by Alex Archer
“In Welsh the word caer means castle,” Roux said.
“So we’re going to the castle.”
“A castle, not the castle. There’s more than one in Wales, but Caernarfon is important. It’s where the Prince of Wales is given his title.”
Garin wasn’t about to admit it, but he had no idea that the prince had to be given a title; he had thought that it was simply inherited. “And the treasure we’re after is hidden there?”
“There are few safer places,” Roux replied. “Including the otherwhere,” he said, heading off Garin’s obvious response. “You see, each of the relics has certain properties....”
“Sounds ominous.”
“These properties manifest themselves in many capacities, not the least in how it interacts with other objects. I wouldn’t want to risk it coming into contact with Joan’s sword.”
“Are you going to tell me what it is?”
“Will it make any difference if I do?”
“Only so much as it’ll stop me asking annoying questions,” he replied.
He hated it when Roux was evasive. It was just one of the old man’s characteristics that got up his nose. In some ways life had been so much easier when he’d been intent on killing the snooty bastard. Simpler, for sure. Now they were friends, allies, it was occasionally awkward because the old man insisted on treating him like some neophyte. He’d given up trying to argue that he wasn’t just a grown man; he was comparatively ancient, all things considered. It was all relative; if he was ancient, then Roux would just argue he was more so.
“The Treasure of Caernrvon is one of the greatest of the treasures that make up the Matter of Britain. One that should never leave Wales.”
“Okay, now it’s getting interesting. What is it? A shield? A sword? The Holy Grail?”
Roux shook his head. “The Mantle of King Arthur.”
“The what of King Arthur?”
“Mantle. A cloak. Among other powers, the mantle can make the wearer invisible.”
“A cloak of invisibility? Seriously? Awesome. I’ll buy that for a dollar.”
“It’s been hidden for a very good reason, Garin.”
“I’m sure it has, but come on...a cloak of invisibility? Tell me you don’t want to try it out.”
“I don’t. And as long as it hasn’t been disturbed, I’m thinking it may be for the best if it remains there.”
“Hold on a minute, we’re just going to leave it where it is?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
“I don’t understand. Why did we just risk our lives if we’re going to do nothing?”
“These treasures belong here. All of them. They sustain the country even if people have long ago forgotten their significance.”
“Well, if they’ve forgotten about their significance, then surely they aren’t going to miss them. Why risk someone discovering them? We’ve got plenty of security. Safest place in the country for them is one of our vaults, surely.”
“We’ve had this discussion before. We need to keep the treasures out of the wrong hands.”
“You’ll get no argument from me. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Even if yours are the wrong hands?”
“That’s low, even for you, old man.”
Chapter 18
Awena could not hide her shock at the sight of her father as he stumbled through the door. She caught herself midscream, thinking he was an intruder. He hadn’t shaved in weeks and had the wild-eyed stare of a bum, the same manic intensity to his eyes and the same odd twitches that went with it. He stank. It was obvious he’d been wearing the same clothes for weeks. They were rags hanging off his skeletal frame now. But it was the tangled mass of hair and scraggy beard that transformed him into a different man. He clutched a bundle of rags to his chest, though they were indistinguishable from the clothes on his back. The bundle was long and thin and not like an armful of laundry in the slightest. He clung to them for grim life.
It took her a moment to realize that whatever he was holding was wrapped in one of his old coats.
“Dad?” Even as she said it her brain raced to catch up, processing everything it was seeing, comparing his appearance with how she remembered him.
“Yes, yes, it’s me,” he said, smiling weakly. She recognized that smile. How could she not? Everything she’d ever done in her life had been to earn that smile. “I’ve got something to show you, Awena,” he said. “Something special. You won’t believe it...I did it. I found it. I found one of the treasures. After all this time...I finally found one.”
There was joy and excitement in his eyes, in the tone of his voice and in the way he moved. She so wanted to tell him about her own discovery but could not bring herself to take away anything from his excitement. He laid his bundle down on the table, mirroring her first movements when she’d returned with her own hard-won treasure. With the same reverence, he eased back the coat covering it.
“Who is it?” Geraint called from somewhere upstairs. The sound of his son’s voice jerked their father from his raptures.
“Geraint, come quickly,” Awena called excitedly. “Look who it is!”
The look of shock and disgust on Geraint’s face when he entered the kitchen was even more abhorrent than anything Awena could have imagined. How could he feel like that about their father? Why couldn’t he just...love him...like she did?
“For the love of God, what have you done to yourself, Dad? You look like a disaster.” He shook his head. Awena could see him struggling to overcome his surprise and confusion at the sight of the tramp at their kitchen table.
“How could you let yourself get into this mess?” And then far more accusatory than any of the other questions her brother asked, “When are you going to grow up? You’re supposed to be the adult in this family. Not me. Not Awena. You. You’re not Peter Pan. But you are lost...look at you. Don’t you ever stop to think what your obsession is doing to us? Do you even know that Awena is every bit as obsessed with this crap as you are? Have you ever asked her what she thinks about your folly? She idolizes you, you moron. She worships the ground you walk on, and now she’s got your disease because she thinks it will please you! She’s still trying to earn your love, and it will ruin her life just as it ruined yours. I’m not going to let it. So go upstairs, shower, shave and then change your clothes and walk out of the front door and keep on walking. You stay away, understand? We don’t need you.”
Awena had never heard so much anger in his voice, so much venom.
It was staggering.
She didn’t know what to say.
How to react?
He was her brother. Her twin. She would run into a burning building for him. But this was their father.
She couldn’t stand by and let him drive him away forever. She could hear him saying: But I did it for you...for us.... And knew she’d hate him for the rest of their lives if she let this happen. “Geraint!” she snapped. “Don’t. Please. Just don’t. This is Dad. Our dad. You can’t talk to him like a child.”
Their father ignored them. Instead, he turned his attention back to the half-unwrapped bundle on the table and carefully peeled the coat away from the object inside. Slowly, he then removed layer upon layer of clothing that he’d used to protect the artifact until at last he revealed the sword, its blade shining bright.
“Another damn sword. Just what we need in this house. So who conned you into buying this, then? Someone down Cardiff market? I don’t even want to ask how much you paid for it. Too much, obviously, because any idiot can see it’s worthless. Dad, how can you have wasted your entire life chasing these bloody Treasures of Britain? This thing looks like it was forged yesterday! It has to stop! Please. I’m begging you. Even if these things existed once...even if you find them...can’t you see that it isn’t going to change
anything? It isn’t going to transform you into a hero for the modern age. It won’t make you king...you’ll just be a sad old man who wasted his life in turn for some trinkets.”
“Wasted my life?” He shook his head sadly. There was no anger in him despite the barrage he was being subjected to. He simply laid a hand on the too-shiny blade and said, “I haven’t wasted my life. This is proof that it was all worthwhile.”
Awena heard something in her father’s voice.... It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t anger. It took her a moment to realize what it was: satisfaction.
But there was nothing he could say that would convince Geraint his search was anything less than a fool’s quest.
“This? You think this makes it all worthwhile? You’re more of a fool than I thought, Dad.” Geraint reached across the table to snatch up the sword, but their father beat him to it, raising the gleaming blade aloft.
Awena felt the change in the air as the blade came alive, crackling with a ghostly blue flame that licked along the length of metal.
She struggled to breathe. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.
Her heart beat faster and harder against her breastbone despite the fact she hadn’t moved a muscle—faster and harder than it had when she’d struggled to liberate the stone from the museum. The excitement sent a surge of adrenaline through her body. And just this once, excitement was far more powerful than fear.
She knew what the sword was. She’d read about it in the books, seen the sketches that her father had made. Even if in her heart of hearts she’d believed they’d never find anything truly mythical, that they’d ever find any of the true Treasures of Britain, there could be no doubting it now. Here was the proof that Geraint was always demanding.
He had to accept it, she thought.
But as though reading her mind, Geraint scoffed and said, “The tricks are getting more convincing, I’ll give you that, but they’re still only tricks.” There was no sign of his anger disappearing. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of Awena always pining for you and us having to struggle to keep this place afloat while you think there’s something romantic in abandoning your kids for the promise of adventure. Don’t bother with the shower. Just go.”
Faced with her brother’s point-blank refusal to believe the evidence of his own eyes, Awena saw the twitches intensify around her father’s cheek and eye, obviously growing more agitated by the way the confrontation had turned.
And then, before she could scream, he swung the blade so savagely it left a blur of blue light in its wake, just as Geraint took a step closer.
The tip of the blade scorched his shirt.
Smoke rose as the material turned black.
“What are you doing?” Geraint shouted, clutching one hand to his chest, the other arm raised to defend himself.
“Doing? I’ll tell you what I’m doing, boy. I’m proving that I haven’t wasted a single second of my life. My life, not yours. Mine. The Matter of Britain is ours. All of these treasures belong to every Welsh man and woman. They are our heritage. They are our destiny. We will use them to show the English that we can stand up to them. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t think there’s a problem with us being governed from another country. It doesn’t matter to you, does it? You don’t care that they treat us like second-class citizens, bleeding us dry while they fiddle their expenses and laugh in our faces.”
Awena had never seen him like this. He was always so in control. So poised. Careful.
She had to calm him down before things escalated. Otherwise, one of them was going to be seriously hurt.
Once, when Geraint had broken his arm as a child, she’d felt an echo of her twin’s pain, but it had been nothing more than a pale shadow of what he’d felt. She couldn’t imagine the pain that searing sword would cause. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to feel the ghost of it, either. “Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop it, both of you, before you kill each other!”
There was a long silence after her last word, the two men staring at each other, seemingly ignoring her plea, ready to tear chunks out of each other. And then her father lowered the sword, understanding how close he’d come to doing something he could never take back.
He stood openmouthed and trembling as he stared at the red stain on Geraint’s shirt.
He shook his head frantically, all anger gone, replaced by fear and panic.
His arm went limp. Giraldus Cambrensis’s legendary sword slipped from his grip, clattering to the tile floor.
He didn’t take another breath. He didn’t wait for the ringing of metal on stone to subside. He just ran.
Awena wanted to chase after him, to stop him from leaving again.
It was the only thing she had ever wanted.
Though this time it was different, letting him leave now, like this, there was a chance that he would never return.
But Geraint needed the help.
He was the victim.
To help him, though, she had to let her father go.
It was the hardest thing she’d ever done.
Chapter 19
Annja cursed the guy; he was another one with a death wish. She couldn’t believe he’d red-lined it across an open field to get away from her, but it proved one thing beyond any reasonable doubt: he was the man they were looking for.
And she’d let him get away.
She’d tried to call Garin again, but had no luck. And because of that she’d missed the off-ramp, so there was no hope of cutting the guy off from wherever he was going. Looking at the wilderness of this country it could have been anywhere, including a nuclear bunker hidden underground. He was long gone.
But she’d got his license plate, using the voice recorder on her cell phone to dictate it rather than trying to risk writing while driving.
Ten minutes later she saw the blue sign for the next exit and pulled off. She parked up in a small gravel lot and tried Garin again. Still nothing, but at least she got through to his voice mail this time. That was something. The storm was starting to ease off, but it was still a lot more than steady rainfall even if it wasn’t the biblical flood. She was about to set off again when the phone rang in her hand.
It was Garin.
The signal was weak and threatened to drop out more than once, but she could hear him.
“You’ve had me worried,” she said.
“I’m indestructible, remember?” She could hear the grin in his voice. He was anything but. The weird curse that involved Joan’s sword might keep Garin and Roux around, but just like Shakespeare’s merchant, prick them and they doth bleed. None of them had really figured out how it worked, or what had truly happened that day when the two soldiers failed her and Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. All they knew was that instead of dying they lingered. Roux put it down to having unfinished work to do, but maybe it was more than that.
“It was a bit of a bumpy ride, mind you, even for me and you know how bumpy I like it.”
“You’re an idiot, Garin!” she snapped. It was relief, of course, but that didn’t take the sting out of her words. “You could have been killed.”
“No need to be all melodramatic, Annja. Once we were in the air I flew around the storm, not through it. Contrary to popular opinion I’m not actually a moron.”
“Could have fooled me,” she said.
“And I often do. Roux’s a little green around the gills, but he’s not a good flier at the best of times. He’s more worried about you.”
“Me? I’m fine,” she replied.
“Don’t be a hero,” Garin teased.
“I’ve seen him,” Annja said, shutting him up.
“Seen who?”
“Our tramp,” Annja said. “I pulled into a rest stop along the highway, was about to get out of the car, and ther
e he was, larger than life. He made me, and ran. I followed him back out onto the main road, but with the storm and some really stupid driving with him going off-road and nearly killing himself in the process, I lost him.” She could hear Garin passing on each snippet of information as she recited it. She half expected to hear Roux tut at her failure. She headed it off with, “But it’s not all bad news, I got his plate.” She recited the sequence of letters and numbers, and listened carefully as Garin repeated them so Roux could write them down.
“I love you, Miss Creed, you know that? You rock. You roll. And you most certainly make life interesting, and that’s the most important thing, don’t you think?”
“It’s mutual, most of the time. The rest of the time you’re just infuriating.”
He laughed. “I live to serve. I’ll run the plate and get back to you as soon as we touch down.”
She heard Roux speaking, then the sound of the phone being passed over.
“Annja,” he said, his tone all business. “I want you to stay where you are until Garin’s had a chance to run the registration. I don’t want you to drive to Caerleon, only for you to have to come back again.”
He didn’t wait for her to agree. He handed the phone back to Garin, expecting to be obeyed. “Better find somewhere nice and warm,” he said. “Give me an hour. I’ll work my magic.”
Hanging around made sense, as much as she wanted to be on the move. So much for her vacation.
Mercifully, she didn’t have to wait long before Garin declared he’d struck gold.
He sounded like a giddy schoolboy as he reported, “The car’s registered to one Owen Llewellyn. Yep, that’s right, the same Owen Llewellyn that’s on the list, owner of one rare copy of the writings of Gerald of Wales. Coincidence? I think not. We’ve got our man. I’m sending the address through to you right now, but it looks like you may as well head on to Caerleon and you can make a call on him tomorrow.”