Nimue’s smile was small as she murmured an acknowledgement. Nimue was tall for a woman. She was almost as tall as Arawn. However, she was not correspondingly wide. She was a slender woman—and barely a woman at that. She looked to be near Ilsa’s age of twenty, perhaps even younger.
It was difficult to judge, for even though Nimue wore no cloak or mantle, she seemed to be wrapped in a glowing light. Her hair was lighter than any Saxon’s, almost white in appearance, and the long tresses hung freely about her shoulders and hips. Her gown was white, edged with golden thread, and her shift was white, too. The gown, which might be the finest spun wool or made from light itself, hung in elegant folds from her hips to sweep the floor behind her as she walked. Despite the length, the cloth was immaculate, with nary a stain to ruin the light and warmth.
Nimue’s eyes, on the other hand, were far-seeing and wise. They reflected a much older person. Wisdom was there, and great strength. If it was true Nimue had made her first prophecy when she was still a child, foretelling the fall of Benoic and the coming of Ban and Bors to Lesser Britain—which had indeed happened only a year later—then Nimue had spent all the intervening years peering into the future. Perhaps it explained the distant look in her eyes.
Nimue considered Ilsa for a long, silent moment. She did not seem to be in a hurry to fill the silence. She did not seem uncomfortable with not speaking. Then she stirred and said with a musical voice, “So…Ilsa the Hunter. We meet at last.”
Ilsa gasped. “You know of me?”
“I do. You lived near my lands and have wandered my borders many times.” Nimue smiled. “You have a fondness for hedgehogs.”
Stilicho, who remained outside the circle, awaiting the king’s pleasure, took a step farther back, away from Nimue, his gaze on her back.
Ilsa gripped her hands together. Arawn was frowning at the mention of hunting. “I no longer hunt,” she said.
“You no longer hunt hedgehogs and deer and hawks,” Nimue said.
“Let us sit and partake of wine,” Arawn said, motioning to the three chairs sitting upon the furs. None of the three was Arawn’s great, high-backed chair. They were all the low Roman-styled chairs with crossed legs.
Ilsa waited for Arawn and Nimue to select their chairs. She took the remaining one and arranged her dress around her knees.
Nimue’s dress, she noted, seemed to fold and trail away from the chair in a beautiful curve, all without Nimue touching it.
Nimue accepted the cup of wine Arawn held toward her with a nod of thanks. She sipped then said to Arawn, “In the cart I brought with me are thirty barrels of water from my lake. The water was poured through fine cloth and boiled in a kettle larger than any man. It is safe to drink. It is my gift to you and your kingdom, Arawn. I will happily refill the barrels whenever you need them.”
Arawn’s eyes widened. “You are most generous, Nimue. The water is gratefully received.”
“I realize thirty barrels is but a token,” Nimue added. “I have not yet learned the spell to make rain.”
Stilicho hissed. Between Arawn and Nimue, Ilsa could see his hand, held down by his side, making a powerful sign against witchcraft and evil.
“There is a spell to make rain?” Ilsa asked, the words pushed out of her in a gasp.
Arawn laughed. “Of course there is not. Spells are for witches. Nimue is joking.”
Nimue’s smile curved the corners of her mouth and made her eyes dance. “My dominion is over living things, which, alas, does not include rain or thunder or lightning. Perhaps it is as well, for if I could control lightning, there would be far fewer fools in the world.”
Arawn laughed, while Ilsa stared at the tall woman, astonished. This was the Lady of the Lake? The most powerful woman in Britain? “Is it true you can turn people into a pillar of stone?” Ilsa asked.
Arawn’s laughter faded.
Ilsa squeezed her hands together. “I meant no offense. I am not used to magic and curses and people with…gifts.”
Nimue laughed. It was a merry peel, making her sound young. “Is that what the people say of me? That I turn them to stone? Oh, my…” She sighed and wiped her eyes. “If only it was a gift,” she added softly, her amusement disappearing. Even the light wrapped about her seemed to fade for a short moment.
Ilsa’s heart fluttered. “You can?”
“You overstep your bounds, wife,” Arawn said.
Nimue held up her hand. “It is a reasonable question,” she told him. “Especially for a queen still learning all she must to serve her kingdom.” Nimue’s gaze slid to Ilsa. “Are you asking if I have the power to change lead to gold and frogs to princes?”
Ilsa drew back, startled. Then she realized. “Oh…you are joking again.” Although, behind Nimue, Stilicho was still making the signs, his cheeks thin and his eyes wide.
Nimue’s smile grew. “Any charlatan can claim such wonders. They will promise to make it rain if you cross their hands with gold. They will make a man love a woman for a price. They cast spells to bring a child to a barren woman…these are the talents of witches and priests and lesser gods, who all demand their price for an uncertain outcome. True power, though…” Her smile faded. “Real power takes its price from the one who wields it. It tears through one, shredding the soul. With each glimpse of the future comes a corresponding burden, for few futures are happy.”
Ilsa clutched the cup which had been handed to her, her heart beating unhappily. “You know my future…” she breathed.
“I know of many futures for you,” Nimue breathed. “As I also know the many futures lying before your king. I even know the choices I will face. Finding the right future…ah, well, that is the test.”
“You make the future?” Arawn asked, his voice low. He looked as unsettled as Ilsa felt.
Nimue gave him a warm smile. “We all make the future, with every simple decision. Stilicho, for example, chooses to be afraid of a woman he thinks of as a witch. Right now, he wonders if I can see into his mind and know how his people used to deal with witches.”
She did not shift her gaze from Arawn, even though Stilicho drew in a startled, gasping breath. His was not the only gasp. From the people standing behind him, Ilsa could see other signs against evil being made, not all of them Christian.
Nimue still did not move. She said, with a smile, “Are you not afraid I might turn you into stone, Stilicho?”
Ilsa was watching Stilicho and the people behind him, so when Nimue said the word “stone”, Ilsa saw Stilicho grow still. His hand hung in the air, half-way through making another sign. His breath halted. He did not blink.
Arawn licked his lips. “He is as still as stone…” he whispered.
Everyone standing close to Stilicho drew backward, their eyes wide.
“Demonstrations of power often look like simple tricks,” Nimue said, waving her hand. “They are misunderstood and earn one an undeserved reputation.”
Stilicho gasped, his hand going to his throat. He drew in a ragged breath, staggering away from the chairs. A path was cleared for him, as he turned and hurried away.
Arawn drew in a slow, slow breath and let it out. He drank. Ilsa could see the throbbing in his neck.
The demonstration had shaken him, too.
When Arawn spoke of the feast being prepared for the entire household in celebration of her arrival, Nimue had demurred. “There is no need to deplete your stores in this way. If the meal has been prepared, let your people eat it before it spoils and enjoy it without the company of a witch who worries them. I would rather eat with you and those closest to you. Those whom you trust,” she added. “There is much to discuss, Arawn, and I return to the lake early tomorrow.”
A round table was set up in Arawn’s antechamber, where Ilsa presumed his captains and battle commander would join Arawn and Nimue to eat. It would leave Ilsa free to dine in her own chamber, a not unpleasant proposition. Although, when she emerged from the bathhouse shortly before sunset, Stilicho stood waiting on the stony g
round beyond the door.
He had returned to his urbane, controlled demeanor. Ilsa forbore to remind him of what Nimue had done, even though she longed to ask him what it had felt like to be the victim of real magic.
“The Lady has requested you attend the supper table,” Stilicho told her.
“Me? Are you sure it is me she asked for?”
“‘Ilsa the Hunter’, she said.” Stilicho’s mouth turned down. “There is no other of that name.”
Ilsa wrapped the cloak about her, for the chill in the air felt even colder when she first stepped out of the bathhouse. “I must hurry,” she said.
“Yes,” Stilicho said, his tone dry.
Ilsa was not the only woman whom Nimue had requested attend the meal. As Ilsa moved across the corridor from her bedchamber to Arawn’s antechamber, Evaine and Elaine hurried toward her, both adjusting their mantles and their hair and sliding bracelets into place.
Ilsa was struck again, as she was often, with the beauty of the two princesses. They were lovely, pure and without visible imperfections, yet despite their outward appearance, they were also women of good character. Perhaps that was what made them so remarkable and caused kings from kingdoms across Europe and Asia Minor to approach Arawn with marriage proposals. Great beauties often lacked humility and good grace, for they had no need of them—their beauty compensated for the lack and let men forgive them for almost any sin. Neither Evaine nor Elaine was guilty of that emptiness.
“You, too?” Ilsa asked.
“I was surprised, too,” Elaine said breathlessly. “Not that she asked for you, but for me. She liked you.”
“She did?” Ilsa said, startled.
Evaine rolled her eyes. “She cast a spell over Stilicho because she wanted to impress you.”
“Oh.” Ilsa caught up her sagging jaw. “I did not realize…”
Elaine laughed. “Stilicho is far too confident. The lesson in humility will do him good. Shall we go in?”
Evaine gestured to the guard, who pushed the door open for them.
Arawn stood behind his big chair, drawn up to the table. The table was spread with meat dishes and a tureen of the shellfish stew which was a daily staple in Brittany. There were sweetmeats and vegetables that steamed.
Nimue also stood waiting. She smiled when she saw them. “We are all here. Good.”
Arawn scowled.
“Where are the servants?” Ilsa murmured to him.
“We are to serve ourselves,” Arawn said shortly.
They sat.
“This feels strange, to have so few sitting at the table, and a high, round table at that,” Elaine said brightly.
“You will learn to discard many customs of your Roman heritage, Elaine,” Nimue said, as she settled on the chair beside Arawn.
Elaine’s eyes widened. She looked frightened. Had Nimue just prophesied her future?
Ilsa touched Elaine’s wrist. “Eat. Everything always seems better when you are not hungry.”
Elaine nodded and reached for the spoon to ladle the shellfish stew into her bowl. Her gaze remained firmly on the tureen.
Nimue carved off three neat slices from the venison. “I have asked only you to dine with me, because the four of you have roles to play in a future which has arrived more quickly than I foresaw. I must put you on the path to that future.”
Arawn reached for the wine. “Is there any hope in your future?” he growled. “Or is it as bleak as you say the future usually is?”
Nimue did not seem put out by his tone, which was far from polite. “It depends how far into the future one peers. The farther one can see, the brighter the future becomes, yet the path between here and there is often dark and difficult. It is the only path to that future, though.”
“We must take your word for it?” Arawn growled. “If you tell me I must walk upon red coals to reach a happy future, perhaps I will choose not to.”
“You can choose a different path, of course,” Nimue said, still quiet and unmoved. “Such is the challenge of my work. I must anticipate even your objections, king.” She ate a small mouthful of the venison and sipped her wine, while Arawn glared at her. “I am the Lady of the Lake,” she told him. “Has not the Lady served your kingdom well in the past?”
“Yes,” Arawn growled.
“Do you trust the Lady works for the betterment of your people and people everywhere?”
He pushed his hand through his hair. “Yes,” he said at last.
“Trust in the office, if you do not trust me. What I do now, what I have ever done, is only to better mankind. Even petty displays of power have a purpose.” Her gaze flickered toward Ilsa, then back to Arawn.
It was Arawn whom she must convince of her good intentions. While the Lady held dominion over minds and bodies, Arawn was the king she served.
Arawn rubbed his chin, his whiskers rasping. Ilsa could almost feel his doubt.
“The problem, Nimue,” Ilsa found herself saying, “is that you speak of great affairs and far flung futures, while we face problems far closer to home and cannot look up from them.”
Arawn grunted and drank.
Nimue replied, “Did you not tell your husband, Ilsa, that the animals and birds teach a man everything he needed to learn?”
Ilsa caught her breath, a cold shudder rippling through her.
Elaine and Evaine watched with close attention, their meals forgotten.
Nimue nodded. “They were good words,” she said. “Wise beyond what you realize. You hunt hawks, who hunt smaller birds, who hunt insects and worms, who feed upon even smaller creatures in the soil and the trees. Trees provide shelter and change the air we breathe. What you have sensed about the animals and the trees and the world beyond these windows is true of everything and everyone, Ilsa. We are all connected in ways we often cannot see. What we do affects everything else. Take away the worms and the hawks will die, even though neither of them senses the other.”
Ilsa drew in a harsh breath. “Are we the worms or the hawks?”
Nimue smiled. “Neither. I only mean to confirm the great lesson you have begun to learn is a true one. It is why I speak now of matters the Lady usually keeps to herself. A thing has happened in Morbihan that forces me to reveal the arrangements I must put in place. Time is short.”
She turned to Arawn. “You see me dabbling in affairs beyond your borders and think I am trying to distract you from your work. Your queen understands, though, that what I do will affect your kingdom, too.”
“What is this thing that has happened?” Arawn demanded. His tone was not so gruff.
“A boy stole aboard a ship in Wales and arrived in Carnac,” Nimue said. Ilsa watched her gaze turn inward and unfocused. Her voice smoothed and grew stronger. “A tiny pebble dropped upon the shore and has begun a cascade which will change the world. From that pebble will grow kings and kingdoms. Their deeds will be sung in song and tales which will last into a future where men fly among the stars themselves. There, they will become another pebble upon another shore that changes the future of mankind.”
The air grew chilled around them as everyone at the table stared at Nimue. As she finished speaking, wind gusted through the high windows. The torches on the wall fluttered. With a flare, they extinguish altogether, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the small lamp upon the table with its three tiny flames.
Evaine’s shaky breath was the only sound. Her eyes were wide and black in the lamp light.
Nimue stirred and put her hand to her temple. “I’m sorry…it comes upon me in this way, sometimes.” She rubbed her temples, then reached out for her wine cup. Her hand trembled.
Still no one moved. Ilsa’s throat was too tight to speak. She could barely breathe. For one tiny moment, it felt as though she had seen the future herself. She had glimpsed the cycle of man through time and how the tiny decisions she made now could reach through time itself to tap the shoulders of people not yet born and change them.
She shuddered. Was this real
magic? Was magic a power than every human held in their grasp, of which they remained ignorant?
Nimue drank deeply and sighed. “I do apologize.” She waved her hand.
The torches flared and came back to life, and light filled the room once more.
Elaine gasped.
Arawn cleared his throat. “Perhaps…you might explain this thing that has happened in Morbihan?” he said, his tone reasonable.
“You will be acquainted with it soon enough.” Nimue sounded ill. Her voice was weak and the glow that wrapped her diminished. “The boy is called Myrddin Emrys. Ambrosius has taken him under his wing and arranged the most knowledgeable men to teach him. Uther believes Ambrosius to be obsessed in the Roman way. Uther, though, will soon learn the truth for himself…that Merlin Emrys is Ambrosius’ son. It is how it will start.”
“What will start?” Ilsa asked.
“Why should I care about anything that happens in Budic’s kingdom?” Arawn added.
“You ask that only because you are angry about Budic’s lack of regard for his bastard daughter, king,” Nimue said.
Arawn’s gaze flickered toward Ilsa and away.
Ilsa’s heart squeezed a little tighter. She concentrated on cutting her slice of mutton into smaller and smaller pieces, as Nimue continued speaking.
“Your sister is hand fasted with Bors of Guannes,” Nimue said. “You must hurry the wedding now, for that will bring you into the sphere of men who will see Ambrosius crowned High King of Britain.”
Arawn put down his cup with a soft thud. “It will happen? Ambrosius will win Britain?” The hope in his voice was raw and naked.
Nimue sipped her wine once more. “The coming of Merlin makes that future possible. I seek to enhance the possibility. Evaine must marry Bors. That is another step.”
“Another?” Elaine said sharply. “What was the first?”
Nimue gave a small lift of her shoulders. “Your brother married the hunter he came across in the forest, merely to save his people.”
When the strange and unsettling supper was finished, Nimue rose and thanked Arawn. She turned to Ilsa. “I would have you accompany me to my quarters, if Arawn is agreeable.”
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 26