“Yes, my lord.”
“And how, pray, did Llyr know the dagger belonged to Lord Riall?”
Guinevere colored faintly. “Because he had seen it before. We both had. When it was whole.” And without further demur, she told him what he wanted to know: Llyr’s watching in the wood and his leading her to the ancient oak and showing her the dagger hidden in the bole, followed by their near escape from Trevor, chasing a deer.
Sir Bedwyr turned to Trevor. “Can you confirm this?”
Trevor nodded. “I can’t vouch for the part about the dagger. I never saw it. But I saw two youths—I took Gwen for a boy, I’m ashamed to say—racing away from an old oak tree in different directions. I thought they were up to no good, so I followed the nearest horse and eventually waylaid Gwen. She told me about Llyr when I asked after her companion.”
Sir Bedwyr turned his level gaze on Guinevere, who flushed. “He wasn’t in trouble then,” she said quickly. “He wasn’t being chased all over the forest by armed men twice his size. There was no reason not to tell Trevor. And … and anyway, I’ve told you now.”
“Yes. Thank you, princess.” Sir Bedwyr spoke heavily. “Is there anything else?”
She looked at him anxiously. “No, my lord … I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“I know she’s the High King’s sister….”
“That’s only half of it,” he snapped. “In two weeks, she’ll be King Urien’s wife. The future of Britain depends on that—Arthur’s future, my future, your future.” He looked directly at each of them in turn. “You will keep this information to yourselves. All of it.”
It was an order, not a request. Sir Bedwyr bowed stiffly to them all and took his leave.
He walked back to his tent with a careful step. The ground he trod was unknown to him, like foreign soil. He was responsible to Arthur for administering his justice, and he had sworn an oath to Arthur to protect his sister. May Mithras come to his aid! What if he could not do both?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A Dark Time Coming
Llyr sat on the camp bed that had been provided for him and waited, his head in his hands. It was cold in the tent. The autumn breeze blew in around the edges and made the lamp’s flame dance. A brazier near Sir Bedwyr’s pallet was as yet unlit, but Llyr would not have lit it even if he’d had the means. A great melancholy had settled on his heart. He knew he was facing death, but he had chosen it himself, and for a most honorable reason. Death was bearable. The end of his guardianship was not.
He could hardly bring himself to believe that it was over after a mere six months. Had the One Who Hears appointed him to the honor knowing he would have so little time to bear it? That wouldn’t surprise him. The gods and their servants enjoyed the discomfiture of men from time to time. Still, he could not believe it.
He found it impossible to surrender his commitment to Guinevere—nor could he part from her. Death meant separation, and separation death. He would suffer both in time, but not now. It was too soon. He knew this in his bones. There were years to go before his guardianship should end. The great king of her destiny was not yet on the horizon. His guardianship would end when the king arrived to claim her, and not before.
Llyr shivered inside his wolfskin. The garment did not fit him well enough for warmth. The Strong Hearts were a shorter, thicker folk than the White Foot, and the borrowed clothing did not reach his knees. He had refused Sir Bedwyr’s offer of a cloak. What was the point of comfort? Cold, like the emptiness inside him, could be endured. After all, it would not last long.
He remembered the dream he’d had the night before Guinevere told him about the journey to Deva. At the time, he had thought it meant that he could not go home again. And that was true, in a way. His people had welcomed him warmly enough, but he and they knew he would never be part of their lives again.
Now he saw a larger meaning in the dream. He saw a warning from the gods that the wheel of time was turning, that the journey was the first step toward fulfillment of the prophecy, and that the past would soon be irretrievable. At the time, he had not recognized the warning. Thus he had come upon the end of his relationship with Guinevere unprepared.
Every fiber of his being revolted at the thought. He loved her; he knew that now. He could accept that love, with all its impossible ramifications, because he had nothing else left. He was one of Earth’s Beloved, and such a passion was forbidden, but he was powerless to expunge it from his heart. She was the sun who warmed his world, the rain who nourished, the moon who blessed. Great king or no great king, how could he accept the death of that? What would happen to Guinevere when the Others killed him? He uttered a cry of anguish, fore-seeing the desperation of her grief and his utter helplessness to prevent it.
“Llyr, son of Bran, be calm,” said a quiet voice from the doorway.
Llyr looked up. A tall man in a black cloak stood in the flickering shadows. Llyr knew who he was. Myrddin was his name—a god’s name—but the Old Ones called him Master. He was a great wizard who could live in many worlds at once and who commanded power in all of them.
He spoke again in the ancient tongue of Earth’s Beloved. “Do not grieve, for thy death is not yet come.”
Llyr slid to his knees. “Master, I do not grieve for death. It is the girl I grieve for.”
“Ah. The girl.” The man came toward him. “Rise, Llyr, and listen. I have come to return the body of Luath Strong-Heart to his people. Let me tell thee what will happen while I am gone.”
Llyr listened obediently to the Master’s words. The Others would not drag him out at dawn and kill him, as he had expected. Sir Bedwyr was a man of law, and the High King’s law required a hearing. Llyr would have the chance to face his accusers and to deny the accusations against him.
For a moment, Llyr began to hope. The moment passed. Who among the Others would believe him? He had seen those wild men hunting him in the forest. They would never be swayed by denials.
“I have come to ask a favor of thee, Llyr.”
Llyr nodded dumbly.
“When the time comes for thee to speak, be silent. Say nothing. Keep a dry eye and a calm heart. Let the Others come to their decision without thy help. Let the noise and tumult sweep over thee and touch thee not. Bend to the strong wind and be still standing when the storm is past.”
This was an old saying among Earth’s Beloved, and Llyr knew the truth of it. He also knew that bending to the strong wind could entail enormous suffering. He could endure any suffering, he thought, so long as Guinevere was not there to see it.
The Master read his thought. “Alas,” he said. “The girl must be there.” His voice softened. “The path to glory is never straight. Neither is it smooth. To choose this road requires courage.”
Llyr squeezed his eyes shut. It was a hard god who spoke through this wizard’s mouth. Must he suffer the ultimate indignity of bringing unbearable grief upon the one he loved? Must he stand there and watch it as well? It was too much to ask.
“Master,” he said, opening his eyes and making the sign of submission. “Is it necessary?”
“It is necessary,” came the chill reply.
Llyr drew a deep breath. “Then it will be done.”
“Thanks from my heart.”
“But in return, I have a favor to ask of thee.”
The Master waited in perfect stillness while Llyr fought to pull the words out of himself. “I am her guardian…. If I am to die … she must not go unguarded. Would thee be her guardian in my place?”
The Master bowed. “It would be a privilege.”
A great weight seemed to lift from Llyr, and his breath came more easily. “Thanks from my heart, Master.”
The wizard’s hand gripped his shoulder, imparting warmth. “Son of Bran, thy strength will not fail.”
The tent flap opened behind them and Sir Bedwyr strode in. He stopped in his tracks when he saw them.
“Merlin! I beg your pardon, my lord—my guards sent me no word
—”
The enchanter dipped his head politely. “Forgive me, Sir Bedwyr. I came to speak with you and found Llyr here alone. You have arrested him?”
Sir Bedwyr drew off his cloak. “I’ve taken him into my custody for his own protection. He’ll get a hearing in three days’ time. I hope, my lord, you will attend?”
“I came to ask your leave to take the body of Luath Strong-Heart back to his people.”
“Mithras be praised. I’ve been looking for you to ask exactly that. What do you need? A couple of men and a litter?”
“A mule. I will go alone.”
“My lord, that’s not necessary. I can spare two men, and surely a litter shows more respect.”
Merlin’s thin lips twitched into a smile. “A litter will be misunderstood. They will think you are making a gift of what is rightly theirs.”
“Oh, very well. A mule, then. I’ll have Dillon show you where the body lies.”
“I believe I can find it on my own.”
Sir Bedwyr grinned. “Of course. And get past any guard unseen.”
Merlin bowed.
“Will you be at the hearing?”
“Perhaps.”
“I’d be most grateful for your advice.”
There was no answer from Merlin. He stood as still as stone, his vacant gaze locked on something distant and unseen. Llyr knew at once that the Master had stepped from this world into another and was temporarily beyond Sir Bedwyr’s reach. But Sir Bedwyr did not yet know it.
“My lord? Are you all right?”
“He is gone,” Llyr said softly. “He will not hear you until he returns.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Away. Somewhere else.” Llyr waved a hand. “Not here.”
Sir Bedwyr frowned. “You’re blue with cold. Wrap yourself in the blanket until my servant comes to light the fire. I’m off to dinner directly, and I’ll have a dish sent in to you. Eat it when it comes, Llyr. You must keep up your strength. I will need to ask you questions later, and I don’t want you falling ill.”
Llyr dropped his eyes unhappily. The Master had told him not to answer questions, and he had already answered one. He resolved to say no more.
“Beware a dark time coming.” The words came from Merlin, but it was not his voice that spoke. “Woe betide the dragon in his lair, the mage in his conceit, and the innocent in his womb. The dark time comes.”
The dire pronouncement echoed in the small room long after the voice had stopped. Merlin the Enchanter shook himself awake.
“Wine,” he croaked, shutting seamed lids over blind eyes. “Wine or water. Please.”
Sir Bedwyr pushed his own flask into the enchanter’s hand and guided it to his lips. Merlin gulped the contents down. Eventually color returned to his face, and he looked at them both apologetically. “I beg your pardons. What did I say?”
Sir Bedwyr stared at him, but Llyr smiled. It was likewise with the One Who Hears. The very act of hearing the god’s voice robbed humankind of strength and left them weak as newborn babes. It was comforting to have proof that the Master could suffer like any mortal man.
Sir Bedwyr coughed. “Something about a dark time coming. To a dragon, a mage, and an unborn babe.”
Merlin scowled. “Thank you, Bedwyr. It caught me unprepared, or you should not have heard so much.” He turned to Llyr. “Remember what I told thee, son of Bran. Thy end is not yet nigh. Accept the blanket and eat the food. Light with thee walk.”
Llyr bowed low as the Master nodded to Sir Bedwyr and swept out of the tent. “Dark from thee flee,” he murmured after the retreating figure. It was the ritual farewell among the Old Ones, but it sounded foolish now. How did one keep darkness from a wizard who had just foretold it for himself?
“By the Light!” Sir Bedwyr snapped. “I told the guards to keep everyone out! Did he really have time to speak with you? What did he say?”
Llyr smiled. “He told me not to answer any questions.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Lord Riall’s Dilemma
Sir Bedwyr was in a black mood the next morning when he sent for Lord Riall after breakfast. He had not slept well. In contrast to Llyr, who had slept long and soundly, wrapped in a thick wool blanket and with a belly full of roast partridge and the King’s red wine, Bedwyr had been plagued by worry and indigestion. He was also annoyed at Merlin, who had intimidated Llyr into silence and disappeared. He had no doubt that the enchanter would manage to transform what ought to be a short trip into the foothills and back—a day, at most—into a lengthy enterprise, thereby missing the hearing altogether and failing to be there when he was needed. It was an old trick of his, this disappearing when he was wanted most. Bedwyr had made that complaint to Arthur once.
“He’s testing us,” Arthur had replied with a smile. “He wants to know if we can do without him.”
Bedwyr hoped that Merlin was not testing him now. He had enough to do without trying to measure up to Merlin’s standards. That was Arthur’s burden, praise Mithras, not his.
He walked to the writing desk and looked down at the ancient dagger in its mutilated sheath. Last night he had told everyone that an Old One had been taken into custody and a hearing scheduled. He had not announced that the stolen dagger had been found. He wanted to surprise Lord Riall. The man’s first reaction on seeing it would tell him much.
When at last Lord Riall was announced, Bedwyr stood in front of the desk to block his view of the weapon. “Welcome, Lord Riall. Thank you for coming so promptly.”
Lord Riall muttered something civil and stared around in evident contempt at the plainness of the hastily constructed room. “Your page said it was urgent.”
“It is.” Bedwyr smiled. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I have some questions. You can answer frankly; we’re quite alone. I’ve dismissed my scribe.” He moved away from the desk.
Lord Riall was already moving toward the chair when he saw the dagger. He stopped, his jaw dropped, and color flamed into his face. “My dagger! What’s it doing here?”
“Why?” Bedwyr asked smoothly. “Had you lost it?”
Lord Riall began a sharp retort and cut it off. His eyes bulged, his face turned almost purple, and his thin red hair seemed to stand on end. He began to shake. “What’ve you done? Oh, what’ve you done! You’ve mangled it! You’ve taken the stone! Where is it? I want it back; I want it the way it was!”
He reached out a hand for the dagger, but Bedwyr caught his wrist. “Did I hear you aright, Lord Riall? Are you accusing me of stealing the stone?”
“No, no, my lord,” Lord Riall said hastily, struggling to gather his wits. “A slip of the tongue, my lord. Forgive me, but—but how did it come into your hands?”
“I found it. Buried beneath a tree.”
“Liar!”
Bedwyr stiffened. Openly insulting the High King’s officer was an actionable offense, but he did not reach for his sword. Instead, he said evenly, “I have witnesses. Two of them.”
Lord Riall sagged and fell into the chair. His hard little eyes darted about the room, narrowing in fierce calculation, finding no answer acceptable.
Bedwyr strolled about behind him. “I will admit I was astonished to find it there. A weapon so priceless and so prized by your lady mother? Buried rather carelessly, too. Sure to be found by someone.”
Lord Riall gulped and shifted in his chair. Bedwyr paused at his side. “It’s lucky it was found by someone who knew what it was. I recognized it at once, of course. Even without the stone.”
“Yes, yes,” Lord Riall said hurriedly. “A blessing. Most grateful to you—” Then his mouth fell open and his face went white. “It was missing the stone when you found it?”
“Obviously, since it’s been in my possession ever since.”
Sir Riall swallowed hard. “I—I must have it back, my lord. Even mangled, it’s mine. It’s my dagger.”
“Is it?” Bedwyr kept his voice casual. “Then how did it come to be buried in the
woods?”
“I’ve no idea!”
“It left your possession, then, before it was buried. Not by loss, though. You’re not the kind who would be careless with your mother’s treasure. I’m sure you kept it safely hidden.”
“Yes, my lord, I did. I did. My mother would—”
“Was it stolen from you?”
“I—I—Yes! It was stolen.”
“When?”
Lord Riall glared at him. “What difference does—”
“Why didn’t you report it to me?”
“Mind your own—”
“It is my business. I’m King Arthur’s proxy…. Well?”
“I didn’t want it known.”
“I see. You thought perhaps you would be able to recover it yourself?”
Lord Riall gave a tentative nod.
Bedwyr made a show of puzzlement. “That leaves me with a very strange, almost unbelievable coincidence. Two daggers stolen from camp in the same week. You failed to report the theft of yours, and Princess Morgan failed to describe hers.”
At the mention of Princess Morgan, Lord Riall went perfectly white. His pale eyes stretched wide, and in them Bedwyr recognized the numb horror, the realization of perfidy, that he had often seen on the battlefield in the eyes of dying men.
“Yes,” he said into the silence. “Princess Morgan reported the theft of a precious dagger. A wedding gift, she said. Valuable enough to warrant a talent of silver for its return. But do you know what I think?” He leaned down and placed his lips beside Lord Riall’s ear. “I think her stolen dagger and your stolen dagger are the same dagger.”
He straightened. Lord Riall gazed at him dumbly. His face had now gone gray, and he seemed to have shrunk in size.
Bedwyr resumed his meander about the room. “If they’re the same dagger, then it was clearly in Princess Morgan’s possession when it was stolen. How did it come there? I can think of only three ways: either you gave it to her, or she stole it, or she found it lying about somewhere and buried it, rather poorly, to keep it safe. I find the third alternative very unlikely, since you claim that it was stolen, and since Princess Morgan has much better hiding places within her own tent. Whoever buried it, buried it so it would be found.”
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