by J A Cummings
The Greek slave rose and bowed to him. “As you wish, dominus. If you require anything, there is a bell beside the bed. Ring it, and I will come.”
Arthur watched as he left the room and closed the door behind himself. The door clicked softly as the latch caught, and he heard the slave’s footfalls receding down the corridor. He fell back onto the bed and put his hands over his face. His frustration only lasted for a moment before his fatigue took over and he fell asleep without extinguishing the lamp.
A little more than an hour later, the rest of the household had retired, all except for Merlin. He drifted through the villa, feeling the echoes of the years rebounding from the stone walls and rippling up to him from the mosaic tiles beneath his feet. He enjoyed being in buildings that had a bit of antiquity to them. The lives that had been lived and lost in old structures left the barest traces behind, sealed up in the stone and ready to be released into his waiting hands. He trailed his fingertips along the wall in the corridor containing the bedrooms where Constantine and Safir slept, feeling the trails and shreds of Romans and Britons past seeping into his skin.
He saw the flickering of lamplight under the door to the room where Arthur lay, and he hesitated. He could tell from the somnolent energy emerging from the chamber that the young knight was sleeping, and that he was dreaming. Merlin had come to realize that Arthur dreamed quite frequently, and unlike most humans, his dreaming had the edge of precognition. He could taste that there was a spiritual quality to the dream that Arthur was having now, and he wondered what visions he was seeing. He could not read it, quite, not from this distance.
He crept closer, stopping with his hand against the door. He closed his eyes and opened his mind to the sleeping youth. He saw flickering golden sunlight dappling water, and he realized with a sour feeling that Arthur was dreaming again of Fergus Mor MacEirc’s ward, the oldest of the seven Ladies of the Lake, Guinevere.
Some things were meant to be, he knew, but it was not meant to be tonight. He whispered, “Newid i mi.”
His face changed shape, and his body followed. He stepped into the room as the transformation competed. Arthur did not stir, but when he did, it would not be Merlin’s face that he saw.
He went to the bed. Arthur was lying sideways across the mattress with his feet on the floor, still wearing his trousers and his tunic. Merlin bent and picked up his feet, turning him to lie with his head on the pillow. The young man’s eyes flickered once, then opened slowly. Merlin would remember those eyes for the rest of his existence. They were the bluest he had ever seen in any human face, rimmed in darker blue and surrounded by black lashes long enough to make a girl weep with envy.
Arthur’s voice was raspy as he whispered, “Amren?”
Merlin smiled. His disguise spell was foolproof. “Yes.”
Arthur sat up and grabbed his tunic - for he was no longer wearing druid robes - and pulled him down into a passionate kiss. He went willingly, happily entangling arms and legs with the youth he had come to care for far too much. Arthur clutched him close, one hand in his hair, the other on the small of his back, and they kissed as if life itself depended upon it.
Breathing became a need, and Arthur pulled away gasping for air, his eyes bright. Merlin smiled at him and stroked his beautiful face, so finely made, so perfectly proportioned. He put his hands on Arthur’s cheeks and held him still so he could look into his eyes. “So this is the face of a king,” he whispered in Amren’s voice.
“I don’t care about that. You’re here.” He pulled him tight, clutching him to his breast. He lay back again, and Merlin went with him, settling into the space between his thighs, his arms encircling Arthur’s waist. When the young man spoke again, is was in a voice thick with tears. “I have missed you so.”
“And I’ve missed you.” He rose up just enough to divest himself of his tunic, and Arthur took the opportunity to do the same. Their trousers were next, and then there was no talking, only the madness of loving. He blew out the lamp and stole some oil for his fingers, easing the experience for his young partner, preparing him gently before he pressed inside. Arthur moaned quietly and pressed his forehead against Merlin’s shoulder as the disguised druid thrust fully into his welcoming heat. It was only the second time that Arthur had ever received a man this way, and Merlin was gentle, letting him adjust to the loving intrusion into his body before he began to move.
Arthur’s hands gripped his biceps tightly, and he looked up at him with searching eyes. “Amren,” he breathed. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
His eyes misted with tears as he made love to the young man, for he knew that this would never happen again. He made it last as long as he could, and his incubus nature enabled him to draw climax after climax out of his lover. After the third time, Arthur looked up at him, a slight frown of concern and doubt upon his face. Merlin kissed the doubt away, stroking the young king’s soul with his demonic powers, compelling him to lose himself in the pleasure of the moment. He wicked life force away, drinking Arthur in, consuming it while leaving his spirit intact. Merlin could have happily consumed him entirely, to have Arthur within him forever, but he needed him alive. He satisfied himself instead with the heady taste of him and the pulsing power of his sexual energy.
He stroked Arthur’s flushed face after the young man’s fourth paroxysm of ecstasy, memorizing the love-drunk look in his starry eyes. He kissed him deeply, then allowed himself to reach an orgasm of his own. Spent with passion, Arthur collapsed into a sated heap, and Merlin pulled free of him with some regret. He lay beside him as Arthur drifted into sleep.
When he was certain that Arthur was sleeping, he whispered to him, implanting the words into his mind. “I cannot return to you again. Remember always that I love you.”
In Arthur’s mind, it was Amren who spoke the words, but it was Merlin’s heart that was breaking. He kissed him one last time, then left him in pleasure-spent slumber. Before his tears could fall, he used his powers to vanish from the villa and take refuge in the Forest of Arroy.
When Arthur finally awoke, it was late in the afternoon. His body ached and he felt exhausted, more than he ever had before. He was sticky and sweaty and in desperate need of a wash, but he was so tired that he didn’t know if he’d have the strength to walk as far as the bath house. He forced himself to his feet and pulled on the tunic he’d worn the night before. He felt surreal, as if he only partially existed. It was a disorienting feeling.
He made his way to the bath house attached to the villa. Although he heard voices in the peristyle hall and in the atrium as he was walking, he was able to avoid encountering anyone. He was painfully aware that one look at him was all it would take to reveal his activities in the night, and he wanted to avoid awkward conversations and questions he could not answer.
The water the caldarium was hot but not painful, and he sank gratefully into it, submerging completely and staying underwater for as long as he could hold his breath. He felt dirty in a way that extended past the skin.
He was convinced that whoever or whatever had come to him in the night was not Amren. The way he touched, the way he kissed, even the way he sounded when he made love - none of it was right. The face had been his dead lover’s, and the body as well, but nothing else was anything like Amren had been. He didn’t know what had come to him in his room, and he no longer believed that it had been Amren who had come to his druid hut on Samhain. The thought frightened him.
He found soap and a sponge and washed until his skin was red, but the feeling of filth remained.
Brastias and Illtyd finally reached the hillfort stronghold of the Atrebates as clouds were gathering overhead, heavy with snow. The priest-knight and the warrior approached the open palisade gate, guarded by two weary-looking sentries. One of the men held up his hand.
“Brastias,” he greeted. “Welcome home.”
“Many thanks, Mangus,” the knight replied. “Is Corvorus about?”
“He’s just come back from hunting. Bagged
a nice big stag.”
The knight nodded. “My thanks. I will see you at the fire tonight.”
He led the way into the wooden enclosure at the top of the hill. Illtyd rode slightly behind him, looking around at the settlement. It seemed quite small after the bustle of Londinium, but there were still plenty of people about. Seven round homes made of stone, thatch and wattle stood on one side of the track leading through the settlement, and another seven on the other side. The walls faced in the cardinal directions, and there were gates in each wall. Only the south-facing gate was open, which made good sense in the winter. The north wind was rarely a welcome visitor before Imbolc.
The chieftain’s house was the largest in the settlement, and a pair of large log pillars flanked the door, carved with intertwining vines and animals and painted in ochre, red, green and black. There was a large wooden rack on the southern side of the door with the skin of a deer lashed to it for drying, and another rack on the northern side sported a row of human heads, hanging by the hair.
“Who are they?” Illtyd asked.
He shrugged. “No idea. Corvorus’s latest kills, I would imagine.”
“He kills his own people?”
Brastias looked at him as if he was mad. “Of course not. Those are probably raiders from another tribe, or highwaymen, or vagabonds. He would never kill his kin.”
They dismounted outside the chieftain’s house and handed their horses over to a girl who stood waiting. She promptly took the reins and led the horses away to be watered and combed. Brastias bent low to enter the house, and Illtyd followed.
The center of the floor was dominated by a cook fire, the smoke rising through the hole in the center of the ceiling. The interior walls were hung thick with pelts, and there were four beds standing end to end in a semicircle across from the door. A bent old man with a fox fur hood sat on one of the beds, watching as a pretty young woman took his boots from his feet.
“Father,” Brastias said quietly.
Corvorus did not look up. “I have no son.”
Illtyd’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline, and Brastias sighed. “I come with news for the Atrebates, then, if my father is no longer here. Will the chieftain hear my words?”
The old man turned away. “No.”
A handsome woman with steel-gray hair in a long, thick plait stepped forward and embraced Brastias. “Welcome home, my son.”
“Mother.” He kissed her on the cheek, and she smiled.
“Will you be staying long?”
“No. Not long. Just long enough.”
His mother looked confused but only stepped away. She nodded to Illtyd. “Greeting to your friend and companion.”
“Mother, this is Sir Illtyd, from Cambria. He is of the Demetae.”
Illtyd bowed to her. “My lady.”
Brastias finished, “Illtyd, this is my mother, Ebha, Queen of the Atrebates.”
The priest turned to his companion. “I didn’t know that you were royal.”
“That’s because I no longer am.”
Queen Ebha linked her arms through theirs and said, “Let’s go outside. The wood is wet and there is too much smoke.”
It was a pretty excuse, but Brastias was grateful for it. The three of them stepped back out into the daylight.
She walked them away from the house and down the path that ran all the way around the fort, just inside the wall. When they were out of hearing range of his father’s house, Queen Ebha stopped walking and sat on a wooden bench, beckoning them to sit with her. They complied.
“Tell me your news,” she said.
Brastias nodded. “The new High King has been found.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she said, “Who is it?”
“His name is Arthur, and he is the hidden son of Uther Pendragon and his queen.”
Illtyd added, “He was spirited away from Tintagel and taken to a small settlement called Caer Gai to be raised by a knight we once served with.”
“We?” the queen echoed.
Brastias answered, “Yes. Illtyd, Sir Bedivere, Sir Ulfius and Sir Ector - the man who raised Arthur - and I all rode with King Uther against the Saxons. We fought at his side right up until he was killed at Venta Belgarum.”
She clasped her hands on her knee. “I see. And what does this new High King demand of us? You would not be here unless you meant to take something away.”
Brastias blinked as if he had been slapped. “That’s unfair.”
“Is it?”
Illtyd began to rise. “Perhaps I -”
“No,” Ebha said. “Stay. I will not bring up old grievances again.” She looked her son in the eye. “Why do you bring this news here, now, when you have not returned to us for months?”
“First, I have not come here because I have lands of my own near Mons Badonicus. Second, I came at the new king’s behest. There are those who are not happy to see him named as Uther’s heir, and he needs to know who is standing with him. I came to see if the Atrebates would throw their lot with him.”
“Sight unseen? Why would we fight for some king that we have never met?” She sounded insulted by the notion. “At least King Uther came to every chieftain himself. Why is your king so unwilling to do the same?”
“He was needed in Londinium, but he will be willing and likely eager to meet all of the chieftains once he leaves.”
“Who fights against him?”
Brastias hesitated, then said, “Lot and Uriens, to start.”
She nodded, pursing her lips. “And who fights for him?”
“Prince Constantine of Armorica, King Ban of Benoic and King Bors of Gannes, to start.”
Again, Ebha nodded. “They will be no match for the might of the North. If the Gododdin are against your Arthur, there is no way that he will stand. We will not send our men to die in a fool’s charade.”
Illtyd sighed. “Then we have wasted our time coming here. Forgive us for intruding, my lady.”
“There’s more,” Brastias said. “I am taking a wife.”
His mother’s mouth dropped open. “A wife?” she echoed.
“Yes. Her name is Garwen, and she is the niece of Bedivere, eques of the Cornovii.”
“A Roman.”
“A Gaul, actually, whose family was brought here under Roman rule.”
“The Atrebates and the Cornovii are not allies.”
Brastias sighed. “This I know.”
On the other side of his mother, Illtyd said, “The Cornovii are not your allies yet.”
Ebha looked at him shrewdly, then turned her attention back to her son. “So this is a marriage of convenience, or is this something you had no choice in?”
“I am wedding her out of love, mother. No other reason. I know that since Corvorus cast me out, I have no power to bind anyone to our tribe. I was hoping for your blessing.” He hesitated. “I saw my cousin Ardan in Londinium contending for the title of High King. He was not successful.”
She looked displeased. “You come at a bad time, Brastias. Your father is not well, and your brother looks to hasten him along. One more disruption is the last thing that our people need. And now you say that there is war coming, and you want us to send our men? No. This, I cannot do.”
Brastias nodded and studied his hands. “I see. And where is my brother now?”
She nodded toward the roundhouse nearest to the chieftain’s. “In his home, dressing the stag from this morning’s hunt. He will not be pleased to see you.”
He rose. “Of that I have no doubt.”
She stood, as well. “I will return to your father’s side and tell him your news. Come back to say goodbye before you leave.”
Illtyd found his feet and bowed to the Queen of the Atrabates as she walked away. It was very clear that Brastias was not welcome to stay the night in their stronghold, and he wondered what had transpired. Perhaps his friend would tell him once they were again upon the road.
Brastias, meanwhile, walked to his brother’s house. Illtyd trailed along
behind him, and his friend looked back and beckoned him forward. He joined him more closely as his friend rapped upon the door.
A beautiful young girl clad in only a soft leather tunic opened the door. She looked surprised when she saw him, her dark eyebrows rising in her milk-pale face. “Uncle!”
Brastias smiled. “Ailis,” he said, opening his arms. She sprang into them, giving him a fierce hug.
“I’m so happy to see you! It’s so long! Where is Briaca?”
Brastias’s face turned hard. “She has gone to the Summerlands.”
Ailis looked shocked. “But… when?”
“Six months after we left. Childbed was too much for her.”
This was a story that Illtyd had never heard, and he committed it to memory without speaking. His friend’s dark eyes flitted toward him, and he held his face impassive and did not speak.
“May I see your father?” he asked his niece politely.
“Come in,” she nodded. “Please.”
They stepped into the interior of the house. The fire in the center of the floor burned brightly despite the wetness of the wood, which crackled and sent dark smoke through the hole in the roof. On a bench near that fire, using a glowing brand to singe the hair away from a fresh deer skin, sat a man. He was not as broad as the knight, but when he looked up, their faces were so similar that Illtyd would have known him immediately as Brastias’s blood.
“Brother,” the seated man greeted. “You are bold to return here.”
“I came on the orders of the High King.”
“There is no High King.”
“There is now.” He turned toward the watching priest-knight. “Sir Illtyd of the Demetae, this is my brother, Cradawg.”
The seated man snorted. “Demetae, eh? And what have you sold to foreigners today?”
“Only gold, my lord,” Sir Illtyd answered politely.
“Which of the Demetaen towns do you come from? There are only two, if I recall.”
