Silver Silence

by Joy Nash

  He gripped her hip with one hand. He brought the other up to cup her breast. He flicked his thumb over her nipple, fascinated by the expression that blossomed on her face.

  “You are a dream,” he whispered. “One from which I do not wish to wake.”

  “You never will,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Tis hard luck Duke Gerlois died before he had a chance to pay us in coin,” Trent said. Standing atop a crate, he leaned on the side of the boat, watching the sea cliffs drift past. Breena nearly laughed outright. The little man had such an outsized ego!

  “Aye,” the giant—Howell—said dryly. He tossed a stone into the waves. “I’m sure the oversight disturbed him greatly as the sword ran through his gut.”

  “Better to die in battle, then to be strung up as a traitor,” the rotund singer put in.

  “And quite convenient for the king and his intended queen, is it not,” the young flautist added, “that one of Uther’s knights should have dispatched the duke on the battlefield, even before Uther entered Tintagel castle? Though exactly how the king fashioned a disguise so convincing as to fool the guards at the gate, I cannot fathom. Some say it could only have been by sorcery.”

  “Idle gossip.” Trent eyed Rhys, who leaned casually against the ship’s rail at Breena’s side. “Some might even say Sir Gareth’s swift recovery was sped by magic,” he added. “But as for me, I put the knight’s continued good health down to Howell’s tender care.”

  Rhys offered a small shrug. Breena chuckled. She had been relieved beyond all measure to learn Gareth was alive. And Rhys’s magic aside, Howell’s care did have much to do with the knight’s recuperation.

  Trent grinned. “Ah, well. What’s a little sorcery performed for a good cause? At least my man Rhys here made sure we did not go completely unpaid for that outstanding performance before the duke’s table. Sea passage to Glastonbury, and an invitation to the king’s court in Caer-Lundein! The future of the Brothers Stupendous is a spring garden waiting to bloom.”

  “I regret I will not see it,” Rhys said.

  “Ah, but you could, if you would only reconsider your foolish plan to travel to Gwynedd,” Howell retorted. “Winter is in the air, man! You and Antonia will be lucky if you do not end up frozen in a ditch. My lady, please,” he added to Breena. “Reconsider. Rhys may have carried you to safety during the battle for Tintagel, but surely that is no reason to throw your life’s lot in with this scruffy wanderer.”

  “But he is such a handsome scruffy wanderer,” Breena protested with a smile. “I count myself very lucky to be his betrothed.”

  The words brought a thrill. She could not get used to the notion. She and Rhys had pledged to each other in private, amid an intimacy so deep it was if they shared one soul. He was to be hers. Forever. At last.

  The boat put in at Brean Island, near Glastonbury. Hearty farewells were given. The troupe collected its belongings and set out in the direction of the abbey, to beg lodging for the night. Rhys hitched his pack onto his shoulder—the troupe had kept his harp safe—and turned to address Breena.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded. “Are you sure you can get us back?”

  “I am not sure of anything,” he admitted. “Not where deep magic is concerned. But Myrddin’s spell is burned into my brain. I will cast it, and pray the Lost Lands lead us home.”

  The day was overcast. It had rained in the night; the path to the high meadow was slick with mud. Rhys offered Breena his hand as they negotiated a tight curve. She clasped it, and felt a deep rightness in the connection.

  She supposed she should not have been surprised to find Myrddin waiting for them in the shadow of the Great Mother’s stone. He looked much as he had when she’d first seen him there. Was it truly only a fortnight ago since she’d come to this time? She felt like a different person—as though she’d lived every day of the three centuries that divided her time from his.

  A woman stood at his side, hands folded before her waist. Vivian was round and tiny, with white hair and an aura of calm that balanced Myrddin’s intense energy.

  “Ah,” Myrddin said as they approached. He turned to his wife. “At midday. Just as you Saw, my dear.”

  Vivian smiled, and hooked a hand over her husband’s arm. “You doubt my Sight, even after all this time?”

  “I would be a fool to do so,” he answered. He nodded to Rhys and Breena in turn. “Well met. I present my wife, Vivian.”

  Breena nodded at the woman. Their eyes met, and something like a spark seemed to fly between them.

  “We have come to offer our assistance in returning you to your home,” Myrddin said smoothly, capturing her attention. “It has been a fruitful journey, has it not?”

  “Of a certainty,” Breena replied.

  “Let us hope it has not been in vain,” Rhys said with a note of belligerence in his voice.

  Vivian smiled, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Again, Breena felt that odd feeling of affinity. Their Seer’s magic, touching? She frowned. No. It was more than that.

  “Your efforts have not been in vain,” Vivian told Rhys. “Far from it. The queen has already conceived. Uther and Igraine’s son will be born on midsummer’s day.”

  “The child will be the king Britain so desperately needs,” Myrddin said. “The king of Cyric’s prophecy of Light.”

  Rhys held up his hand. “I do not wish to know more. I do not agree with your methods, Myrddin, but I recognize the hard choices that drove you to them. I am content to leave the child and his future in your hands. Breena and I wish only to return to our own time.”

  “As well you should,” the old Druid murmured. “As well you should.” He swept an arm toward the stone. “Shall we?”

  “Wait,” Breena said. “First, I’d like to ask a question.”

  Myrddin exchanged a glance with Vivian. “What is it, child?”

  “You have said that Uther is Marcus’s descendant. And that Igraine is Owein’s. I’ve wondered…I’ve wondered if you are Rhys’s. And mine. Are you?”

  An odd look flitted across Myrddin’s face.

  “No, my dear.” It was Vivian’s quiet voice that answered. “You and Rhys are not my husband’s ancestors.”

  The eyes of the two women met. And once again, that odd sense of…of knowing stole over Breena.

  The truth struck with the force of a gale wind. She reached out a hand to Myrddin’s wife. A sense of unfathomable wonder washed through her.

  “Why, you are…you are me,” Breena breathed.

  Beside her, Rhys stiffened. “Nay,” he choked out. “That is not—”

  “And you…” Breena grabbed Myrddin’s arm. She stared into his gray eyes, and saw reluctant acknowledgment.

  “You!” she breathed. “You are Rhys.”

  Myrddin sent a disgruntled look toward his wife. “You were always too clever, my dear, for your own good.”

  The Druid lifted his staff. Whatever Breena might have replied to his revelation was lost in a surge of deep magic.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Rhys woke flat on his back in the tall grass, his limbs aching, his ears buzzing.

  Nay. Not his ears. Bees. Bees were buzzing about his head. He swatted them away, and opened his eyes. The blue-gray of the Great Mother’s stone loomed tall in his vision. He fought through the haze in his mind.

  Breena…

  She stirred beside him. He reached for her, and she for him, at the same moment. He laughed as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly.

  “Are we home?” she asked, looking around.

  A screech had him looking skyward. A merlin falcon circled, then swooped low, to land atop the standing stone. The bird spread its wings and scolded the humans sprawled on the grass below.

  “Hefin,” Rhys said, his smiled broadening. He craned his neck to look out over the swamps. Gwen’s white mist was thick on the water, obscuring the slopes of the sacred isle. “Aye, I’d say we landed in the right
place.”

  He jumped to his feet and offered his hand to Breena. His smile faded as she rose. The memory of his last moments in the future were emerging from the fog in his brain.

  “Is it true?” he asked. “Was…is…Myrddin truly…me?”

  “I believe he is.” Breena sounded far calmer than Rhys felt. “And Vivian is me.”

  Rhys dragged a hand down his face. “It’s too fantastic. There are more than three centuries, Bree, between our time and theirs. How could we possibly still be alive?”

  “Magic,” she said. “Very deep magic.”

  “Aye, very deep indeed. But why? And how?”

  “As to why,” Breena said, “I can only think it is because of Myrddin’s—and your—duty to the Light, and the line of the Lady. As to how…” She spread her hands. “I cannot say. But I suppose we will find out, eventually.”

  “I cannot fathom it,” Rhys said. “Every time I try, my mind balks. How is it, if we are…if we will be…Myrddin and Vivian, they did not seem to remember traveling to the future, as we have just done?”

  “Perhaps the memory faded,” Breena said. “Or perhaps their history was different from ours, because our presence in the future changed the past.”

  “That is hardly logical,” Rhys protested.

  Breena smiled. “And when has logic ever been a part of magic?”

  “But, Bree, am I doomed to make the same choices in my future as Myrddin did in his past? Or will I find a different way to keep the Light alive in Britain?”

  “I think…I think that only the Great Mother knows the answer to that question. All we can do, Rhys, is live our lives and face each day as it comes.”

  He sighed. “I suppose you are right.”

  “Of course I am.” Breena’s eyes went soft. She reached up and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Wasn’t I right about us, all along?”

  He grinned and tweaked her nose. “Aye, you were, Bug.”

  She caught his hand. “You offered your life to save me from Afagduu.”

  “And Myrddin offered his life for Vivian’s in the Lost Lands.” Rhys regarded her steadily. “Three hundred years, it seems, will not dim my love for you.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. “I am honored beyond words, Rhys.”

  His heart was so full it seemed to have expanded into his throat. Unable to speak, Rhys simply nodded. He loved everything about Breena—her sky blue eyes, the Roman nose he knew she detested, the spatter of freckles on her cheeks, the gap between her front teeth, her firm, determined chin. Her intelligence, her impulsive and loyal nature. Her good heart.

  His gaze drifted downward. Her beautifully lush breasts, and her round hips and bottom. The welcoming heat between her thighs…

  How could he have persisted in thinking of her as a girl these past few years? Breena was no longer a child; she was a woman. He would ever carry the image of an impish, wild-haired lass in his mind, but he would never again confuse that memory with the woman who stood before him now.

  He was no longer the desperately lonely lad who had soaked up her childish adoration. He was a man who had found true treasure in Breena’s mature love. Aye, their future would be a difficult one, but they would take each hardship as it came. Even if he had never seen Myrddin and Vivian, Rhys would have had no doubt his love for Breena would stand the test of time—three hundred years into the future, and more.

  He cupped the side of her face. “If you are willing to stand by my side for so long,” he said quietly, “I am willing to offer you all that is mine to give—my love, my magic, my music, and my life.”

  In answer, she went up on her toes and offered him a kiss. He drew her close, and returned her promise of a life filled with love.

  “Breena! Breena are you here?”

  Rhys broke the kiss. Gwen’s call had come from the path leading down the mountain; a moment later, his sister came into view at the edge of the meadow.

  “Breena! Where—oh!” Gwen, spying them with arms entwined, halted abruptly.

  “Rhys? What…what are you doing here? Trevor said you had gone to Isca Dumnoniorum.” Her gaze touched on Breena, then moved back to Rhys. “And Breena disappeared at the same time. Marcus and Owein are frantic.” She crossed her arms. “What in the name of Annwyn is happening?”

  Rhys stared at his sister, unable to think of what to say. He and Breena had been gone for a fortnight. Gwen was annoyed, aye, but nowhere near as distraught as she should have been.

  Breena’s fingers dug into his arm. “I think…” she whispered. “I think we must have returned on the same day that we left.”

  “Myrddin’s doing, no doubt,” Rhys whispered back.

  “Rhys,” Gwen demanded. “Stop muttering and look at me. What is going on?”

  He met his sister’s gaze. “Breena and I…we are to be handfasted.”

  His sister’s eyes went round. “Truly?”

  “Yes.” Breena broke from Rhys’s embrace and went to her sister-in-law. “Please wish us well.”

  Gwen embraced her. “Of course I will! I just…” She shook her head. “This is very sudden, is it not?”

  Rhys laughed. “I would not say that. On the contrary, it has been a long time in coming.”

  “I’ve wanted to be Rhys’s wife since I was three.” Breena bit her lower lip. “But I do wonder what Marcus will have to say about it.”

  “He will be shocked,” Gwen declared. “And I am not at all sure he will be pleased. He will have many questions and, I imagine, many requirements for your future.” She grinned. “But you must ignore him, Breena. You are a grown woman, after all. It is time your brother faced that fact.”

  Gwen turned to Rhys, her eyes suddenly wet. She grasped his hand. “I have been so worried about you these last few years. You were so distant, almost like a stranger.”

  “I felt like one,” he confessed. “But no longer. Though I cannot dwell all my life in Avalon, it is the place I love best, filled with the people nearest to my heart.”

  “You are always welcome here. We return your love a thousandfold.”

  “I know that.” Bending, he picked up his pack and slung it onto his back. Wrapping one arm around Breena, and the other around Gwen, he looked out over the misty swamp.

  “Let us go home,” he said. “To Avalon.”

  Epilogue

  He is beautiful, Myrddin.”

  Myrddin gazed down at the infant in his wife’s arms. Blue eyes, filled with wonder and innocence, stared back at him, unblinking. He extended a finger, and a tiny fist closed around it.

  “Arthur is strong,” Myrddin said. “In body as well as in magic.” The babe’s rainbow aura shone like the sun, the moon, and the stars, all wrapped up together. The possibilities of the small prince’s life were endless.

  Briefly, Myrddin wondered what color—what magic—would eventually overwhelm Arthur’s aura. What sort of man would the infant prince grow to be? Would he truly become the great king Britain so desperately needed? Myrddin was prepared to do everything in his power to ensure that he did. He was not at all sure he would succeed. But he had hope.

  The babe gazed up at him with eyes so innocent and pure that Myrddin’s chest hurt. How long would Arthur’s innocence last? He wished it might stretch into forever.

  Gently, he pried the infant’s grip from his forefinger. “I wonder which is wiser,” he mused. “Youth or age?”

  Vivian’s lips brushed the top of Arthur’s downy head. Would this child grow to be the man—the king—who would lead Britain through chaos to peace? It was a daunting prospect. He was just a babe.

  But in every babe, as in every seed, one power ruled all others.

  “Both youth and age are wise in their way,” she told her husband, “and foolish in their turn. But hope…” She smiled. “Hope is the greatest power of all.”

  Afterword

  What’s truly wonderful about Arthurian legend is that it exists in so many forms—and with so many contradictions—that e
ach new author who revisits the tale enjoys a great amount of freedom in writing his or her particular twist on the story.

  King Arthur’s supposed birth date is a moving target, but for the purposes of Silver Silence, I’ve chosen the traditional date of AD 465, less than fifty years after the final withdraw of the Roman Army from Britain, and just a few years before the fall of the city of Rome itself. The isle of Avalon, and the real monastery that replaced my fictional Druid settlement, is located on Glastonbury Tor in southwest England. Tintagel Island, on the northern Cornish coast, boasts castle ruins that postdate my story, but there is evidence of an older settlement beneath the visible one. A Roman road marker has been discovered in the vicinity, so it is not out of the question to imagine the island may have seen an earlier Roman presence.

  Silver Silence remains close to the accepted mythology surrounding Arthur’s conception. As the legend goes, when Uther insisted he wanted to steal the beautiful Igraine from her husband, the Duke of Cornwall, the wizard Merlin assisted his king by creating a powerful illusion that allowed Uther to walk unchallenged into Gerlois’s impregnable fortress—as Gerlois himself. In the traditional tale, Igraine believes the man in her bed is her husband. In Silver Silence, I’ve created a previous history and love between Uther and Igraine, and an abusive marriage for Igraine and Gerlois.

  Arthurian scholars generally agree that the Sword in the Stone and Excalibur are two separate weapons. Popular film, especially for children, has found it convenient to merge the two into one magical sword, with the result that many people consider the two to be one and the same. In my Druids of Avalon series, they are separate weapons. The magical sword Exchalybur is forged by Marcus Aquila in the book Deep Magic. The Sword in the Stone of Silver Silence is an ordinary sword that is accidentally cast into a stone by Rhys’s magic.

  If you find yourself wanting to linger in Rhys’s and Breena’s romance, I invite you to visit my Web site, www.joynash.com, where you’ll find free “Before the Book” stories that tell of their early relationship. You’ll also find many other Druids of Avalon special features.