Dragon Kin

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  A round table was set up in Arawn’s antechamber, where Ilsa presumed his captains and battle commander would join Arawn and Nimue to eat. It would leave Ilsa free to dine in her own chamber, a not unpleasant proposition. Although, when she emerged from the bathhouse shortly before sunset, Stilicho stood waiting on the stony ground beyond the door.

  He had returned to his urbane, controlled demeanor. Ilsa forbore to remind him of what Nimue had done, even though she longed to ask him what it had felt like to be the victim of real magic.

  “The Lady has requested you attend the supper table,” Stilicho told her.

  “Me? Are you sure it is me she asked for?”

  “‘Ilsa the Hunter’, she said.” Stilicho’s mouth turned down. “There is no other of that name.”

  Ilsa wrapped the cloak about her, for the chill in the air felt even colder when she first stepped out of the bathhouse. “I must hurry,” she said.

  “Yes,” Stilicho said, his tone dry.

  ILSA WAS NOT THE only woman whom Nimue had requested attend the meal. As Ilsa moved across the corridor from her bedchamber to Arawn’s antechamber, Evaine and Elaine hurried toward her, both adjusting their mantles and their hair and sliding bracelets into place.

  Ilsa was struck again, as she was often, with the beauty of the two princesses. They were lovely, pure and without visible imperfections, yet despite their outward appearance, they were also women of good character. Perhaps that was what made them so remarkable and caused kings from kingdoms across Europe and Asia Minor to approach Arawn with marriage proposals. Great beauties often lacked humility and good grace, for they had no need of them—their beauty compensated for the lack and let men forgive them for almost any sin. Neither Evaine nor Elaine was guilty of that emptiness.

  “You, too?” Ilsa asked.

  “I was surprised, too,” Elaine said breathlessly. “Not that she asked for you, but for me. She liked you.”

  “She did?” Ilsa said, startled.

  Evaine rolled her eyes. “She cast a spell over Stilicho because she wanted to impress you.”

  “Oh.” Ilsa caught up her sagging jaw. “I did not realize…”

  Elaine laughed. “Stilicho is far too confident. The lesson in humility will do him good. Shall we go in?”

  Evaine gestured to the guard, who pushed the door open for them.

  Arawn stood behind his big chair, drawn up to the table. The table was spread with meat dishes and a tureen of the shellfish stew which was a daily staple in Brittany. There were sweetmeats and vegetables that steamed.

  Nimue also stood waiting. She smiled when she saw them. “We are all here. Good.”

  Arawn scowled.

  “Where are the servants?” Ilsa murmured to him.

  “We are to serve ourselves,” Arawn said shortly.

  They sat.

  “This feels strange, to have so few sitting at the table, and a high, round table at that,” Elaine said brightly.

  “You will learn to discard many customs of your Roman heritage, Elaine,” Nimue said, as she settled on the chair beside Arawn.

  Elaine’s eyes widened. She looked frightened. Had Nimue just prophesied her future?

  Ilsa touched Elaine’s wrist. “Eat. Everything always seems better when you are not hungry.”

  Elaine nodded and reached for the spoon to ladle the shellfish stew into her bowl. Her gaze remained firmly on the tureen.

  Nimue carved off three neat slices from the venison. “I have asked only you to dine with me, because the four of you have roles to play in a future which has arrived more quickly than I foresaw. I must put you on the path to that future.”

  Arawn reached for the wine. “Is there any hope in your future?” he growled. “Or is it as bleak as you say the future usually is?”

  Nimue did not seem put out by his tone, which was far from polite. “It depends how far into the future one peers. The farther one can see, the brighter the future becomes, yet the path between here and there is often dark and difficult. It is the only path to that future, though.”

  “We must take your word for it?” Arawn growled. “If you tell me I must walk upon red coals to reach a happy future, perhaps I will choose not to.”

  “You can choose a different path, of course,” Nimue said, still quiet and unmoved. “Such is the challenge of my work. I must anticipate even your objections, king.” She ate a small mouthful of the venison and sipped her wine, while Arawn glared at her. “I am the Lady of the Lake,” she told him. “Has not the Lady served your kingdom well in the past?”

  “Yes,” Arawn growled.

  “Do you trust the Lady works for the betterment of your people and people everywhere?”

  He pushed his hand through his hair. “Yes,” he said at last.

  “Trust in the office, if you do not trust me. What I do now, what I have ever done, is only to better mankind. Even petty displays of power have a purpose.” Her gaze flickered toward Ilsa, then back to Arawn.

  It was Arawn whom she must convince of her good intentions. While the Lady held dominion over minds and bodies, Arawn was the king she served.

  Arawn rubbed his chin, his whiskers rasping. Ilsa could almost feel his doubt.

  “The problem, Nimue,” Ilsa found herself saying, “is that you speak of great affairs and far flung futures, while we face problems far closer to home and cannot look up from them.”

  Arawn grunted and drank.

  Nimue replied, “Did you not tell your husband, Ilsa, that the animals and birds teach a man everything he needed to learn?”

  Ilsa caught her breath, a cold shudder rippling through her.

  Elaine and Evaine watched with close attention, their meals forgotten.

  Nimue nodded. “They were good words,” she said. “Wise beyond what you realize. You hunt hawks, who hunt smaller birds, who hunt insects and worms, who feed upon even smaller creatures in the soil and the trees. Trees provide shelter and change the air we breathe. What you have sensed about the animals and the trees and the world beyond these windows is true of everything and everyone, Ilsa. We are all connected in ways we often cannot see. What we do affects everything else. Take away the worms and the hawks will die, even though neither of them senses the other.”

  Ilsa drew in a harsh breath. “Are we the worms or the hawks?”

  Nimue smiled. “Neither. I only mean to confirm the great lesson you have begun to learn is a true one. It is why I speak now of matters the Lady usually keeps to herself. A thing has happened in Morbihan that forces me to reveal the arrangements I must put in place. Time is short.”

  She turned to Arawn. “You see me dabbling in affairs beyond your borders and think I am trying to distract you from your work. Your queen understands, though, that what I do will affect your kingdom, too.”

  “What is this thing that has happened?” Arawn demanded. His tone was not so gruff.

  “A boy stole aboard a ship in Wales and arrived in Carnac,” Nimue said. Ilsa watched her gaze turn inward and unfocused. Her voice smoothed and grew stronger. “A tiny pebble dropped upon the shore and has begun a cascade which will change the world. From that pebble will grow kings and kingdoms. Their deeds will be sung in song and tales which will last into a future where men fly among the stars themselves. There, they will become another pebble upon another shore that changes the future of mankind.”

  The air grew chilled around them as everyone at the table stared at Nimue. As she finished speaking, wind gusted through the high windows. The torches on the wall fluttered. With a flare, they extinguish altogether, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the small lamp upon the table with its three tiny flames.

  Evaine’s shaky breath was the only sound. Her eyes were wide and black in the lamp light.

  Nimue stirred and put her hand to her temple. “I’m sorry…it comes upon me in this way, sometimes.” She rubbed her temples, then reached out for her wine cup. Her hand trembled.

  Still no one moved. Ilsa’s throat
was too tight to speak. She could barely breathe. For one tiny moment, it felt as though she had seen the future herself. She had glimpsed the cycle of man through time and how the tiny decisions she made now could reach through time itself to tap the shoulders of people not yet born and change them.

  She shuddered. Was this real magic? Was magic a power than every human held in their grasp, of which they remained ignorant?

  Nimue drank deeply and sighed. “I do apologize.” She waved her hand.

  The torches flared and came back to life, and light filled the room once more.

  Elaine gasped.

  Arawn cleared his throat. “Perhaps…you might explain this thing that has happened in Morbihan?” he said, his tone reasonable.

  “You will be acquainted with it soon enough.” Nimue sounded ill. Her voice was weak and the glow that wrapped her diminished. “The boy is called Myrddin Emrys. Ambrosius has taken him under his wing and arranged the most knowledgeable men to teach him. Uther believes Ambrosius to be obsessed in the Roman way. Uther, though, will soon learn the truth for himself…that Merlin Emrys is Ambrosius’ son. It is how it will start.”

  “What will start?” Ilsa asked.

  “Why should I care about anything that happens in Budic’s kingdom?” Arawn added.

  “You ask that only because you are angry about Budic’s lack of regard for his bastard daughter, king,” Nimue said.

  Arawn’s gaze flickered toward Ilsa and away.

  Ilsa’s heart squeezed a little tighter. She concentrated on cutting her slice of mutton into smaller and smaller pieces, as Nimue continued speaking.

  “Your sister is hand fasted with Bors of Guannes,” Nimue said. “You must hurry the wedding now, for that will bring you into the sphere of men who will see Ambrosius crowned High King of Britain.”

  Arawn put down his cup with a soft thud. “It will happen? Ambrosius will win Britain?” The hope in his voice was raw and naked.

  Nimue sipped her wine once more. “The coming of Merlin makes that future possible. I seek to enhance the possibility. Evaine must marry Bors. That is another step.”

  “Another?” Elaine said sharply. “What was the first?”

  Nimue gave a small lift of her shoulders. “Your brother married the hunter he came across in the forest, merely to save his people.”

  WHEN THE STRANGE AND unsettling supper was finished, Nimue rose and thanked Arawn. She turned to Ilsa. “I would have you accompany me to my quarters, if Arawn is agreeable.”

  Ilsa looked at Arawn, startled. He frowned. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

  Nimue wasn’t looking at him yet seemed to sense his approval. She moved to the door, the hem of the white gown trailing behind her. Her glow had returned.

  Ilsa had studied the glow during the meal, trying to determine if it was magic, or merely a trick of the light against the white clothing and her white skin and hair. She was still undecided.

  She caught up with Nimue and walked beside her, feeling shorter than usual. Nimue remained silent until they moved out into the hall. The fire was extinguished and everyone gone to their rooms, or lingered in the triclinium, for Ilsa could still hear chatter from that direction.

  They moved down the length of the hall to the verandah which led to the east wing where Nimue’s guest chamber waited. A nearly full moon lifted above the horizon before them, as they stepped down to the verandah level. Nimue paused with a hand on the half-wall, looking at the moon with a small smile.

  A high, soft hoot sounded and a flutter of wings. Something white flashed high in the night sky.

  It was an owl, soaring on the wing, gliding down to where Nimue lifted her hand toward it. The owl dropped its claws onto the wall and folded its wings and hooted softly at Nimue, its eyes large and unblinking.

  Nimue stroked the bird’s head. “A hunter of the night,” she said, her smile growing. “I wanted to speak to you, Ilsa. I saw the women who are in service to you. They are kind enough although they are much older than you. You have not seen fit to find yourself companion ladies who suit you better?”

  Ilsa strung her fingers together. She looked down at them.

  “You may speak freely with me,” Nimue said.

  “I have learned much from them,” Ilsa said. “They have served all the queens before me, and if I…If I am not…”

  “If your fate is to be the same as every wife before you, why bother finding anyone else?” Nimue finished.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Yet you do not believe the curse exists.”

  Ilsa wanted to be shocked Nimue knew this, too, although she had grown accustomed to the idea that the Lady knew everything in her heart and mind.

  Nimue nodded, as if she had seen Ilsa’s resignation, too. “Have you considered that if you act as if the curse does not exist, you will not be playing into its hand, if it does exist?”

  Ilsa puzzled it out. “You mean, if I act as though the curse is real, I will make it real?” She shuddered at the thought. “That is…disturbing.”

  “Knowing the future is disturbing,” Nimue said. “Curses are merely different forms of prophecy. Prophecy is the tool of my life’s work. Think about what I have said.”

  “I will.”

  “And, if I may…there is a woman in my care—she is close to my age. Her skills and her inclinations make her unfit for training as an adept. She would, though, make a fine lady-in-waiting to a queen. She was born in a royal household and understands the workings and politics which can trip the unwary.”

  Ilsa considered the idea. If she was to pretend the curse did not exist, she should find herself more suitable companions. “What is her name?”

  “Gwen,” Nimue said.

  Ilsa shuddered hard. The owl fluttered and resettled, with a soft squawk. Nimue stroked its head, soothing it, her gaze upon Ilsa’s face.

  “What was that?” Ilsa breathed.

  “You have been touched by time,” Nimue said. “A ghost of the future brushed past you and you felt it, that is all.” She straightened. “I will send Gwen to you as soon as I return tomorrow. Goodnight, Ilsa the Hunter. I will see you soon, for we will travel together to Guannes for the wedding.” Her smile was that of a young girl, full of delight and simple happiness. “We will have fun, you and I.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gwen of the Lake suited Ilsa very well indeed. Her arrival was the stirring of a breeze through the house, when everyone would pause from their work and stretch, their senses turning to the outdoors.

  Gwen’s appearance was similar to many Celtic women, for she was dark of hair and eyes and had fine pale skin. As Ilsa discovered, she came from a far more ancient and noble bloodline than any Celtic tribe could offer. She was a small woman, even shorter than Ilsa, which was a novelty. Ilsa had never met anyone shorter than her besides small children.

  The first time Ilsa spotted the permanent markings on Gwen’s shoulders and arms, Gwen had turned her shoulder to glance at them herself. “Those?” she said, even though Ilsa had said nothing. “They’re traditional. The eldest daughter of the king receives them.”

  “What king would that be?”

  “You would not have heard of him,” Gwen replied. “He no longer controls any lands you recognize. Once, though, our people ruled the north.”

  Ilsa asked no more questions of Gwen. To ask would betray her ignorance of what people were in the north…and what north would that be? North of Brittany was the sea. North of Britain was an unknown country which even the Romans had not dared to tame. Was it that north? If it was, then how had Gwen come to be with the Lady? If her father was a king of those people, surely he would want to use his daughter to seal an important alliance…

  Instead, Ilsa said diffidently, “Nimue said you knew the ways of the court and politics.”

  “The Roman style courts of the southern kings are the same as those of my people—men jostling for power while women control affairs behind them.” Gwen laughed. “Politics is power, and p
ower works the same no matter where one goes. You look shocked.”

  “I am. I was not aware than women control affairs at all. That is the province of kings, isn’t it?”

  “And who controls the king?” Gwen replied. Then she laughed again. “I can see you have much to learn about the politics of the bedchamber, my lady.”

  The other four women—Merryn, Eseld, Rigantona and Dilas—tried to pretend they were not listening, for Ilsa and Gwen were sitting on the edge of the bed only a few paces away. Then they tried not to look shocked at Gwen’s observation.

  Gwen’s conversation was often ribald and always stimulating. It always left Ilsa plenty to think about, especially in the long hours of the night when Arawn had completed his duties and left her to sleep.

  There were other factors about Gwen which provoked heavy thought, including the gowns she wore.

  Gwen did not wear the overdresses, long mantles and veils and heavy jewelry Evaine and Elaine favored and the rest of the household wore to follow suite. Her gowns were of a different cut and style, each of them becoming.

  When Ilsa questioned her on the origins of the style, Gwen had spread the blue gown over her knee, with a reminiscent smile. “This is how British noble women dressed long before the Romans arrived. We never adopted the Roman customs. We wear them still.”

  The gowns hugged Gwen’s figure, unlike the overdresses Ilsa already had. The shift Gwen wore beneath was not on display. It was for warmth and comfort. The sleeves of the gown were long and could be folded out of the way. “Although for hunting and fighting, we wear leather and armor, just as the men do,” Gwen explained

  Ilsa recoiled. “You fight?”

  Gwen smiled. “It is only the Romans who think a woman cannot fight, just because she is weaker and smaller. Even the Saxons have auxiliary flanking forces made up of their best women fighters, when they do not leave them at home to guard their farms and families. Surely you have heard of this?”

  Ilsa shook her head.

  “I hear you are good with a bow. You could fight,” Gwen suggested.