Lefevre’s eyes widened in polite surprise. “Really? Well, you do know that you are always welcome in my home.”
Ah, that was just what he had been hoping to hear. “Thank you. I will look forward to your wife’s excellent cooking.”
Lefevre laughed. “I’ll warn her that you’re coming. Now, if you will excuse me, Father, I will take my turn before my king,” Lefevre said, beginning to move away.
“I am just behind you.”
That stopped his lordship. He turned back around. “Don’t tell me that you need to come to court in order to have a word with the king?” he asked a little incredulously. “Don’t you speak with him every day at his confessional?”
Father du Lac gave a slight laugh. “I do. It is Bishop Bellini to whom I need to speak today.”
“Ah.” Lord Lefevre nodded his head, understanding. “Well, come along then, let’s see if we can fight our way to the front.”
Father du Lac followed behind Lord Lefevre as the man wended his way through the crowd. It was a daunting task, considering just how many men there were in this relatively small room. Finally, he stopped at the sergeant at arms who announced all petitioners to the king and, today, to the bishop.
“Lord Lefevre of Gloucester!” the man called out, motioning for his lordship to advance toward the dais.
Lefevre bowed low and then stood tall to announce in a voice loud enough for all within the vicinity to hear, “Your Majesty, I am come to offer my compliments, and to inform you that I hereby pledge three thousand men to your efforts to rid our country of the Danes.”
“Three thousand men? Lord Lefevre, that is a good number,” the king replied. “With your men added to those already pledged, we will have an army nearly ten thousand strong.” He smiled at everyone around him, truly thrilled at this turn of events. “With this army we will route those Danes and drive them from our shores!”
A cheer went up from all around room as the news spread.
Silently, du Lac gave his thanks at this good news. He hoped that the bishop would be moved by this good cheer as well. A look into the emissary’s serious face didn’t inspire very much confidence, however.
As he moved away from the dais, Lord Lefevre was greeted with slaps on the back and words of encouragement. Du Lac was happy to watch this camaraderie, but once the excitement in the room had calmed down a bit, it was his turn to step forward and advance his own petition.
“Father du Lac!” the Sergeant at Arms called out.
Du Lac stepped forward, feeling slightly conspicuous in his plain brown robes, especially when faced with the splendid vestments of the bishop before him. “Your Majesty,” du Lac said, bowing low before his king. “Your Excellency,” he said, bowing again. “I am come to ask that a petition be sent to his holiness, the pope.”
The bishop raised one eyebrow but said nothing.
Not precisely heartened, du Lac continued. “Sir, we have a serious problem in this country with the spread of witchcraft. We have been attempting to fight against it for some time now, but perhaps a papal edict will do what the king’s decree could not.”
The king shifted in his chair and looked off to the side of the room.
Du Lac continued, a trifle sorry to have had to be so blunt in front of His Majesty, especially when the boy was in such a tenuous position. “I fear for the souls of our people, Your Excellency. And especially for those of the children who are being taught devil–worship by these witches.”
“Devil–worship and witches? Is this a widespread problem? I was told that, with very few exceptions, the British people love and support the church.”
“We do, sir, but as you just noted, there are exceptions.”
“You expect me to tax his holiness with your exceptions? A papal edict to get rid of a few witches?” The bishop sneered. He then paused and looked du Lac over in an exaggerated and demeaning fashion. “And who are you, priest, to even put such a petition before me? Who are you to demand such petition be put before his holiness, the pope?”
Shame pierced painfully through Father du Lac for the briefest of moments, but it was shoved aside by burgeoning anger. How dare the bishop look down his holy nose at him? He was the king’s confessor! He was...
But the king had heard the emissary’s cutting remarks as well and leaped to Father du Lac’s defense. “This man is my confessor. He has been the most esteemed cleric in the court since I was a child. You will, sir, speak to him with respect.”
Du Lac bowed his head, keeping his eyes down on the ground before him, lest the pope’s emissary see the blazing anger he was struggling hard to control.
From the corner of his eye, du Lac saw the emissary wave a hand negligently. “I don’t care who he is, this matter is too insignificant for the pope to be concerned with.”
“But the souls of my people...” the king argued.
“They must be looked after by Your Majesty. You are a Christian king, you can deal with this matter, or if it is too insignificant even for you, pass it down to the parishes to deal with.” The man shifted in his seat, clearly bored with this topic. “Just send out the word that any witches are to be destroyed, and let them take care of it.”
“A royal decree was not heeded,” du Lac said, having finally gained control of his emotions. “We need a word from Rome.”
The bishop shifted his gaze back to du Lac, looking at him as if he were some sort of insect that had crawled up before him. “It is not the obligation of the pope to be the strong arm of your king. It is a local problem, deal with it.”
Father du Lac looked to his king. Surely now he had to do something about this, if only to save face.
His Majesty did not look at all happy with this. “Very well. Father, my own royal decree will be sent out to all parishes condemning to death any who are caught engaging in witchcraft.” He paused and then added even more grudgingly, “And word will go out to all of the lords and landholders in the kingdom to see that this decree is followed.”
It wasn’t done with enthusiasm, but it was done. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Du Lac bowed low toward his king, ignoring Bishop Bellini, before turning and walking away.
“Your impudence!” the bishop bellowed from behind him. But Father du Lac just kept walking. He was not going to bow to such a man as Bishop Bellini. He didn’t deserve respect.
Chapter Thirteen
Sir Dagonet’s shivering didn’t abate for three days. The poor old man sat with teeth chattering through the pouring rain. There was nothing I could do. I felt so helpless, but I could barely even see the sky, let alone have any effect on it. Stopping for the night brought no relief. It was impossible to get any rest with the rain constantly falling on us. We were beyond exhaustion as our horses splashed through the water, slowly plodding along all day.
Once again Dylan began to speak of turning back, but there was nothing that was going to make me turn around now. We had to be very close, and it was only in Gloucester that we would be able to get help for poor Sir Dagonet. Dylan scowled at me and grumbled, but there was nothing he could do or say that would convince me to turn back.
The trees began to thin out again, and very soon they disappeared altogether, giving way to stretches of fields. Like a blanket being pulled down from covering my face, my breathing came easier and freer, despite the steady downpour that still drenched us and kept our progress slow.
Hope surged through me. Gloucester had to be close by. Soon this interminable journey would be over. I did my best not to sigh aloud.
I looked up into the endless sky and gazed longingly into the distance ahead of us. And with a sudden shock, I realized that the sky I was seeing was as blue as on a midsummer’s day! There were no rain clouds in front of us. There were hardly any overhead, and yet the rain continued to fall. How could this be?
It had to be magic. I was horrified and amazed all at once. Anger hit me like a gale wind nearly knocking me right off of Sir Dagonet’s horse.
Sir Dagonet’s he
ad nodded gently in front of me. He was asleep. I reached around the old man and pulled on the reins to stop his horse as I had seen him do many times before. The beast slowed until it came to a standstill. I slid off as Sir Dagonet awoke with a start.
“I say, wot?” he croaked, his voice thick with congestion. He looked around to see where we were. But I didn’t pause to enlighten him. Instead, I simply ran ahead to Dylan’s horse, which was still plodding along in front of us.
I grabbed at his leg as I ran up next to him, shouting, “How dare you!”
Dylan pulled his horse to a stop and looked down at me in confusion.
“This”—I gestured to the rain—“this is all your doing, isn’t it?” I glared up at the sky. The few clouds that were hanging overhead skittered away, leaving only bright sunshine and a cessation of the rain.
Dylan didn’t say anything but dismounted from his horse.
“You’re tied to the element of water. You made the river rise up and pull me and Sir Dagonet into it, and now you are trying to kill us with this unrelenting rain!” When he didn’t say anything, I cried, “I can’t believe you would do this!”
He said nothing. Indeed, what could he say? He was guilty; I could see it clearly in his eyes.
I pushed past him with a growl to inform Sir Dagonet of what had been going on. I wasn’t three steps away when I was knocked off my feet by a gust of wind hitting me squarely on my back. That was followed by a torrential rain, harder than anything we’d had to endure the past few days.
I could barely manage to stand against the force of the wind and rain that pushed at me. Putting my arm to my forehead to try to shield my eyes from the storm, I saw that Sir Dagonet had dismounted.
“Scai! Dylan!” His words whipped past me. “Come back, quickly!” He turned and began leading his horse toward the forest where they could, hopefully, get some shelter from the storm.
But instead of following him, I turned to Dylan. He, too, was attempting to lead his horse back to the forest, but the harder he pushed forward, the harder the wind, which had whipped around to come from the other direction, pushed him back. Somehow the horse escaped the wind and bolted for the cover of the woods.
I was at Dylan’s side in a moment, helped by wind and rain.
“All right! I admit it,” he called out above the noise of the storm. “I made it rain. I’m sorry! Now stop this, Scai.”
Oh, he was one to throw blame about so easily. “Me? I’m not doing this! You stop it. It’s your magic,” I called out, using the strength of my anger in my fight to stay upright against the force of the storm.
Dylan caught me with an arm around my waist as I was about to blown away. “What do you mean? This isn’t my magic. I’m not doing this!”
Holding on to his arm, I regained my footing, but had to keep my head down against the rain that bit into and through my thin dress. If he wasn’t doing this, then who was? Confusion shifted through me. I tried to look up at Dylan, but rain and wind whipped into my face and I was forced to tuck my head down again.
It was all both of us could do to stay on our feet as we clung together. “Scai, you’ve got to stop this. I can’t.” Dylan’s words flipped past me.
I shot a look up at him. “I can’t stop it!”
“Yes, you can. This wind is your domain.”
“And the rain is yours. We’ll do it together,” I said, practically having to scream to be heard above the storm.
Dylan nodded. He shifted himself so that he could grasp both of my hands. As soon as he did so, heat and magic jolted up my arms. I grabbed hold of it with my mind and pushed back with my own.
“Good,” Dylan said, nodding approvingly.
I dared to look up at him. Immediately we locked eyes. And just like that, we were bound together, almost as if someone had tied a mental rope from him to me. I was completely connected to him—almost a part of him. Somehow, despite the wind and rain, I felt better than I had in a long time. Warmth and energy coursed through me. Hope and determination followed, giving me a strength I’d never known before.
Dylan gave me a surprised smile—he must have felt it too. But then, as fast as the moment had come, he pushed it aside and called out, “Now, on three we’ll put an end to this storm. One...”
“How?” I interrupted.
Dylan looked confused for a moment and gave a little shrug. “You just will it to end. Imagine a blue sky and the sun shining.”
That was something I could do. I nodded.
“One, two, three!” Dylan called out.
I formed a picture in my mind’s eye of what the field had looked like before the storm had hit. It was hard concentrating with my eyes open, staring into the intense green of Dylan’s eyes. There was the wind and rain to contend with, as well. I just wished it would stop so I could form the picture, so I could see the sun. I concentrated harder, seeing the green of the grass in Dylan’s eyes, seeing the clear blue sky and the sun reflected in them.
And then I realized I truly was seeing the sky and sun reflected in his eyes.
A smile grew on his face, until it reached all the way into his eyes, and another kind of warmth shot through me. How I wished he would always look at me that way.
“We did it!” He laughed, letting go of me.
It was suddenly cold without his warmth, without his magic. A lonely sadness whipped through me, but then the excitement of what we had done took over. I let out a little whoop of excitement, until my exhaustion suddenly slammed into me and I stumbled forward.
I would have fallen down if Dylan hadn’t grabbed me. I clung to him for a moment and then, reluctantly, let go as I realized where we were. Sir Dagonet came out of the woods—a quarter of a mile away!
“How did we get all the way over here?” I asked, pushing away from Dylan and taking a few steps toward the wood.
Dylan looked beyond me to where Sir Dagonet stood calling for us. “I don’t know. The storm must have pushed us.”
“So far? So fast?”
Dylan just shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what happens when you create such strong winds,” he said, as he began to walk back to Sir Dagonet. I could do nothing but follow in silence.
Dylan still believed I was responsible for the storm, but that was ridiculous. Why would I create a storm like that? I wasn’t even certain that I could.
But if I wasn’t responsible, and neither was Dylan, then who was?
<><><>
Nimuë crumpled into the most comfortable chair in her chamber.
She could not move. She barely had the strength to even blink. She was completely drained.
It was too much. A full–blown hurricane at such a distance—it took too much magic. And still they were not close enough.
She had hoped the hurricane would blow them closer so she could send her man out to fetch them. But it was not enough. They were only three miles from Gloucester—so close and yet too far.
“Sister! Are you determined to kill yourself before the three have a chance to do so?” Morgan’s voice echoed through her chamber.
With great effort, Nimuë pulled herself up to the table that held her silver bowl. Her sister’s image shimmered in the water in front of her eyes.
“I will get them,” Nimuë whispered. She was too tired to even speak normally.
“But not this way,” Morgan stated.
“No,” Nimuë conceded, “not this way.” She took a breath as her heartbeat slowed to normal. “But I must get them before they join together.”
“Two of them are already together.”
“Yes, I can see that. But it is in Gloucester that they will meet the third.”
“Do you not think it will be easier to wait until they are all together and to get them all at once?” Morgan suggested.
Nimuë thought about this. “No. Individually they have less of a chance.”
“Yes, perhaps that is wiser—they are very strong,” Morgan agreed.
Nimuë nodded. She had been shocked t
o see the two young Vallen working together to subdue her storm. But Nimuë was not worried. She could still easily best them if needed. The trick was to keep them alive—she wanted their powers. She would need to drain them before she could kill them.
“Right now they do not trust each other,” Nimuë continued, partially thinking aloud.
“After your storm? Yes, I am certain you’re right. They will each think the other responsible for starting it.”
“It is just as I had planned. I have planted the seeds of distrust into fertile ground.”
Morgan laughed. “And you are hoping they will blossom?”
“They will bloom and grow, I assure you.”
“Well, they had better be quick–growing, because you do not have much time. They are sure to meet the third one soon.”
Nimuë agreed and then thought about this. Was her sister aiding her? Making suggestions on how to accomplish her goal? No, that was not possible. There must be a trick somewhere.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked Morgan.
“I am not.” Morgan’s lips quirked into a lopsided smile as she faded away.
Nimuë sat back in her chair, wondering what her sister was up to. She did not trust her. Not for one moment. The golden girl of Avalon, the one who could never do wrong. Oh, how Nimuë hated her sister. Hated her with an anger that seethed and undulated inside of her like a snake writhing in a cage. It would get out someday. In fact, Nimuë looked forward to it. But she had other work to do first.
She had to capture these three—the Children of Avalon—or else how was she to become the most powerful Vallen? Then one wielding the power of three, the greatest earthly force will be. It was her destiny, and if it was not, she would make it so.
She would get them and drain them of their magic—and she would start with the blond.
Chapter Fourteen
I looked down into the pale, drawn face of Sir Dagonet. Had his cheeks been so sunken before? I couldn’t remember, but I didn’t think so. Maybe they just looked that way because of the two days’ growth of beard on them. I hoped that was the reason. I didn’t want to think of the alternative. I closed my eyes for a moment and said a quick prayer.
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