Silver Silence

by Joy Nash

  “Sir Gareth,” he whispered. “I’ve come to help. Can you walk, do you think?”

  Gareth started. “Who’s there?” he croaked. “Where are you?”

  “Quiet,” Rhys cautioned. “‘Tis Rhys. Breena’s friend. And I am just behind you.”

  The guards were on their feet now, circling Trent and Howell, their faces lit with lust. Trent’s and Howell’s alcohol-glazed eyes were glassy with confusion.

  Standing slowly, Rhys reached toward the manacle encircling Gareth’s right wrist. Wrapping his fingers around the metal, he inserted his iron shard into the lock. More time passed than he’d intended, and yet the lock would not give way.

  “I cannot see you,” Gareth said.

  “I’m shadowed with magic.”

  Gareth squinted in the direction of Rhys’s voice. “It was your magic on the field that sank Hugh’s sword into the stone.”

  Air whistled through Rhys’s teeth as the lock gave way. “Yes. Apologies. I never should have cast that spell.”

  “If you had not…” The effort of talking was taking its toll. “…I would be dead.”

  “You are almost dead now,” Rhys said, circling to the second manacle.

  “My…own fault. Should have…withdrawn. As you told me.”

  Rhys caught the second manacle as it fell free. He glanced back at the guards. The shorter man tried to drape his arm around Trent’s shoulders, and stumbled when his goal turned out to be inexplicably closer to the ground than he had thought. His friend made a grab for Howell’s elusive breasts. It would not be long before the guards, dim as they were, realized something was very wrong.

  Rhys fabricated an illusion of Gareth’s body hanging limply from its chains. The real Gareth wobbled a few steps away, his face drawn tight with pain. Rhys caught his arm and turned him away from the image of himself.

  “Can you walk, do you think?”

  “I can if I must,” Gareth said through gritted teeth.

  Rhys hoped that was true. He shot a glance toward Howell. The tall guard leaned in and stole a kiss. The giant flung the man back.

  “You bloody swine! I ought to cut off your stones for that!”

  “By Christos, you’re a feisty piece. Come now, sweet. Do not tease a man.”

  It was past time to flee.

  “Come.” Rhys draped the knight’s arm over his shoulders, and urged him across the field as fast as he dared.

  “Enough play,” the taller guard declared. “You two whores are comely enough. What’s your price?”

  Trent’s reply burned Rhys’s ears. The soldiers chortled. Rhys glanced back in time to see one of them slap a hand on Howell’s rump.

  Howell responded by planting his fist into the soldier’s face.

  Rhys shifted his illusion, melting it into a second lookaway spell. The two whores blurred, then seemed to wink out of existence entirely.

  The taller soldier’s slap met nothing but air. He spun about. “Where is she? Where is the other one?”

  “I don’t know! They were right here.”

  “They cannot have just vanished!”

  “Not without sorcery.”

  Swords hissed from scabbards as the men looked wildly around. Rhys allowed Trent and Howell to spot him, fleeing across the meadow with Gareth. The pair soon appeared at Rhys’s side, panting.

  Gareth stumbled, nearly dragging Rhys down with him. Trent’s eyes widened.

  “You have him? I did not think you even tried to remove him. A moment ago, he was still—”

  “No time to talk,” Rhys said as Gareth’s knees buckled. “Howell, help me, man! The sky is lightening. We have to get him to the grove before the guards discover he’s gone.”

  “Those nancy bastards?” Howell said darkly. “Let them come. I’ll throw their arses over the cliffs.”

  “Good God, Rhys! The man is all but a corpse.”

  Trent’s assessment was not far off the mark. The stripes on Gareth’s back were jagged and deep, and already starting to fester. The gash Sir Hugh had sliced into Gareth’s sword arm was a cleaner cut, but no less worrisome.

  The knight was conscious, lying on his stomach in the dirt, gritting his teeth against his moans. The horses Rhys had stolen earlier were hidden nearby. Trent, sobering rapidly, helped Rhys assess Gareth’s wounds, while Howell stood guard at the edge of the copse. Crouched behind a broad trunk, he peered toward the tournament field.

  “Soldiers are running about like so many headless roosters. But none come this way. I canna think why. ‘Tis the first place I’d look, were I searching for an escaped prisoner.”

  “Aye.” Trent eyed Rhys. “‘Tis very odd, isn’t it?”

  “Exceedingly,” Howell agreed. “They’ve started in this direction more than once. Each time, they turn away.”

  “Almost as if by magic,” Trent said.

  Rhys shifted uneasily. “You and Howell should go. The others will be looking for you. This is my affair. I would not want you to suffer for it.”

  “Indeed it is your affair,” Trent said. “But I find myself wondering, just what kind of affair is it? Swords sunk in stones. Guards who cannot tell men from whores. A wounded knight who appears chained to a post long after he’s escaped.”

  Rhys met the small man’s gaze. “Truly, it is better if you do not know.”

  For once, Trent’s confidence faltered. “I daresay you are right about that.”

  Howell rose and abandoned his post. “You are a Druid. You have cast some sort of spell over this grove. That is why the soldiers turn away.”

  Rhys did not see the point in denying it. “Aye.”

  “Are you Myrddin’s ally?” Trent demanded.

  “I have never seen Myrddin,” Rhys admitted. “I cannot precisely claim to be his ally, but yes, at the moment, I am aiding his cause. Sir Gareth is Myrddin’s spy in Gerlois’s camp. And even that is more than you should know. Please. Go back to Floyd and Kane. You do not want to know more.”

  Trent put his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “I do not know what you and Sir Gareth are about, but I’ll be damned if I’ll just leave you to it. Druid you may be, but you are still one of my troupe. If the pair of you are Myrddin’s allies, you aid the high king. And Britain. You have my support.”

  “And mine,” Howell said.

  Rhys looked from one man to the other, humbled by their loyalty. The truth was, he needed their help. Desperately.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I must cast a healing spell. The magic will work better with the aid of clean, hot water. And willow bark.” His gaze ran over Gareth’s back. “And bandages.”

  Trent nodded. “Say no more.”

  In the hour before dawn, Breena lay in her bed, wide awake, stomach churning. When the faraway shouting of angry men sounded outside, she jumped up and ran to her small window. But the opening faced the ocean, and she learned nothing.

  In the outer room, Lady Bertrice was just rising. “What is happening?”

  “I do not—”

  Breena broke off as Nesta barged through the door. Hot water sloshed over the edge of the bucket she carried. “Oh, my ladies!” The maid was trembling like a leaf in a gale. “The kitchen is abuzz with the news! ’Tis awful!”

  “What? What is wrong?” Lady Bertrice snapped.

  “What is not? First, Sir Gareth—he is gone. Slipped his chains in the night. By sorcery, they say!”

  Breena’s relief was so profound that her knees buckled. She all but fell into the nearest chair.

  “The fools!” Bertrice muttered. “They should have killed the brute last night.”

  “He was all but dead, they say, after the flogging,” Nesta replied. She set down the bucket. “He could not have escaped without help.”

  “Help?” Bertrice asked sharply. “Who would aid a sorcerer?”

  Breena gripped the arms of her chair, and prayed that Rhys and Gareth were well hidden.

  “They are saying ’twas Myrddin himself, my lady.”
/>
  “Myrddin! How can that be? The Druid does not stray from Uther’s side.”

  “That’s just it,” Nesta said, her face flushed. “Uther Pendragon is all but upon us! His knights ride in Cornwall! My lord Gerlois’s scouts brought word just this hour past. The duke is gathering Dumnonia’s forces. There is to be war.”

  “At last.” Lady Bertrice voice vibrated with satisfaction.

  Breena stared at Gerlois’s sister. “The prospect of war pleases you?”

  “But of course. My brother has cultivated this conflict for three years. Gerlois should be high king of Britain. Not that worthless whelp Uther. Now he will be.”

  Breena swallowed. “But…what of Myrddin? It is said Uther is invincible with his Druid at his side.”

  A smile touched Bertrice’s lips. “No longer,” she murmured. “Dafyd will see to that.”

  A chill ran the length of Breena’s spine.

  Gerlois’s sister rose and moved to the window. “Tintagel prepares for siege, I see.”

  “Aye, my lady,” Nesta said. “But ’tis only a precaution. Duke Gerlois vows war will not touch his duchess. He will lead his army to the pass at Dimilioc. They intend an ambush.”

  Bertrice murmured her approval. “An excellent strategy.” She turned to Breena. “Come. Let us inform the duchess she will soon be queen.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rhys’s transformation took hold with a sickening wrench. Agony tore at his limbs. Muscles and bones melted in consuming fire; razor-sharp teeth flayed his skin. His body twisted, dissolved, changed. Skin thinned, limbs changed, feathers sprouted. Then came a sharp moment of blackness, when his entire existence seemed to stop.

  When the world returned, it was sharper and simpler than before. Every sight was clearer, every smell sweeter, every sound louder. The sea breeze ruffled his feathers.

  The merlin lurched to its feet, unsteady with its first hop. But the awkwardness soon fell away when Rhys spread his wing and took to the air.

  The world looked very different from the sky.

  As always, the view from on high filled him with awe. Man was not meant to see the moors rolled out far beneath him like a blanket. The sight was so sharp and pure it nearly hurt to look upon it.

  Rhys tilted his falcon wings, catching an updraft. The overwhelming sense of freedom that was an integral part of his shape-shifting talent warred with the numbing fear that had driven him to call the dangerous deep magic once again.

  He could not enter Tintagel as a minstrel. The castle gates had slammed closed upon the scout’s report of Uther’s approaching army—for the duchess’s protection, Gerlois had proclaimed. The castle prepared for siege, while Gerlois’s army prepared to head off Uther’s forces at Dimilioc. Trent had been correct, Rhys thought, when he’d asserted that Gerlois’s tournament had been little more than a ruse to keep his lords and knights close at hand in case of war.

  It wanted but two days to the full moon, when Breena believed the events of her vision would unfold. The fact that Uther was on the attack surely meant Myrddin had broken out of his trance. Uther did not fight without the Druid at his side.

  But even if Uther prevailed against Gerlois, Rhys very much doubted the king could take Tintagel before the full moon’s rising. Rhys was not willing to leave Breena trapped inside the castle past that night.

  And so Rhys had once again called deep magic, and damned be the consequences. He flew toward Tintagel. He’d land on the duchess’s roof terrace, and go to Breena. Sir Gareth, who remained under Howell’s care, had revealed the location of the entrance to the caves below the castle. Trent had promised to have a boat waiting for Rhys’s escape.

  But as he approached Tintagel, Rhys discovered he could not even get close to the castle. Every time he tried, the surge of ill wind emanating from Dafyd’s pall tossed him backward. In the end, he was forced to admit defeat.

  He circled once around the tower, considering what to do next. Shifting back to human form would leave his magic useless for half a day; that was time he could not afford to waste. And so, swallowing his pride, he turned eastward.

  He needed Myrddin.

  He very much feared the king’s counselor was the only man who could help him. He flew east with the greatest speed wind and wing could muster. He did not know the precise location of the king’s army. Passing over Gerlois’s advance, he prayed he could find Uther in time to prevent the king’s army from riding into the duke’s ambush.

  It was nearly sunset by the time he spied Uther’s army, setting up camp on the moors. A banner bearing a red dragon snapped above a large tent. Myrddin would be at his king’s side.

  He dived low, landing in a gully partially shielded from the soldiers’ cooking fires. Folding his wings, he crouched close to the ground. His mind reached for the magic that would dissolved his falcon form.

  He braced himself for the pain. It came in great rippling waves. Skin and flesh, muscle, bone, and sinew…stretching, contorting. Heat flashed in a shock along his limbs. It was far worse, changing from bird to human than the other way ’round. His human self craved the freedom his animal form granted, but his merlin form had no love of his humanity. He gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out.

  He failed. He opened his beak; his bird’s shriek emerged as a low moan, snatched away by the wind. He crossed his arms, suddenly cold and naked of feathers. The ground scratched his bare skin. He lay curled in a ball, shivering.

  Footsteps sounded nearby. In the aftermath of using deep magic, Rhys could call no spell to cover his position. He froze, willing himself to sink into the ground. The footsteps came closer.

  A rough hand grasped his upper arm. An instant later, he was on his feet, his shoulder nearly yanked from its socket.

  “Ho! What have we here?”

  Rhys, rallying as much dignity as possible while naked, regarded the knight impassively. “I’ve come to talk to the high king.”

  “Ye don’t say? Well, at least ye have no place in which to hide a weapon.”

  The man chortled heartily at his own poor joke. His gaze flicked past Rhys, and encountered nothing but moorlands. “Where are your clothes, man? Your camp? Surely there is more than just you and your skin in all this desolation.”

  Rhys inhaled and took a gamble. “I bear a message for the king’s counselor.”

  The man’s demeanor abruptly changed. The corners of his mouth turned down. “A message for Myrddin?”

  “Aye.”

  Suspicion flared in the knight’s eyes. “From whom?”

  “I will speak with Myrddin alone,” Rhys said. “Or the king, of course,” he added belatedly.

  “Naked?”

  Rhys felt his skin flush. “If I might beg a spare shirt and breeches…”

  The knight snorted. “Come along. We’ll see about clothing, then inform the king of your request. Whether Uther deigns to listen to your tale, or whether the king orders you tossed off the nearest cliff, is another matter.”

  The rumble of conversation in the camp turned to laughter as Rhys, naked, strode between the rows of tents. The knight who had found him for the most part ignored his comrade’s shouts, save to bark orders for clothing. Rhys was soon supplied with a dirty shirt and torn breeches. Uther, he was told, would speak with him.

  The high king occupied the central tent of the camp. Uther, resplendent in full armor, his red and white tunic emblazoned with his dragon standard, stood before a makeshift table. A map was unrolled upon it; the officer on Uther’s right pointed to a section of the parchment. A second warrior, on the king’s left, spoke in low tones. Neither man, Rhys thought with keen disappointment, could be Myrddin. Both were far too young.

  The king’s discussion ceased abruptly when Rhys, accompanied by four guards, entered the tent. Uther raised his head, and regarded the newcomer with undisguised curiosity.

  Rhys could not stifle his gasp.

  Britain’s high king was a powerfully built warrior. Whatever the rumors concern
ing his Druidess mother, his dark hair, olive complexion, and patrician nose proclaimed him a son of Rome. But Uther’s Roman heritage was not the reason for Rhys’s astonishment. Nay. What stunned Rhys was that Uther Pendragon might have been Marcus Aquila’s twin.

  Gods. Rhys scrubbed a hand down his face. Was he dreaming? Or had the deep magic he’d just emerged from scrambled his brain? Either possibility seemed more plausible than the fact of the man standing before him. The similarity between Britain’s high king and Breena’s half brother was so great that for one insane instant, Rhys considered the possibility that Marcus had come from the past.

  But when Uther spoke, his accent and brusque manner were very different from Marcus’s. “You were found lurking about outside the camp, I am told.” His lips curved. “Stark naked.”

  “Aye. I have a message for Myrddin. Where might I find him?”

  Uther gazed upon Rhys for a long moment. His eyes narrowed, and something in his expression shifted. He nodded to his officers, and to the two men who had accompanied Rhys into the tent. “Leave us. I would talk with this man alone.”

  The guards bowed and filed out. The knight on the king’s left was not pleased. “Sire! You know nothing of this man.”

  The other knight agreed. “We will remain.”

  Uther clenched his fist, then seemed to force himself to relax the grip. “The man is unarmed, and my guard is outside. You will leave us.”

  “But, sire, he speaks of Myrddin—”

  “Leave us!” Uther roared. “He is no threat to me. At least, not at the moment.”

  The men, frowning, saluted and exited the tent. Uther crossed to a side table and poured a goblet of wine. Sipping it, he eyed Rhys. “You come for Myrddin. And you employed deep magic to get here.”

  Rhys’s brows rose. “How did you know?”

  Uther met his gaze squarely. “Your aura. It is muddy.”

  Rhys sucked in a breath. Uther was Druid? This, he had not expected. Drained from his shifting, he had not attempted to view the king’s aura. But it was apparent that Uther could see Rhys’s.

  Rhys peered through the numbness of his dimmed magic. He caught a snatch of blue light about Uther’s head. With a shock, he realized the power was obscured by the same dull silver cage that crippled Igraine’s magic.