“What are senses?” Morguase said.
Steffan reached out and tapped on Morgan’s wrist. “Touch is one.”
“Hearing things,” Morgan said.
“Yes. And taste,” Steffan said. “Although taste is not as useful as touch and hearing…and smell.”
Morgan giggled.
Steffan smiled, too.
“Then you really can’t see anything at all?” Morguase pressed.
Steffan hesitated. Anwen knew he was weighing, deciding. Then he said, “Sometimes, I get the faintest glimpse of things, then they are gone again. It doesn’t last.”
“Everything goes black?” Morgan asked.
He shook his head. “It isn’t blackness I see. It is light and color.”
“Color?” Morgan said, her interested rising yet again. “Is that why you know Morguase is wearing blue?”
“She is?” Steffan smiled, pleased. “The colors I see are not related to the colors you see. They are representations, I think. Emanations of feelings or movements.”
Morgan wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Steffan considered. “Very well. Look at Anwen and tell me what colors you see.”
Both Morguase and Morgan looked at her. Anwen cleared her throat. She realized she was smoothing down her dark brown gown the same way Morguase had straightened hers and made her hand stay still.
“Brown,” Morgan said flatly.
“Yes,” Morguase added. “Dark brown, all over.”
“What I see when I look in Anwen’s direction is gold,” Steffan said.
The girls stared at him in disbelief.
“She isn’t wearing gold,” Morguase pointed out.
“I’m not seeing what Anwen wears. I see something else. The essence of her. I see glowing golden brown.”
Anwen’s heart pattered. She made a fist of her hand, resting on her knee. “And what do you see of Morguase?” she asked, deliberately turning the conversation.
Steffan smiled. “That is easy. The color of strawberries.”
Morguase laughed. She liked that.
“And me?” Morgan asked.
Steffan’s smile faded. “I do not know for certain. Perhaps, a pretty lilac?”
Morgan’s mouth pursed and her nose wrinkled.
Anwen watched Steffan’s face. He could not see, yet his eyes could be expressive. She watched them shift and move away from Morgan and knew he had lied.
From the corridor outside the door came shouting. “A messenger! A messenger comes!”
With it came a buzz of conversation and calls, as everyone reacted to the arrival of news. Feet ran. Doors slammed.
A slave pushed open the door to Anwen’s chamber. “The lady bids you attend her at once,” he said breathlessly and slammed the door once more.
“Does that mean she wishes to speak to me or you?” Steffan wondered aloud.
“We should all go, just to be sure,” Anwen said, as relief touched her. The conversation had become uncomfortable, although she was not certain why. She wanted everyone to think only of languages and letters or the arriving news. “Morgan, let me inspect your gown. Yes, that is clean enough. Tie your chemise strings properly. Morguase…yes, you are very neat today.”
Morguase beamed and ran from the room. Morgan followed. They called to each other as they traversed the corridor to the big circular stairs.
Anwen stood and brushed down her own gown, smoothing out the folds and arranging it properly. Steffan remained upon the bench, his head down, as if he was deep in thought.
Anwen did not consider waiting for him. He was capable of finding his own way to Igraine’s chamber.
Only, as she moved to the door, his hand shot out. He gripped her wrist. She gasped at the uncanny accuracy of his reach. “How did you know I was there?”
He swung his feet over the bench and stood. It put him far too close to her. There was barely a hand-span of space between them. “Scent, air movement, sound. The glow which marks you wherever you are.” His voice was low. He drew her wrist up toward his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, pulling at his grip.
“Confirming you are as I see you.”
“See…?” Her breath caught as he brought his other hand to her face and touched it. Her flesh sizzled at his touch and she shuddered. “Steffan—”
“Shh.” His fingers ran over her face, her hair and her throat. They came back to her face and rested there. “Beautiful,” he breathed.
“Then you are truly blind.”
He shook his head. “I suspect I am the only one who sees you properly.” His fingers stroked.
“Stop that,” she whispered, for his touch was sending hot waves through her.
“Why?” he breathed.
She could not speak of the throbbing which weakened her. Instead, she reached desperately for harsh facts. “I am old, Steffan.”
His fingers shifted. “There are no wrinkles here. I would not care if there were.”
“I am older than you.”
His hand slid down her throat, leaving sizzling flesh in its wake. His fingers rested over her heart. “You are not older, in here. Here, we are the same.”
Her entire body wanted to reach through the tiny space between them and surrender to him. Her eyes ached as sour knowledge prevented her. “You dally with me because I am to hand. If you really knew me, if you could see me—”
“I do see you,” he breathed. His lips hovered only inches away.
She turned her head away. “If you really did, you would know my fear.”
He turned her chin, so she looked at him once more. His gaze was steady. It truly seemed as though he studied her. She shivered.
“I know your fear,” he said, his voice low. “I see your longing, too.” He reached behind him, unlatched the door and opened it.
Relief touched her, as he held it open for her. She went to step through, but he caught her arm, making her heart leap again.
He leaned close to her, so the warmth of his big body enveloped her like a cloak. “One day, you will be mine,” he breathed in her ear.
Then he released her. She was free to stumble into the corridor, her heart slamming and her body shrieking with competing tensions.
Chapter Eleven
The messenger was just emerging from Igraine’s chamber when they reached the hall at the top of the stairs. He was dusty and travel stained, as messengers tended to be. He nodded at Steffan and Anwen as they passed.
Anwen knew the man’s face. “One of Gorlois’ riders,” she breathed.
Steffan nodded. “Drusant,” he added.
She looked at him, startled.
“He likes olives,” Steffan said.
Anwen cleared her throat and moved toward the inner chamber. Steffan followed. He did not ask her to guide him. He never asked anyone for that service. He tapped his way across the floor and stepped through to the inner chamber.
Igraine was alone except for one lady and Morgan and Morguase. The Duchess sat in the big chair by the window. There was a letter on her knees. She picked it up and held it toward Anwen. “Drusant told me most of what is in here. Please read it to me.”
Anwen took the letter and read.
Madam:
I write in haste. We came upon Drusant one day from Tintagel. He has messages from Uther, which he shared with me and I now bid him to give to you. We ride with even greater speed to Amesbury.
The High King is dying, just as we feared. You must gather and prepare the household for travel when the time comes.
Uther believes the Saxons will rise in response. He rides north as I write this, to counter the attack he anticipates.
Drusant will share more.
Cornwall.
The signature was a great flourish of unformed lines, for Gorlois did not read. His scribe’s lettering was well formed and easy to read, though.
Anwen gave the letter back to Igraine.
Igraine looked at Steffan. �
��You rode with my husband, Steffan. You can explain this. What does it mean for Cornwall and Britain? For us?”
Steffan leaned on his staff. “What else did Drusant have to share, my lady? That may shed more light.”
She pressed her full lips together. “Only gossip. The army, the kings, the senior leaders, are divided over Uther’s orders to ride north. There are allies in the north, they say, who will stand for Britain.”
“Uther seeks Catigern,” Steffan said. “Those who oppose Uther’s taking of the throne once Ambrosius is dead will draw around Catigern. If he removes him, then they will have no focus and no leader.”
“He thinks of politics at a time like this?” Anwen said.
Igraine looked at her, startled.
Anwen shrank back toward the wall. She had spoken without thought. Her throat tightened.
Steffan, though, responded as if her speaking her thoughts was perfectly normal. “What I remember of Uther is that he is driven by emotions more than he should be. He would be a greater leader than Ambrosius if he could contain his violent passions. Everything I have heard about him since only confirms that impression. I do not believe he thinks of politics at this time, except it gives him an excuse to act in the face of a situation he can do nothing to change.”
He grieves, Anwen interpreted.
Igraine frowned. “I do not follow, Steffan.”
Steffan hesitated. “Uther is a man of action, my lady. He cannot act to save his brother, yet he can act to save his brother’s kingdom, so he acts, no matter how rash the act may be.”
“Is it rash?” Igraine asked.
“We approach the depths of winter. Travel in the north will be hard on the men and the horses. He also risks offending the northern kingdoms, who prefer to control their own territories. If he fails to find and kill Catigern, his hunt for the man will foment the very opposition he fears. Only, Uther is not one for sitting about the home hearth and staring at the flames.” Steffan shrugged. “If he succeeds, he will win the breathing space he needs to take the crown and stabilize the kingdom.”
“It is a risk worth taking, then,” Igraine summarized.
“It is a very high risk, which is why the leaders are divided. Uther is perhaps the only man in Britain who might succeed at such a task, though.”
Igraine lifted the parchment. “And why does my husband instruct me to prepare for travel? It is close to mid-winter, as you say.”
Anwen sighed.
Steffan did, too. “Because the Duke wants all of Cornwall to attend the High King’s funeral, my lady. No lesser honor will do.”
WHEN THE THUNDER OF MANY approaching horses sounded from the north, Ilsa rose stiffly to her feet and moved to the outer room of the High King’s tent. Arawn and Gorlois, who had returned only two days ago, and at least a week before anyone expected him, also watched the tent flap.
“Is that Uther?” she asked dully.
Arawn kissed her temple. “There was no challenge from the sentries. It is him.”
Ilsa tracked the beat of the horses as someone rode them at high speed through the camp, to the center where they stood. Through the opening between the tent flaps she watched the horses burst into the square. Uther’s great roan climbed the air with his front hooves, as Uther hauled on the reins. Uther rode the creature as he would a toothless mare, barely noticing the wild movements of the horse. He slid off the saddle as the creature blew heavily and tossed the reins to the boy who sprinted to catch them.
Uther strode across the square, pulling off his gauntlets. In the light of the torches which flared and jumped in their stands around the square, his hair gleamed redly, and his eyes glittered with harsh light.
He ducked under the flap and straightened, taking in the gathering of officers.
“Success, my lord?” Arawn asked, his voice tight.
“Catigern was beheaded at dawn yesterday morning and his head put on a spear for the Saxons to find, just south of Galleva.” Uther tossed the gauntlets aside. “My brother?”
Ilsa drew in an unsteady breath. “He is dead, my lord. Not two hours ago.”
Uther’s gaze skittered and shifted. Then he gathered himself together and looked toward the inner room. “Did he speak at all?”
“Only to Merlin,” Ilsa said. “And not of affairs of state, Merlin says.”
Uther nodded. “I will speak to Merlin, anyway. Find him for me.” He pushed into the inner chamber.
Mabon stirred. “Does anyone know where Merlin went?”
“I’ll find him,” Ilsa said.
She moved out into the square, wrapping her cloak firmly around her, for the night was beyond cold. Merlin had left the King’s tent the moment Ambrosius died. He would not be far away, even though he preferred solitude.
She checked his smaller tent and found it empty, then asked everyone she came across, no matter whom, if they had seen him.
Their answers lead her to the pond at the far southern edge of the camp. It was surrounded by rushes and the water was dank enough that no one but ducks used it, and even they had fled at the end of summer.
Merlin was there—not a tall figure gazing toward unseen horizons, but a young man bent and shivering in the cold. He wore no cloak and his breath blew heavily in the frigid air.
He sat on his knees at the edge of the rushes, gripping the frozen grass as if it would keep him stable.
The black emptiness which had held Ilsa still and whole since Ambrosius had passed shattered between one hurtful breath and the next. Her heart ached.
She dropped to her knees beside him. “Merlin…”
He shook his head. “I didn’t see it. I couldn’t stop it.” His voice broke and his shoulders shook.
Ilsa pulled him to her and rested his head on her shoulder. “The gods give and the gods take,” she whispered. “All we can do is go on.”
Merlin wept.
PART TWO
Chapter Twelve
Steffan waited alone in the freezing pre-dawn air. He was surrounded by thousands of people but was not aware of them. His agony was too great.
He did not need to see to know the funeral procession made its way through the throng. People had traveled in the depths of winter to this iron-hard plain to pay their respects to the first king to unite all of Britain in centuries. Steffan heard the crunch of the boots of the men who carried the pall, for despite there being so many people, the silence was absolute.
No torches lit the way. They moved in starlight only, for even the moon had set. Steffan’s vision was a complete and rare, black nothingness. Not even the colors which normally danced and shifted showed themselves.
The boots moved past and Steffan turned to face them as they tromped away.
Then they halted.
Over the heads of the people standing around him, Steffan heard the Christian priest speak of an afterlife and eternal peace. Then a different holy man spoke of rewards and rest.
Words, all of them. Just words. Was nothing worthy of marking such a passing?
More movement. A hushed, muffled sigh from everyone around him. From attending too many funeral rites, Steffan knew Ambrosius’ body was being lowered into the burial chamber. The shallow chamber had been hastily constructed beneath the massive black altar stone, which would stand in the center of the ring of stones Merlin had rebuilt.
Then, a silence which throbbed with waiting.
Steffan’s heart beat hard. He’d heard the talk of the circle of standing stones. No one had been allowed near them in the five days mourners gathered in Amesbury, so it was all just rumors.
Then, light. Against his face, lifting the darkness from his eyes. Colors played. Warmth touched his skin.
Everyone gasped or drew in their breath.
The sun must have risen directly in front of where Steffan was facing. Light didn’t just dance, it flared, like the flash of lightning. For one suspended heartbeat he saw the giant’s dance in all its splendor. Black stones against the dawn in the east, turned sil
ver with mid-winter frost. Gargantuan monoliths capped in a stupendous circle. Thousands of people stood among and outside the stones, tramping down the frozen earth, huddled in their cloaks and wraps and furs and blowing thick clouds with each awed breath. Their faces were all turned to the east, where the sun lifted over the horizon. The dazzling disk laid a beam of light from the horizon to the inner pair of great stones which marked the solstice. Blinding light speared the narrow aperture between them, to touch the place where the altar stone would be returned when this deed was done.
The bright flare didn’t last. Overwhelmed, Steffan’s eyes failed. He gripped his temples, covering them, as the light speared the back of his mind with pain. He bent, biting back his groan. He propped himself up with his staff as his head throbbed and his heart ached.
Merlin had said he would crown Ambrosius’ resting place with nothing less than light itself. He had kept his promise.
So passed the greatest man Steffan had ever known.
A hand touched his wrist, light and uncertain. “Steffan? Are you ill?”
What was it about her voice which made him pause, every time he heard it? It was not the light tones of a young woman. The timbre and depth of her voice caught his ear and his mind. The unexpected dry notes, which spoke of weary wisdom, were fascinating.
At this moment, though, all her voice contained was simple concern. As a minor duchess, among kings and queens and their courts, Igraine and her women would have stood at the back of the crowd. Had Anwen crossed the standing stones themselves to reach him? Had she been watching him?
Steffan made himself stand upright, wincing as his head throbbed and pulsed. “The light hurts. It is nothing. Once I am inside, the pain will pass.”
Her fingers gripped his wrist properly. “Everyone is leaving now, anyway,” she said. “Let me take you back to the Duchess’ cart. You can at least ride back to Amesbury.”
He let her lead him, this one time, for there were people all around him and he didn’t know this place at all.
As the cart jolted and creaked over the rough track made by the passing of thousands of workers who had built the standing stones, Steffan reflected that, without the single blow of a Saxon hammer, his marking of the passing of such a great king would be far different. If he could still see, he would have stood among the officers surrounding Uther, able to watch every moment.
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