by Joy Nash
Infinite weariness passed through Myrddin’s eyes. “The spells were not cast by an enemy.”
Rhys stared. “It was you. You did it.”
Myrddin inclined his head.
“I suspected as much,” Rhys said grimly. “But…why, if you serve the Light? How could you possibly justify such a heinous act?”
“The spells were necessary, to protect the line of the Lady. Some of the effects of the magic were…unanticipated.”
Rhys crossed his arms. “That is always the case with deep magic. You should not have taken such risk.”
Myrddin’s fist hit the table, causing the lamp to jump. “I had to act! If I had not, darkness would have crushed Cyric’s prophecy of Light! Do you realize, Rhys, that there is almost no Druid magic left in Britain? Already, in your own time, you’ve seen it begin to fade. That is why your grandfather sacrificed your life to Avalon’s cause. You brought Druid initiates to the sacred isle. You kept Avalon strong for many years, but in the end, outside forces were stronger. The Druids scattered. Their magic seeped away.
“Now, three centuries later, the Light is all but gone. When Uther was born, I hoped he was destined to be the king Cyric envisioned. I realized almost immediately that he was not. His father had not been Druid; his magic was not strong enough. If Cyric’s Druid king was to be born, he must claim a magical heritage though both mother and father. He must be the son of Uther and Igraine. But even that might not be enough. I took steps to ensure that Britain’s future king will wield light magic beyond measure. I will not apologize for that.”
Rhys had begun to believe Myrddin was mad. “How can any son be so powerful, when his parents’ magic is crippled?”
Myrddin leaned forward, his eyes intent. “Don’t you see, Rhys? Can you not guess? Magic denied is magic enhanced. It is precisely because Uther and Igraine’s power is trapped that their son’s power will be great. He will wield not only his own Druid power, but that of his parents as well.”
“You mean to say you have sacrificed them?” Rhys was aghast. “You altered their destinies, in order to hand their magic to a son who is not yet born? You seek to create a Druid king who will possess power far beyond what any man should wield? By all the gods in Annwyn, old man, I cannot fathom your arrogance! You must be insane!”
“Not insane, Rhys. Desperate. In your short time here, you cannot begin to imagine what Britain has become. You see the decay around you. Well, I tell you, Cornwall is paradise compared to the east of Britain! On the eastern shores, Saxons raid with impunity. They slaughter our men, rape our women, enslave our people. The brutes are a never-ending tide of cruelty, breaking upon our shores in waves of blood and misery. Britain is a broken land, abandoned by Rome and ruled by petty lords who care for nothing but their own power. Only a strong king—a man who is all but a god—can save Britain. Uther is not that king. But his son, born of Igraine, raised in the power of the Old Ones, will be that leader. I swear it on my life.”
“It is madness,” Rhys whispered. “Pure madness.”
“Then madness is Britain’s last hope.” Myrddin gripped his staff and rose. “I caged Uther’s and Igraine’s Druid magic, but I did not abandon them. Time and again, evil has sought to destroy the line of the Lady. Vivian and I have given our lives to protect the last of her children. I am Uther’s protector; Vivian is Igraine’s. As they grew, we did everything in our power to see ensure they would eventually wed. But it was a difficult prospect, because of the difference in their ages. When Igraine was ready to marry, Uther was barely a man. And yet, the pair fell in love nonetheless.”
“But they did not wed.”
“No. Uther had not yet seen his seventeenth summer when he left Gaul to lead his brother’s army to war. I rode with him. Igraine, already past twenty, vowed to wait for Uther’s return. Then war spread to Dumnonia, and Igraine’s cousin, Prince Geraint, fell at the battle of Llongborth. And King Erbin gave Igraine to Gerlois.”
Myrddin dragged a hand down his face and tugged at his beard. “Vivian could not prevent the union. Her magical connection with Igraine had inexplicably begun to weaken. It was some time before we traced the source of the disturbance to Gerlois’s brother, newly installed as a bishop of the Roman church.”
“Dafyd,” Rhys said. “He knew Igraine was Druid.”
The leap of lamp flame deepened the lines on the old Druid’s face. “Yes. And it seemed he wanted to destroy any offspring she produced. When Igraine bore Gerlois a daughter, the duke was enraged. Dafyd stole the child before Vivian and I could stop him. Then came Vivian’s vision of Igraine’s death.”
“The same vision Breena Saw?” Rhys asked.
Myrddin hesitated. “One very like it. We could not allow the tragedy to come to pass. We hatched a plan. Uther called all his dukes and lords to court in Caer-Lundein. The king planned to reveal his secret betrothal to Igraine, and claim it took precedence over her marriage to Gerlois. Uther was fresh off a stunning series of battlefield victories; Britain’s lords would have agreed to anything their king proposed. But they never got the chance. Bishop Dafyd was part of Gerlois’s retinue. The strength of his magic caught Vivian and me unaware. He cast a noxious spell over the court; every man and woman, save Gerlois and Igraine, fell ill. Vivian and I were by far the worst affected.”
“You recovered.”
Myrddin’s lips twisted. “Oh, yes, I recovered. To find that Gerlois had fled with Igraine to Cornwall. As Uther prepared for the chase, Saxons sailed up the Thamesis and attacked Caer-Lundein—emboldened, I do not doubt, by Gerlois’s message that Uther’s court had been stricken with illness. Uther and I had no choice but to stand and defend the city. All the while, Vivian lay near death.
“The battles raged all summer. They have only just subsided. I could not leave Uther’s side until very recently. I’d hired a local woman to care for Vivian; eventually, her body recovered. But her mind did not.”
Myrddin placed his hands, palms up, on the table. “She is my wife. My helpmate. My very soul. Without her, I would gladly die. Tell me, Rhys, if Breena’s soul were snatched from her body, would you not do whatever you must to bring her back?”
“Aye,” Rhys said quietly. “I would.”
Relief flared in the old man’s eyes. “So you do understand, then.” The point seemed very important to him.
“I sense you are a man who does not explain yourself to anyone,” Rhys said. “Why do you seek to justify your actions to me?”
“Why, indeed?” Myrddin murmured. “I hardly know. I am what my life and my circumstances have created. I do not need your approval.”
He sighed. “This place—this land, and this cottage, is the place Vivian loves best. I hoped being here would help her come back to me. It did not. I realized I had to go after her in the Lost Lands, and quickly. Her body could not exist long without her soul. Igraine, who had been left unguarded when Vivian fell ill, was in grave danger. With Dafyd headed to Cornwall for the harvest festival, I dared not delay in hastening to Tintagel. Vivian herself would have insisted upon it, even if it meant her own death. But I could not risk my wife, not even for Igraine.”
“So you brought Breena from the past to take Vivian’s place at Igraine’s side,” Rhys said.
“Breena is Igraine’s kin, and a Seer. She possessed the magic I needed. I did not anticipate you would follow, Rhys, but now I see the Great Mother’s hand in your presence. The Goddess knew I would fail in my duty to Igraine. And so she has brought you here to act in my stead.”
Rhys stiffened. “I am not your lackey. You play the god in this drama—I want nothing to do with it.”
At that, Myrddin surprised Rhys with a chuckle.
“You think I jest?” Rhys demanded.
“No. I know you do not. Forgive me. I forget how young, how earnest and righteous you are. You still believe in absolutes. Someday you will no longer enjoy that luxury.” He struck the ground with his staff. “But enough debate. Dafyd’s pall over Tintagel must b
e broken. You are the only one who can do it.”
“Me? If that were true, I would not be here. I have already tried to enter the castle. I failed. I cannot do it.”
“Ah, Rhys. The power is yours. Your shortcoming is that you use it far too honestly. What is wanted is deceit. Deceit, and deep magic.”
Rhys stared. “I do not understand.”
Myrddin smiled grimly. “You will.”
Breena, standing on the roof terrace, stared toward the east, over the ridge where Gerlois and his knights had disappeared two days before. The duke’s departure had lightened the burden weighing on her shoulders. She might be trapped in the castle, worried beyond reason for Rhys and Gareth, and dodging Bishop Dafyd at every turn, but at least Duke Gerlois was gone. Igraine was safe, for a time.
The harvest moon would rise tonight however. Would Breena’s vision unfold? How could it, with Gerlois gone? Perhaps she had changed Igraine’s destiny already. Once Uther defeated Gerlois, the high king would ride to Tintagel and claim his lost bride. Myrddin would be found, Gareth would recover from his injuries, and Rhys would appear before her and declare his undying love.
And rocks would float, and horses fly. She could not bring herself to believe everything would fall into place so neatly.
“Lady Antonia?”
She turned to find Brother Morfen standing behind her. His cowl was up, but not so far forward as to hide his face. She was pleased that he no longer felt the need to hide his scars from her. “Morfen. What are you doing here?”
“The bishop wishes me to lead Lady Igraine in prayer for her husband’s safety.” His sigh was heartfelt. “War. It is an ugly business.”
“Yes.”
They stood side by side for a time, not speaking. The wind kicked up. Breena shivered and rubbed her arms.
“It is cold here on the roof, my lady. And you wear no cloak. Allow me to escort you inside.” Morfen offered her his arm.
“Thank you.” Breena turned, then gasped as sudden pain stabbed between her eyes. She clutched at Morfen as the floor of the terrace lurched.
“Lady Antonia? What is it? Are you ill—”
She couldn’t answer. The pain was too great. She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. Her next breath was a shard of glass in her lungs. Morfen’s presence wavered. His voice faded into deep, fathomless silence.
The vision began as it had since she’d entered this time. A falcon, circling the tower. Wine, spilling from a goblet. Window glass, cracking. She turned and looked through the broken pane. The harvest moon, split in two behind the fissure, rose bloodred over the cliffs.
Gerlois’s reflection appeared, merging eerily with the fractured moon. Breena whirled about. The duke stood in the doorway, his large frame obscured by a cloud of silver fog. Igraine, standing before the painting of the Christos, shrank back as he advanced.
Gerlois shouted something Breena could not hear. She tried to cry out as the duke’s open hand connected with his wife’s cheek. Igraine’s head whipped hard to the right; she stumbled as Gerlois’s hands went to her throat.
In her past visions, Breena had been paralyzed as well as mute. This time, however, when she willed herself to Igraine’s side, her limbs jerked forward. She stretched out her arm. Her hand closed on the back of Gerlois’s robe.
He turned, a snarl baring his teeth. Breena gasped.
Not the duke. Not Gerlois.
Dafyd.
The bishop’s lips moved. His eyes were two hard black orbs. He was shouting, his face red with rage. Breena could hear none of it. Breena grabbed the front of his robe with both hands. She tried to haul him across the room, but his weight was like a boulder. She did not succeed in moving him a single step.
She did not see the blow coming. Dafyd’s fist connected with her ear. Pain exploded; her vision shattered in a shower of red stars. She couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. She tried to shout…
“Lady Antonia?” Fingers dug into her upper arms. The world gave a sickening lurch. Someone was shaking her.
“Lady Antonia! By the Christos, answer me!”
“Wha—” She opened her eyes to find Brother Morfen looking down at her.
“Lady Antonia. Do you know me?”
“Of…of course. You are Brother Morfen.”
His cowl hung down his back, leaving his head exposed to the air. He did not seem to notice. “I thought…I do not know what I thought. That a demon had taken hold of you, perhaps. Your eyes had gone blank…”
“No.” Breena fought the pounding in her head. “No demon. I…I just felt a bit faint for a moment. I am fine.”
Morfen released her shoulders. When she wavered on her feet, he cupped her elbow. “You should lie down for a time, I think.”
She looked up at him. “Morfen, where is Bishop Dafyd now?”
“I left him in the duke’s library.”
“Do you…” She hesitated. She knew Morfen owed his loyalty to the bishop. But surely he would not stand by and let his master murder Igraine.
“Do I what, Lady Antonia?”
“Do you honor the duchess, Morfen?”
“Lady Igraine? Why of course.”
“And you would not allow any harm to come to her?”
“I would not.”
She exhaled. “Thank you.” She hesitated. “Will you spend the evening in Bishop Dafyd’s company?”
Morfen’s expression showed his confusion. “I am most often at my lord bishop’s side in the evenings.”
“Promise me, then, that tonight, you will not let him out of your sight.” She gripped his arm. “Not for an instant.”
“Lady Antonia. I do not think—”
“Just promise me. Please.”
He regarded her in silence for a moment. Then he nodded. “As you wish. If you promise you will retire for the afternoon. Clearly, the events of the last few days have exhausted you. You are in quite desperate need of rest.”
Uther Pendragon looked so much like his ancestor, Marcus Aquila, that Rhys half expected Britain’s high king to grin and declare his pretension of royalty an elaborate jest.
He did not.
The king’s expression was grim. The battle had been engaged, and lacking Myrddin’s support of Uther’s army, the fighting was fierce, with casualties high on both sides. Uther, upon learning Rhys had returned, withdrew from the field. He glanced down at Rhys from atop his warhorse as Rhys finished donning his borrowed clothing. “You did not find Myrddin.”
“I did find him, Your Majesty.”
“Why is he not with you?”
“He could not make the journey. His magic is gone.”
The color drained from Uther’s face. “Gone?”
“I assure you, I speak the truth. Myrddin’s magic has fled. He sent me in his stead.”
The corners of Uther’s mouth slashed downward. “You do not have half of Myrddin’s power.”
“That may be true,” Rhys said evenly. “But at the moment, I am your only choice of Druid ally. I have received Myrddin’s instructions, and I am prepared to remove Igraine from Tintagel. That is the objective of this war, is it not?”
“It is.” Uther regarded Rhys gravely. A soldier’s death cry bled from the battlefield. Uther’s stallion shied at the sound. The king, his expression grim, controlled the great beast with one hand.
“Let us hope, Druid, that your battle magic can turn the tide of this skirmish.”
“It will not. I have no intention of entering this war with battle magic.”
Uther spit a curse. “Then you are less than useless. You waste my time! Take yourself out of my path.” His mount reared as he spun the beast about.
Rhys lunged, catching the bridle before the beast could charge the field. “You arrogant idiot! War is not your solution. Do you imagine you will be able to fight your way into Tintagel in time to save the duchess? You will not.”
Uther snarled down at him. “I can and I will. Drop the reins, Druid. I will
win this war, with or without your help. Once Gerlois is dead, no man will dare bar my entrance to Tintagel.”
“Perhaps not.” Rhys anchored his grip on the leather. “But what will you find when you enter? At this moment, Lady Igraine is at Dafyd’s mercy. He will kill her this very night if you are not there to prevent it.”
Panic flashed in Uther’s eyes. “That is why I must fight!”
“Nay. That is why you must not. Believe me when I tell you, Myrddin is in agreement. The scheme I am about to propose to you is his.”
Uther’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”
“Dismount,” Rhys countered, “and I will.”
Uther did not even blink as Rhys described the dangers of Myrddin’s plan.
“Cast the illusion,” he said when Rhys fell silent. “I am not afraid.”
A wiser man, or a less arrogant one, would have been very afraid, Rhys thought. His own fear was manifested as a tightening of his chest that would not relent. The spell Myrddin had proposed was not a simple illusion. Light magic alone would not pierce Dafyd’s pall. The bishop’s evil had repelled even Rhys’s deep magic.
What Myrddin had proposed was something far more sinister. Deep magic, aye, but deep magic wound with dark magic. This was far different from Rhys slipping a light magic illusion into Dafyd’s pall, as he’d done during Gareth’s duel. This time, he would claim dark magic as his own. The thought of casting such a spell opened up a pit of dread in Rhys’s stomach.
But he would do it. For Breena. Despite the howling of his conscience, he did not for a moment consider turning away. His honor lay in a heap of dust before his love for Breena. He very much feared there was no magic he would not cast, no depravity he would not entertain, to ensure her safety. And if that realization brought searing guilt, it also, paradoxically, created an oasis of calm in the center of his turbulent emotions. A feeling of profound rightness.
Loving Breena was the single aspect of Rhys’s life he had never once doubted.
“You must understand what you are about to undertake,” he told Uther. “This spell is not an illusion. It is a transformation.”