Pendragon Rises

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Anwen shivered.

  “What did she say?” Gorlois demanded.

  “That you must return to the High King, my lord,” Anwen said.

  Gorlois stared at his youngest daughter. Then he shook his head. “The nervous mutterings of a child,” he said. Doubt colored his tone. His gaze moved to Anwen. “Or is it?” He took a step closer and his hand curled around the hilt of the knife. “Does my daughter have the Sight?” he asked.

  Anwen patted Morgan’s back as the child shivered. “I know nothing about such matters,” she said truthfully. Yet all the times Morgan had ever spoken of events in the future, the times she had been aware of news which was yet to reach Tintagel—and all the occasions when Anwen had dismissed the unsettling hints as the parroting of a small child who overheard far more than adults realized—all those moments rippled through her mind, a cascade of memories. “It is…possible,” she admitted to Gorlois.

  He swallowed. She could see his throat working in the dim light. “The King was in perfect health when we left, or I would not have come away.”

  Morgan turned her head to look at Gorlois. “The poison wasn’t in him, then.”

  Even Anwen shuddered and the mutter in the corridor rippled down the length of it.

  “Poison…” Gorlois breathed. “The gods save us.” He was no longer a concerned father investigating a troubled daughter, but a leader considering the greater implications of an ailing king. “If the Saxons learn of this…”

  Then he bent to speak to Morgan, who clung to Anwen still. “Are you certain he is dying, Morgan? Or was this just a dream? I must know before I order the men to give up their time here and return. It is a four-day journey.”

  Morgan looked at her father. Her chin lifted. “He is dying.” Her voice was still that of an older woman. “If you leave now, you will return barely in time.”

  Gorlois stood. His grip on the knife tightened. He looked at the lightening sky through the window. “Dawn comes. We will ride as soon as it is light enough to see the way.”

  He whirled and left.

  Anwen settled Morgan back on the bed and wiped her wet cheeks with the corner of her cloak. “You must try to sleep now. Tomorrow, if you still remember this, we can speak of it.”

  “I will remember this always,” Morgan whispered. She curled up on her side and closed her eyes. The dark lashes settled against her soft cheeks and she breathed softly and slowly.

  Anwen marveled. The child was already asleep.

  She stood and rearranged the furs over the top of her.

  Parry, the steward, stood at the door, holding a lantern, the flame burning orange. His eyes were wide. “The King is dying?” he breathed. Fear distorted his face

  Anwen hesitated, doubt gnawing at her.

  Steffan moved closer and said in a low voice, “We will know nothing until the Duke sends word back.”

  “Yet he rides for Amesbury, because his daughter said he should,” Parry said, his tone awed.

  “It is a practical thing,” Steffan said. “If the King is in good health, then no harm is done if Gorlois returns early. If he is not, then—”

  “Then the child is proved a witch,” Parry breathed.

  Anwen gripped the sleeve of his robe and shook it. “Hush!” she said harshly. “Have you no sense, man? You cannot speak of witches so casually.”

  “She knew!” Parry breathed, fear making his voice tremble.

  “If she did, then it is simply the first emanations of the Sight,” Steffan said, startling Anwen. Most fighting men were wary of the unseen power of people with the Sight. They found comfort in what they could see and touch, what they could control. Yet Steffan spoke as if he was experienced in such matters. He put his hand on Parry’s shoulder with unerring precision and squeezed. “There is no need to panic the household with talk of magic. You have a position to uphold. Set an example, Parry.”

  Parry swallowed and nodded. “You are right,” he said, his voice still shaking.

  “In the light of day this will seem far more prosaic,” Anwen added. “Perhaps an early rising may benefit us all. Listen. The Duke’s men are stirring already.”

  Echoing through the corridors came the sound of men shouting. Out in the yard, too, there were more calls. Torches lit the yard. Horses snorted and whinnied as the men prepared them to ride.

  Parry raised a brow. “They will need food for the road. Drink to see them on their way. I must rouse the cooks…” He turned and left, taking the lamp with him.

  The room plunged back into pre-dawn darkness, making Anwen gasp and blink.

  “He took the lamp, yes?” Steffan said. Anwen felt his hand on her arm. “Here. The door is this way.” He drew her across the floor.

  Anwen took small steps, her hand raised in front of her. She had been staring directly at the flame of Parry’s lamp and now she could see nothing at all. Her heart pumped hard, dispensing fear.

  “It’s all right,” Steffan assured her. “The door is right here. Wait, the air is too still…it must have swung closed.”

  She halted and he brushed past her. The door swung open. Air shifted against her face. Anwen lifted her hand, reaching for the door itself, so she would not run into it.

  Her hand brushed up against warm flesh. For a heartbeat which seemed to last for a year, her fingertips rested against the warmth and the solid muscle beneath.

  Her heart slammed into her chest, hurting.

  She snatched her hand back, breathing hard.

  The darkness in front of her shifted. Steffan stepped out of the way. He had been blocking the tiny amount of light in the corridor, shed by lamps and torches far away. It was enough light to show her the outline of the doorway and the seamed stone of the corridor walls beyond.

  Anwen blinked. “I can see the way, now.” Her voice shook. Her whole body rippled with a wave of sensation which made her weak.

  “So can I,” Steffan breathed, his voice low and hoarse with something which made her weakness increase.

  Anwen stumbled from the room and fled to her chamber.

  Chapter Ten

  You must make him drink the potion at least three times during the day,” Nimue told Ilsa, as she pushed garments and possessions into the saddlebags sitting on the ground. Nimue was already wearing dark, sturdy travel clothes.

  Ilsa hefted the heavy flask of liquid Nimue had pushed into her hand. “I am not a healer,” she said. “Wouldn’t a surgeon serve Ambrosius better?”

  Nimue straightened. “No one can heal the King now.” She touched the flask. “This poppy concoction will make him comfortable, at least. He will need more of it each time, toward the end.”

  Ilsa blinked away the hot ache in her eyes. “I cannot do this…”

  Nimue cupped her cheek. “Have courage,” she said. “While the men tear themselves apart adjusting to the news, you will help Ambrosius.” Her small smile faded. “It will be very bad for a while, Ilsa. Uther is not ready. He thought he was. Now he stands upon the brink he knows he is not…and his grief will distort his judgment, too.”

  “I am just a woman,” Ilsa breathed. “I cannot help him.”

  Nimue merely smiled once more. “Watch to the north and the west,” she said, and closed the saddlebags.

  “Saxons?” Ilsa breathed, her fear expanding in her chest.

  “When they learn about Ambrosius, they will try to take advantage of the chaos he leaves behind.” Nimue wound a dark cloak about her shoulders and pinned it. Ilsa realized it was the first time she had seen Nimue wearing anything but white. The glow of her features had not faded, though.

  “Do you have messages I can pass on for you?” Nimue asked.

  Ilsa shook her head. “With the ships running all summer, we have been sending letters constantly, and Ban took many back with him.”

  Nimue hugged Ilsa. “I return to Brocéliande as the gods demand, yet my thoughts will remain with you and yours here, where the future shapes itself.”

  Ilsa gave in to the w
orry which had been nagging her for months. “Will I ever see Lorient again, Nimue?”

  Nimue squeezed her hand. “Yes, Ilsa. You will return to Lorient. Your children will know their heritage, too.”

  Ilsa shuddered. “Thank you,” she breathed.

  Nimue did not smile.

  FOR TWO DAYS, THE SUDDENLY empty Tintagel seemed to ring with echoes and whispers. Gorlois took not only the small contingent of men he had arrived with, but nearly every able-bodied man in Tintagel and Dimilioc.

  “If the King really is dying, then my husband will need every man to hold back the Saxons, who will try to take advantage of his fall,” Igraine had explained to her women, the next morning. Anwen had been summoned to attend, leaving Steffan to deal with the girls. The reason for the summons became clear after Igraine dismissed the women and beckoned Anwen to her side.

  They were in Igraine’s private chamber, with the large bed and thick wall hangings, the cushions and drapes and silver trays. Igraine sat in the chair by the window, watching the sea. “Is it true what Gorlois told me, about Morgan?” Igraine asked her. “Have you known all along?”

  Anwen clenched her hands. “I have known nothing for certain, my lady, and I still do not. The duke places greater faith in Morgan’s nightmare than would I. She sometimes shows remarkable knowledge, although she likes learning and absorbs facts the way moss draws up water.”

  “The duke gambles,” Igraine said. “When he reaches the King, he will send a message. We will know then if Morgan is merely a good student or something more.”

  Anwen returned to her room and the task of teaching, her thoughts troubled. The daily routine swiftly settled the household, so it felt as though Gorlois had never arrived and left so precipitously.

  Only, the visit had left its mark, which Anwen learned two days later.

  It began with a simple question from Morgan. The girl had been unaffected by her night time terror and Anwen forbore from asking her about the dream. It would be cruel to remind her of the upset if she did not remember it.

  Others in the household did not have the same consideration, though, Anwen discovered.

  Morgan tapped Steffan’s wrist, which both girls had learned was an acceptable way of drawing his attention to them. “When you fought beside my father, Steffan, did you get to meet Merlin the Magician?”

  Anwen raised her head from Morguase’s slate, which she had been correcting. “Why do you ask that, Morgan?”

  “Canna, the goat herd, asked me if I was like Merlin,” Morgan said. “I didn’t know who Merlin was, so he told me how Merlin was the most powerful magician in Britain. He cast a spell that drew the standing stones in Ireland all the way to Britain, floating on the air. He made dragons fight and he said a magic word and Vortigern dropped dead, miles away.”

  Anwen’s lips parted. She had not heard such tales before. All she knew for certain was that Merlin was Ambrosius’ son, and had the Sight, which made him unsuitable in some way to be the High King’s heir. Everyone had always known that the High King’s brother, Uther, would be the next king.

  She cast about, wondering what she might say to Morgan in the face of such fantasies.

  Steffan laughed, a long, low belly-shaking sound which seemed genuine. He leaned back on the bench and gripped the edge of the table, balancing himself, as his mirth rocked him.

  Morguase hitched farther along the bench, away from him. She had been silent for the last two days and Anwen wondered if she resented the sudden interest and concern over her little sister.

  Morgan put her chin on her fist, watching Steffan laugh, a frown marring her smooth forehead.

  Steffan got himself under control once more. He wiped his eyes. “Is that what they say of the man?” he asked Morgan. “The tales have grown in the telling to the point where I no longer recognize them.”

  “They’re not true, then?” Morguase asked, with an eager note in her voice.

  “There is a kernel of truth in them,” Steffan said. “That is all.”

  “What is the kernel, then?” Morgan asked, also eager.

  “I can assure you, no dragons fought each other,” Steffan said. “No real dragons.”

  “Dragons aren’t real, anyway,” Morguase said to her sister, with a chiding tone.

  “Two dragons did do battle, though,” Steffan added.

  Morgan smiled, pleased.

  “The white dragon was Vortigern’s emblem,” Steffan said. “Ambrosius and Uther Pendragon use the red dragon. When Ambrosius defeated Vortigern at Doward eight years ago, you could say that dragons fought each other, although there was little fighting in it, for Merlin did most of the work.”

  “With a magic spell?” Morgan said hopefully.

  “Merlin told Vortigern what was in his future,” Steffan said. “He prophesied death and ignoble defeat, and that all history would forget Vortigern. Vortigern so feared that future, he sought to change it. He abandoned the fort he was holding and rushed to Doward, which they say is impregnable. It was there Ambrosius defeated him.”

  Anwen drew her breath to warn Steffan that he should say little more about the style of Ambrosius’ defeat. Talk of burning out a keep while people were in it was not something a child who already suffered nightmares needed to hear.

  Even Morguase seemed interested in the tale. “Then there was no magic at all?” she asked.

  Steffan shook his head. “Not in the way the goat herd thinks.”

  “But Merlin does have the Sight?” Morgan asked.

  “Do you understand what that means, Morgan?” Anwen asked.

  “Mary the cook told me. It means someone who can see the coming weather and tell whether a baby will be a boy or a girl, before it is born.”

  “Shepherds and fishermen can do that,” Steffan said. “Merlin does have the Sight, Morgan. It lets him see the future, sometimes, or things which are happening right now, yet far away.”

  “Then he is a magician,” Morgan breathed, delighted.

  “He’s just a man,” Steffan said. “And the Sight hurts.”

  Both Morgan and Morguase stared at him, startled.

  Anwen could feel the same astonishment curling through her. “It hurts?” she asked.

  Steffan nodded. “When the gods speak through him, Merlin is ill afterwards. Sometimes for days. He writhes upon the ground while they speak and he often doesn’t know what he has said until someone tells him. I have seen him in the midst of it. His whole body contorts, as if invisible hands prodded him with sharp knives.”

  Morguase smiled, while Morgan looked thoughtful.

  Anwen approved of this sobering telling of facts. She coaxed Steffan further by saying, “What of the standing stones he lifted and flew to Britain?”

  Steffan nodded. “He did bring the heart of Ireland to Britain. I heard Cador speak of it, for his father wrote to him about the feat. Merlin didn’t use magic, Morgan. He used knowledge.” He tapped his temple. “Merlin is a master of mathematics and engineering. He floated the stones to Britain not on the air, but by barges sailed across the sea. He used block-and-tackle to tear them down. He uses the same engineering tools to raise them again, on Salisbury Plain. They will be the monument marking the death of five hundred kings and leaders, murdered by Vortigern’s betrayal of them to the Saxons, the year Ambrosius returned to Britain.”

  Morgan’s and Morguase’s eyes shone.

  “Then Merlin is truly clever,” Morgan said.

  “Very clever indeed,” Steffan said. “He doesn’t just acquire knowledge. He uses it.”

  Morgan nodded and sat up, her hand dropping. “I will be very clever, too,” she said firmly.

  “Only if you learn your lessons well,” Anwen said.

  “Can you teach me mathematics and engineering?” Morgan asked.

  Steffan’s sightless gaze met Anwen’s. His brow lifted. “I cannot, for I am not a master,” he told Morgan. “Although, if you show promise, I am sure a suitable tutor could be found for you.”

&nb
sp; Morgan’s smile was incandescent.

  Morguase shifted on the bench once more. “Why do you use your staff sometimes and at other times you do not?” she demanded.

  “Morguase, you cannot ask such—” Anwen began.

  Steffan lifted his hand. “When did I not use the staff, Morguase?” he asked, his tone gentle.

  “The night Morgan dreamed about the King. You came into the room as you come into any other room and you didn’t have your staff. You’ve never been in that room before. How did you know the way?”

  Steffan shifted on the bench so he was facing her. “I was directed by Morgan’s screaming. When I was inside, there were many more people running and talking and it told me where to go, too.”

  “You told my father you can see, sometimes,” Morguase said. Her tone was accusing. “Blind people can’t see. Are you really blind?”

  Steffan’s smile was tight. “I cannot see you right now, Morguase, although I have grown good at guessing about appearances from the sound of people’s voice and the way they talk and what they do.”

  Morguase’s shoulders straightened. “What do I look like?”

  Steffan considered. He held his hand out and raised it. “You are this high.”

  “You can tell that from my voice.”

  “Black hair,” he added. “Black eyes like your mother, and her chin. Your father’s white skin, but none of the freckles. And you are wearing…” He paused. “Blue,” he finished.

  Morguase smoothed the blue gown over her knee. “You cheated,” she said. “You can see more than you admit.”

  Steffan’s smile was wry. “It is cheating to be given the smallest glimpse of light, which everyone around me takes for granted?”

  Morguase’s gaze shifted away from him. Her cheeks tinged pink.

  Morgan tapped his wrist. “You sometimes look as though you can see.”

  Anwen nodded, for this was true.

  “I have learned to compensate,” Steffan said. “We have other senses which are blunted because our sight tells us nearly everything we need to know about the world around us. Take sight away, and the other senses grow stronger. Much stronger.”