Féile was near. I couldn’t sense her the way I could her father, but I knew that we were close for the first time in months – an eon of time for a small child. Would she have forgotten me? The breath was stolen from me at the idea. We had been together for such a small amount of time. What if she didn’t even recognise me? She would be three and a half now – how far back could a small child remember?
The noise of the crowd seeped through the wall as our procession entered the city. Riding as I was at the tail end of the line of Celts, Anglians, and Mercians, I had time to brace myself before we left the sanctuary of the wall and entered into the pandemonium of the crowd.
The Anglians around us looked dead ahead, chins raised, mysterious and aloof in expectation of the turn out that their arrival usually engendered. I knew what it was to be on the city side of the crowd – not out here by the walls but further in where the elites awaited our arrival.
I remembered it feeling more festive than this – I could sense a sullen, dark feeling from the crowd watching us pass. Gideon nudged his horse closer to mine and stepped a little in front.
There was a chain of sentinels in front of the corridor of citizens and they weren’t here for decorative purposes or to watch the foreign delegation. They faced inwards, watching the citizenry. The crowds were not happy to see us here. They were not here for the usual spectacle, for the pageantry of the festivities surrounding the Treaty Renewal. Instead, they watched us pass with sullen eyes.
We finally arrived at the great square in front of the Governor’s Palace, where the praetor and the Council stood facing Richard and Rion and the other more prominent members of the delegation while they waited for the rest of us to arrive. There was no sign of the new governor, which was an insult to the delegation but one I was happy to accept if it meant not having to set eyes on Matthias Dolon yet.
Once we had all dismounted and our horses had been escorted from the square, the praetor stepped forward. He surveyed the arriving Britons in front of him from his position above us on the stairs. My heart skipped a beat as his gaze passed across where Gideon and I stood. While they snagged momentarily on Gideon – who, to be fair to him, with his height and beauty was reasonably eye-catching – they passed seamlessly over me.
I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. Fidelma said that the illusion existed only in the mind of the person looking at me. While Gideon and the rest of the Britons still saw me, everyone else would see someone entirely different. The illusion she had maintained on herself for years had been much more holistic; it had taken years to cement it in place so that everyone saw the same thing when they looked at her. The glamour I used was a surprisingly simple piece of sorcery – one even those with a modicum of magic could do. Maintaining it for longer periods, as Fidelma had done, took greater skill. So while I felt utterly exposed out here with the whole city watching, the lack of reaction from Praetor Calchas reassured me that my identity remained concealed.
A sentinel approached the praetor from behind and whispered something in his ear. Calchas showed no reaction beyond a small nod, and he took a couple of steps further down the stairs.
“My lords and ladies, I welcome you into the city,” he began effusively. “We are so grateful to receive you.”
He stopped in front of the Steward of York, who had been the most prominent of the Britons to regularly attend in the last few years, that I was aware of. The lady traditionally never came, remaining a silent threat in the north. Rion had participated in the last one as prince, maintaining the Briton deception his parents still lived, but that charade was done with and he now attended as king – making him technically more senior than the Steward – though I suppose Londinium had yet to be formally informed, whatever they actually knew unofficially. Kernow sent minor members of House Cadoc; the princes of Powys, Dyfed, and Gwent were present but slightly lower ranking, Bronwyn alongside them given her new status in Gwynedd. Alba never sent anyone as they were not signatories of the Treaty, and barely acknowledged that they shared the same island as the Romans. However, I knew from Callum’s history lessons that they had occasionally participated in the wars over the last millennia or so. Llewelyn and the higher ranking Kernowans’ absence seemed unremarkable, thankfully, as they slowly followed behind with the army we had raised.
“Especially in light of that bad business a couple of years ago,” Praetor Calchas was saying as he clasped his hands to his chest penitently.
The steward raised an eyebrow at Calchas’s choice to speak so directly and openly about the act of war that had been committed in Anglesey.
“We wish to continue to honour the Treaty that has kept the peace on this island for so many years,” Lord Richard said in return. I couldn’t begin to imagine the effort it had taken for him to get that out.
“I am most relieved to hear that,” Calchas said, one hand indicating that the steward should precede him. “Most relieved indeed. We have much to discuss.”
With that, we trailed after them up the stairs. We passed through the great marble lobby and into a room where warm drinks and bowls of water awaited to allow us to wash the worst of the journey off.
We had stopped outside the city to wash off the dirt of the road before entering the city, but this reception seemed to be part of the welcoming ritual. Senators’ wives greeted the delegates and helped them clean off the dust of the road.
Marina caught my eye from across the room, her air of druidic calm not quite hiding the gleam of mischievous amusement at being tended to by some elite citizen when only a few years ago she would have been less than dust beneath her expensive heels.
My breath stopped as I recognised my former friend in the citizen who approached us with a bowl and cloths draped over her arm. A ring sat on her hand… she was married then – presumably to a senator or some other senior official. That match would have pleased her.
Ginevra offered a cloth to me without so much as moving her eyes from where they lingered on my husband’s face. He was a good foot taller than her so her notice wasn’t the most discreet, but at least we knew my glamour was convincing up close.
Her eyes flicked to the pendant Gideon wore around his neck, a slight crease appearing between her brows in vague recognition.
“I like your, ah… charm,” she offered when she realised her attention had been noticed. “I had a friend who wore something similar once.”
She remembered the charm Devyn had given me to protect me from the pervasive cameras. We all wore one, Calchas would no doubt be quick to spot them too, but there was no point overplaying our wide eyed pretence that all was well.
Once I had cleaned my hands and wiped them on a cloth, I began to step aside but paused as I did so. Ginevra still wasn’t shy in her appreciation of a handsome man and her attentions were starting to ever so slightly grate on my nerves.
“Allow me, my love,” I said, dipping the cloth in the water before taking one of his hands in mine and slowly drawing the wet cloth from the heel of his hand through the hollow of his palm and across his sword-calloused fingers. I took my time, lingering on each strip of skin as I passed the cloth across first one hand and then the other.
I looked up at him through my lashes and caught the snag of his tongue as he wet his dry lips.
“Thirsty, husband?” I asked as I dropped the cloth into the waiting bowl. His amber eyes glinted down at me. I smiled up at him for the sake of our overly attentive host but even with an audience my eyes skittered quickly away. I had never flirted with him before. He had barely spoken to me since Féile was taken, and I had waited until we stood in the very jaws of the lion waiting to chew us up to start.
The prickle of awareness that floated between us centred on where his hand touched my spine as he guided me to the side of the room where he would not have his back exposed to the enemy. I felt him tense as his hand took and gripped mine in warning.
Surveying the room, it didn’t take too long to spot what had set him off.
M
arcus.
There he was. My former friend. And once, my future husband.
At first glance, he looked the same: broad shoulders, elegant outfit, chestnut hair sweeping across his head. He looked a little older maybe, and there was a gauntness about the cheeks and a slight stoop in those strong shoulders. There was a fracture splintering that charismatic prince-of-the-city aura that he gave off.
My mind blanked as he looked in our direction, but his focus went straight to Gideon and his eyes hooded as he recognised the Anglian warrior who had accompanied us on the road north. He didn’t acknowledge the acquaintance before his eyes moved on, searching the room, sticking when he got to Bronwyn before moving on again. He scanned back again when his eyes failed to find his target.
Me.
My mouth turned down as anger rolled through me. The room became a tad darker as the sky outside clouded over ominously and we became reliant solely on the candles which had been lit around the room – no doubt, in preparation for the effect the Britons’ presence typically had on electric lighting. Which I now realised had been unaffected until this moment. Until I had used magic.
But I remembered from my childhood instances where the Britons’ presence had left the whole city without power. Did it only happen when magic was in use? But the Britons were forbidden to use magic inside the walls. My awareness of my effect on my surroundings slipped away as Marcus stepped further into the room. Closer.
He had killed Devyn. His father had pulled the trigger but Marcus was who I really blamed. Dolon had just been following his nature. That he had shot Devyn once he no longer had use for him had been inevitable. You couldn’t kick a dog for barking. Marcus though, Marcus the white knight, saviour of his people, healer of the masses. My friend. He had betrayed us. He had lured us there. He was the reason Devyn was dead.
“My lady,” came Gideon’s urgent voice.
If I killed Marcus here in front of everyone, would I still be able to find my daughter? What if he was the one who had her? I felt sick. It was possible. He was a doctor, obsessed with curing the illness. If anyone knew where my daughter was with her power, he would.
Gideon stepped into my personal space, his finger running lightly down the bare skin of my neck. He lowered his head and whispered in my ear under the guise of nibbling kisses.
“Stop,” he hissed. He pulled my lower body into him, bringing me more securely into his warmth where I couldn’t fail to notice his presence. I blinked and inhaled the smell of sweat and horse and man. I put a hand up onto his broad chest as I centred myself and released the power that had fermented under my skin and pulled the clouds into the sky.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he said in a low voice and escorted me out of the room before I did something stupid.
We arrived back out in the lobby where liveried servants waited and, despite our somewhat earlier than expected exit from the reception, they showed us to our allocated room.
The room was beautiful, classically lined with intricate mosaic work on the floor and an open window that looked out over one of the great avenues of the city facing west. The reds and oranges of the setting sun could still be glimpsed between the towers above us.
I took a deep breath as I felt rather than heard Gideon come to a stop behind me.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
Was I? I wasn’t too sure I was. I hadn’t expected to react so strongly to Marcus.
Gideon curled his body around mine, placing a large palm over my stomach as he drew me close. He made me feel protected and safe. I drew strength from his closeness, it grounded my body and soul in a way that only he could give me. But Avalon should have freed us, I thought. I shouldn’t need him like that anymore.
I drew a shuddering breath and pulled away. Turning around, I saw his closed face, and how he watched mine in the lengthening shadows. I don’t know why I thought that moment downstairs and his closeness here meant anything but I had, and that closed-off expression was like a slap in the face.
“I don’t know what came over me,” I found enough voice to say. “Thank you.”
He pushed his fingers back through his hair, rolling his shoulders as he made his way over to the bed where he casually stretched out his length.
I rounded and flexed my own shoulders to shake off some of the tension that threatened to snap my bones in two.
“Why do you do that?” I asked the question into the quiet evening. My hands clenched as I waited for his answer.
“Do what?” he asked lazily.
“Kiss me, touch me,” I clarified. “Even though you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” he said so coldly that if his tone were a physical thing, it would have given me frostbite.
He exhaled.
“I don’t hate you,” he repeated, this time in a tone that was slightly more in tune with his words.
“Right,” I said and, wrapping my arms around myself, turned to look out over the city once again. The lights twinkled in the growing twilight. The rest of the city, I noted, continued to operate, only the Governor’s Palace struggling technologically from my recent release of energy.
“Sometimes it seems like touch is the only thing that will refocus you,” he said, finally answering my question. “I suppose I saw your last partner do it.”
Devyn. It was a technique Devyn had used, particularly in the early days when I had struggled to pull out of magic once I got caught up in the energy, in the flow and pull of it. Sometimes I sort of forgot I lived in a body.
“There must be another way,” I conjectured. “I’m sure previous Griffins didn’t use this technique.”
“Ah, and here I thought you were worried about me.” He huffed. “You would prefer I didn’t touch you?”
“No, that’s not it,” I started, but I stopped, not sure what to say. I felt so in my head all the time, overthinking everything, or outside of myself, tackling the ley lines which left me adrift. I lived for those touches. He was the only person who ever touched me now that Féile was gone. Merely being in his proximity was enough to keep me grounded, but today he had touched me, put me back in my body when I had been at risk of revealing myself in the middle of the reception.
The truth was that I missed his touch.
“Do you think she’s close?” I asked, desperate to change the subject and turning to the other topic that pulled my thoughts in a never-ending cycle of worry.
I turned when he didn’t answer. He shook his head slowly.
Right. I knew better. Historically, the Governor’s Palace, like the White Tower which was the praetor’s residence, wasn’t under the same level of surveillance as the rest of the city but we had agreed to be circumspect even with the charms. We couldn’t be sure the city wasn’t listening.
He extended a hand in my direction. Confused, I took a tentative step forward and placed my hand in his. He pulled me toward him and I found myself with one hip against the bed and my hand on his chest.
“What are you doing?” I asked, a betraying tremor in my voice.
His hooded gaze looked up at me, a slight upward tug at one corner of his lips.
“If you don’t recognise it I must not be doing it very well,” he said with a distracted air. His free hand traced a pattern on the oath tattoo that sat beneath the sensitive top layer of skin of my inner wrist. We had shared purpose here. He had sworn to find Féile, the only oath he had ever given as far as I was aware. His touch was having other effects than a simple reminder of his vow, as he knew only too well.
“You expended a lot of energy yesterday,” he remarked, his lips mesmerising as they formed the words. “You don’t need this?”
He was doing this to check on me, to see if after my efforts at Avebury I needed him. I pulled my hand away.
“No, thank you,” I said smartly, tugging on the hand he still held.
There was a flash in his eyes, and then in a single manoeuvre I was no longer beside the bed but on it, rolled under him, his muscula
r body caging mine as he hovered above me.
“No, thank you,” he repeated mockingly. “The lady declines?”
He pushed his hips into mine teasingly, tauntingly. I pushed back. I hated it when he called me by my title – I had from the moment we first met. It didn’t matter that he did so now only because we couldn’t risk anyone using my real name. Either one of them. And he had failed to use the name they had given me since we got here.
“Yes, I decline,” I grunted trying to push him away.
He raised himself higher, granting me space but not escape.
“You don’t need this?” he asked.
Need it? No, I didn’t need it. I didn’t feel the hollowness that used to pull me down after a bout with the ley lines. Perhaps using the magic Avalon had gifted me rather than raiding my own resources didn’t affect me the same way. Or perhaps Nimue had granted my request and made it so I didn’t need him like before. But did I want it?
“You’ve barely spoken to me in weeks.”
His mouth twisted in a strange smile.
“That’s never bothered you before.”
I turned my face away. “Well it bothers me now,” I said as I pushed at his unmoving broad chest again.
His fingers caught my chin and turned my face back to his.
“Why?” he asked. “If you truly don’t need me anymore, what does it matter?”
My eyes watered as I looked up at him. I didn’t know why. I didn’t, I insisted to myself. But whatever he read there seemed to satisfy him, and his mouth swooped down and claimed mine. His body relaxed. I could escape if I wanted to. This kiss was the only thing that held me now.
I kissed him back deeply, thoroughly. Not need this? I would die if I didn’t have it, if I didn’t have him.
He pulled back in the dark, lifting his tunic over his head, giving me a moment of space, of time, to consider my next action. Time I used to pull free of my own clothes.
Legend of the Lakes Page 25
