by Tara Janzen
Anguished, he rose to his feet, forcing himself to stand. If he could help her at all, it wouldn’t be on his knees. He needed a mage, one who could chart the courses of the stars and send him through time with the precision of a Lyran mark-tracker’s nose.
Prince of Time? He’d be a friggin’ Psilord of Time before he was through searching for her.
A noise at the top of the stairs had him spinning around, the Magia Blade again at the ready, its gridelin edge gleaming.
The noise came again, sounding almost human, and Morgan felt a flash of hope so intense, he had to shake it off before he could move.
He strode across the room, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Morr—”
He heard her voice and ran, taking the stairs two and three at a time. He found her huddled on the landing, her face deathly pale, her clothes in shreds. She was cut and bleeding, her clothes scorched, but she was alive.
He knelt and gathered her close, his pulse racing, his hands moving over her to prove she was real.
A deep sigh shuddered through her, and she turned deeper into his arms. Her hand grasped his shirt and tunic.
“He couldn’t hold me,” she said, her voice a weak rasp. “He had me, and when the light took him, he didn’t have the power to hold me. There wasn’t enough of him left to hold on to me.”
Relief so pure it hurt stole the last of his strength, and he had to lean back against the wall to support himself while he cradled her in his arms. But he knew—with every beat of his heart he knew—that he was Stept Agah’s son, rune-marked and dragon-tempered, and if the need was nigh, even now he could rise and slaughter Corvus all over again.
Chapter 28
Soren D’Arbois, the Baron of Wydehaw, stood on the threshold of the Hart Tower’s Druid Door, quaking ever so slightly yet determined to see his way through, even if he had to tear the blasted door out with his teeth. There had been dragons in the night, dragons and a terrible storm. Trees had been pulled out by their roots in the woods. The River Wye had risen beyond its banks in a great wave and flooded half the demesne. Fish were flopping in his bailey.
His concern, though, what had sent him scurrying out from under his bed at the first light of dawn, was the Lady Llynya. She was with child again, and he’d not have her harmed. She and Mychael had left for Carn Merioneth over a fortnight past, but ’twasn’t unusual for them to return without fanfare in the middle of the night.
And dragons. God’s balls. If there were going to be dragons about, Soren wanted his sorcier home where he belonged. Even dragons, he was sure, would not discomfit Mychael ab Arawn. The man was a rock of self-assuredness, a rather aesthetic and sorcerish sort of rock, but solid to the core. Lord Mychael knew what he was about in the world, and probably—Soren crossed himself—in the Other World as well.
With a muttered prayer, Soren lifted his hand and knocked on the door, a weak sound, even to his own ears.
He couldn’t swear to seeing a dragon himself, but half the night watch had seen something, and the closest description the seneschal had been able to get out of them had led Soren to think of dragons.
Soren was about to knock again, when a commotion outside drew his attention to the bailey. Stepping down two stairs, he looked through the arrow loop and his interest piqued. A man had ridden up on a horse, a white horse dappled in palest gray with a flowing white mane, a magnificent animal, the only more magnificent animal in the bailey being its rider. Llynya had introduced him once as Lord Shay of Liosalfar, but Soren had his doubts about the lord part. He’d never heard of a holding on either side of the March called Liosalfar.
He watched the man dismount in a single, fluid act of grace. Shay of Liosalfar was beautiful, aright, enough so to make dairymaids swoon and a man think twice—but only think. Soren’s wilder days were behind him.
He turned back to the door, and soon enough heard the young man bounding up the stairs.
“Milord,” Shay said, breathless, acknowledging him with a brief bow of his head, though his gaze strayed to the door.
Soren couldn’t help but be grateful for his interest. Liosalfar was probably overrun with dragons, and he was more than willing to let experience lead the day.
“Lord Shay,” he grumbled, hesitating less than usual over the title, though the man never seemed to notice. Llynya adored him, and Soren had oft wondered if that was more a part of his pique than he was comfortable admitting.
“May I?” Shay gestured at the door. He had green eyes the color of the forest at dawn, and dark, silky hair, and a face of artfully contrived perfection. He would have been pretty if he’d had even the faintest trace of effeminacy about him. He did not.
More’s the pity, Soren thought.
“Proceed,” he said, taking a few careful steps back.
The door was locked. The Druid Door was always locked, but Mychael had obviously taught Shay the key, for the young man did not hesitate in moving his hands over the metal rods set in zodiacal patterns in the panels.
In minutes they were in, with Soren deferring once again and letting Shay take the lead. The man seemed to know exactly where he was going. He crossed the northern solar in five running strides and went straight to another door, pushing it open and bounding up the stairs. Soren waited a bit before following, not wanting to walk into a dragon’s gaping jaws, in case there was one lying in wait.
When he finally did dig up the courage to enter the eyrie, he found the place in shambles, all of Lord Mychael’s alchemy apparatuses busted and tossed every which direction, burn marks scorched onto tables and even the walls. The Lady Llynya’s oak tree seemed to be of a piece, but the rest of the eyrie was destroyed, except for a strange rock-and-rod contraption in the center of the room.
Soren avoided it. Something about it set him on edge.
Picking his way around the tower, he found more burn marks and broken glass, and one oddly long, thin dead rat. He heard voices, more than one, but not Llynya’s, nor Mychael’s, and so kept to a cautious rate. He wasn’t yet so far from the door as to preclude escape. Finally, there was nothing for it but to approach the group coming into view around the branches of Llynya’s tree. A woman was speaking with Shay, and—God’s teeth—she was wearing chausses and a tunic. Soren could see the whole shape of her thigh. She was lovely, with strangely short blond hair, ears like Llynya’s, which Soren was always too polite to notice, and the face of an angel. If his heart hadn’t already belonged to his wife, he would have lost it on the spot.
His gaze shifted to the man who had one arm around the angel, and his heart dipped into his stomach before lodging firmly in his throat. Here was a man he knew, and knew to be dead: a prince of Wales named Morgan ab Kynan, a minor prince to be sure—a minor dead prince who’d been great friends with Soren’s previous sorcier; Dain Lavrans.
More than ever, Soren wished Mychael and Llynya were at home. If Wydehaw was going to be overrun with dragons and the risen dead, he was going to need more magic on his side.
“Er... uh... Lord Morgan,” he mumbled in greeting, keeping his distance and trying to look as if he weren’t. What with all the goings-on, a person couldn’t be too careful, especially a lord whose responsibilities were quite nearly boundless. Aye, for the sake of every soul in Wydehaw, Soren would keep his distance.
Morgan looked up, confusion furrowing his brow, but only for a moment before a wide grin lit up his face.
“D’Arbois,” he said. “Baron, ’tis good indeed to see you.”
“And you,” Soren lied as politeness dictated. In truth, the man looked like hell. He was bleeding and scraped up, and though he may have forgotten, he and Soren were enemies. Morgan ab Kynan was one of the rebellious Welsh. He had once stolen an earl of the realm from his bed inside Cardiff Castle and, by God, had held him hostage until a bit of Welsh land had been returned to its former owners. The stunt had earned the minor prince the sobriquet of “The Thief of Cardiff,” and thus he’d been known throughout the March. None of the
Marcher barons had forgotten that trick of his in Cardiff, and Soren could probably get a pretty penny for his head.
Morgan didn’t miss the sudden gleam of avarice lighting the baron’s eyes. The absurdity of it nearly unhinged him. He let out a short laugh, then another, and if laughing hadn’t hurt so badly, shaking parts of him that were better left unshook, he might have dissolved into a full fit of it.
Sweet Christ. He’d just saved the whole friggin’ world, and the Baron of Wydehaw wanted to turn him over to the king for a few gold marks.
“Shay,” he said, ignoring the baron and looking to the Quicken-tree man. “Can you take us home?”
“Aye, Morgan, you and your lady.”
Under Shay’s subtle coaching, Soren came around enough to get them a cart. Then, on a seeming whim, he added blankets and wine, and before they left he returned with two kitchen maids laden with eight loaves of bread, two roasted chickens, a ham, a bushel basket of apples, and a round of cheese. At the last, catching them at the gate, he brought a velvet cloak for Avallyn, making it hard for Morgan to think too poorly of him.
Shay guided them home to Carn Merioneth through the mountains and valleys of Morgan’s greatest longings. The air in Wales was fresher than anything the future had offered, cleaner and brighter, and it went to his head like wine.
With easy charm and a quick laugh, Shay regaled them with stories and songs, Soren’s good food, and better company. Morgan spent a portion of each day fearing Avallyn was half infatuated with the younger man, and he spent each night loving her and making her his own.
Messengers were sent every day from Mychael, assuring them of no need for haste. All had survived in Kryscaven Crater, most none the worse for wear, even if not yet completely healed. Owain swore he wouldn’t feel right until he saw Morgan. For Rhuddlan, the tonic he needed was Yr Is-ddwfn, and he and Madron were going to make the journey together. An old love that had never died was being given a second chance.
Trig and Math had taken a beating in Ceiul, having been washed up and dragged out to sea by the tumultuous entrance of Ddrei Goch and Ddrei Glas. Trig’s biggest fear had been that the fire Madron had sanctified had gone out, and he’d spent a rough hour fighting his way back into the cavern—an act of bravery to be sung about for years—to stand on a shelf of rock with his dreamstone held high, so that there would be at least one light lit for the last rune of refuge. Naas and Nia had fared better in Ammon.
“Tell ’em barely a ripple was’t felt in the Dragon’s Mouth,” Naas had informed Mychael’s messenger. Nia had begged to differ, describing a wave forty feet high and a trembling of the entire cavern.
Moira and Pwyll had struggled a bit more in Bes, with the repercussions from the battle in Kryscaven near shaking the walls down around them. One thing everyone agreed on was the sudden end of the battle. One moment all had been in chaos, the whole world beginning to tremble—despite Naas’s assertion—and then it had stopped, and it was over, for all time, forever. Not since the Age of Wonders had there been such peace on the land.
On the fifth day of their journey, the walls of Carn Merioneth rose before them. Dain and Ceridwen would be there, Shay had said. They’d already been on their way from Thule when Mychael had sent Shay after them. He’d caught them in southern Scotland. ’Twas how he’d been able to reach the Hart so quickly.
All of Carn Merioneth came out to greet them as they rode up to the castle. The portcullis had been strewn with early spring flowers. Garlands of greenery hung down either side of the gate. ’Twas like coming home and riding into paradise at the same time, with the Quicken-tree all around and songs in the air. A hearth fire had been set beneath a huge cauldron in the bailey, with mounds of food being prepared for the night’s celebration, when Rhuddlan and Madron would bless the earth and all her people.
For Morgan, there was but one face he wanted to see, and with Avallyn by his side, he walked through the crowds searching for a man of easy grace and languid manner, who—long before Tamisk—had shown him the power of magic and the depths of selfless love.
They found him by the stables, watching Rhuddlan’s mares run in the green grass with their new foals. Ceridwen and Kael were with him. The horses were either pure white or dappled gray. Many had braided manes and tails, for the Quicken-tree were ever ones to knot and braid and twist and do their best to tie the world together, and the children were ever ones to practice the art of brambling on any handy beast.
Ceridwen’s white-gold hair hung to her waist in rippling curls and tiny braids. Kael glanced over his shoulder as they approached, and Morgan could have sworn he saw a familiar awareness in the depths of the young boy’s eyes, but his attention was more drawn to the boy’s father. Dain’s hand was on the boy’s shoulder, a strong hand that more than once had pulled Morgan out of harm’s way. His head came up as Morgan approached from the back, and then Morgan spoke his name.
“Dain.”
His friend hesitated for a moment, then turned, all the years of practiced grace giving even his smallest movement a fluid ease. The intensity of his gaze had not lessened with the passage of time, and Morgan felt it move over him like a touch, cataloguing parts, checking for missing pieces and marks of pain, and finding at least one—the time-rider blaze in his hair that spoke of countless years and strange lands, a blaze that matched the one in Dain’s hair.
His smile, when it came, was oh, so familiar, both wry and welcoming, and still so much older than his years.
“Morgan.” He strode forward, his arms held wide, and in the embrace of Lavrans’s friendship, Morgan knew he’d finally come back to where he’d started so many thousands of years ago.
Chapter 29
A light summer rain drifted down through the trees as Avallyn and Morgan made their way along a wooded track east of Wydehaw Castle. Wroneu Wood was in full bloom, with sweet woodruff scenting the air and ferns unfurled. When they reached the river, Morgan took her hand and led her along a narrow trail that wound behind the cascade of a thundering waterfall. Mist shot through with sunlight gathered in the spray, forming clouds of water and light.
On the other side of the falls, set deep in the heart of the woods, was the Quicken-tree camp of Deri, home of the mother oak, the object of Morgan’s quest. A limestone cliff protected the camp on the west. To the north and east, the Quicken-tree had woven a tangle out of shrubs and bracken called The Bramble. The south was guarded by the river, leaving the water track as the only entrance.
’Twas a quiet place, especially in the heat of midafternoon. Morgan and Avallyn had traveled south from Carn Merioneth after the summer solstice, and at Morgan’s request, Llynya had given them directions to Deri.
“ ’Tis a fair and beautiful place you’ve brought me, Morgan,” Avallyn said.
“For you are a fair and beautiful woman.” He stopped and leaned down for a kiss. After a moment of gently pressed lips, he opened his mouth wider and asked for more.
He always wanted more, and she always responded with a warmth that utterly enchanted him. Or mayhaps ensorcelled was a truer word. When they kissed, he forgot all else in the world. His life became the feel of her lips, the taste of her mouth, the press of her body against his.
’Twas the simplest thing in the world to kiss her, and together they filled their lives with simple things, the ephemeral scent of violets, the taste of honeycakes, sunrises to greet the day, and nights of love to soothe the soul.
He lifted his head when the kiss ended and smoothed his fingers over her cheek. Her gaze held his as his hand tunneled into the silky length of her hair. A few leaves fell out, but she had extras to spare.
“Shall we spend the night?” he offered. “I have blankets and food in the pack.”
“Aye,” she said, a smile curving her mouth. She never grew tired of spending time with him in the forests of Wales. The wild forests, she called them, differentiating them from the Lost Forest of the Waste. From Riverwood to Wroneu, they had explored them all and would soon be trave
ling with Dain and Ceridwen to their home, journeying through the truly wild woods of the far north.
She could hardly wait. Morgan was more inclined to stay put until after their babe was born, but she’d convinced him otherwise.
They entered the glade, and Morgan shrugged out of his pack. A moment’s worth of rummaging around was all it took for him to find the small packet he wanted.
The mother oak in Deri was five times the size of Llynya’s Oak in the Hart. A small tribe could have lived in its branches. Its roots rose up out of the ground a good three feet in every direction. ’Twas the tree for which the term “mighty oak” had been coined.
In Tamisk’s Hart, Morgan had listened to Llynya’s tree, listened to the story of the mother oak of Deri, and of its own planting and all the years of its growing before the sands had come and buried it unto its death. ’Twas the history of the world from a very long view, a long enough view to have granted him some peace. For that tree, he’d brought with him through time a handful of acorns. For himself, he’d vowed to see them planted in Deri.
They ate supper around a small fire, and when the moon had risen, they lay down on their pile of blankets, holding each other and gazing at the stars. Avallyn knew many of the stars by name, whereas Morgan tended only to remember the major signposts in the galaxy and the bigger attractions in the Milky Way.
They’d come so far. He was content, more content than he’d ever been or ever hoped to be in his life... and yet, looking at all the millions of stars and knowing they weren’t truly out of reach, well, it made for a bit of wanderlust.
“Do you think we’ll ever go back?” Avallyn asked, snuggling closer to his warmth.
“Do you want to?”
“It’s so beautiful here,” she said, sounding ambivalent, “but I know there’s so much more out there.”
He did, too, and he couldn’t quite get it out of his mind, just how much more was out there in the vastness of space.
