If I had been in my human form I would have been laughing and crying, fighting, and curled up in a little ball. I was numb and yet all of my emotions were still streaming out of me. One minute I was happy, the next burning with rage. I was thrilled and frustrated, worried, surprised.
I couldn’t contain it. I couldn’t stop it. On and on the emotions raged out of me as I floated in the water—until I realized that I wasn’t just floating. My tail had begun to move.
I didn’t think I was controlling it, but it had begun to move and so had I. Faster and faster, I swam, leaving a trail of emotion behind me. Excitement reigned for a moment, but then quickly flipped to fury. I did a somersault as joy took over and then stopped moving all together as terror froze my body.
On and on it went. Happy one moment, angry the next. All I could do was ride the burning, churning waterfall of my emotions—moving and stopping, floating and shooting forward as if chased by the demons from hell. It didn’t stop, it didn’t let up.
Until finally, I was spent. Finally, it slowed to a trickle. I just let myself float, allowing the sea’s current to move me as it willed. I sighed inwardly, exhausted. And then forced myself ever so slowly to piece my wall back together.
It was a painful process and I didn’t want to do it. It had taken me years to build my dam and make it as strong as it had been. How was I going to rebuild it in what little time I had left before I needed to rejoin the others?
I sighed again. There was no way I would be able to face Bridget without a strong dam in place. Her volatility would drive me insane if I allowed myself to feel all the emotions that she threw at me. I worked harder at the wall, creating stones even bigger and thicker than what I’d had before. I should never have let it break.
Concentrating, I focused on rebuilding. It wasn’t easy, especially since I was already using quite a bit of my energy just to maintain my fish form. That was when the idea struck me. If I didn’t have to maintain this form, my wall building would go a lot faster and be a lot easier.
I swam up to the surface and looked around for the fishing boat carrying my friends to the island. It was there, not too far away and moving toward me at a slow but steady speed. Perfect.
With a deep intake of oxygen through my gills, I released my magic and allowed my body to change back to its normal form. Slowly, I began to feel the cold of the water once again. My body shivered, but I was determined to deal with it for just a little while longer.
Turning over, I floated on my back and relaxed. The sun was warm on my face and aside from the occasional splash, my mouth and nose stayed above the water allowing me to breath normally.
Then, I went back to the task of building my wall.
I was just putting the last stone in place when a shout caught my attention.
“Dylan! Oh, my God, Dylan!”
Chapter 4
Hands grabbed at my arm, startling me. I righted myself and looked up. The boat had caught up with me.
I smiled up at Scai and Sir Dagonet who were leaning over the edge. “Hello.”
“All right, then, Dylan?” Sir Dagonet asked, in a not–overly concerned manner, as if it was common to find someone floating in the middle of the sea.
I laughed. “Just fine, sir, and you?”
Sir Dagonet’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “Quite well, wot, wot? Care to come back aboard or are you going to laze about there in the water for some more time?”
Since I was shivering rather violently by this point, I reached a hand up and allowed myself to be hauled from the water.
I dried myself quickly with the cloth Scai had handed me and then donned my tunic once more.
The fisherman just shook his head in wonder and then said, “Good thing. We’re nearly there.” He indicated the enormous island directly in front of us that I had somehow missed seeing all together.
“Did you enjoy your swim?” Bridget asked with a touch of laughter in her voice.
“Yes, I did, immensely,” I answered, giving her an honest smile. And I had enjoyed it, all in all. It hadn’t, perhaps been exactly what I’d been expecting, but I felt amazingly refreshed. Light, even, like a bowl of river water that had had all of the stones and dirt sifted from it.
As we disembarked onto the island, I slipped the fisherman a few coins from my pocket. I didn’t want tales of my four–hour swim being told to anyone.
The man gave me a nod of understanding and then sailed right back out toward the mainland.
When I turned back to Scai and Bridget, they were looking around, confused.
We were standing in a low rocky area that extended to both the north and the south. Farther inland, the rocks slowly gave way to a grassy hill along which a road led up to a large stone monastery.
“This doesn’t look right,” Scai said. “Is this how you remember it, sir?”
Sir Dagonet appeared as confused as the rest of us. He shook his head. “No. Not at all, wot?”
“Could we have landed in a different part of the island?” Bridget asked.
Sir Dagonet gave a little shrug of his broad shoulders.
Looking up at the monastery, I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had heard something about this, but I just couldn’t remember what.
“Why don’t we go up to the monastery and ask?” I suggested.
They all seemed to agree, even though no one said a word. As one, we all began walking up the road.
A priest met us as soon as we had entered the monastery’s compound. “May I help you?” he asked kindly, folding his hands together over his plain brown robe.
The austerity of his clothing reminded me of Father du Lac, but the man, luckily, looked nothing like Lady Nimuë’s alter ego.
“Er, yes, we’re looking...” Sir Dagonet began awkwardly.
“... for Avalon,” Bridget interrupted him.
The priest looked over at her, his eyes widening a little. He regained his composure quickly, though, and just gave us a little smile and a shake of his head. “I am very sorry. But the isle of Avalon is a myth. It does not actually exist.”
“But...” Bridget started to protest. I quickly put my hand on her shoulder.
“Thank you, Father. Would you mind if we looked around a little since we’re here?” I asked.
The man opened his hands, in a welcoming manner. “Not at all. Please feel free to do so.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, with a little bow and then propelled Bridget in front of me and toward the sparse autumn gardens.
When we were safely out of earshot, she turned on me, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“This clearly isn’t the right island,” Scai said quickly.
“No, I didn’t think so,” Sir Dagonet said. He clarified himself. “I mean, it doesn’t look right. Not as I remembered it, don’t you know?”
We all looked around at the garden. The leaves on the trees were brilliant shades of autumn and there were a few late–blooming flowers still populating the beds, but the chill in the air left no doubt that they would fade soon enough.
“What are we going to do? The fisherman has already left. How are we going to get to Avalon?” Bridget was becoming ever more agitated, her anger and frustration coming off of her in sparks.
I took a deep breath and worked on blocking out her emotions, which had already started finding the chinks in my hastily constructed wall.
Sir Dagonet put his arm across her shoulders and led her farther away from the priest who was still watching after us. It would not do to have him see the little flares that were literally sparking from Bridget.
“And how can you be so calm?” she whispered furiously, turning on me. “I swear, Dylan, never in my life have I seen anyone so cold, so uncaring and unfeeling! You’re... you’re a cold fish!”
Sir Dagonet chuckled, but then quickly cleared his throat. “Now, now, Bridget.”
I just stared at her, not saying anything, keeping a tight hold of my own emotions, which were now crash
ing up against the inside of my wall. I wanted to get to Avalon as much, if not more, than Bridget or any of them. But I shoved it all back behind my wall, not sure of how much of it was my own feelings and how much was feeding off of Bridget.
“Bridget!” Scai protested. “That’s not fair and it’s not nice.”
“It may not be nice, but it’s true and you know it,” Bridget retorted. She stopped walking and turned toward Scai. “Look at him,” she said, gesturing toward me. “He’s not upset or angry. Mild–tempered though you are, even you look upset and Sir Dagonet, well, he’s confused and frustrated. I can see that. But Dylan... nothing! Don’t you even care?” she asked me, putting her hands on her hips.
The heat of her glare scorched me, but I just shoved all her anger back behind my dam. “I care very much, Bridget. Just because I don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve or blast them into the faces of others like a blacksmith’s furnace doesn’t mean that I don’t feel anything,” I said, struggling to maintain the outward calm Bridget hated so much—not because she hated it, but because I had to. The alternative was unacceptable.
“You’re an empath, aren’t you?” Sir Dagonet asked.
I turned to the old knight, wondering. He always played the bumbling fool, but I was pretty sure that Sir Dagonet’s well was a lot deeper than it looked. “Yes, I am.”
Sir Dagonet nodded. “Thought so—tied to water. Emotional lot, them,” he explained to Bridget. “Not really cold, just dry—ha! Dry water!” Sir Dagonet cracked up at his own joke.
I let out my breath, my anger safely pushed back behind my wall, and smiled at the old man.
Bridget was still frowning, though. “But if he’s an empath, why doesn’t he feel what I’m feeling?”
“That wouldn’t be very practical, would it?” I said, after clearing my throat of my laughter. “If I was happy every time someone near me was happy, or angry anytime someone was angry?”
“Well, no...”
“I have a dam that keeps out the emotions of others,” I explained.
“And keeps yours in?” Scai asked.
I nodded.
“Oh.” Bridget shifted her stance to be less aggressive. “So you do feel angry, you just don’t let it show?”
“That’s right.” I paused. “In a way, I envy you, Bridget,” I admitted.
Bridget widened her eyes. “Me?”
“Yes. I think it would be wonderful to be able to let all of my emotions out the way you do.”
“I don’t think I could hide my emotions if I wanted to,” she admitted. “Sometimes I wish I could. I have been known to get myself into trouble...” She shrugged and dropped her gaze.
I just laughed. “Well, yes, sometimes it’s good being able to hide your emotions. But if you did, Bridget, well, then you just wouldn’t be you, and that would be a shame.”
Bridget, for once, seemed speechless. Instead, her cheeks turned bright pink, clashing horribly with her brilliant red hair.
I truly laughed this time, not holding it back at all.
“How did you learn... how did you put up your dam?” Scai asked. She always seemed so fascinated with how I learned anything dealing with magic. I felt sorry for her growing up never even knowing that she was Vallen.
I shrugged and answered her as best as I could. “My foster mother taught me. It took years to build it. I’m always working on making it thicker and stronger.” Naturally, I didn’t mention that the wall I had in place now I had only just reassembled from my original dam. In fact, I was still pretty amazed at how quickly I’d been able to put it together. I supposed years of having it had given me the strength and knowledge I needed to rebuild it quickly.
I turned my mind back to the problem at hand, though. There was something tugging at my memory. “My foster mother also taught me some of the lore of Avalon.”
They all perked up at this, so I tried harder to remember what seemed to be at the very edge of my memory.
“I remember that there was something about a mist, or going through a mist in order to get to the isle? Sir Dagonet do you remember anything like that?”
“Eh? A mist? Yes, yes, now that you mention it, it was a bit foggy last time I went to Avalon, wot, wot?”
“Don’t you need one of the priestesses of Avalon in order to get through the mist?” Bridget asked.
We all turned to her.
She gave a shrug. “I heard stories, too, when I was little. Who hasn’t?”
Scai didn’t say anything, but she did suddenly seem to find the trees behind us very interesting. I supposed she had never heard such stories from her guardian.
“So we need a priestess, wot?” Sir Dagonet said. He looked around as if one would be walking by.
“But how are we going to find one? I can’t imagine that there are any here,” Scai said, her voice even more quiet and gentle than usual.
“No, but there’s got to be a way...” I started.
We all looked at each other, hoping that someone would come up with an answer, but no one did.
Scai sighed deeply. I wandered away to look about the place.
“I’d love to go inside the church,” Scai said, looking a little longingly over toward the rather plain building nearby.
I wondered for a moment why she would be so fascinated by a church, but then I remembered that she had been raised by a priest. I wondered if she was very religious—it was either that or she was homesick.
I was particularly unimpressed with the ordinary stone building. There really wasn’t much to commend it, except, I supposed, its austerity. A dry warmth engulfed us as we walked inside.
We were all brought up short, however, by the far wall that we hadn’t been able to see from the garden. It was almost entirely made of stained glass. Never in my life had I seen so much glass. It was incredible.
We approached the altar, genuflecting almost with embarrassment as we did so. Only Scai took her time in this show of respect. For me, nothing else in the building could pull my eyes from the windows. It took me a minute to even see the large crucifix hanging just in front of us.
I managed to pull my eyes away, and noticed that we were almost entirely alone in the church. There were two men kneeling in a far pew, perhaps on some sort of vigil. But they were involved in their own prayers and didn’t even glance over at us.
We each went our separate ways exploring the church. I moved forward and then walked around the altar to get a closer look at the stained glass window. As I did so, I passed by a door that stood slightly ajar.
“Good morning, my son,” a voice said from beyond the door.
I turned and tried to peer into the darkness of the room beyond. “Good morning. Do you mind if I look more closely at the window?”
“Not at all. But perhaps you might be more interested in what is here.”
The door opened a little further, enticing me into the room.
~~~~~
Nimuë waited for the boy’s eyes to adjust to the gloom of the little chamber. It was well worth the wait. Within a moment, Dylan caught sight of her as she stood there in her glamour as Father du Lac.
Recognition washed over his expression. His eyes widened and his face dropped with absolute terror for the briefest of moments before he pulled himself together. His hand immediately reached to his side, but there was nothing there—he was unarmed. He paused, looked at the air at which his hand was grasping, and then turned back to Nimuë. He lifted his chin and threw back his shoulders.
Nimuë stifled a laugh at his chagrin at being without a weapon, but had to admire his fortitude.
His build reminded her sharply of Merlin. He had been tall, like this boy, thin and lanky, and yet he’d had amazing strength—physical, emotional and magical, as Nimuë imagined Dylan did as well. The resemblance left her off her guard.
“Lady Nimuë!”
At the sound of the shock in his voice, she pulled herself together and focused on the matter at hand. A thrill of magical heat coursed through
her, and her fingers began to tingle expectantly.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Dylan,” she said in her most reassuring, fatherly voice. She circled around him, placing herself between the boy and the door just in case he tried to escape.
“What do you want?” he asked. He turned with her warily, keeping his distance and yet always facing her. He held himself straight and tall.
Oh no, this boy was not going to give anything away. He clearly didn’t want her to see the terror that was pouring through him. He was trying to lock it away, but she knew it was there. She could feel it, almost as if her magic was feeding off of his terror, growing stronger with every passing moment.
Yes, it was clear to her now. She had found his weakness—he was water. The most emotional of all the elements. He drew his power from it. He was tied to it. And it would be through it, through his emotions, that she would hurt him. Clever.
“Why, Dylan,” she crooned, “are you scared?”
“No. Why should I be scared of you? You are nothing compared to the great Merlin. And I am his heir.” The boy lifted his chin and looked down at her. “In fact, it is you who should be afraid. You’ve made a horrible mistake in confronting me, Lady Nimuë.”
Nimuë began to laugh. She couldn’t help it. His bravado was too amusing.
And that was when he reached into the bag on his shoulder and pulled out a bundle of clothes.
“I am warning you now, my lady,” he said, his voice beginning to tremble.
“Warning me, of what? Your dirty clothes?” she laughed.
He glanced down at the bundle in his hand, and then stripped away the clothing, to reveal—Merlin’s chalice. The very object she coveted so much.
It shone in the darkness of the chamber. The white marble chalice had a life, a power of its own.
Nimuë’s hands began to tingle even more fiercely. It was the chalice which was causing her magic to burn, she realized—not the boy. The magic within that small vessel was immense. It was practically calling out to her. She had to have it.
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