Silver Silence

by Joy Nash

Myrddin’s scheme wove Rhys’s shape-shifting deep magic with dark magic. “You will not simply look like Gerlois. You will become Gerlois. The spell will not be stable. The shifting will be very painful; it may even kill you outright.” He would not proceed unless Uther knew what he risked. “Even if the spell is successful, you may find that you will not be able to return to your own form afterward. You may be forced to live out your life as Gerlois, and put it about that Uther was killed in battle. I do not know what that will do to your political alliances. Even worse, you cannot risk leaving Gerlois alive in such an instance. There cannot be two men with the duke’s name and face.”

  “I will kill the bastard in any case,” Uther said. “If you mean that requirement to be a deterrent, it is a poor one. As for the rest, I will take whatever risk is necessary to see Igraine safe.”

  In truth, Uther’s unwavering resolve surprised Rhys. The man went up a notch in Rhys’s estimation. Perhaps the high king was even worthy of the throne upon which he sat. Uther was the distant progeny of Gwen and Marcus, after all.

  Uther raised his hand and spoke to the dozen knights waiting nearby. None were strangers to Myrddin’s magic, but Rhys fervently hoped none of them would fully understand the nature of the spell he was about to cast on their king. All the warriors, and Uther himself, had exchanged their red tunics for clothing bearing Cornwall’s colors, which they had stripped from Gerlois’s dead.

  Rhys also wore mail and a green tunic emblazoned with the black tower of Cornwall. A sword hung at his hip. He could not get used to the unbalanced sensation. He nodded at Uther. “Ready?”

  “Yes. Get on with it. Time is growing short. By your own assertion, we must reach Tintagel before dark.”

  Rhys was well aware of the position of the sun, and the full moon that would rise with the sun’s setting. He was also aware that Uther’s men were watching him with wary eyes. He wanted to cast the spell out of the sight of Uther’s men, but the king refused.

  “They must witness the change,” he’d asserted. “If they do not, there is the risk they will not believe.”

  Rhys had agreed with some reluctance. “Very well. Close your eyes, and brace yourself for the pain.”

  He cleared his mind. It was not difficult to find his shape-shifter magic. It was a part of him that was never far from his consciousness. Casting that magic upon someone else, and controlling the form it would take, was far more complicated. Before Myrddin had described in detail exactly how such a feat could be accomplished, Rhys had not even known enough to dream of the possibility.

  Simply transferring his own shape-shifting power to Uther, difficult as that was, would not be enough. Rhys’s deep magic alone could not pass through Dafyd’s pall. Dark magic was needed.

  He cast his mind out over the battlefield. It took but a moment to sift through the tangled life essences on the field and locate the soul unique to Gerlois. The duke, pressed upon by a contingent of Uther’s best warriors, was caught in the frenzy of battle. With his concentration overwhelmed, his grip on his life essence had loosened.

  Rhys called Myrddin’s dark spell into his thoughts. His lips did not want to form the Words; his tongue felt swollen and thick. Bile rose in his throat. His stomach threatened to heave. He concentrated on Breena, on an image of her held captive by Dafyd. He would do what he had to do. If it was wrong, so be it.

  His body shuddered with revulsion as his lips formed the Words. He cast the spell quickly. A fragment of Gerlois’s soul separated from his body. Rhys wove the glowing strand with the fabric of his shape-shifting spell. He bound the result to Uther’s life essence.

  The transformation struck with a vengeance. Uther gasped with the first shock of it. He dropped to his knees. As one, his men surged forward; the king held them back with one raised hand. Uther gritted his teeth, bowed his head, and bore the rest of the transformation in silence.

  Fearful murmurs ran through Uther’s knights. Before their eyes, Uther’s handsome face melted into Gerlois’s bitter features. His body thickened with age and corpulence. When at last he stood, and faced his men, Rhys realized Uther had been very wise to force his knights to witness this magic. If he had not, the twelve men would have raised a dozen swords against the enemy standing before them.

  Uther looked at Rhys with Gerlois’s eyes. “Will the guard allow me to pass as Gerlois?”

  Rhys fought a surge of nausea. “I have no doubt.”

  He only hoped Dafyd’s magic would be fooled as easily.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Waiting was torture.

  Breena sat with Igraine, alone in the solar; Nesta had fetched Lady Bertrice to mediate some squabble in the kitchens. The dying sun glinted through the western window, painting the walls crimson. Breena could not tear her eyes from the cracked pane in the eastern window. The full moon would soon rise, directly behind it.

  Surely Morfen would keep his promise to stay close to Dafyd’s side. The bishop would not enter the room alone, as he had in Breena’s vision. If reality began differently from her nightmare, did that mean it would end differently as well? Breena clung to that hope.

  She paced to the window and peered through the broken pane. Dark clouds scudded above the land, but a slice of clear sky showed just above the sea cliffs. She stood, transfixed, as crimson, lifting from the horizon, bled into blue. The leading arch of the moon rose like a bloodstained sphere. As the orb traversed the fissure in the glass, it looked as though it had been sliced in two.

  Breena sucked in a breath. Perhaps she should have told Igraine the whole truth—that Breena had Seen the duchess’s death, and that she very much feared there was nothing she could do to stop it. If death was to be Igraine’s certain fate, the duchess had the right to prepare herself for it. But Breena could not bring herself to give up that last thin thread of hope that her vision had been wrong. Closing her eyes, she braced for what she knew would happen next, even as she fervently prayed destiny would be thwarted.

  She opened her eyes. Magic thickened the air. It had begun, then. Much as she wished this was a dream, another vision from which she would awaken, she knew it was not. Silence had not descended. The wail of the wind outside the window was plainly audible, as was the hitch of Igraine’s breath, and the thudding of Breena’s own heart.

  She stared into the glass. A soft snick sounded as the door to Igraine’s solar opened. A man’s reflection appeared in the glass, eerily framed within the split moon.

  Breena turned. Igraine had risen to greet Bishop Dafyd. Her spine was straight, but her hands trembled. Breena’s gaze darted into the gloom beyond his shoulder. Where was Brother Morfen?

  Dafyd stepped fully into the room. Breena could not see the sorcerer’s aura, but she could feel his magic—reaching, expanding, snaking around her limbs and torso. Her stomach roiled. She tried to walk forward, to rush to Igraine’s side. She could not move.

  Dafyd approached Igraine. The gnawing fear in Breena’s gut became a full burn. “No,” Breena whispered. “No.”

  “My lady,” Dafyd said, halting before the duchess.

  Igraine’s gaze darted to Breena, then back to her visitor. “Excellency. To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

  “Need I a reason to offer succor to my brother’s—” Dafyd’s gaze raked Igraine’s body with an insolence Breena had never before witnessed. “—whore?”

  Igraine gasped. “I am no whore. I have been faithful to my husband.”

  Breena struggled to move. Struggled to speak. Frantically, she looked through the door. Morfen had still not arrived.

  “A faithful wife does not plot betrayal,” Dafyd said. “A faithful wife does not encourage the attentions of her husband’s enemy. You, my dear, have done both. My brother is a blind fool. He loves you too well. He is too soft.”

  “Too soft with his fists?” Igraine said. “I think not.”

  “Insolent whore. Devil’s harlot. You question your husband’s right to chastise you? If only Gerlois had listened to me
, and thrown you from the cliffs upon your return from Caer-Lundein. Or better yet, killed you as soon as you became his wife! You are far too dangerous to live, my dear, even with your magic bound.”

  “My…my magic?”

  “Do not pretend you do not know what you are!” With sudden violence, Dafyd’s open palm connected with Igraine’s cheek. Her head whipped to the side. As she cried out, he grasped the neckline of her gown, and ripped it open. “Do not lie to me. There! You wear the mark of Satan.”

  Breena’s Druid pendant glinted silver against Igraine’s alabaster skin. The duchess cried out, and wrested the edges of her torn tunic from the duke’s hand.

  “Harlot.” He thrust her away from him.

  She fell hard upon her knees. “Please. Do not hurt—”

  Her plea fell on deaf ears. With a snarl, Dafyd fell upon her, his hands closing about her throat. It was happening, just as Breena had foreseen. She stood frozen with horror. She could not allow this tragedy. She had come to this time to prevent it. There must be a way. Surely the Great Mother would not have given her an impossible task.

  Her body would not move. In desperation, Breena threw her mind toward Igraine. Her magic collided with Dafyd’s, to little effect. His evil was an impenetrable wall, thick and oozing with malice. It surrounded Igraine, wrapping her with filth. But through it all, one point of Light remained.

  A glow encircled Breena’s Druid pendant. Avalon’s mark. The symbol of the Great Mother, merged with the sign of the Carpenter Prophet. Protection and Light. Breena reached for the magic of the charm. Somehow, through the pall of Dafyd’s spell, she touched it.

  A burst of white light arced like lightning. Breena’s magic, and Igraine’s, joined as one. A shower of white sparks burst forth. Dafyd jerked back. And Breena found herself suddenly free of her paralysis.

  She stumbled forward. Igraine was bent double, coughing. She raised her head as Breena grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Red smudges marred the skin of Igraine’s neck. Breena’s rage surged. She shoved the duchess behind her and spun to face her adversary.

  “You will not touch her.”

  “You think to stop me?” Dafyd’s lips parted in a sneer. “With your paltry magic?” He laughed. “This bitch’s usefulness ended when she birthed her daughter. I would have killed her then, if Gerlois had not stopped me. He claimed to love her too well, even though her disdain shriveled his cock. My brother is a fool. But he is not here now, to interfere with what must be done.”

  “I will fight you,” Breena whispered. “With every breath in my body.”

  Dafyd laughed again. “Then do so, by all means.” He spread his arms. “I am waiting.”

  Breena had never in her life cast deep magic. Would her spell go terribly awry, as Rhys’s had on the tournament field? She did not have time to consider the risk. The risk of not acting was far greater.

  She let her rage rise. It surged with her magic and her will. A great gust swept through her body. She trembled with its power. She knew her mortal form could not contain it for long.

  She flung the power outward. It struck Dafyd’s chest. Sparks flew.

  The bishop stood unharmed. “Is that the worst your magic can do? I am disappoint—”

  The words choked in his throat. Breena watched in bewilderment as Dafyd jerked forward, eyes wide, mouth open. He hung suspended in that grotesque pose for a single heartbeat. Then he crumpled slowly to the ground.

  Breena leaped backward with a cry as his heavy body thudded at her feet. She collided with Igraine. The two women sought to steady each other; when Breena regained her balance she looked up. Igraine gave a soft cry. Brother Morfen stood over Dafyd’s body.

  “You came,” Breena breathed.

  The monk’s good eye blinked. “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  He gave a tight smile, the ruined side of his mouth turning it into a grimace. He bent and grasped the cowl of Dafyd’s robe. Standing, he tossed the bishop aside as if he weighed nothing. Dafyd’s neck issued a horrifying crack as his body hit the ground.

  Breena gasped, and backed away.

  “It does not seem,” Morfen said softly, “that you truly wish to thank me.”

  “What…what do you mean?”

  Morfen advanced a step. Instinctively, Breena tightened her grip on Igraine’s arm.

  “Do you not know me, Breena? Did you not guess at my identity when I bade the fair minstrel sing my mother’s song?”

  “The minstrel…” Her eyes widened. “You…you claim the goddess Ceridwen as your mother? But…but that is not possible.”

  “All things are possible,” he said. “I am Afagduu.” His single eye flashed with dark emotion. “You believed me pitiful. You believed I was the captive of this soft, sorry priest. I assure you, it was he who was my slave. He who did my bidding. And he did not even know.”

  He nudged Dafyd’s body with his foot. “I grew tired of his stupidity. I find I wish to complete his task with my own hands.” His gaze touched on Igraine. “It will be blissful pleasure to kill the last Daughter of the Lady, and watch the Light fade from Britain permanently.”

  “You are truly evil,” Breena whispered. “As ugly as your face.”

  Afagduu laughed. “Men call evil ugly. But that is not right. Evil is lovely. Seductive. Darkness holds unbounded beauty.”

  His eyes flicked over Breena, leaving a dirty trail of shame. He lifted a hand. A black haze seeped from the ground.

  “Once Igraine is dead, I will show you.”

  If not for the bloodred moon rising, Rhys would have laughed at how easily Uther’s party passed through Tintagel’s gates. The high king had only to shout a command, and the guards jumped to grant their duke entrance. Uther rode into the forecourt, swung from the saddle, and tossed the reins to a waiting stable lad.

  The head of the castle guards hovered nearby, as did Tintagel’s steward. Uther ignored them. Jaw set, he strode through the great hall and into the inner courtyard, his knights at his heels. The soldiers guarding the tower door hastened to lift the crossbar. Boots thudded across the garden and onto the stone stair.

  A poisonous wave of magic met them on the ascent. Red sparks mingled with darkness. The knights stumbled. Only Uther and Rhys kept moving through the pall. The king unsheathed his sword and took the last steps at a run.

  Uther burst into the duchess’s solar, Rhys on his heels. Thick black smoke obscured the room. “Breena!” Rhys shouted.

  A form emerged from the gloom. Through the haze, Rhys recognized the ruined face of Dafyd’s acolyte. Magic swirled around the monk—magic that Rhys had believed was Dafyd’s. With a shock, he realized the power belonged to the slave, not the master.

  His throat closed. Where was Breena? Frantically, he cast his senses into the gloom. He shuddered with relief when he touched her power. She’d wrapped it around Igraine. The two women crouched in the far corner of the room

  There was still time to save the future.

  “Welcome, my king.” The monk greeted Uther with mocking laughter. “You are surprised your paltry disguise does not fool me? Ah, well. Perhaps Myrddin is not as clever as he thinks.”

  Rhys was not certain the monk had even noticed his own presence. He gave no sign of knowing what Rhys was. He fought to keep his magic muted as he edged along the perimeter of the room toward Breena.

  Uther, with a cry of rage, lunged at his enemy. The monk halted the attack with nothing more than a raised hand. Uther’s sword froze in midair, as if it had struck stone. Before the king could react, a shaft of crimson light shot from the monk’s palm, to explode in Uther’s face.

  The king howled. His sword clattered to the tile as he staggered backward. Rhys ran the last steps toward Breena. Her white magic provided a fragile shield against the sorcerer’s fury. Without hesitation, Rhys dove through it. He knew Breena’s magic would never reject him.

  She gasped. “Rhys! Gods! What is happening? You and Gerlois—”

  “Not
Gerlois,” he grunted. “Uther. He is disguised by magic.”

  “Dear Christos!” Igraine cried out as Uther’s body hit the ground. She struggled against Breena’s grip. “Release me! I must go to him!”

  “No,” Breena said. “You—”

  Her words died in a shower of red sparks. With the explosion came a roll of black smoke. A feeling of unfathomable hopelessness descended, crushing the air from Rhys’s lungs. He struggled to breathe, struggled to find a spell to fight the sorcerer’s attack. His light magic was too far away. He could not reach it, could not cast it.

  He reached for his deep magic instead.

  Icy blue sparks shot from his fingertips. Whether the blast hit its mark or not, he could not tell. A surge of crimson malevolence responded. A noxious stench, dung and sulfur, filled his nostrils. As Rhys prepared a counterstrike, he became aware of Breena standing at his side. She held out her hand. Deep magic gathered, rippling in her palm like a living river.

  “What are you doing?” Rhys rasped. “Get back. Protect Igraine. I will deal with the monk.”

  “No! Rhys, you don’t understand. He is not a monk. He is not a man! He is Afagduu. You cannot hope to defeat him alone.”

  Shock slammed into Rhys’s brain. “Afagduu? The…the son of Ceridwen?”

  “The same.”

  Rhys swore. He felt Breena’s magic expand. It spread in a white mist toward Afagduu’s darkness. He sent his own magic, bright blue and pulsing, to intertwine with hers. She spoke the truth. United, they were far stronger than they were apart. But would their combined magic be enough to smite a god?

  Afagduu met their attack with a stream of fire. The flames blasted Breena’s protection, licking at the edges of her spell. The resulting heat was sweltering. Rhys felt like an insect caught under glass.

  If his fate was to fight to the death, so be it. Why should he have any choice in death, when he’d had so little in all his life? But Breena did not deserve such a fate.

  Rhys launched a stream of cooling blue at Afagduu’s fire. Breena added a torrent of icy white. The power flowing through them was heady, and dangerous. He and Breena had bound themselves together in a union that, in a way, was far more intimate than their physical joining had been. He wanted to grasp the power, and Breena with it, and never let either go.