by Joy Nash
“No.” Breena’s voice cracked a bit. “Of…of course not. I…I suppose I could stay on Avalon then.”
“So you can watch the swamps for my infrequent return? What kind of life would that be? You’d be miserable. And you’d soon come to hate me.”
She hugged herself and turned away. “I would never hate you. There must be a way for us to be together.”
“Breena, surely you are intelligent enough to realize it would not work. You are better off marrying a man who can give you a real marriage. A man who will live here on Avalon and be a father to your children.” He cleared his throat. “Someone like Penn, for instance.”
She spun around, and flung her arms wide. “I do not love Penn! And he does not love me. Not in that way.”
“Then you will choose someone else,” Rhys insisted. “Trevor, perhaps? He is a good man.”
Her voice trembled. “I don’t want anyone else, Rhys. Can’t you understand that? I love you. I want you.”
And gods help him, he wanted her.
“Breena, please. Let us not speak of this again. Do not even think of it. I will not marry you. And I will not change my mind. I beg you, find another man on which to fix your fantasies.”
He heard a sudden whoosh, as if all the air rushed from her lungs. “Oh. So I’m to find another man for my fantasies, am I? While you find whores for your bed?”
“I am a man,” Rhys said quietly. “I am not celibate. I won’t pretend that I am.”
“Of course you are not. How could you possibly be celibate when there are no end of public-house wenches ready to lift their skirts and dance to your music? And invite you above stairs after? What man could resist such an invitation?”
He stilled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But it was a lie. Her description matched too closely that last, awful night with Ciara. The night that had left him feeling so shamed and hopeless that dawn had found him fleeing to Avalon on a knife’s edge of desperation.
A horrible suspicion took shape. “Breena. What are you saying? What…what do you know?”
She hugged herself tightly. A defensive posture. But her eyes were spitting sparks. “Tell me, Rhys. How was that blonde whore? Did she please you?”
Shock and shame gagged him. His mouth dropped open, but no sound emerged. He could only stare at her, aghast.
“No doubt she knew her business.” Breena’s voice shook. “She looked as though she’d bedded every man in that dingy outpost. Did she put her tricks to good use? Did you enjoy fu—”
A red rage washed over him. He didn’t remember moving, but suddenly his hands were on her shoulders, and he was shaking her, brutally, trying to stop the ugly words from spilling out of her mouth.
“You used your magic to spy on me! You watched me, while I—” He choked, and shook her again, hard.
Her head snapped forward and back. “Rhys—” she gasped. “Please—”
“By all the gods in Annwyn, Breena, what did you see? What did you see?”
Gods help him. Had she watched Ciara strip? Take him in her mouth? Had Breena been a silent specter over his shoulder when he tied Ciara’s wrists and used her like the whore she was? The thought enraged him. Shamed him. And aroused him.
And that shamed him all the more.
He shook her again. “Did you watch us?” he asked hoarsely. “Did you see—”
“No! Gods, no!” She clawed at his hands. “I saw nothing! Nothing! Please, Rhys, stop shaking…let me go. You’re hurting me—”
He released her so abruptly, she stumbled and nearly fell. She backed off a few paces, arms wrapped around her torso, trembling, her eyes round.
“I didn’t watch you…having relations with that woman. Do you really believe I could stand that? I only watched you enter the tavern, and play your harp. When you started up the stairs…I broke the vision.”
Relief flooded him. He drew a ragged breath. “Breena, you should not have been looking at all.”
“I-I know. I’m sorry! But I couldn’t help it. I was worried about you. You’d been gone so long. I had to see if you were all right.”
“That would have taken but a moment.”
She rubbed her arms and didn’t answer.
“Have you learned nothing from Gwen and Owein? Druid magic is sacred. One does not use it for personal amusement.”
“Believe me, Rhys. I was not amused.”
“Nay. I imagine you were not. But Breena, it is none of your business if I bed a hundred women.”
Her voice broke. “But…those women cannot love you as I do. How can you go to them, when I—”
“When you are what? Waiting for me here, in Avalon? Weaving fantasies of a life that can never be? The gods know I have tried my best to cure you of your delusions.”
She was crying now, sucking in big gulps of air. Each sob felt like a dull knife goring his heart. “I love you. I always have. And I’ll never love anyone else!”
He had never hated himself quite so much as he did at that very moment. “Bree, please, listen to me. Whatever your feelings, you must put them aside. There is nothing between us. There never can be. The sooner you believe that, the sooner your heart will be free to love another.”
His words tasted like bitter ash on his tongue.
“I wish that were true,” she said through her tears. They were running down her cheeks, but she made no move to dash them away. “I wish I felt nothing for you. I even wish that I could hate you. I’ve tried, you know. I’ve tried very hard to hate you. But somehow, I just…can’t.”
She waited a moment, as if hoping for a reply. When Rhys said nothing, her shoulders slumped. She whirled around. After a long moment, she squared her shoulders and walked away without a word.
Just before she faded into the gloom, he whispered, “Perhaps, in time, you will.”
Chapter Three
Breena returned to her bed, only to toss and turn all night. But it was no use. One moment her body was hot with the memory of Rhys’s mouth and hands, the next she was shivering with the cold of his rejection. At last, she abandoned even the pretense of sleep. She rose and lit a lamp. And forced herself to face reality.
It was really, truly over.
Over? a small voice in her head taunted. Why, it never began!
The walls of her small room squeezed tightly. It was too warm. She couldn’t breathe. She had to get out. She padded through the common room and slipped her cloak from its hook by the door. Her twin niece and nephew, cuddled like puppies on their pallet just outside their parents’ door, did not stir. Once in the open, Breena paused.
Her first impulse was to go to the Grail spring, but the place reminded her too keenly of the night she’d used her magic to spy on Rhys. The high slope? No. That holy place was forbidden, save for certain rituals.
Perhaps it would be best to leave the island—and Rhys—for a short time. She knew a place in the hills sacred to the Great Mother; she would go there and seek her counsel. Decision made, she gathered her cloak around her shoulders and hurried down the path to the dock.
Separating a raft from its mooring, she thrust its long pole into the shallow water and shoved the craft into the thick of Gwen’s protective mist. The magical fog clung to the vessel, as if reluctant to allow Breena’s escape. She gritted her teeth and stabbed her pole all the harder.
Scant moments later, the sacred isle disappeared into the mist. Gray fog spread in every direction. Breena shoved her raft through the void, hoping her sense of direction had not failed her. She emerged from the mists some time later, the slopes of the Mendips rising before her.
Dawn already lightened the eastern sky. Breena moored the raft behind a screen of willow fronds and murmured a lookaway spell. Though Avalon was remote, travelers did occasionally pass this way.
The sun rose as she climbed, brambles snagging her skirt. By the time she reached the summit, she was panting in the crisp autumn air. The dawn colors had given way to a brilliant blue s
ky.
She did not like it. Heavy gray clouds, or even a storm would have been more appropriate to her mood. But the exercise did her some good. Her heart remained heavy in the hollow space that was her chest, but by the time she reached the high meadow, her tears had mostly subsided.
From this vantage, the misty swamp seemed to stretch on forever. There was no sign of the steeply sloping island that was her home; Avalon was well hidden by Gwen’s protective mists. Even knowing exactly where the sacred isle lay, Breena could not discern so much as a hint of its outline.
The long meadow grass, yellow and stiff with hoarfrost, crunched under her shoes. A fertile hollow existed in the circular depression created by a ring of barren rock, like a treasure hidden within cupped hands. A massive blue-gray stone, eroded by age and pitted with scars, stood in the center of the small field. Patches of lichen and moss mottled its surface. Deep spirals, carved by an ancient hand, marked the megalith as sacred to the Great Mother.
The Druids of Avalon often prayed before the stone. Breena approached it now with an air of great respect. If she held herself very still, and closed her eyes, she could feel its deep magic as a subtle vibration beneath her feet.
The stone’s color did not match that of the surrounding rock; it was clear the megalith had been brought to this place from afar. Breena thought it must have been very deep magic indeed that had moved such a giant. Bowing her head, she placed her palm on the stone’s cool surface and uttered the prayer she’d brought in her heart to this sacred place.
“Help me…help me forget Rhys. Help me find someone else to love.”
She forced a swallow past the unshed tears burning her throat. “Help me find a man who will love me in return.”
It was a difficult prayer to speak. Her vision blurred as the words left her lips. Her heart felt as though someone had cut it open with a jagged piece of glass. Rhys would never again kiss her. Never take her to his bed. Never love her.
Tears spilled onto her cheeks. She sagged against the stone, turning to press her shoulder blades against its comforting solidity. Her prayer had not assuaged her grief. If anything, it had made it worse. She closed her eyes, willing the tears to stop.
“‘Tis far too fine a day, lass, for so sad a face.”
She gasped. Her eyes flew open. If her prayer had only encouraged her tears, now pure shock dried them. The mild comment had been uttered by an old man, white of hair and long of beard. He held a stout oaken staff.
She knew her expression showed her shock; her reaction seemed to amuse him. The corners of his lightcolored eyes crinkled. But humor was not the only emotion she read in his expression. Another emotion, wistful and intent, was etched in the lines bracketing his eyes.
He stood not five strides before her, oddly dressed in a long gray robe. He was a Celt, of that she had no doubt. He was very tall, taller than any Roman she had ever seen. His long beard, white with a few fading blond strands, was braided in the Celtic style. He’d seen at least sixty years, Breena judged. Despite his age, he retained the erect bearing of a much younger man. She was sure he did not carry his wooden staff for support.
He had not been in the meadow when she’d entered. He must have been hidden behind one of the boulders ringing the field. But where, beyond that, had he come from? Avalon was the only settlement for miles. But the man was hardly dressed for travel. Perhaps he’d camped in one of the many caves nearby? He might be a pilgrim, come to pray at the Great Mother’s stone, as she had.
“Who are you, sir?”
He did not answer. Instead he tilted his head and studied her. As the moments tripped by, she began to wonder if he had even heard her question. Unease crawled up her spine. The man might be old, but that did not mean he was harmless. In fact, she was beginning to suspect that he was a Druid. Was he of the Light? Or did he serve darkness? She had no way of knowing.
She shifted her weight to her left foot, considering a prudent retreat. His sharp eyes followed the movement.
“I assure you, lass. I mean no harm.”
She stared at him, uncertain how to answer. His lips crooked in a smile. He was an utter stranger to her, but for some reason, her initial panic was fading. He took a step forward, his hand lifting. For a moment she thought he might reach for her. But then his hand dropped.
“So young,” he murmured. “So, so young. Just a child, really.”
She stiffened. “I am not a child.”
His smile widened. He inclined his head. “Of course not. You are a woman grown. Please. You must forgive the ramblings of a foolish old man.”
She sniffed, trying to place the old man’s accent. He spoke British Celtic, but with an inflection that was almost Roman. And yet, she was certain Latin was not his first tongue.
“Who are you?” she asked again. “How have you come to be here? You must have traveled far—there is no village for miles.”
“No?” The word conveyed mild surprise. “Then you, too, must be far from your home.”
Heat crept up Breena’s neck. Curse her quick tongue! It was forbidden to speak of Avalon to outsiders, but it had to be plain that she had not traveled far to this place.
“I’ve come to the Great Mother’s stone to pray,” she answered vaguely.
“You’ve been crying.”
There was no point in denying it. “Yes.”
“Let me guess on the reason.” The old man paused. “The man you love is giving you trouble.”
Breena was astonished. “Why, how did you know?”
He laughed. “My dear, when a lass of your age is troubled, the cause can usually be traced to a man.”
She grimaced. “He has been nothing but trouble, if you must know. He is a very difficult man. He believes that since he is so much older than me, we can never be together.”
“Ah, well. Doubts are to be expected in an older man. They have so many more uncertainties than young ones.”
“I would think the opposite true.”
“It is youth that is so certain of its path,” he said. “As a man ages, black and white merge to become shifting shades of gray. But this older man of yours, if he is blind to your worth, then he is very foolish.”
“And very stubborn! There is no reasoning with him.”
“So you came to pray? To ask the Great Mother to change his mind?”
“No. I asked her to help me stop loving him.”
Surprise registered on the old man’s face. “Truly?” he murmured. “You have given up hope? Then this man of whom you speak is even more foolish than I first imagined.”
Breena shrugged. “He does not think he is foolish. He thinks I am. We fought last night, terribly. That’s why I had to get away. I couldn’t stand to see him this morning.”
“And you didn’t tell a soul where you were going, did you?”
She peered at the old man more closely. “You cannot know that.”
He shrugged. “I know many things. Others, I can guess. I have lived a long life.”
He stepped closer. Breena tensed when he halted within arm’s length, but he simply reached past her shoulder and laid a reverent hand on the stone behind her.
“You feel the life coursing in the rock,” he said. “As I do.”
“You are Druid,” she said.
“Yes.”
“If that is so, then you should come—” She broke off. It was not her place to invite anyone to the sacred isle—that was Rhys’s task. And it was no accident Rhys brought mostly children to Avalon. Older Druids had already chosen their paths. Light, or darkness.
Which had this old man chosen?
“Eh, lass?” He cocked his head. “Where should I go?”
“Nowhere,” Breena mumbled. “I spoke hastily.”
He stroked the stone. “That is true. You should not speak of Avalon to outsiders.”
Her jaw dropped. “You know of the sacred isle?”
“I once encountered a man who spoke of it. A wandering bard.”
“Rhys?�
�
“He may have called himself by that name. He thought to bring me to his Druid isle. But at the time, I was…unable to make the journey.”
“Rhys is in Avalon now,” Breena said. “I…could send him to you if you’d like.”
The old man seemed to consider it. “No,” he said at last. “I think not. I did not come all this way to see him. Nor his sacred isle.”
Breena was confused. “I don’t understand. Who are you? And why would you travel all this way, if not to seek Avalon?”
A scant smile touched the old man’s lips. “My name is Myrddin, my dear. As for the reason I am here…why, Breena, can you not guess? I have come for you.”
Breena gaped at the old Druid. Several long moments passed before she found her tongue. “You know my name?”
Myrddin nodded. “You are Breena, daughter of Rhiannon, who is herself a daughter of the great northern queens. You are a Druid. A Seer.” He paused. “Your aura is very strong.”
“But…how do you know of me? Did Rhys tell you? Or are you a Seer yourself?”
“I am not a Seer. But I am…close…to one who is.”
“And this person…has Seen me?”
The old Druid spread his hands. “She has Seen that you are troubled by terrible visions you do not understand.”
She hesitated. “That is true enough.”
Myrddin’s gaze was intent. “Tell me what you have Seen, Breena.”
She did not even think to hold the truth back from him. “I have had the dream for years, but recently, it has come more frequently. And…it has changed. I think…I think that is what frightens me most.”
“Go on.”
“It starts with a series of disconnected images. First, a falcon circles once around an army watchtower, then flies off. I see a silver goblet, filled with wine. I hit it with the back of my hand, and it tips over. As I stare at the spilling wine, it fades. I find myself standing before a window. One of the panes suddenly cracks in a jagged line. Then a full moon rises, bloodred, over a sea cliff. Behind the broken glass, it looks as though it is split in two.
“I try to think what it all means. But I cannot understand. And then there is a reflection in the window, and I turn. There is a woman standing before me. She is tall, and shapely, and though I cannot make out her features, I know she is very beautiful. A silver mist rises, to swirl all around her. After that—”