by Joy Nash
“You are Druid,” Rhys said steadily. “But your power is not strong. Can you do anything apart from reading auras?”
The king frowned. “You overreach yourself. Who are you? What do you want of Myrddin?”
“I need to speak with him about a matter of grave importance.”
“You will speak with me, not Myrddin. Who are you? From whence do you come?”
“My name is Rhys. I come from—” He hesitated. “I come most recently from Tintagel.”
“Tintagel?” For the first time, Uther’s arrogance faltered. “You come from Tintagel?”
“I do. The situation there is grave, sire. Gerlois received reports of your army’s movement. His forces are already on the march. They intend an ambush at Dimilioc. In the meantime, Bishop Dafyd holds the castle, and the duchess, in the grip of a foul spell.”
“You lie. If you’d truly come from Tintagel, you would know the duchess is no longer in the castle. She is safe with Myrddin.”
“She is not, sire. Myrddin was expected at Tintagel, but he did not arrive. He was snared by deep magic. I had hoped he had escaped by now, and had joined you.”
Uther paled. “Who are you, Druid? How do you know of such dark doings?” Uther’s eyes narrowed. “Unless you have had a hand in them.”
“You think me an ally of Dafyd?” Rhys demanded. “I assure you, I am not. If I were, I would hardly be here, informing you of Gerlois’s movements.”
“I do not know that you tell the truth,” Uther countered. “Perhaps you seek to misguide me.”
“I seek only to enter Tintagel! There is a woman there—another Druid, my…friend. Myrddin brought her to the castle to protect the duchess. Now she and Igraine are both trapped. My own magic cannot pierce Dafyd’s pall.”
Uther’s right hand curled into a fist. “The bishop’s magic will not turn away swords and arrows. If Igraine is inside that castle, I will tear it down stone by stone to reach her.”
“A pretty sentiment,” Rhys said dryly. “You may succeed in fighting your way through Gerlois’s army, but you will not succeed in breaching Dafyd’s spell. Such magic can only be fought with magic. Magic far stronger than my own.”
Uther appeared shaken. “We need Myrddin.”
“Have you no idea where he might be?”
“He was to be at Tintagel! I was to meet him there!”
Planting his palms atop Uther’s map, Rhys leaned across the table and repeated what he’d overheard Breena telling Gareth. “Three days ago, Myrddin sat entranced in what appeared to be a small thatched cottage. Rose canes arched outside the window, and an old woman, his wife, lay beside him upon an ironframed bed. Do you know this place?”
“I know it well,” Uther said. “I have been there many times. It is a cottage in Siluria. Myrddin and his wife often visit there.”
Rhys looked down at Uther’s map. “Show me.”
Chapter Eighteen
By dawn Rhys’s magic had recovered enough to allow him to regain his merlin form. As Uther’s army rode in a wide arc, circling to surprise Gerlios’s forces from behind, Rhys took to the sky. He flew north, over the wide stretch of the Sabrina channel to a swath of countryside he knew very well. The farmland of Siluria, now mostly fallow, lay to the north of the shrunken city of Isca Silurum, once the bustling home of Rome’s Second Legion.
He found the cottage as Uther had described it, nestled in the foothills. If Rhys was not mistaken, Myrddin’s cottage had been built, ironically, on lands that had once belonged to Breena’s father, Lucius Aquila.
He circled above the dwelling, unwilling to land and shift unless he was certain his quarry was inside. Once back in human form, it would be sunset before he could summon the magic necessary to fly back to Tintagel.
The hut’s single door was closed, as were most of its shutters, but smoke curled over the roof. Someone was inside. Rhys swooped low, landing on the branch of a tree near the only open window. Rose canes arched before it.
A sharp cry to his left arrested his attention. Another merlin perched on the branch of a neighboring tree. The bird eyed Rhys, its wings unfolding. Rhys mimicked the aggressive pose. For a moment, he thought the bird would attack to defend its territory. But after a moment, its threatening posture deflated.
Rhys returned his attention to the window. It was set, surprisingly, with glass. Weak blue sparks crackled behind the clear surface. Magic. The magical signature was one he’d seen before, in his own time, in the meadow of the standing stone.
He had found Myrddin at last. The aura of the woman with him gave off a faint sparkle of white—Seer’s magic. Myrddin’s wife had recently been very close to death, and remained as feeble as a newly hatched wren. As for Myrddin’s magic…it was hardly any stronger than the old woman’s. The Druid had only just emerged from a spell of very deep magic.
Troubled, Rhys flew to the ground. Had he come all this way, only to find Myrddin too weak to help him? If he shifted now, it would be midnight before he had the strength to return to Cornwall. Perhaps he should turn around and fly back to Uther, or to Tintagel. But there was no solution in either of those places. And no time to find one.
Myrddin, even weakened, knew more about Dafyd and his magic than Rhys could hope to discover by the time the full moon rose tomorrow eve. The old Druid was still Rhys’s best hope of gaining entrance to Tintagel.
He gritted his teeth and endured the pain of his transformation. Lying in the grass, panting, he fought back the fatigue. Gaining his feet, he stumbled to the door and gave it a shove; it opened easily.
A figure stood waiting, just past the threshold. The subtle drift of the woman’s aura trickled from an open doorway leading to the hut’s back room.
“Rhys.” The relief in Myrddin’s voice was palpable. “At last.”
Rhys was taken aback. “You…know me? You expected me?”
Myrddin held his staff in one hand, and a bundle in the other. He tossed it; reflexively, Rhys caught it. Shirt and breeches.
“I expected you long before this, if truth be told. But then, I did not properly consider how little you know.”
Myrddin crossed to the table and struck a flint. He nursed the spark to flame on the tinder, and lit the lamp. Rhys shoved his legs into the breeches, and pulled the shirt over his head.
“You followed Breena here from the past.” Myrddin’s gazed raked Rhys intently. Rhys resisted the urge to smooth his hair and adjust his borrowed clothing.
“Aye. I found the remnants of your spell and followed it. How did you know?”
Myrddin glanced out the window. The merlin Rhys had seen earlier was still perched on the branch, preening one long wing. “You might say a bird told me.”
“You communicate with the merlin. You send it forth as a spy.” Much as Rhys did with Hefin.
“Among other animals.”
Rhys regarded him impassively. “Can you shift as well?”
Myrddin hesitated. “I do have that power. I do not use it often.” He sighed. “I tell you, I was stunned when I found you had entered this time. I would not have thought you had the courage to cast such deep magic. I should have guessed, though, you would be an idiot.”
Anger heated Rhys’s blood. “It is not I who am the idiot, old man. It is you! You’ve manipulated the most dangerous force imaginable—time itself. How dare you risk Breena in such a scheme? She does not belong in this world. Nor do I.”
“We are in agreement on that point. If there had been any other way…” He sighed. “But there was not. Breena alone possessed the magic I needed.”
“For what purpose? What sort of cursed plot are you brewing?”
“I protect Igraine, of course. I failed once, and nearly lost her. If I fail a second time, the future will turn to blood and ashes. I needed a Seer. One who could link her magic to Igraine’s repressed power.”
“Because your own Seer—your wife—no longer could,” Rhys guessed.
Myrddin ran a hand down his face, ending with a
yank on his long beard. His voice shook. “Precisely. Most likely, I should have let Vivian go, and done the job of protecting Igraine myself. I should have sacrificed my wife to my duty. Our duty. She would have been the first to tell me to do so.”
The old man’s shoulders seemed to crumple. “I found…I could not. I could not let her die! I thought, if I found another Seer, one who could keep Igraine safe for a few days, I could buy some time in which to save Vivian.”
“How did you know to search for Breena?”
“Vivian can See into the past as well as into the future,” Myrddin replied. “She is well acquainted with your time, and with the settlement on Avalon.”
“She’s watched us?”
“Yes, for years. I traveled to your time to fetch Breena. I did not expect to lure you here as well.” He gave an unexpected snort of amusement. “I should have guessed at the possibility, though. I should have known losing Breena would turn your honor to dust. Your grandfather, I think, would not be pleased.”
“You know of Cyric as well?”
Myrddin nodded. “His legacy and prophecies survive, even if Avalon has not. He was a great Druid. But his fear of deep magic twisted his judgment.”
“Only an idiot would not fear deep magic.”
“Only an idiot would let himself be ruled by that fear.” Myrddin’s lips pressed into a line. He turned abruptly. He paced to the hearth, and jabbed at the smoldering logs with his staff.
Rhys was silent. Myrddin spoke the truth. Fear and guilt had ruled Cyric’s life. Rhys had not fully understood what evil those destructive emotions had wrought until shortly before his grandfather’s death.
Myrddin spoke into the ashes of the hearth. “One cannot cower when evil rears its head, Rhys. Cyric Saw two versions of Britain’s destiny—one light, one dark. I have worked all my life to ensure the prophecy of Light overwhelms its darker counterpart. I have cast magic of the Light, and deep magic as well, to that end. But the future remains uncertain.”
“Perhaps the Light has already failed. From what I can see, this Britain already contains every darkness my grandfather feared.”
Myrddin turned from the hearth. His expression was grave. “I assure you, as dark as things are now, they can get much worse. There are forces at work here, Rhys, that you do not understand. Evil is eager to doom Britain to a future of violence and misery. The land’s fate hinges on deep magic. How could I refuse to take up the fight?”
A muscle in Rhys’s jaw locked. “Your reckless actions could easily pull both sides of this conflict into the void. Fate belongs to the gods. Mere humans should not interfere.”
“When I was young, I thought as you do,” Myrddin said quietly. “Since then, life has taught me that good and evil are woven into one cloth. It is not so easy to separate the strands. Not without destroying the world. Our hope lies in the knowledge that gods war with each other, as humans do. With magic, fate itself can be changed. Each man must choose his loyalty, and act on it.”
“I will not argue with you, old man, except to say that whatever your struggle, you had no right to involved Breena in it. She is young and sheltered. Little more than a child.”
To Rhys’s surprise, Myrddin laughed. “Ah, Rhys. You do Breena such disservice. She is no child. She is a woman—a willful and beautiful one. Any man—save you, apparently—can see that.”
Rhys swore. “You go too far—”
“Breena carries the strength of her Celtic ancestors, and the shrewdness of her Roman ones. It is a formidable combination. One you do not fully appreciate.”
“She is an innocent!”
Myrddin sent Rhys a long, thoughtful look. Rhys resisted the urge to squirm under the Druid’s scrutiny.
“Not so innocent any longer, I would wager,” Myrddin said at last.
Heat flooded Rhys’s face, his anger fleeing before a wave of guilt. “I…I have dishonored Breena, it is true. I did not mean to. I tried to stay away, but—”
Myrddin chuckled. “Breena has told me how much trouble you are to her. I see that she did not stretch the truth.”
“Breena told you of me?” The notion did not please Rhys at all.
“She mentioned you when we first met at the Great Mother’s stone. She was crying. I believe you were to blame.”
“Most probably,” Rhys muttered.
Myrddin’s tone softened. “Do you not realize that you could never dishonor Breena with your love? Nor even with your lust—no, not even with the darkest aspect of it?”
Rhys’s face burned. “You do not know what you are talking about, old man.”
“Perhaps not. Just remember, Rhys, that I have lived a long life. Little shocks me. I may understand more than you guess. And I am telling you, your love and your lust are rare gifts, one I believe Breena would welcome. The only dishonor comes in not allowing her to return those same gifts to you.”
“She believes herself in love with me. But I would ruin her life, should I be weak enough to claim her heart. She would come to hate me. I could not bear that.” Unsettled, Rhys turned and paced the width of the small room.
Myrddin’s voice followed him. “Did you ever consider, Rhys, that when you look at Breena, you see not her weaknesses, but your own? Do you think her so inconstant as to betray the man she loves at the first sign of hardship?” He made a sound of disgust. “You are the worst of fools if you allow your misplaced guilt to blind you to her strength.”
Rhys halted, his spine stiffening. “I do not need your advice where Breena is concerned.”
“I believe you do. You may have all the arrogance of youth, but I possess the wisdom of age. You are so certain you are right in this. I tell you, you are not.”
“I will discuss this with you no further,” Rhys said tersely. “It is not your affair, and there are more immediate concerns to deal with. Any discussion of Breena’s future is moot unless we remove her from Tintagel.”
“And Igraine with her. The duchess cannot be risked.”
“And Igraine as well,” Rhys agreed impatiently, “but only because Breena will not leave the castle without her. Now that your wife is safe, you must come with me to Tintagel, and lift Dafyd’s pall.”
“Do you not think that if I could travel to Tintagel, I would be there already?” Leaning heavily on his staff, Myrddin made his way from the hearth to the table. He sat. Rhys experienced a wave of apprehension as he realized for the first time the depth of the old Druid’s weariness.
“I have spent the last sennight fighting for my life, and Vivian’s, in the Lost Lands. The magic I cast there was very deep, and very dangerous. It absorbed every last dram of my strength.” His hand, gripping his staff, shook. “Indeed, I believed myself lost forever. I still do not know, precisely, why I was spared. I emerged from the abyss, but my magic remains very far away. I do not know how long it might be before it returns. Or if it ever will.” He sighed. “Perhaps it was wrong of me to place Vivian’s welfare before Igraine’s. But I did, and I do not regret it. And the Goddess must have given me her blessing, for she has sent you to save Igraine’s life in my place.”
Rhys frowned. “Why is the duchess’s life so important? Who is she? Why is her Druid magic caged?”
Myrddin hesitated. “It is better you do not know. You do not belong in this time.”
“I am in it up to my neck, nevertheless. If I am to abandon my principals in support of your scheme, I have a right to understand why.”
The old Druid tugged on his beard, considering this. “Perhaps you are right.” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit, Rhys, and I will tell you.”
Rhys sat, not moving his gaze from Myrddin’s face. The lamp flame flickered between them. The Druid glanced down at his clasped hands before speaking.
“Igraine is Vivian’s distant kin. When Igraine’s mother died in childbirth, Vivian raised the babe. She knew even before the birth that the child would be important.” The old Druid raised his eyes to Rhys’s. “Igraine’s mother, you see, was a
direct descendant, on the female line, of the woman you know as the Lady.”
“Avalon’s Lady? The woman who brought the Carpenter Prophet’s Grail from the east?”
“Yes.”
Rhys sat back in his chair. “Then Igraine’s mother was a Daughter of the Lady.” A Druidess with the immense power of her legendary ancestor. Like Gwen, and like Owein’s wife, Clara. “And Igraine is a Daughter as well.”
“She is. Igraine is descended from Breena’s uncle, Owein, and his wife, Clara.”
“Gods. She should be the most powerful woman in Britain!”
Myrddin nodded. “Even when she was a babe, Igraine’s Seer power shone brightly. Vivian is also a Seer, though not a Daughter. My wife linked her magic to Igraine’s, for Igraine’s protection. Dark forces were abroad. One by one, they had eliminated the children of the Lady’s line. We could not risk Igraine meeting the same fate.”
“That is not the end of the tale,” Rhys declared. Myrddin had yet to explain the spell caging Igraine’s magic.
“No. It is not. Three years later, a second child was born, to the only other surviving Daughter. This child was male.”
“Uther.”
“Yes.” Myrddin smiled slightly. “You have seen the high king. Surely you can guess his ancestry.”
“He is the son, many generations removed, of Marcus Aquila,” Rhys said.
“Yes. Of Marcus and your own sister, Gwen. Uther is your own distant nephew, Rhys. A son of the Lady. As you are.”
“If all you say is true,” Rhys said, “then Uther and Igraine should be the most powerful Druids in the land. But they are barely aware of their magic. Igraine is timid and weak-willed. Uther is brash and arrogant. Their magic is bound by a powerful spell.”
“Those spells were cast shortly after Uther’s birth. It stifles their power, as you have noted. Unfortunately, it also magnifies their faults.”
“Who could have committed such a crime? It could not have been Dafyd. He is too young to have done it. Was there another enemy, before him?”