Arawn cleared his throat and looked away.
“If I am wrong about the curse and did nothing when marrying you might break it, it would be my fault no rain falls,” Ilsa finished.
“You agreed to the marriage just in case?” Arawn asked.
Ilsa shrugged. “If I said no and there is no curse, I will have done no harm. If I said no and there is a curse, I would bring more harm on innocent people.”
“By saying yes, you risk dying yourself,” Arawn said, his voice harsh. “If there is no curse, you may be safe enough. If there is…”
“I might still be safe, if I break it.” She threaded her hands together. “People are suffering. Surely it is worth trying anything which might work? Even this.”
His gaze met hers. “Yes,” he breathed. “That is exactly right. It is what I told myself, the day we met—that I would do anything, no matter how mad it might seem, if there was a chance it would work.”
He really had the most interesting eyes, Ilsa decided. She had not noticed before. They were quite black and the whites were clear. Thick, long lashes framed them. The lashes might have been too feminine, except they were offset by a strong chin and jaw. No one would ever accuse Arawn of being weak. On her way to break her fast in the mornings, she had seen Arawn wrestle larger men during daily training in the quadrangle and bring them to the ground easily.
“I was on my way to sprinkle water upon stones, to see if it would work,” he said.
Ilsa had the strangest sensation Arawn was not thinking about what he was saying. His thoughts were elsewhere.
She shifted on her feet. “I am ready to return to the house, now. That is why you are here, isn’t it? To take me back?”
“I came,” Arawn said, reaching for the horse’s reins, “to make sure you had not tripped and broken your neck or fallen foul of a robber or man with an observant eye.”
“You knew I had gone hunting?”
“Your bow was gone.” He walked around the horse and drew the reins over his head. His gaze met hers over the back of the horse. “I understand why you fret about being enclosed in the house. You are not used to the restrictions which come with such responsibility. If you mean what you said about being willing to try anything, then I ask that you give your attempt every chance to work.”
“By not risking my neck,” Ilsa said and shook her head. “I wish I had not told you. You will use it against me now, every time I wish to do something that doesn’t suit you.”
His brows came together. “I only ask that you restrict yourself for a while. A short while, until we know if we are right or wrong or neither. For the sake of my people, I ask you this.”
Ilsa sighed. “Very well.”
He jumped on the horse and held out his arm. “Get up.”
Ilsa reached for his hand.
“Where is your ring?” he asked.
She dropped her hand. “In my arrow bag. It falls off all the time, my lord. I didn’t want to risk losing it among the trees. And I thought people might know the ring, too.”
“They would,” Arawn said, relaxing. He held out his hand again and hoisted her up onto the horse behind him. She gripped his belt as she had the first time. He plucked her wrists away from the leather and drew her arms around him. “You do not smell in the least objectionable and there is not a spot of mud on you,” he said. “I would rather you be safe. Hold tightly.”
He had pulled her arms around him so firmly her chest pressed up against his back. He was warm and solid and his scent was familiar. When had she grown so accustomed to the way he smelled?
As the stallion trotted out into the cart track, she felt in no danger of falling backward if he leapt forward, the way she had before. Arawn was right about this. What else might he be right about?
Was the curse real?
As Arawn gathered the men around him once more and the unit galloped for the ferry and home, Ilsa struggled with the notion that even though she did not believe in the curse, it may actually exist. If it did, then it was the cause of the drought, not a great generational cycle of weather as the old men in the village insisted.
She had married Arawn because of the possibility that the curse existed. Therefore, to maximize the likelihood she might break the curse, she must act as if the curse was real. She should not risk herself. Not in any way.
Only…she didn’t know how she could withstand being contained inside the house—even a grand house like Arawn’s. It had been so good today to move freely among trees.
Yet, if the curse was real… And so her mind continued to twist, first one way, then the other, fighting itself. As they clattered across the little bridge over the pond and into the quadrangle of the house, she still could not absolutely agree with Arawn’s request that she restrict herself indefinitely. It was not in her nature.
Arawn handed her down, as grooms hurried out to help with the horses. He held onto to her hand and slid to the ground beside her. They were surrounded by restless horses and men, hidden from everyone.
His fingers tightened their grip on hers for a moment and his gaze met hers. “I know what it is I am asking of you,” he said quietly.
Ilsa swallowed.
His gaze held steady. “If you find you must be free, promise me you will not slip out as you did today. Come to me, instead. Explain your need. I can arrange a safe escort, men to watch over you.”
“Your men cannot move quietly, my lord. Any prey with a heartbeat would scatter before I could close in on them.”
“Would it not be enough to walk among the trees and pretend?” he asked, his tone reasonable. “You failed to catch anything this morning. Future hunts might also be unsuccessful, yes?”
“I suppose, yes,” she said. Walking among the trees this morning had been enough, until she had caught hint of the hawk’s movement.
“My lord!” One of Arawn’s men pushed through the horses. “I found it!” He held up Ilsa’s arrow. The hawk was hit squarely and cleanly through the breast and laid still in the man’s palm.
Arawn stared at the catch, his eyes widening. “Impossible!” he breathed and looked at Ilsa.
She ducked her head, trying to hide her smile.
Arawn threw his head back and laughed. “Take it to the kitchens, Baldash! Tell the cook to prepare it for my lady’s supper!”
“My lord Arawn!” Stilicho cried. He strode around the length of the verandah, heading for the nearest opening in the wall, where he moved out to meet Arawn at the edge of the quadrangle.
Arawn stopped and listened with his head down as Stilicho murmured. He turned and looked for Ilsa and waved her forward.
Ilsa hurried to his side. “My lord?”
Stilicho’s eyes widened as they took in her appearance. He regathered his focus and said, “We have noble guests, my lady. Nimue, Lady of the Lake, arrived with her retinue a short while ago. She awaits an audience.”
“Have a fire set in the hall, Stilicho, and wine and food prepared,” Arawn said. He glanced at Ilsa. “It is the usual custom,” he said, with a note in his voice which sounded apologetic.
Ilsa realized that such an order was something she should have given. The entertainment of royal and noble guests was her responsibility. She nodded. “Pull the furs from the floor in my bedchamber, Stilicho. Put them in the hall, beneath the chairs. It will add to the warmth and comfort.”
Arawn lifted his brows. “A fine idea,” he said. “Use mine, too.”
“I must change,” Ilsa replied and hurried for her room, shedding her bow and arrows, her cap and her cloak as she went.
The first guest. If she was to be the queen and break the curse, she must behave as one. Only, it was hard to rid herself of the joy of having breathed free air, even for a short while.
While the four women shrieked and fussed about the servants shifting their stools and the table to get at the furs beneath, Ilsa stood at the open cupboard and chose a gown from among the few sitting upon the shelves.
Merryn moved up
behind her and peered over her shoulder. “A guest, my lady?” she asked.
“Nimue, Lady of the Lake,” Ilsa replied.
“Lord above, protect us,” Merryn muttered and crossed herself.
“If that is his role, he has not done well so far, has he?” Ilsa asked her and pulled out the emerald green gown. As Merryn’s mouth parted in surprise, Ilsa shook out the dress. “Where is the golden underdress?” she asked.
NIMUE, LADY OF THE LAKE, was the latest in a long line of powerful, gifted women who had donned the mantle and the responsibility to care for the minds and bodies of the kingdom. The Lady’s powers extended beyond the edges of the King of Brocéliande’s lands, though. Her reputation for healing and other gifts, including prophecy, were known across Greater and Lesser Britain, Gaul and beyond.
Perhaps even Rome had heard of her, although no one sought her from that far away. Since the withdrawal of Roman troops from Britain forty years ago, news from Rome had grown scarce. What news did arrive was unhappy. Civil wars, assassinated emperors, dying citizens. Fires, disease. The little information the western borders of Rome did hear was enough to convince them they were on their own—Rome had too many troubles of its own to deal with. It would not have surprised anyone to hear Rome had collapsed, the buildings torn down, the earth salted over, and its people scattered.
Most Britons understood they must take care of their own affairs now, even though Britain was still technically a Roman province. They turned, instead, to the old gods, the old ways, and strengths and resources native to Britain. One of those resources was the Lady of the Lake.
Ilsa met her in the hall, where the furs were spread and chairs arranged for the meeting. The household appeared one by one, still tugging finery into place and brushing at their hair, to stand between the chairs and the fire, to receive the grand guest.
Stilicho did the introductions. Arawn, as the king to whom the Lady was subject, could not. “My lady Nimue, the king is pleased to present to you his queen, Ilsa.”
Ilsa inclined her head as she had seen Stilicho do.
“Queen Ilsa, this is Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, the king’s most loyal subject, and a servant of the people. I commend her to you,” Stilicho finished.
His tone was stiff and formal. Ilsa guessed he did not like Nimue. Of course, he could not show his dislike.
Nimue’s smile was small as she murmured an acknowledgement. Nimue was tall for a woman. She was almost as tall as Arawn. However, she was not correspondingly wide. She was a slender woman—and barely a woman at that. She looked to be near Ilsa’s age of twenty, perhaps even younger.
It was difficult to judge, for even though Nimue wore no cloak or mantle, she seemed to be wrapped in a glowing light. Her hair was lighter than any Saxon’s, almost white in appearance, and the long tresses hung freely about her shoulders and hips. Her gown was white, edged with golden thread, and her shift was white, too. The gown, which might be the finest spun wool or made from light itself, hung in elegant folds from her hips to sweep the floor behind her as she walked. Despite the length, the cloth was immaculate, with nary a stain to ruin the light and warmth.
Nimue’s eyes, on the other hand, were far-seeing and wise. They reflected a much older person. Wisdom was there, and great strength. If it was true Nimue had made her first prophecy when she was still a child, foretelling the fall of Benoic and the coming of Ban and Bors to Lesser Britain—which had indeed happened only a year later—then Nimue had spent all the intervening years peering into the future. Perhaps it explained the distant look in her eyes.
Nimue considered Ilsa for a long, silent moment. She did not seem to be in a hurry to fill the silence. She did not seem uncomfortable with not speaking. Then she stirred and said with a musical voice, “So…Ilsa the Hunter. We meet at last.”
Ilsa gasped. “You know of me?”
“I do. You lived near my lands and have wandered my borders many times.” Nimue smiled. “You have a fondness for hedgehogs.”
Stilicho, who remained outside the circle, awaiting the king’s pleasure, took a step farther back, away from Nimue, his gaze on her back.
Ilsa gripped her hands together. Arawn was frowning at the mention of hunting. “I no longer hunt,” she said.
“You no longer hunt hedgehogs and deer and hawks,” Nimue said.
“Let us sit and partake of wine,” Arawn said, motioning to the three chairs sitting upon the furs. None of the three was Arawn’s great, high-backed chair. They were all the low Roman-styled chairs with crossed legs.
Ilsa waited for Arawn and Nimue to select their chairs. She took the remaining one and arranged her dress around her knees.
Nimue’s dress, she noted, seemed to fold and trail away from the chair in a beautiful curve, all without Nimue touching it.
Nimue accepted the cup of wine Arawn held toward her with a nod of thanks. She sipped then said to Arawn, “In the cart I brought with me are thirty barrels of water from my lake. The water was poured through fine cloth and boiled in a kettle larger than any man. It is safe to drink. It is my gift to you and your kingdom, Arawn. I will happily refill the barrels whenever you need them.”
Arawn’s eyes widened. “You are most generous, Nimue. The water is gratefully received.”
“I realize thirty barrels is but a token,” Nimue added. “I have not yet learned the spell to make rain.”
Stilicho hissed. Between Arawn and Nimue, Ilsa could see his hand, held down by his side, making a powerful sign against witchcraft and evil.
“There is a spell to make rain?” Ilsa asked, the words pushed out of her in a gasp.
Arawn laughed. “Of course there is not. Spells are for witches. Nimue is joking.”
Nimue’s smile curved the corners of her mouth and made her eyes dance. “My dominion is over living things, which, alas, does not include rain or thunder or lightning. Perhaps it is as well, for if I could control lightning, there would be far fewer fools in the world.”
Arawn laughed, while Ilsa stared at the tall woman, astonished. This was the Lady of the Lake? The most powerful woman in Britain? “Is it true you can turn people into a pillar of stone?” Ilsa asked.
Arawn’s laughter faded.
Ilsa squeezed her hands together. “I meant no offense. I am not used to magic and curses and people with…gifts.”
Nimue laughed. It was a merry peel, making her sound young. “Is that what the people say of me? That I turn them to stone? Oh, my…” She sighed and wiped her eyes. “If only it was a gift,” she added softly, her amusement disappearing. Even the light wrapped about her seemed to fade for a short moment.
Ilsa’s heart fluttered. “You can?”
“You overstep your bounds, wife,” Arawn said.
Nimue held up her hand. “It is a reasonable question,” she told him. “Especially for a queen still learning all she must to serve her kingdom.” Nimue’s gaze slid to Ilsa. “Are you asking if I have the power to change lead to gold and frogs to princes?”
Ilsa drew back, startled. Then she realized. “Oh…you are joking again.” Although, behind Nimue, Stilicho was still making the signs, his cheeks thin and his eyes wide.
Nimue’s smile grew. “Any charlatan can claim such wonders. They will promise to make it rain if you cross their hands with gold. They will make a man love a woman for a price. They cast spells to bring a child to a barren woman…these are the talents of witches and priests and lesser gods, who all demand their price for an uncertain outcome. True power, though…” Her smile faded. “Real power takes its price from the one who wields it. It tears through one, shredding the soul. With each glimpse of the future comes a corresponding burden, for few futures are happy.”
Ilsa clutched the cup which had been handed to her, her heart beating unhappily. “You know my future…” she breathed.
“I know of many futures for you,” Nimue breathed. “As I also know the many futures lying before your king. I even know the choices I will face. Finding the right fu
ture…ah, well, that is the test.”
“You make the future?” Arawn asked, his voice low. He looked as unsettled as Ilsa felt.
Nimue gave him a warm smile. “We all make the future, with every simple decision. Stilicho, for example, chooses to be afraid of a woman he thinks of as a witch. Right now, he wonders if I can see into his mind and know how his people used to deal with witches.”
She did not shift her gaze from Arawn, even though Stilicho drew in a startled, gasping breath. His was not the only gasp. From the people standing behind him, Ilsa could see other signs against evil being made, not all of them Christian.
Nimue still did not move. She said, with a smile, “Are you not afraid I might turn you into stone, Stilicho?”
Ilsa was watching Stilicho and the people behind him, so when Nimue said the word “stone”, Ilsa saw Stilicho grow still. His hand hung in the air, half-way through making another sign. His breath halted. He did not blink.
Arawn licked his lips. “He is as still as stone…” he whispered.
Everyone standing close to Stilicho drew backward, their eyes wide.
“Demonstrations of power often look like simple tricks,” Nimue said, waving her hand. “They are misunderstood and earn one an undeserved reputation.”
Stilicho gasped, his hand going to his throat. He drew in a ragged breath, staggering away from the chairs. A path was cleared for him, as he turned and hurried away.
Arawn drew in a slow, slow breath and let it out. He drank. Ilsa could see the throbbing in his neck.
The demonstration had shaken him, too.
WHEN ARAWN SPOKE OF the feast being prepared for the entire household in celebration of her arrival, Nimue had demurred. “There is no need to deplete your stores in this way. If the meal has been prepared, let your people eat it before it spoils and enjoy it without the company of a witch who worries them. I would rather eat with you and those closest to you. Those whom you trust,” she added. “There is much to discuss, Arawn, and I return to the lake early tomorrow.”
Dragon Kin Page 11
