The lamp flared at his elbow, and Sir Bedwyr saw a dark form crouched at Merlin’s feet, forehead to the ground.
“What on earth?”
Merlin spoke half under his breath in a rough, guttural tongue and the form rose and became a slender young man, gracile as a deer, with very black hair and dark eyes that blazed in the lamplight. Doeskin boots adorned his feet, and a necklace of wolf’s teeth encircled his neck. Had he been clothed in wolfskins as well, Sir Bedwyr might have placed him as one of the Old Ones, but the young man’s clothes were modern and beautifully made. They were the clothes of a wealthy man.
Sir Bedwyr frowned. “Who is he?”
“His name is Llyr, son of Bran, leader of the White Foot of Snow Mountain. He brings you a message of importance. Listen to him.”
Sir Bedwyr’s confusion deepened. “White Foot? But he can’t be an Old One. Look at him.”
The young man stood defiantly before Sir Bedwyr, wary, poised for flight, but waiting. His head was not bowed in submission; his gaze was not lowered in respect. He had been chased into the tent, but he had not run out when the sentry left.
“Why are the guards after him? What has he done?”
“Ask him yourself,” said Merlin. “He speaks Welsh.”
Sir Bedwyr addressed Llyr sharply. “Why are my men after you?”
Llyr bowed stiffly. “I came to see Sir Bed-i-vere.” He struggled with the strangeness of the name while Sir Bedwyr struggled with the thickness of his accent. “The large man tried to stop me. He drew his sword, so I knocked it from his hand. He called the guards, so I ran in here. Please, lord, I must speak to Sir Bed-i-vere. It is a matter of urgency.”
Sir Bedwyr regarded him skeptically. “You knocked it out of his hand? How? He’s twice your size.”
Llyr shrugged at the irrelevance of the question. “I struck his wrist. The sword fell.” He stepped closer, full in the light, and raised beseeching eyes to Sir Bedwyr. “Lord, Gwenhwyfar of Northgallis needs your help.”
Sir Bedwyr’s surprise showed in his face. “Guinevere of Northgallis? King Pellinore’s ward?” He recollected the bright-haired child Princess Morgan had sought to humiliate for some reason known only to herself. He also recollected the girl astride a dappled gray filly, riding like a boy, with an ease and grace even Lancelot might have envied. His interest in the young man sharpened.
“Yes,” Llyr said tautly. “King Pellinore’s ward. There has been an accident to Trevor-of-Powys.” Again, he stumbled over the foreign name. “The boy with spots. He fell from his horse and does not wake. The horse, too, is hurt. Gwenhwyfar sent me to beg for help.”
“Where is she? Is she injured?”
Llyr stiffened at the suggestion that he could have left her if she had been hurt, and Sir Bedwyr took note of this reaction.
“She is not hurt. She stayed by Trevor-of-Powys. She would not leave.”
Sir Bedwyr spun on his heel and whistled sharply for the sentry. “Are they alone, then? Where?”
“On the road south, lord.”
The sentry poked his head in, saw Llyr, and opened his mouth to protest, but Sir Bedwyr cut him off. “Bevan, find Sir Lyell. Have him meet me at the horse lines with six men, a litter, blankets, and lanterns. At once.”
“Yes, sir.” Bevan looked askance at Llyr. “Sir! That’s the man we’ve been looking for.”
“Is it?” Sir Bedwyr snapped. “You surprise me. I should have thought it took a larger man than this to part one of the King’s sentries from his sword.”
Bevan’s face flamed. “But, sir—”
“Go!” cried Sir Bedwyr. “For pity’s sake, man, lives may be at stake. Find Lyell!”
Bevan went. Sir Bedwyr turned to Llyr.
“You will lead me to the place of the accident. Have you a horse?”
“Yes, lord. A pony.”
“That will do. Follow me to the horse lines.” He reached for his sword belt and looked irritably about him. The lamp was smoking now, shedding very little light. “Where’s Merlin?”
Llyr did not have to peer into the shadows to know what answer was required. “Lord, the Master is gone.”
Sir Bedwyr shrugged and strapped on his sword. “He would be. Never mind, let’s get going.” He grabbed his cloak and settled it about his shoulders. “Just pray I can get the girl back unharmed before Pellinore’s home from the hunt.”
In the stillness that followed their departure, Merlin the Enchanter stepped forth from the shadows and blew out the smoking lamp. He stood alone in the darkness and considered what he had seen and heard. Every instinct warned him that there was something of importance here. It might be the dagger, if it was genuine, or it might be the girl. He found it interesting that Bedwyr’s response to the news of an accident to Trevor of Powys—the future king of Powys—was to rush off to rescue the girl. This was the same child whose surprising resistance had foiled his attempt to search her mind on the night of her presentation to Princess Morgan.
It was a small coincidence, but he knew better than to discount it. Sometimes the gods blared their intent across the heavens, and sometimes they spoke in whispers. One had to keep one’s ear attuned to trivialities to hear the whisper of a god.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
True Aim
Morgan sat on her gilded stool while Marcia dressed her hair for dinner. They would be eating inside the great tent tonight, since it was still raining, and the more formal setting allowed for finery.
She glanced over at Elaine, curled on the bed—on Morgan’s own bed—amid a pile of furs and cushions. What had been granted as a privilege a week ago was taken for granted now. “Shouldn’t you be dressing, too? You don’t want to be late.”
“There’s plenty of time. It takes Mother ages to get ready.”
Morgan watched in her mirror of polished bronze as Marcia placed a triple string of garnets across her brow. She had always looked her best in red. Everyone said so. “Stay, then. You can be of use to me.”
“Tsk, Morgan. Manners,” clucked Marcia under her breath, and received a sharp glance in the mirror for her pains.
Elaine slid off the bed, dislodging the crimson coverlet, and came closer. “That’s very pretty. Are those rubies?”
“Hardly. Arthur has rubies. I have garnets.”
“Mistress Morgan.” Marcia’s voice was sharp.
Morgan turned on her stool. “You are dismissed.”
Marcia put down the comb, curtsied, and withdrew, flicking the bedcover back into place as she went.
Morgan reached for her garnet earrings. “I heard something today I am hoping you can explain,” she said, returning her gaze to the mirror. “It concerns your cousin.”
“Gwen? What did you hear?”
“Apparently, a stranger came into camp last night, attacked one of the guards outside the great tent, and ran straight into Sir Bedwyr’s quarters. Uninvited. I find it very odd that he was not instantly arrested. Odder still that he should have been sent there by your cousin.”
“Oh, you mean Llyr. He’s not a stranger; he’s a friend of Gwen’s.”
“A friend! Oh, no, it can’t have been anyone you know.”
“Don’t believe me, then,” Elaine sniffed, retreating to the bed and reinstalling herself among the cushions, “but that’s who it was. Gwen sent him to Sir Bedwyr for help when Trevor fell.”
Morgan’s eyes widened. “He was described to me as a very primitive, savage sort of person. More beast than human. Surely you don’t call such a creature a friend.”
“Hogwash. Llyr’s not a beast; he’s a prince among the Old Ones. He came with us from Gwynedd as part of our escort. He has Father’s permission to be here, and probably Sir Bedwyr’s, too, by now.”
Morgan swung around on the stool to stare at her. “A hillman? Don’t jest with me, Elaine. This is not a laughing matter.”
“I’m not jesting.”
“Your father would never travel with a hillman!”
“Why not? He d
id.”
“Your mother would never allow it!”
Elaine raised a shoulder and let it fall. “She’d forgive Llyr anything. He saved my life.” Her sky-blue eyes, so frankly innocent, dared Morgan to disbelieve. “He killed a man who was going to kill me.”
“Indeed?” Morgan lowered her eyes to hide her incredulity. “How very frightening for you. Who was the man he killed?”
“A traitor. An evil, foul-smelling, wicked traitor.”
“Another hillman, was it? … Or one of us?”
Elaine hesitated, and Morgan immediately turned back to her mirror, cursing herself for impatience. She had let Elaine see that the answer mattered to her. Now she must change course and hope that she could find out through other sources whom the little savage had killed.
“Never mind. Whoever he was, if he threatened your life, he deserved to die. The important thing is that this Llyr fellow saved you. I trust he was handsomely rewarded for the deed?”
“He was publicly honored, along with the others. The whole clan helped.”
“The … whole clan?”
“The Long Eyes. Llyr’s clan. Well, actually, the Long Eyes are Mapon’s clan. Llyr’s clan is the—”
“Do you mean you know these creatures?”
“Well, we know some of them.”
“And they’re in camp?”
“Oh, no. Only Llyr came with us, and he doesn’t stay in camp. He stays in the woods and keeps watch.”
Morgan blinked. “For what?”
“Gwen, of course. He wouldn’t be much of a guardian if he stayed in Gwynedd while she’s in Deva.”
“Guardian?” Morgan’s eyes narrowed into points of bronze. “You are not,” she said evenly, “attempting to imply that this … this hillman is hiding out in the woods at the edge of camp and spying on us all, giving as his excuse that he is guarding your cousin? From what, may I ask?”
“It’s not an excuse. He’s Gwen’s guardian. The Old Ones appointed him so themselves.”
Morgan looked at her blankly.
Patiently, Elaine began to explain what had taken place in Gwynedd last spring. Morgan listened in a daze of disbelief. That a rebel lord should abduct Elaine in a bid to seize her father’s throne was credible enough. There were ambitious rogues in every kingdom. But that the hillmen had rescued the girl defied belief. Nor could she accept that the royal house of Gwynedd dealt in friendship with this savage race of men and accepted their protection. What did they mean by such behavior? Hillmen preyed on travelers and stole from outlying farms and villages. In her father’s reign, they had been hunted nearly to extinction.
“The Old Ones have always guarded Gwen on account of the prophecy,” Elaine continued, dimpling at Morgan’s confusion. “Only she didn’t know it until last spring, when Llyr told her. That’s when the Old Ones appointed him as her guardian in their place. It was their prophecy, you see.”
Breathless, Morgan stared at Elaine and struggled to make sense of her words. The girl seemed to be speaking in an alien tongue. “Prophecy?”
“It’s not a real prophecy, of course,” Elaine said soothingly. “Not like King Arthur’s. No one believes it except the Old Ones. It was made in Northgallis when Gwen’s father was king by a hill witch who begged shelter from a storm. Gwen’s got sense enough to know it isn’t true. But the Old Ones have to believe it because it was made by one of their own people. They have to keep Gwen safe until it comes to pass. Now they’ve given that job to Llyr.”
“Elaine!” Morgan breathed, digging her nails into her palms to still her trembling. “You go too fast. What did the prophecy foretell?”
Elaine heaved an exaggerated sigh. “That Gwen should wed a great king and come to glory with him, and be the highest lady in the land, and have her name remembered beyond a thousand years,” Elaine rattled off as if it were a chant she had memorized long ago.
Morgan swallowed in a dry throat. “Who … is this great king supposed to be?”
Elaine shrugged. “Nobody knows. It might be one of the Old Ones, since it’s their prophecy, but the Old Ones don’t call their leaders kings. Anyway, that’s the prophecy—or the part of it we know.”
“There’s more?”
“Yes, but I don’t know it. Neither does Gwen. Her father refused to tell her. He said she was better off not knowing.”
Morgan pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples. Last night, amid all the clamor and excitement of Prince Trevor’s accident, she had gone into her stillroom to sacrifice to the Goddess. She had asked for only one thing: to know her enemy’s name. Today the name of Guinevere of Northgallis had been thrust before her in a way that demanded her attention. Was this the Goddess’s answer? Or a mere coincidence? Or a ploy by Elaine to mislead her? If the tale of a prophecy was true, why had she seen nothing—absolutely nothing—in her black bowl?
For years, she had toiled in the dank depths of Tintagel, that citadel of rock off the Cornish coast that had been her home, studying the black arts, slaving over preparations of herbs and potions, memorizing spells and incantations, learning from a local soothsayer how to read the portents of the future in a bowl of black water. It had cost her much to attain such precious knowledge. She had gone without sleep, meals, sunlight, and fresh air; she had devoted herself mind and soul to the achievement of power.
And, to a degree, she had achieved it. She could not read minds, as Merlin could, but she was adept at bending the wills of others to her own. She could not create fire or storm with the flick of a finger, but she could sniff out weakness in any man. She could see things in her black bowl that no one else could see.
The great events of history—the rise and fall of empires, the births and deaths of kings—threw shadows before them that skilled seers could discern. Arthur’s birth had been fore-shadowed by prophecies in every corner of the known world, so Merlin had once told Ygraine. Morgan had herself foreseen events—like her marriage to Urien—that concerned her future and her brother’s. Yet if Elaine was telling her the truth, the wretched hillmen had made a prophecy about Guinevere of Northgallis that fairly froze the marrow in Morgan’s bones—and she had seen nothing of it in her black bowl!
It could not be true.
It was not that Elaine was lying. Morgan had become adept at reading Elaine’s moods, and the girl’s voice carried both conviction and the surreptitious excitement of revealing a secret she had promised not to tell. But the hillmen of Gwynedd might be lying, or themselves deceived by one of their own. It was easy to imagine how such a prophecy might, like any exciting rumor, spread among the ignorant, backward hill dwellers until it was universally believed.
It had to be false. She had seen nothing in her black bowl because there was nothing of significance to see. The birth of Guinevere of Northgallis could not be an event of importance in the tide of human history. She was only a backwoods orphan without power or rank beyond the borders of her father’s tiny kingdom, and would likely spend her life buried in the dark Welsh mountains, wed to some inconsequential lord of Queen Alyse’s choosing. A girl of such unimportant birth could never be a threat to the only legitimate daughter of Uther Pendragon. The idea was laughable.
And yet … the bowl had warned her again and again of a terrible danger coming out of the west, a nemesis with feminine graces who could touch even Arthur’s power … and it was certainly not the shy, wide-eyed Cornish girl he had married.
Elaine was the more logical one to suspect. Her father was a favorite of Arthur’s; her mother’s lineage was impeccable by anyone’s standards; the girl herself was pretty, lively, blooming with health, and blessed with a figure beyond her years. Elaine of Gwynedd was a girl poised on the edge of a glorious future. If the prophecy had been made for Elaine, Morgan would have no trouble believing it.
And yet she had found nothing to fear in Elaine. A spoiled, selfish child, Elaine had no outstanding traits of character that Morgan could discern, and no talents beyond the common scope. Her chief assets, be
auty and birth, were gifts of fortune for which the girl could take no credit. As a threat to herself or to Arthur, Morgan did not think Elaine could qualify.
Guinevere was another matter. The girl was still a mystery to her. If this tale about a prophecy was true, then she had found her enemy, improbable or not. That a landless orphan should be so singled out by fate for a destiny of power and greatness seemed to Morgan unfair as well as unlikely, but the gods were well known to be fickle. Even the Christian deity her mother worshipped had chosen a lowly carpenter to bear His name.
Morgan gazed at her image in the mirror. She saw a regal woman, born of the blood of kings, with a crown of jewels across her brow. A woman worthy of power and ready to rule. A woman prepared for battle.
With steady fingers, Morgan raised a garnet earring from the table and carefully hooked it in her ear. First, know the lay of the land was one of Arthur’s battle-tested maxims.
“Your cousin must think she’s someone special. Not everyone has a personal guardian, never mind a prophecy.”
“Gwen?” Elaine’s laugh was dismissive. “Gwen’s the last one who’d ever believe the prophecy. She’d rather pretend it never happened. She never speaks of it.”
Morgan paused, the second earring in her hand. What kind of girl would shrink from a prophecy that foretold a glory lasting past a thousand years? A weak girl? A shy girl? A skeptic? A fool?
“You could not be such a half-wit,” she said sharply. “Not a girl of your breeding. Open your eyes, Elaine. Of course she believes it. What girl wouldn’t? Apparently, she’s been clever enough to hide it from you all these years.”
Morgan looked into Elaine’s blue, self-confident gaze and smiled to herself. Divide and conquer. It was time to separate the cousins. “I must say, I hadn’t given her credit for brains as well as beauty.”
Elaine blinked at her. “Beauty!”
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