Silver Silence

by Joy Nash

  She broke off with a shudder. What came next was by far the worst part of the nightmare. She did not want to continue, but when Myrddin nodded, eyes grave, she swallowed and forced herself to speak.

  “A man appears, from behind me. I can see only his back as he halts before the woman. He raises his hand, and…and slaps her. She cries out, but of course I cannot hear. And then his hands go to her throat. I try to move, but my feet are frozen. He shakes her. Chokes her. I try to shout, but I cannot breathe. She fights at first, but in the end she goes…limp. He releases her and she falls to the floor and does not move again. And then the darkness rushes in, and everything goes black…”

  Myrddin’s arm came around her. Breena became aware that she was trembling like a dry leaf. With an effort, she stepped away.

  The old Druid’s gaze remained upon her. “Breena, the woman in your vision—she is known to me. That is why I have come.”

  Breena’s pulse leapt. A low hum vibrated in her ears. “You know her? She is real? Who is she?”

  “Her name is Igraine, and, yes, she is as real as you or I. And she is…in need of your magic. Will you go to her?”

  “Go where? Is it far?”

  “That,” Myrddin replied, “is an exceedingly difficult question to answer. In one sense, it is not so far. In another, farther than you can imagine.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “Life is often a riddle, is it not? And magic—ah, magic!—that is always a riddle.” He held out a hand. “Will you come?”

  The question was more than Breena could absorb on a moment’s notice. “You mean—right now? But…that’s preposterous! I cannot just go off with you.”

  “Time is of the essence, Breena. Igraine is in danger, and I do not have to describe to you the evil that is poised to strike. You have seen it many times. We must act swiftly if we are to stop it.”

  Breena’s gaze flew to the misty swamp. “But—”

  “You would run back first, to ask permission? Like a child?”

  Her jaw tightened. “I am not a child. But the others will worry if I don’t return.”

  “And if you go home, and explain, do you imagine they will allow you to leave with me?”

  She hesitated. Myrddin spoke the truth. There was not a single chance in Hades that Marcus would be inclined to allow her to go anywhere with this stranger. Gwen would question Myrddin thoroughly, of course. But even if Avalon’s Guardian determined the old Druid was sincere, Marcus would insist on accompanying Breena to wherever it was Myrddin meant to take her. Marcus would probably invite Owein as well. And Trevor. And Rhys…

  Anger flooded her cheeks. Gwen had told Breena many times that her vision came from the Great Mother. The dream carried a purpose. Breena’s purpose. She’d been waiting all her life to discover what it might be. Was she to seek it now with an army of overprotective family hovering over her shoulder?

  Still, she could hardly just disappear with a stranger. What she needed right now was Gwen’s advice. Gwen understood the significance of Breena’s vision better than anyone. As Guardian of Avalon, Gwen would not permit even her husband’s most violent protest to interfere with the will of the Great Mother.

  “Perhaps…perhaps I can bring Avalon’s Guardian to you,” she told Myrddin. “The three of us may discuss what is to be done.”

  The old Druid gave a shake of his head. “There is no time. You must come with me now. Or not at all.”

  “But—how can I? They will be frantic! They will think I’ve…fallen to my death, or been set upon by brigands. My brother will tear the hills apart, looking for me.”

  Myrddin’s eyes softened. “It will be difficult for those who love you, I know. And I am sorry for it. I wish the decision could be easier for you.”

  “Why give me a choice at all if it is so important? I begin to believe you are powerful enough to take me against my will.”

  His jaw tightened. “Only a servant of the dark would seize you against your will. I would like to believe I am yet a follower of the Light. You will come of your own free will, or not at all.”

  Breena considered the old Druid’s words. Surely they proved his sincerity? And yet…“I am not sure.”

  He ran a hand down his face, ending with a tug on his beard. “No one is ever sure, lass.”

  “If only I could tell the others…”

  “No. It would not be wise.”

  She shut her eyes briefly. “Then…I cannot go with you. I am sorry.”

  Myrddin gazed at her in silence for a long moment. Then he simply sighed, and bowed his head. When he raised it again, she was struck by the vast weariness in his eyes.

  “As you wish. I see I was mistaken in thinking you were old enough to follow this path. In truth, you are still a child.” So saying, he planted his staff in the dirt. Turning, he strode toward a cleft in the rocks edging the meadow.”

  “I am not a child!” Breena called after him.

  He paused and looked back. “Then prove it. Come with me. I give you my word that I walk in Light, and do the will of the Great Mother. But then,” he added softly, “you know that, do you not?”

  She inhaled a sharp breath. Though Myrddin’s aura was not visible to her, she could feel his magic, vibrating with the same perfect frequency as that of the Great Mother’s stone. In that moment, she would have staked her life on the old Druid’s sincerity.

  “I do know it,” she said.

  “Then come with me. Your magic is needed. Not only by Igraine, but by tens of thousands of Britons whose lives and future depend on her safety.”

  It was the hint of desperation, and the vivid fear in Myrddin’s clear eyes that decided her.

  “All right,” she said. “I will.”

  Chapter Four

  Rhys was, at heart, a coward.

  Why else had he awakened Trevor before dawn, to mumble a ludicrous tale of an errand in the coastal town of Isca Dumnoniorum? Because it required a sennight to travel there and back. A sennight in which he would not have to face the hurt in Breena’s eyes.

  Rhys did not for a moment think Trevor believed his story. The taciturn Caledonian’s eyes had narrowed in suspicion. But in the end, he had merely grunted and turned over on his pallet. Rhys had collected his meager belongings and fled.

  He did not actually mean to go to Isca Dumnoniorum, of course. He’d simply camp in the hills across the swamp. His harp and Hefin would be company enough. When had he ever had more?

  The village was silent, and the journey through the mist uneventful. Scant hours later, Rhys lounged at the mouth of a south-facing cave, a small fire warming the morning’s chill. Leaning back on his elbows, he watched Hefin draw lazy arcs against a blue sky.

  Briefly, he considered joining his animal companion aloft. All he’d need to do was shuck off his clothes and call his shape-shifting magic. What a relief it would be, to take to the sky in his falcon form, leaving his human troubles far below on the ground. But much as Rhys craved the mindless oblivion of his animal self, he knew he would not cast the spell to throw off his humanity. Shape-shifting was dangerous deep magic.

  When Cyric had been Guardian of Avalon, he’d forbidden deep magic. Now, with Rhys’s grandfather dead, the stricture was not absolute. But that did not mean the Druids of Avalon called such power lightly. They did not. Rhys had shifted to falcon form only a handful of times in his life, when the need was dire. Gwen, who possessed similar magic, was more familiar with her wolf form. Thus far, Rhys’s shifting had not resulted in disaster, though more than once it had been a near thing. It was not wise to tempt the gods.

  Heart heavy, he gazed out over the swamps. A braver man would have stayed on the island, and faced the hurt and humiliation in Breena’s innocent eyes. But Rhys’s courage failed miserably where Breena was concerned. He hoped that seven nights hence, when he returned for the harvest feast, it would not be so difficult to face her. By that time, surely, the burning in his stomach would have lessened, and the horrible feeling
of having destroyed something indescribably precious would have settled into a dull ache in his heart. Once the feast was done, he would leave Avalon.

  It would be a long time before he returned.

  He shifted his weight on the unyielding ground. Why had he imagined visiting the isle would soothe him? It would have been better to stay away. Aye, the road was harsh, but not so harsh as being an outsider among his own people. He lost sight of Hefin in the glare of the rising sun. With a sigh, he unwrapped his harp and picked idly at the strings.

  The sun had passed its zenith when Rhys first sensed something was wrong. Hefin had offered up a young hare for Rhys’s breakfast. Soon after it had been roasted and eaten, and his harp safely wrapped, Rhys found himself drowsing. He woke with a start when the merlin, screeching in agitation, alighted on an outcrop of rock above Rhys’s head. Rhys’s mind registered a flash of an image, relayed from the bird’s mind to his. He sat up. Scant moments later, he caught a glimpse of pale gray fur on the trail below.

  A she-wolf. But not just any wolf—Ardra was Gwen’s companion, in the way that Hefin was Rhys’s. Rhys moved not a muscle as the sleek beast loped into the clearing. To his great surprise, Ardra padded right up to him and clamped her teeth on his sleeve. She tugged, as if trying to urge Rhys to his feet.

  Hefin flapped his wings frantically. Ardra gave a low growl and did not let go.

  Rhys rose. Ardra’s jaw relaxed. She bounded down the trail, then stopped and looked back, teeth bared.

  “You wish me to follow you?”

  Unease slithered through Rhys’s gut. He grabbed his pack and slung it over his shoulder. “Go.”

  He followed the wolf down to the muddy strip of land separating the foot of the mountain and the swamp. Gwen and Owein were there, speaking in low, grim tones.

  “What is it?” Rhys asked, hastening toward them. Ardra bounded to Gwen. “What is wrong?”

  The pair turned as one. “Rhys!” Gwen’s face showed a mixture of surprise and hope. “By the gods, I’m relieved to see you. Trevor said you’d gone to Isca Dumnoniorum.”

  “I stopped to rest in the hills,” Rhys lied, “and fell asleep. Ardra found me—”

  “And what of Breena?” Owein interrupted. “Is the lass with you?”

  He stared at Breena’s uncle. “Why would you think that?”

  Gwen colored slightly. “We thought…hoped…oh, Rhys! Have you no idea where she is at all?”

  His sister was close to tears. The sight sent icy fingers skating down Rhys’s spine. His twin rarely cried. He gripped her arm. “What has happened to Breena? Is she missing? Tell me!”

  Owein answered. The man’s eyes were haunted. “No one has seen her since last night. She is not on the island, nor in any of the usual places on this side of the swamp. I have scried for her, but my Sight revealed nothing. That should not be possible. Breena is a Seer, and my own sister’s daughter.”

  Rhys understood. Druid Seers, especially ones who shared the same blood, were very sensitive to each other’s magic. “You Saw nothing at all?”

  “I Saw nothing. I felt nothing. Her essence is gone. Completely.”

  The three Druids stared at each other in stark silence. A shroud of denial descended on Rhys, blotting all sound save the roaring in his ears. He tried to breathe, tried to move. He couldn’t. It was if he’d died on his feet, and had yet to fall to the ground.

  “You think she is—” He could not say it.

  “No!” Gwen’s arm came around him. “No, not that. Owein would have…would have Seen her body.”

  “Then what?” Rhys croaked. “What has happened to her?”

  “Deep magic,” Owein said grimly. “It is the only explanation. No other force could hide Breena’s presence so completely from my Sight.”

  “What are you saying?” Rhys demanded. “That Breena was secretly practicing deep magic?”

  “I do not believe she would be so rash,” Gwen said. “But if she encountered someone else…”

  “Someone else?” Rhys dragged a hand down his face. “But who?”

  “I have no notion.”

  “Perhaps she is simply lost. Perhaps there is some other reason why Owein cannot See her. Did you find no sign of her at all? Her raft?”

  “I found it in one of the usual mooring places,” Owein said. “Marcus followed her tracks to the high meadow.”

  “Where the stone of the Great Mother stands?” Rhys asked.

  “Aye. But there her trail ends. At least, Marcus could find no tracks leading down.”

  “Where is Marcus now?”

  “On the far side of the mountain,” Gwen replied. “With Trevor.”

  Rhys’s gaze brushed the high slopes. “I will join them. And send Hefin flying overhead. Perhaps the falcon will see something Owein’s magic missed.”

  Gwen placed her hand on Ardra’s head. “Owein and I will continue searching on this side. We’re all to meet here at dusk. I only pray she is found before then.”

  They clasped hands and parted. Rhys dispatched Hefin into the sky, then set out at a grueling pace up the path to the high meadow. The strap of his pack bit into his shoulder. He considered leaving it behind, then simply readjusted its weight on his back.

  With each step he battled a tide of guilt. If any harm befell Breena, it would be Rhys’s fault. His callous rejection had driven her from the safety of her bed.

  He reached the high meadow. The trampled grass gave evidence of Marcus’s and Trevor’s search. The swamps and lowlands to the west were a mosaic of autumn orange and rust. A low line of clouds on the horizon threatened to blot the afternoon sun. Rhys shivered. The wind had picked up. It carried a portent of winter.

  He scanned the ground, hoping to find a clue the others had missed, whether magical or mundane. As he paced a wide circle around the sacred megalith, the sun succumbed to the clouds. The daylight turned dull, erasing the contrasts of light and shadow.

  Rhys closed his eyes and cast his senses, searching inward for his magic. When he again opened his eyes, the golden autumn grass at first appeared unchanged. He whispered a word and a subtle shift occurred in his vision. Glimmers of magic emerged from the earth and stone. The edges of the standing stone appeared translucent, as if a glow sprang from the heart of the rock. Sparkling lines of green earth magic radiated from the base of the megalith in several directions. One path, Rhys knew, led directly to Avalon. Another ran toward the ancient henge of stones that stood on the great plain near Leucomagus.

  He searched for remnants of power. A Seer’s aura was pure white. Rhys recognized Owein’s magic, bold and wide. Breena’s auric trail was more delicate. Rhys stood almost in her footsteps. She’d entered the meadow at nearly the same point as he had. She’d then moved in a straight line toward the standing stone.

  And then an unknown Druid had slipped from a cleft in the mountain on Rhys’s left. He almost missed the trail. The faint blue sparks the man or woman had left behind were all but invisible. The spell used to conceal the stranger’s presence had been powerful—strong enough to fool Owein and Trevor, and even Gwen, who shared Rhys’s rare talent of discerning Druid auras. But Rhys, unlike his twin, had spent fifteen years following scant trails of magic all over Britain and Hibernia. It was no surprise he’d found what the others had missed.

  He straightened, gripping the straps of his pack. The evidence before him suggested a Druid who was very powerful in air magic, as Gwen, and Rhys, and even Penn were. It was a common enough talent—far more common than the rare Seer’s magic Owein and Breena shared.

  Both Breena’s trail, and the unknown Druid’s, ended at the foot of the Great Mother’s stone. And then…nothing. But that made no sense. He turned away, searching…

  Light shimmered on the great stone, at the farthest corner of Rhys’s vision. He swung his head back, eyes narrowing.

  The light vanished. Frowning, he tilted his head just a fraction. Again, the glistening outline appeared, glowing silver against the gray-blue st
one. Just as quickly, it disappeared.

  A portal.

  Rhys sucked in a breath. He had not known this stone guarded an entrance to the Lost Lands.

  The Lost Lands lay between earth—the realm of men—and Annwyn, the Otherworld of the gods. Few mortals traveled to those shadowy midlands. Even fewer returned. Owein and his wife, Clara, were among those who had survived such a journey. If Breena had entered the Lost Lands, that would explain why she was now invisible to Owein’s magic. The deep magic of that mystical place hindered every other magical force.

  He bent and touched the ground. Its warmth surprised him. The standing stone itself was even hotter. Deep magic pulsed against his palm like a heartbeat. The unknown Druid had cast a powerful spell to open the portal. Blue sparks gathered at the edges of Rhys’s hand. The stranger’s air magic recognized him.

  That was a very good thing. Without pausing to consider the wisdom or folly of his intentions, Rhys opened his mind to the remnants of the spell. The power of it nearly knocked him off his feet. By the gods! This magic was far deeper than any he’d ever encountered.

  Its sheer strength took his breath; his heart commenced pounding as if he’d run down the mountain and back. The spell was awesome in its simplicity and elegance. The shape of it, the color, the Words—all the facets of the spell were familiar to Rhys, though he’d never thought to join the elements in quite this way.

  Swiftly, he re-formed the spell and repeated the Words. Then he inhaled sharply. There was a single instant in which he might have pulled back; he did not.

  The stone heated, searing his palm. Gritting his teeth, he battled the reflex to snatch his hand away. The hard surface softened. The essence of the rock dissolved into flame.

  He felt himself fall.

  “Dear Goddess,” Breena whispered.

  The Great Mother’s standing stone had not changed. Neither had the meadow, nor the slope of the hill. The autumn wind still blew from the north, carrying the scent of the sea. To the southwest lay the swamps.