by Joy Nash
But…Gwen’s mists! They were gone. Breena stared blankly at the sacred isle, rising steeply from the water. Naked to every enemy’s eye.
Dread blossomed. “What have you done?”
The words emerged as a thready rasp. Her mouth felt as though she’d been chewing new wool. Her body felt strangely heavy; her limbs weak. It would take nothing for her legs to collapse beneath her.
Myrddin clasped her upper arm. “Take deep breaths. The magic that opened the passage is difficult for a human body to absorb, especially when one travels through the portal for the first time.”
Breena’s chest expanded painfully with the effort of breathing. Her knees wobbled. The old Druid pressed his staff into her hand. She leaned on it heavily as he helped her to a low, flat stone at the edge of the clearing. Once seated, she wondered if she’d ever have the strength to rise again
Myrddin did not seem to be similarly affected. The old Druid knelt before her, chafing her ice-cold hands. His eyes were grave. Breena was too tired to protest when he laid his hand on her head and whispered a spell. His light magic was powerful; immediately, she began to revive.
He rose and smiled down at her. “Better, my dear?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. Vigor seeped slowly back into her limbs, but her chest remained tight with fear. Dear gods! Myrddin’s power was beyond her imagining. He’d obliterated the mists! How could she have been so foolish as to trust him?
“How…how did…you do it?” Her parched tongue barely formed the words.
“Here. Have some wine, child. It will help.”
She looked down. Myrddin had placed a wineskin into her hands. For a moment, she couldn’t think what to do with it. The old Druid uncorked the spout and guided it to her mouth. The wine was unwatered, and very bitter. She pushed it away, choking.
“This…this is more vinegar than wine.”
“I know. Very little decent wine makes it across the channel from Gaul these days. But somehow I did not think you would appreciate a skin of cervesia.”
That was true. Even bad wine was preferable to barley beer. She forced herself to drink a few mouthfuls. Then she frowned. Another aspect of the Druid’s comment hadn’t made sense at all.
She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Good Gaulish wine may be expensive, true, but it’s imported by the shipload. It is plentiful enough.”
Myrddin corked the wine and stowed it in a leather pack before answering. “It once was,” he said. “No longer.”
That was absurd, but she did not wish to argue. At least not about something so trivial. “The mists,” she said, her voice rising. “How did you destroy them? What manner of spell did you cast? You must undo it, at once.”
He sent her an assessing glance as he fastened the buckle on his pack. Straightening to his full height, he picked up the pack and slung it easily over one shoulder. For an old man, Breena thought, Myrddin was certainly agile.
And tall. She did not like the way he loomed so far above her. Drawing a deep breath, she stood.
“It was not I who destroyed the mists,” he said. “That was done long ago.”
“You make no sense.”
A wry smile touched his lips. “Indeed. My life ceased making sense quite some time ago.”
Breena scowled. “Do not jest with me, old man.”
Immediately, he sobered. “In truth, I do not jest. Though I am certain my words do sound like nonsense to you.” He rubbed a hand down his face, ending with a tug on his beard.
“There is no gentle way to present it, so I suppose a measure of bluntness is in order.” He looked at her intently. “Though we stand in precisely the same place you remember, we have traveled an incredible distance. More than three hundred years.”
Three hundred years? Gods. Breena hadn’t considered the possibility that the old Druid might be mad. Mad, and possessed of deep magic. A deadly combination.
“Please,” she whispered. “Restore the mists. Avalon is no threat to anyone. But if the Roman army should discover us…we will be destroyed.”
He shook his head, his eyes infinitely weary. “Believe me when I say, child, that I would never do anything to harm your home. But in this time, that is not even possible. The Avalon you know was destroyed long ago.” He paused. “Do you remember nothing of your passage?”
“No, I—” She frowned. “Yes. I do recall…something. A land of shadows. You spoke a Word—no, many Words. I remember thinking I had never heard the language of the Old Ones used in quite that way.”
“It took me many years to discover the pattern and cadence of that spell, I assure you.” He planted his staff on the ground. “You know of the Lost Lands, of course.”
“What Druid does not? They are the vestibule to Annwyn.”
“Then you know the Lost Lands show a different face to each soul that enters.”
“Is that where we are now? In the Lost Lands?”
“No,” Myrddin replied. “We existed in that realm but a short time. You see, the Lost Lands are more than the vestibule to the Otherworld. They are a vestibule to time itself.”
Breena’s head had begun to throb. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I. Not completely. Deep magic, after all, is a complex power. That island lying across the lowlands? I assure you, it is Avalon. But it is not the Avalon you know. It is Avalon as it exists more than three hundred years into your future.”
She studied Myrddin’s face. His expression was grave. He appeared to believe the preposterous tale. “You cannot expect me to accept that.”
“You are too intelligent to disbelieve it,” Myrddin countered. “Look at the sacred isle, Breena. Really look. What do you see?”
She shaded her eyes and peered across the swamp. She had never seen Avalon from this vantage; the mists had always obscured it. But she had no trouble recognizing her home. The island rose steeply from the water, forming a mound that was roughly the shape of a lopsided egg. She could just make out the apple orchard at midslope, and the roofs of several long, squat buildings just below it. One boasted a square tower.
She blinked. There were no long, squat buildings on Avalon. No tower. Only Celt roundhouses, nestled among rowans and yews. They would not even be visible from this distance.
And the swamp…When she examined it more closely, she realized the marsh was not as it should be. It was as if some giant hand had opened a drain and allowed some of the water to seep out. A wide swath of lowland forest hugged the base of the mountain, where there should have been nothing but a strip of muddy shore. What should have been a glassy expanse of water was broken by shoals and a network of shallow, grassy islands.
“This…this cannot be real. It must be an illusion. Or a dream you’ve cast into my mind.”
“No. No dream, no illusion. This is reality.” He paused. “The woman in your silver vision exists in this time. Lady Igraine is very real, indeed.”
“She is here? On Avalon?”
“No. The duchess dwells some miles to the west, at Tintagel.”
“Duchess? What is a duchess?”
Myrddin grimaced. “I forget how little you know. ‘Duchess’ is the Lady Igraine’s title. Her husband is Gerlois of Cornwall. His title is ‘duke.’”
“Duke? Do you mean dux? An army general? And where is Cornwall? I have never heard of the place.”
“A British duke is somewhat like a Roman dux. Especially in a military sense. But Gerlois is a landholder as well. His dukedom is called Cornwall. It is part of the kingdom of Dumnonia.”
“You mean Isca Dumnoniorum?” Breena asked.
“King Erbin’s seat was once called Dumnoniorum. The king is very old, and his mind has gone weak. Duke Gerlois is Erbin’s heir, and king in all but name. He controls Dumnonia’s army, and administers all its laws.”
Breena struggled to make sense of it all. “There is no longer a fortress, or a dux, in Isca Dumnoniorum. The Second Legion’s home is Isca Silurum now. And there are no kings
in Britain. The province is administered by a governor.”
“Breena, I am trying to tell you—there are no legions in Britain. Nor any governor. The Roman army sailed from the island almost fifty years ago.”
“What a preposterous notion—Rome would never abandon Britain! Though I know there are many Celts who yet consider that a pleasant dream.”
For a long moment, Myrddin did not answer. Then his shoulders sagged. “No pleasant dream. Far from it. In truth, Rome’s abandonment of Britain was a nightmare. One that has yet to end.”
A nightmare. Like the vision Rhys’s grandfather had seen of a brutal, hopeless future?
Breena’s heart began to beat an uneven tattoo as her resistance to Myrddin’s preposterous assertions cracked. Could it be true? Had Myrddin’s deep magic brought her through time?
“There was a Seer in my time,” she began. “He…he prophesized two possible futures for Britain. One dark, one light. Is this…” She swallowed. “Is this his dark vision come to pass?”
“I know of Cyric,” Myrddin said. “His Sight was true. His dark prophecy has not yet come to pass, but Britain is careening toward that fate with sickening rapidity. Rome is gone. Druid magic is fading. Barbarians rape the shoreline while petty kings squabble among themselves. And yet, there is still hope. That is why I need your help, Breena.”
She hardly understood what the old Druid was saying. All she could think of was her home, long gone in this time. “If we are truly in the future, then…are they all dead? My parents? My brother and his family?”
Owein and Clara. Penn. And oh, gods—Rhys. She squeezed her eyes shut against a crushing tide of grief.
Myrddin rested a hand on her shoulder. Reflexively, she gripped it. “In this reality,” he said quietly, “yes, they are gone. But time, I have found, is not quite the logical concept I once thought it to be. I have discovered that all time happens at once. So in one sense, your loved ones are alive, and well, as they will always be.”
“But…will I ever return to them?”
“Yes. You will. Once your task in this time is done. I promise you that, Breena, on my life.”
She met his gaze. “You brought me here with deep magic.”
“Yes.”
“Then that is a promise you cannot truly offer.”
The expression on his face told her she’d hit her mark. Myrddin might be the most powerful Druid Breen had ever encountered, but he was, after all, just a man. Not a god. And only a god could control deep magic.
The line of Myrddin’s jaw firmed beneath his beard. “I will send you home, Breena. Do not doubt it.”
She peered out over the swamps, drawn by the strange notion that the island rising above the water was a different Avalon than the one she knew.
“Do Druids live openly on the sacred isle in this time? Is Druidry legal? Have they no need of the mists?”
Myrddin’s brows rose. “Do you believe me, then?”
“I’m not entirely sure what I believe,” Breena confessed. “But I’ve decided to trust you.”
He smiled at that. “Ever practical. Thank you, my dear.” His gaze followed hers across the water, and he sighed. “I am sorry to tell you that there are no mists around Avalon because the Druids of Avalon are long gone.”
“Gone! Where? And why?”
“They were driven from Avalon centuries ago. A pair of men, priests of the Christos, pierced the mist and exposed Avalon to the outside world. The legions dispersed the illegal settlement. The Druids fled.”
“But…did they never return?”
“No. The priests, Faganus and Deruvianus, were wise enough to recognize the sacred power of the isle. They established their own settlement. The pair are long dead, but their brotherhood remains. More than fifty holy men of Christos live on Avalon.”
Breena’s brow furrowed. “Who is Christos?”
“A god,” Myrddin said. “You know him as the Carpenter Prophet.”
“But…the Carpenter Prophet was a man! The Lady brought his Grail and his teachings to Avalon. The Druids of Avalon walk in his Light. His priests would not have had any reason to hate us.”
“So one would think.” Myrddin’s voice had gone hard. “But the holy, it seems, are not always known for their tolerance. It mattered little to Faganus that the Druids honored the teachings of the Christos. Not when they also revered the Old Ways. The priests of the new religion believe the ancient gods and goddesses of the Celts are servants of the evil one they call Satan.”
“But surely, the Druids would have gathered elsewhere.”
“Some did, for a time. But as more people flocked to the new faith, they came to view Druid powers as evil. Many Druids were put to death because of their magic. Others, frightened, rejected their own power. And now Druidry is all but gone.” Myrddin’s lips pursed. “Precious few of us retain the heritage of our ancestors.”
Her eyes widened. “Why…you are a descendant of Avalon! Are you not?”
“I am. I follow the Old Ways.” He tilted his staff so she could more clearly make out the carving on the knob at the top: the triple spiral of the Great Mother merged with the cross of the Carpenter Prophet.
“You carry the symbol of Avalon.” Breena drew her silver pendant from beneath her tunic. “It is the same as mine.”
“Indeed.”
“But your power is very great. Greater than any Druid in my time.”
He inclined his head. “In this time, those with Druid power are far fewer. But those who do possess magic are very strong.”
Something in his unwavering gaze made her shiver. “The gods do not grant great power without equal recompense. What have you paid, Myrddin, for your gifts?”
A shadow passed through his eyes. “A price you cannot possibly imagine, child.”
Chapter Five
Death could not possibly feel worse.
Rhys pressed his cheek against the dirt and willed his stomach to stop heaving. The ground was cold, very cold, but his body…that was still on fire. No wonder. He’d plunged through a maelstrom of flame to come to this place.
Wherever it was.
How much time had passed since he’d fallen into the standing stone? Without moving, he opened his eyes. The sun was directly before him, low in the western sky. It had dropped little, if at all, since he’d cast his spell.
The straps of his pack burned his shoulders. His harp. Shoving himself up on rigid arms, he heaved his body into a sitting position. The ground lurched, then steadied. Easing the pack from his shoulders, he cradled it between his bent legs. Astonishingly, neither the leather bag nor its contents was so much as singed.
Rhys was unharmed as well. His clothing was whole, his skin unmarred. Only his soul had been seared, by magic so deep that one might have stacked ocean upon ocean within it.
He tried to rise. A wave of debilitating fatigue struck. It was an effect of the deep magic he’d called to come to this place. Humans did not easily tolerate the power of the gods. This spell had been so powerful that Rhys’s own magic, along with his physical strength, had been drained severely. It would be a day at least, he estimated, before he recovered fully.
He tried to lift his pack. It might have been a leatherwrapped boulder for all he was able to budge it. Pain cut through his skull with the ragged edge of an unhoned ax. With a low curse, he dropped into a crouch and pressed his fingers to his temples.
Deep magic had wrung him out like a soiled washrag, then pounded him into the dirt for good measure. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to lie down. If he did, he feared he might not regain his feet for a very long while.
He could do nothing but wait. Bit by bit, the pain and fatigue retreated. When he thought his legs could bear his weight, he drew a shaky breath and stood.
He’d done it. He’d followed the unknown sorcerer’s spell into the Lost Lands. He wondered if Breena had passed through the fire, as he had. Most likely, she’d experienced a different trial. Was she nearby now? He could only h
ope…
He looked about—truly looked—for the first time since opening his eyes.
A curse sprang to his lips. He stood in the same meadow! The stone of the Great Mother stood just steps away. A hot wave of frustration assaulted him. He had not traveled anywhere. The Lost Lands had simply sucked him in, and spit him back out. He was seized by an urge to throw his head back and howl. Instead, he clung to his usual custom of bottling his rage, and scrubbing a hand down his face.
He was so sure he’d recreated the sorcerer’s spell exactly. His utter failure was evidence that he had not. What error had he made? He did not know. Should he try again? Or find the others and tell them what he’d discovered? Perhaps it would be best to join forces with Gwen and Owein in this. Together, they might succeed where Rhys had—
His thoughts ceased abruptly. His gaze had fallen on the swamp. Gwen’s mists were…gone.
Avalon was plainly visible, awash in a halo of late afternoon sunlight. Rhys’s first thought was for his twin. Gods! What disaster could have befallen her in the short time since he’d left her? Panicked, he grabbed his pack and ran toward the head of the trail leading down to the shore. But when he reached it, he paused.
Something was not right. The swamp—it was not as it should be. Clumps of grass dotted the watery flatland. Where the water should have been smooth and blue, it was instead a bumpy, brackish green. What Rhys knew as a wide, glassy lake, was now shallow fenlands. Silty shoals broke its surface. The smell of the sea was faint. The tidal waters had receded to an impossibly low point.
And Avalon itself? Shielding his eyes against the sun, he peered at the sacred isle. A cluster of stone buildings, one boasting a tall stone tower, was clearly visible in a place where there should have been nothing but grassy meadow. The play of light and shadow on the flat roofs created a patchwork of charcoal and gold. The settlement appeared to be prosperous.
Whatever this island was, it was not the Avalon he knew. He allowed himself a grim smile. He had not failed. The wall of fire had indeed led to the Lost Lands. Which, for him, at least, had manifested as eerily similar to the place he’d once called home.