Silver Silence

by Joy Nash

  He began a slow circuit of the meadow, combing the ground for remnants of Breena’s aura, or that of the Druid who’d led her astray. A short time later, his cautious optimism had deserted him. He could discern nothing.

  Fighting his frustration, he considered his options. At one point, he looked skyward, reflexively, for Hefin. But the merlin was nowhere in sight—Hefin had not followed Rhys into the Lost Lands. Rhys felt the bird’s absence keenly. Hefin would have been an invaluable ally in the search for Breena.

  Where to look? The logical place to begin his search, he supposed, was on the island that looked so much like Avalon. Hiking his pack onto his shoulder, he set out down the trail to the shore.

  It was well past noon on the following day by the time Rhys drew close to Avalon. His first obstacle had been the swamp—unlike in his own world, there were no Druid rafts, conveniently hidden along the shore. He’d been forced to follow the high ground in a wide arc along the water’s edge.

  His next problems had been the starless night, and his fatigue. He’d tried to walk in the dark, but succeeded only in stumbling. He’d sat down to await the dawn, and had fallen asleep. When he’d awakened, it was nigh onto midday.

  At least the delay meant his magic was once again at full force. That gave Rhys a measure of confidence. He only prayed he would find Breena on the isle that was not Avalon.

  The island came into view as he rounded a corner. The low waters revealed a spit of sandy land that reached from the foothills to the isle. A long bridge, over sparkling water, spanned the last part of the distance.

  Across this lake, the settlement looked even more extensive than it had from the mountain. A gatehouse stood at the end of the bridge; beyond it lay an unpaved plaza, bordered by a stable and several windowless storehouses. A gated, arched entryway led to what looked like a courtyard, enclosed by several long, squat, buildings. He could see the top of the tower beyond the slate roofs. An apple orchard spread across the upper slope, just as it had in Rhys’s Avalon. And a great, ancient yew stood in the precise location of the similar, younger tree that shaded the Grail spring on the island he knew.

  The juxtaposition of familiar and strange elements disturbed him. He approached the bridge warily, traveling on a dirt track from the north. A wider, paved road to the south was clearly more frequently traveled; a rather large party was visible now, moving toward him. Rhys summoned a lookaway spell and eased behind a screen of tall grass.

  Two men on horseback rode in the lead, carrying standards marked with a white cross. Six mail-shirted cavalry soldiers rode behind, flanking a silk-draped litter carried on the shoulders of eight stout porters. A cluster of dark-garbed riders followed. Four baggage-laden mules brought up the rear.

  Subtly, Rhys cast his senses toward the travelers. His attention sharpened on the litter. A crimson glow clung to the edges of the hangings. Magic.

  It was not, however, the blue glow of Breena’s abductor. This magic was sparkling crimson. Whoever was inside the litter possessed fire magic, not air magic.

  Rhys’s eyes narrowed as the party turned onto the bridge to Avalon. The structure was a sturdy affair of logs and planks, wide enough for two men walking abreast. The lead riders called ahead; a brown-robed figure immediately appeared in the doorway of the gatehouse. A bell was rung, prompting more robed figures to appear, along with a few men dressed in more familiar garb.

  The entourage moved past the gatehouse and into the plaza. The soldiers dismounted; the baggage was lifted from the mules. The litter, its hangings still closed, disappeared through the archway. Rhys emerged from his hiding place and strode the last distance to the bridge. A tiny bird darted amid the yellowing swamp grass hugging the timber pylons.

  He hesitated, unsure of his welcome on the island. It would be best to cloak himself in an illusion before crossing the bridge. He was preparing to call the spell when the improbable sound of a singing man, accompanied by the equally improbable song of a flute, reached his ears.

  Rhys’s gaze turned to the south. A new party of travelers, much smaller and more ragged than the first, had appeared over a rise in the road. The group consisted of three grown men and one slender boy, all on foot. Scruffy and splashed with mud, they wore ragged shirts oddly accented with scraps of brightly colored cloth.

  They were in high spirits, their music accompanied by laughter and good-natured insults. The singer, whose voice was really quite melodious, sported a bald head, a ruddy complexion, and a very large stomach. The musician, by contrast, was a pale, dark-haired young man with little meat on his bones. His graceful fingers flew over the holes in his flute. The resulting melody was so light and sweet, it seemed to dance on the air.

  The third member of the quartet was a hulking giant, his blond hair pulled back in a tight queue. He topped Rhys’s own impressive height by a full two hands. The tall man sang a bass counterpoint to his fat friend’s tenor, hitting notes so low they vibrated in Rhys’s bones. Bounding alongside the trio, sometimes running ahead, sometimes hanging back, was an energetic, wiry lad with cropped black hair.

  Rhys’s shoulders relaxed. He let the strands of his lookaway spell drop. While mysterious magicians and soldiers on horseback demanded caution, this odd little band required none. Entertainers were one society Rhys understood exceedingly well.

  Minstrels knew the lay of the land, and, to a man, they were inveterate gossips. Rhys could not have asked for a better source of information about this strange world into which he’d been flung.

  He waited for the group to notice his presence. The lad had whipped around to walk backward in front of his musical companions, his arms pumping encouragement. The song was sung in Celtic British, mixed with a good bit of Latin, as well as some words that were wholly unknown to Rhys. Nevertheless, Rhys had no trouble grasping the gist of the bawdy ditty. It chronicled the story of a poor farmer who taught humility to his shrewish wife with the aid of a very large carrot.

  The ruddy man hit a high, sour note. The flautist winced, and cut his melody. The giant looked skyward and groaned. The younger lad halted in the middle of a backward step, threw up his arms, and let out a stream of profanity foul enough to singe the hair from a pig’s ear.

  “Blast and devil take you, Floyd! Did that poxridden wench you had last night cut off your stones? Sing like that at the festival, and we’ll be tossed over the cliffs and into the sea!”

  Rhys swallowed a gasp of laughter. The lad was no lad at all—his voice was a man’s, strong and rasping. The sound of it was oddly incongruous with his slender frame, thin arms, and smooth chin.

  “Perhaps we should simply heave Floyd into the fens now, lads, and save the good people of Tintagel the trouble.” This from the blond giant, whose chortle of laughter gave the lie to his threat.

  The general chorus of agreement with the giant’s plan brought a scowl to Floyd’s flushed face. “‘Tis difficult to sing well when I’m hungry!”

  “If that be the case,” the giant retorted, “ye’d nay hit a single true note.”

  “The good brothers of Glastonbury Abbey will fill our bellies,” the thin-faced flautist interjected. “Their tables are sure to be heavily laden in honor of Bishop Dafyd’s arrival. Perhaps tomorrow, Floyd will hit a right note or two.”

  “Bishop Dafyd,” snorted the small man with some disgust. “Aye, he eats like a king, but, unlike Floyd here, a full belly ne’er improves the bishop’s temper. I have ne’er in all my life seen a man more in need of a good swiving.”

  The giant laughed, showing a set of large white teeth. “True enough, by God! One only wonders if the good bishop prefers a woman’s arse or a lad’s!”

  “Or a ewe’s!” chortled Floyd. The young flautist was not amused. “For the love of the Christos, Howell, guard your loose tongue!” He darted a fearful glance at the bridge, as if expecting retribution to come rushing across it. “ ‘Tis a man of God you insult so lewdly. Have you no fear for your soul?”

  “None at all,” Howell rep
lied easily. “My concern is for my belly. Bread is my religion.”

  “And mine,” declared Floyd. “If bread be lacking, Kane, a jest and a song will inspire someone to fill my stomach far quicker than any prayer would.”

  Kane scowled. “There’s no food in the fiery pit of Hell. Think on that as you blaspheme.”

  “Ah, lads, lads.” The small man quickly stepped into the center of the altercation. “Fighting amongst ourselves serves neither the Christos nor our empty bellies! Kane, you must learn to accept a jest. Howell, if your highest concern truly is your stomach, have a care! Lewd jests within earshot of the abbey will sooner earn all of us a night in a sinner’s cell than a place at the good monks’ table.”

  The giant accepted the smaller man’s scolding with surprising humility. “Aye, ye have the right of it, Trent.”

  “Now make your apologies to the lad, man. God knows we will have no peace, nor any music, if you don’t.”

  Howell snorted, but did as he was bid, bowing his head to the flautist. “Kane, apologies. I didna mean to wound your tender sensibilities.” The giant punctuated the apology with a companionable, and very firm, slap between the youth’s shoulder blades.

  Kane stumbled forward under the strength of the blow. His face would have ended up planted in the mud, if Floyd hadn’t caught his arm. The youth swung about to face Howell, brandishing his flute like a club.

  “You swine!”

  Howell hooked his thumbs in his belt and grinned.

  “Good Lord, men, can you not stop bickering for even a moment?” The small man—Trent—jumped up nimbly, grabbing Kane’s arm. “Have a care, you young fool! Crack that flute in two and we will all go hungry!”

  Kane twisted out of Trent’s grasp and folded his arms over his flute. Spinning around, he kicked at the muddy road.

  “Ah, that’s better,” Trent declared. “Now. If we’re all in agreement, let us proceed across the bridge. You fishwives may not have noticed, but the sun is sinking fast, and we are in danger of missing vespers. Not to mention the supper that follows.”

  There was a general grumble of agreement. Rhys chuckled. Trent might be small in stature, but his outsized personality clearly held sway over his three larger companions.

  Rhys’s amusement drew the giant’s attention. “Lads,” Howell said sharply. “Look about! We have an audience.”

  The other men turned.

  Rhys met Trent’s gaze first, with a slight nod. He then made eye contact with Howell, Floyd, and Kane in turn. “Well met, friends.”

  Trent’s lips twitched, acknowledging Rhys’s deference to his position as leader, as well as the stranger’s quick assessment of the troupe’s pecking order.

  “Ah, an audience,” he declared. He unshouldered his pack and handed it off to Howell. The dagger at his waist followed. Then he clapped his hand together and rubbed his palms. “How I do love an audience.”

  Before Rhys could react to this statement, Trent took two running steps and launched himself into the air. Knees tucked to chest, he spun a graceful midair roll, landing lightly on his feet not two strides from where Rhys stood.

  He bowed. “Trent Masterson, at your service.”

  Rhys brought his hands together, clapping slowly as his astonished grin widened. “Well done, man! Very well done indeed. Will you require a coin for your efforts?”

  Trent eyed Rhys appraisingly, then grimaced. “ ‘Twould be a waste of breath, I’m thinking. From the looks of you, you’re worse off than we are. I reckon I could not snatch an as from your lily white arse.”

  Howell and Floyd guffawed at the poor pun. Kane only rolled his eyes. Rhys gave a diplomatic snort. An as was a common denomination of Roman currency. He dug into the small pouch hidden under his shirt and produced the coin in question. With a grin, he tossed it at Trent.

  The little man snatched it from midair and tested it between his teeth. A broad smile broke over his face. “Well, now! For another like this, we might be persuaded to sing a song as well.”

  Rhys forced a laugh, but in reality, his anxiety was rapidly expanding. This scene in which he found himself did not feel right. Every tale he’d ever heard of the Lost Lands described the realm as misty and dreamlike. The midlands between earth and Annwyn were known to be vague and illogical. Time and form shifted constantly, without warning. This world—with its swamp, its mud, its ribald minstrels who spoke of Roman coins—was far too familiar for Rhys’s comfort.

  Which begged the question: where, exactly, was he?

  He had not the faintest notion. But Rhys was well used to finding himself in foreign places. He knew from experience that the first thing a stranger in a strange land wanted was an ally among the local populace. Or, even better, four such allies.

  “Perhaps I might offer a song of my own, in the faint hope of regaining my meager coin.”

  He slid his pack from his shoulder and unbuckled the flap. When he unfolded the oiled cloth inside, Kane’s eyes went wide as twin moons.

  “By the Christos,” he breathed. “A harp. Are you a bard?”

  “Aye.”

  “God in heaven!” Trent’s shrewd gaze turned speculative. “Are you any good?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Then play, man! Let us hear your skill.”

  Rhys’s lips twitched. “For an as?”

  “For the satisfaction our pleasure gives you,” Trent said dryly.

  Rhys laughed and plucked a short, complex melody. Improvising, Kane joined in with his flute. At the end of the piece, the pair took their bows amid the enthusiastic applause of the other men.

  “Well done!” Trent exclaimed. “Indeed, I have never heard the like—your fingers are as golden as your hair—damn me, but I don’t even know your name. What are you called, man?”

  “Rhys.” Rhys rewrapped his harp and stowed it in his pack.

  Trent took his own pack and dagger from Howell. “Do you travel alone, Rhys?”

  “Aye.”

  “From where, might I ask? Your accent is none too familiar.”

  “I’m newly arrived from the north of Cambria,” Rhys smoothly lied.

  “Gwynedd, do you mean? Ah, but that would explain both the lilt in your speech and the harp in your pack. A wild place, Gwynedd is, or so I’ve heard tell. But to travel all that distance, alone, with no sword on your belt? That, my friend, is as astounding as it is foolish.”

  “I’m well skilled in the art of avoiding trouble. Besides, what thief would bestir himself to rob a poor minstrel?”

  Trent spat in the mud. “Such perfidy is not above a Saxon sea wolf. But I suppose the raiders do not often venture as far north as Gwynedd. Here in the south, though, you’d be wise to find yourself a weapon. And some traveling companions. Are you headed to Tintagel for the festival? If so, you are welcome to join us. A harp would be a fine addition to our show.”

  “Festival?” Rhys wondered how far this Tintagel might be.

  “Never say you know nothing of Duke Gerlois’s harvest festival!”

  “I am afraid they do not speak of it in Gwynedd.”

  “Well, my man, ’tis famous in the west country. Seven days of feasting, all at the duke’s expense! Rich and poor alike partake. This year, there’s to be a tournament among the knights pledged to Gerlois and his lords.”

  “Knights?” Rhys asked.

  Trent shot him an odd look. “Cavalry, man! Do you not know the Germanic name? Surely they are not so backward as all that up in Gwynedd.”

  “I know the cavalry, of course,” Rhys murmured. The horsemen were the swiftest arm of the Roman military. This Duke Gerlois must be their general.

  “ ‘Twill be a spectacle well worth the journey,” Trent said, squinting at the sun. “But for now, we’d best be across the bridge. The abbey bell will toll vespers any moment.”

  Rhys nodded and followed the others. Trent fell into step beside him as they crossed the planks. “So what do you say, man? Will you join up with us?”

&nbs
p; Rhys hesitated, considering what his next step might be if he failed to find Breena on Avalon. A large gathering might very well be the next logical place to look. “Aye, I might consider it.”

  “What’s to consider?” Trent asked. “Why, half of Dumnonia will be at Tintagel. Think of the coin!”

  “And the wenches,” cut in Howell, who was openly eavesdropping.

  “And the food,” added Floyd.

  “And the wenches and food,” repeated Trent. “All to be had for the small price of singing a verse or two in praise of warriors stupid enough to be slaughtered in battle.”

  “Is Tintagel far?” Rhys asked.

  “Much closer than Gwynedd,” Trent replied. “Five days by foot, if we set a quick pace. If the weather holds, we should arrive in time for the opening feast. What say you, man? Are you with us?”

  Rhys was saved from answering by the group’s arrival at the gatehouse. Beyond, in the wide plaza, the soldiers Rhys had seen arriving earlier now stood in a loose knot, talking. A few of the island’s brown-robed inhabitants—monks, Trent had called them—hurried to and fro, eyes fixed on the ground. A scrawny lad drew water from a well.

  Trent seemed well acquainted with the gatehouse attendant, greeting the man with surprising humility. “The blessing of our Lord Christos be upon you, Brother Fergus.”

  “And upon ye, Trent.” The man’s lilting accent marked him a native of Hibernia, or Eire, as it was sometimes called. “May ye ever be worthy of our Lord’s mercy.”

  Rhys was beginning to understand that this Avalon, like his own, housed a religious community. But these holy men honored not the Great Mother, but a god called Christos.

  While Trent and the monk conversed, Rhys scanned the activity in the plaza. Dropping back, he spoke in a low voice to Floyd. “Where are the women of the community?”

  The portly man’s face registered his astonishment. “Women? In a monastery? My God, man, are you insane?”

  Rhys was taken aback. “You mean there are no women? None at all?”