spill away from the center of the channel and flood the beaches. The strands of wild magic tried to wrench themselves out of his grasp—he clamped down, winding them around his wrists, his muscles trembling.
Then, he pulled his arms close to each other and wrapped his hands around the rope of magic. He adjusted his stance and heaved back, as if he was hoisting a great sail.
The water retreated in a great circle, foaming and frothing furiously. Again, he leaned forward and hauled back, sweat running down his face. The curtain of sea withdrew even more, until finally, the great Mhuirlan Seal lay bare.
Snarling, Galahad brought the strands of magic around behind his waist, then shoved them down toward his feet.
And let go.
Like an anchor chain sliding off the deck, the magic lashed back toward whence it came—
Caught him up and flung him into the air.
He leaped up with it, arching high over the waters, somersaulting at the peak. Then, he plummeted straight down, his cape howling behind him, and landed in the center of the seal.
He collapsed into a kneeling position. Power rippled out from his boots and shook the bare, wet stones beneath him.
Slowly, he arose and straightened his shoulders, casting a wary look at the boiling and spitting forty-foot wall of water that surrounded him. Cold spray misted across him, soaking his hair and clothes. He lifted a finger and narrowed his eyes.
“Stay there,” he muttered.
Then, he took four deliberate steps, and paused in the very center of the seal.
Huge runes marked the weathered, uneven surface, coated with seaweed, dotted with seashells and barnacles. He stood just before the center downward point of the M-shaped central rune. His cape stirred restlessly around him, and a swirling wind tossed his hair.
“Great Northeastern Seal,” he said quietly—but his voice shook the seabed. “I have come to give you a new guardian.”
The stones vibrated in response—subterranean chords sent chills up through his bones.
Galahad held his right hand out over the center of the rune. He took another deep breath, letting the light that blazed inside him to flow out through his arm and into his palm. And as it did, his very skin began to glow.
“Hear me, Seal of Mhuirlan,” he said, closing his eyes. “For these many years, your guardian has been one of the family of Strom, King Under the Water. No more.”
Small stones bounced across the seal and struck his boots. Galahad planted his feet and did not move.
“From this day onward,” he went on, his left hand closing. “Your guardian shall not be Princess Meira daughter of Strom, but Beatrix, daughter of Anauld, son of Eidrid the Halfelfin, Queen of Mhuirlan.” Heat pulsed in Galahad’s right hand, and the glow from his fist burned against his eyelids. “Furthermore,” he went on. “Your guardianship shall now be passed on to the heirs of the royal family of Mhuirlan, forever after, until the breaking of the world.”
The wind coursed around him like a tornado, up into the air, sending sheets of seawater raining across him. The seabed shook.
And then, as Galahad opened his eyes, light poured like molten gold from his hand and into the seal. It gradually filled the giant rune, steaming and smoking, shining like liquid sun.
The sea all around him calmed. The earth settled.
Galahad lowered his hand.
He turned around, casting his gaze across the darkening wall of seawater before him.
He flicked his fingers.
The sea parted before him.
It split as if it sliced by a knife, spilling to the left and right, out of his way.
His cape clouding out behind, Galahad strode into the gap, over the sand, across the jagged rocks, icy wind rushing all around him.
The canyon of water shallowed. Ahead, on the beach, Galahad spotted Thondorfax, who watched him with perked ears. Galahad climbed up and out, lifted his head…
And let the walls of water collapse.
Surf gushed over his boots.
A thunderous roar shook the cliffs as the sea pounded down onto the seal once more.
Galahad did not break stride. He kicked through the foam, leaped up and caught the stirrup with his foot and swung into the saddle. The next moment, he snatched the reins and brought Thondorfax around. The horse threw his head and lunged forward, breaking into another unmatched gallop back up the beach.
Galahad steeled himself, leaning forward and holding tight as the last of the sun vanished below the horizon, and shadows fell across the island.
Now to deal with the Sea Witch.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A full moon and brilliant starlight flooded the hill, and the canopy of the ancient woods. Galahad sat upon Thondorfax, who stood still before the forest wall. The winds rustled the leaves, but no other sounds issued from the dark depth of the trees.
Galahad dismounted. His boots squelched in the grass, sinking in about an inch of water.
He froze, staring down at his feet, watching muddy water languidly course over them.
He set his teeth, and lifted a cold glare to the trees.
With one swift motion, he drew his sword. The silvery metal flashed through the night, casting icy light all around him.
“Wait for me,” he said quietly to his horse. Thondorfax snorted. Without looking back, Galahad marched up the muddy trail to the gap between the two largest beeches.
Blackness closed over him. Only occasional darts of moonlight managed to pierce the thick canopy. He held his sword out before him, allowing it to shine on the road; a road which had become a stream. He splashed upcurrent, listening as trails of water gushed between the roots of all the trees around him.
Water that stank.
The musty, briny, fishy smell overpowered the n
atural scent of the forest, hanging heavy in the air and smothering the breeze.
The water-soaked path curved and rose, and at last Galahad spotted that half-ruined wall, and scrambled through the soaking underbrush, up the hill, toward the outer stones of the keep.
He paused before the looming gate, chills wandering over his skin. Darkness waited inside: thick, inky darkness—darkness that tasted like ash in his mouth.
He hefted his sword, and stepped through.
His weapon shone in the black, but only enough for him to see roughly ten feet ahead of him. He picked his way across the broken, mossy stones of the courtyard toward the far end. Toward the door to the staircase that the prince had shown him.
He stopped upon the threshold, holding his blade out over the curved stairs, listening into the void below. But he heard nothing except constant dripping of water from stones. He adjusted his grip on the handle, and ventured down.
His soles scraped quietly against the wet stone, and that sound began to echo into the opening of a tunnel before him. He flexed his left hand and pressed into the opening.
He continued down, spotting a single shaft of moonlight ahead. He passed through its white light, then frowned into the darkness. His feet sank ankle deep into rippling, black water.
He crossed the threshold of the wishing well room, and raised his sword high.
There, in the eerie depths of that mine shaft, a sickly, living green light glowed against the broken skeleton of the Cygnus. The eerie light glinted against the silver below, and, with Galahad’s movements, reflected brokenly off the walls in the chamber above. The water had spilled out of its place and flooded the walkways around the shaft.
Galahad reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin. He held it up in front of him, going still for half a moment.
Then, with a decided clip of his fingers, he flipped the coin high into the air—
And shouted her name.
“Raicleach Myrkur!”
The name boomed through the chamber: The name of her nature, her very being: Dragon. Darkness. Hurricane. Witch.
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