Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3) Read online

  Without his shield, Gareth could maneuver more quickly. He moved out of the way and slid with solid footing into his new position. His sword felt like a woman who had long vied for his attention and had at last won his favor. He delivered a blow twice as forceful as he could have holding his shield and she gave forth a victorious cry.

  The crowd erupted. Their roaring made him want to attack again but he kept calm, keeping his eyes focused on every subtle change in Aelhaearn’s body and face.

  Aelhaearn tossed his shield aside and raised his arms in the air. “You want to fight like this, do you?” He shook his head. He tossed his sword hilt from one hand to the other, his eyes burning into Gareth’s face. He attacked, switching the angle of his blows, keeping Gareth guessing. He could deliver a blow nearly equally well with both hands. Though Gareth searched his expression for some indication of which direction his next blow was going to come from, he gave him none.

  The next six blows belonged to him. Gareth barely managed to deflect them. With the seventh, Gareth fell flat on his back.

  Aelhaearn stood over him but did not strike. “You’re as arrogant as your bloody father!” He raised his right hand and sent a burst of flame into the air, driving the crowd into a frenzy. They began to chant, “Firebrand! Firebrand! Firebrand!”

  Gareth’s confidence drained out of him into the dirt, leaving his throat dry. He could scarcely choke down his own saliva. The crowd favors him. They want him for their champion, not me.

  Aelhaearn shook his head as Gareth jumped to his feet. “Fool! Did my advice mean nothing to you? Shield, shield, shield, I said! Yet you come to me with none at all!”

  Gareth felt confused, and then ashamed. He hasn’t betrayed me. He simply entered the tournament. He felt relieved and defeated at the same time. Even if he managed to defeat Aelhaearn now, everyone knew he had been granted a pardon in the first round. I’ve lost, but I can’t go out like this.

  He gripped his sword, determined to redeem himself as best he could before the end of the match. Somehow, the turn of events left him more relaxed. Now, the match felt like a morning of training rather than revenge. He watched Aelhaearn move again, searching patiently for the weakness he knew had to be there. He felt into his sword, reconnecting with her, whispering words of encouragement. I don’t believe what he says. I believe in you. We don’t need anything else. We can do this. He waited for Aelhaearn to strike, his confidence renewed, and smiled as he deflected his next series of blows. He breathed calmly, feeling centered and resigned. Like an animal, he waited for his opportunity to strike back. He did not allow anything to tempt him into doing so too soon.

  It was a long time before that opportunity came. With each blow, he looked more and more like a fool, but he waited anyway.

  Then, it came. It came, and, like a wolf, he sprang and sunk the teeth of his sword into Aelhaearn’s. The force of his attack was so concentrated and so precise, Aelhaearn could do nothing to stop its momentum. That momentum blasted open the sliver of opportunity he had suffered so much humiliation for. He dove into it with his entire body, committing himself wholly into the breach.

  After the match, when spectators described what happened after that moment, Gareth found he could not remember any of it. They described him as a bear, a stag, a flash flood—some even said the man who finished that fight was so different from the one who had started it that it appeared as if a god had descended from the heavens and taken over his body.

  Yet, I could not have defeated him without the skills he taught me. This victory is as much his as it is mine.

  He smiled at the irony.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Things We Cannot Have

  “What’s the matter?” Arhianna looked at the faces of her family in turn. They had insisted she meet them in their tent before the feast that night.

  “Arhianna, Jørren is here,” Gareth blurted. “He’s one of Uthyr’s war prisoners. He was to be executed with the rest of them. I would have told you sooner, but I needed to see him for myself and be certain we could save his life before I told you.”

  Her brother’s words hit her like a volley of arrows. Her throat constricted.

  “I’ll not lie to you. He hasn’t been well treated, but he’s strong and he’ll recover. Uthyr has agreed to turn him over to Father in the morning. He thinks Father wants to execute him himself. We want everyone here to believe that as well, until we’re far from Caer Lundein. We’ll be safe once we’re back in Mynyth Aur.”

  Gareth gripped her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “You need to know he didn’t do it. He didn’t go to Ambrius. He refused Hengist, for you. He fled north with Ragna and the clan.”

  Arhianna felt faint. She sat down, trying to resist the nausea that was setting in. “He didn’t do it?”

  Gareth shook his head. “No.”

  Arhianna put her head in her hands. What have I done? Oh, Freya, what have I done?

  ***

  “I told you we’d be sitting here together.” Inga smiled at Gareth as she took her seat next to him at the final banquet.

  “We are.” But Gareth did not feel the way he imagined he would. Yes, he had won. Yes, he was sitting beside Inga, a few seats away from the Pendragon himself, but something was missing. Something vital and important.

  The crowd called for speeches from the champions. Gareth was so absorbed in what he was going to say, he did not hear what the other two said. He did not come out of his thoughts until Inga squeezed his forearm.

  “Would you like to say anything?”

  Gareth rose and looked out over the room. He found the eyes of his father, mother, and sister. Then he found Seren’s, and, finally, Aelhaearn’s.

  “Today’s victory does not belong to me alone. It belongs equally to the man who spent every morning of the last six moons training me.” He kept his eyes locked with Aelhaearn’s and gave him a deep nod of respect. “Raise your cups to Aelhaearn, the Firebrand.”

  Without apology, Gareth looked his father in the eye and drank. His father’s fight was not his own. Unburdened, he sat down, put his hand over Inga’s and squeezed it.

  Uthyr stood up. “We celebrate as one clan tonight, sharing not only food and drink, but our champions, our enemies, and our victories. And one clan we shall continue to be, for tonight and all nights hence!” He raised his drinking horn, inciting a thunder in the hall.

  The feast carried on through the night. Gareth’s cup was never dry, his plate never empty, and his ears never ceased hearing praise and congratulations. His father did not approach him, but Gareth did not expect him to. The next conversation they had would beg some privacy.

  The more Gareth drank, the more his attention fixed itself on Inga. At first, he allowed himself only to enjoy her as a sister—her laughter, her smile, her words—but as the evening wore on, his thoughts began to stray. When she spoke, he could think only of what her mouth would taste like. He gazed at her hair and skin, wondering what they would feel like beneath his hands. What sounds would she make if I slid my hands over her long, smooth legs? He felt his blood rising like a tide, reaching out for her from beneath his skin. Gods help me, I want her. He imagined picking her up and carrying her away from the crowd to a place where he could take her in his arms and kiss her.

  Stop! He got up from the table and went outside. The night air felt refreshing. He looked up at the stars and calmed himself with the silence he could see around them. If you bed her, you’ll be expected to marry her, and what then? He had no desire to marry anytime soon. There were still so many places he wanted to explore. He had already sent word to Gwythno that he wished to join the crew of the Ceffyl Dŵr for the summer. A lust for the horizon was something he had inherited from his father, he knew that—but, unlike his father, he would not leave behind his wife in favor of adventure. Gareth knew his mother resented his father for leaving so often. He resented him as well, burdening him with so much responsibility at such a young age. When I take a wife, I’ll stay by
her side, always.

  He felt a hand on his arm and jumped. A silhouette came closer and he recognized the perfume he had smelled earlier in the day. His heart pounded in defiance at his resolve, breaking it down. He turned toward her, feeling as if the darkness could render anything that happened to the world of dreams, where it could be justified, sanctified, or forgotten, if they wished.

  She moved in front of him and slid her arms up his chest to his neck, setting his nerves ablaze with her fingertips. The next few moments felt like memories, for they had already happened a hundred times that day in his imagination—tasting her lips, feeling her hair, smelling her skin, feeling her body pressed against his.

  “I want you to take me to your bed, but I don’t want my father or brother to know. They’ll want us to marry, so we must keep it a secret. I’m not going to marry for a long time. I’m going to sail with Creirwy this summer. It’s already been decided.”

  Gareth pulled away and grinned up at the stars. He could not help but laugh. Oh, the gods are good. So very good.

  “I can live with that.” He scooped her up in his arms and kissed her, letting loose his restraint.

  ***

  Igerna and Gorlois arrived late to the feast. Their seats had gone noticeably empty for hours. Arhianna suspected why but did not comment on it. She filled a glass of mead and went to greet her friend, while Gorlois spoke to some of the men.

  Igerna embraced her. “Gods, I need some wine.”

  “I thought you might.” Arhianna handed her the cup.

  “Oh, bless you.” Igerna took a sip.

  “How are you?”

  Igerna shook her head. “He didn’t want me to come. We’ve been arguing for the past two hours. I finally convinced him it would be better for me to suffer Uthyr’s attention than for him to explain my absence to him. Uthyr knows I’m not ill. He saw me at the games today. It would have been an insult for me not to come.”

  Arhianna glanced over at Uthyr. He was already well aware of Igerna’s arrival and had his eyes pinned on her.

  Igerna looked over at him as if she could feel it. “He’s so bold, Arhianna.” She glanced over her shoulder to see where Gorlois was, and then leaned in closer to speak in Arhianna’s ear. “I know it’s wicked of me, but I’m drawn to him—I’m drawn to him, and I hate him for it, because my desire for him has caused me to recoil from my husband’s touch.” She looked as if she might cry. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Arhianna squeezed her hand in reassurance, leading her to a quieter place where they could talk freely with one another. “Don’t worry. Once you return home, you’ll forget him. Passion is like the weather—it comes and it goes. Remember, Uthyr is Pendragon. He’s become accustomed to having whatever he wants. He may only want you because he cannot have you. Gorlois truly loves you. I can see that when he looks at you. That’s something far more precious than passion.”

  “I feel so wicked!”

  “Don’t—it’s understandable. Uthyr is both handsome and powerful. Great Mother, Igerna—he’s the Pendragon—and he desires you. Don’t chide yourself for desiring him. It’s only natural.”

  Igerna looked over at him and shook her head. “He should have done something when he had the chance.” She drank the rest of her wine. “Men are fools in love, Arhianna—be they kings or fishermen.” She motioned to one of the serving girls, who came over and filled her cup.

  Arhianna thought of Jørren. Women are just as foolish. Love makes fools of us all. She had done her best to pretend her world was the same as it had been that morning, but inside, a storm raged. What will he look like? Does he still love me? Will he ever forgive me for leaving him?

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Be polite, nothing more. I shall never betray my husband.”

  Unlike me, Arhianna thought, her stomach curdling. I am the wicked one. Untrusting. Unfaithful.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Arhianna took a deep breath. “I found out tonight my husband never went to Ambrius. He refused Hengist’s command for me. He led the clan north. That’s where he’s been these past years.”

  Igerna’s mouth fell open. “Who told you this?”

  “My brother. My husband was among the prisoners taken in the attack. He’s here. He was to be executed with the others before the victory celebration.”

  “Was to be?” Igerna’s eyes widened.

  “Yes. Uthyr’s agreed to turn him over to my father in the morning.”

  Igerna’s hands flew to her mouth. “And then what? Are you expected to simply pick back up where you left off?” She shook her head. “My situation is nothing compared to yours. Forgive me for complaining. I must sound like a child to you.”

  “No, you don’t—not at all.” Arhianna squeezed her hands. “I’ve told you this because I trust you, and I’m going to need a friend in the moons to come.”

  “You will always have a friend in me.” Igerna leaned over and kissed her on both cheeks. “I’m glad we trust one another. We can lean on each other now.” She glanced over at Gorlois. “He’s coming for me.”

  Arhianna nodded, watching Gorlois make his way across the hall. “Farewell, then. I’m not staying any longer. I regret I can’t come and visit your little Morgause now, but I promise I will, very soon.”

  “Yes, you must see her.” Igerna’s face looked as if the sun had just risen on it. “Perhaps, if you find you still love your husband as you once did, you’ll have a babe of your own the next time we meet.”

  Arhianna wished things could be as they once were but she knew better. She forced herself to smile anyway. “Perhaps.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The Double Path

  Nimue felt Taliesin’s hold on the mortal world loosen and took heart. He was like her, living forever between the mortal world and the Otherworld. She did all she could to make him happy, recreating the time they had spent together before. She felt confident the longer he stayed with her, the less he would care about what lay beyond Affalon.

  Oonagh and Finbheara brought her Taliesin’s body as they had sworn to do. “Certainly not as easy as taking a babe in the night, but we managed.”

  They helped her lay his body on a small raft she had built and bid her farewell. “Bring us the babe when it’s born, and we shall be reconciled.”

  Nimue nodded. “I will.” She got into the water and pulled the raft behind her by a rope, towing it as close to the cave as possible. Knowing his body could not drown, she tied the rope around his body and dragged it down behind her, through the underwater corridor. She emerged in the cave and dragged it up on shore. She had chipped away a chamber for it, deep within the crystal wall. She ordered the waters to rise high enough that she could float it into the chamber, and then made the waters recede.

  She moved his hair away from his face and arranged his limbs. She folded his hands over his stomach and put Arianrhod’s feather between them. “Watch over his body, Mistress. Keep it safe. Keep it hidden.”

  ***

  Nimue had to know when Arhianna’s babe took root and began to grow. She could only do that if she lived near, or preferably, among, the Oaks in their village. Yet, she could not leave Taliesin alone in Affalon. The dilemma left her with only one option. I must walk the Double Path.

  Nimue had not walked the Double Path for many years, and never for more than a day or two. True to its name, walking the Double Path was the practice of leading two separate lives in two worlds, concurrently. She would continue to live as Nimue with Taliesin in Affalon, but, at the same time, she would live in the mortal world, where she was known as Viviaine. Though walking the Double Path was taxing on both mind and body, she resolved to manage it. For us, my love. For us, I will do this.

  ***

  Viviaine knew Myrthin had been appointed Pen Bairth by Uthyr. He had proven himself by performing the impossible feat of somehow transporting the stones from Eire to Ambrius. The vote of the council had been unanimous.

  She lef
t the isle, bound for Caer Lundein. She bought some simple clothing, provisions and a horse, and rode day and night until she reached the western gate of the city wall.

  A guard stepped forward, spear in hand, as she approached.

  She rubbed the skin of one of her apples beneath her robe, releasing its divine fragrance, and then threw back her hood so he could see her face. “Greetings. I am Viviaine, High Priestess of Affalon. I seek Myrthin of Brittany, Arch-Druid and Pen Bairth to the Pendragon.”

  The guard’s cold eyes grew misty as the fragrance reached his nostrils. He took a deep breath and his expression softened. “Is he expecting you?”

  She raised her brows. “Does it matter?”

  “No, I suppose not.” He looked at her blankly and waved her through.

  She pulled her hood over her head and rode her horse beneath the tall arch into the city. The noise and smells of the streets offended her senses, causing her to recoil so often she feared she might fall from her horse. So many people. Too many. She held the edge of her hood over her nose and mouth and breathed as deeply as she dared, attempting to calm herself.

  Rain began falling in a steady drizzle, clearing the streets somewhat, but most continued on with whatever they were doing.

  She navigated her way through the wet and winding streets toward the fortress. Her mare’s legs were muddied up to her knees by the time she reached its high stone walls. Unlike the guards, the walls were not enchanted by her fragrance or her face. They looked down on her with cold disdain, crowned with a mantle of thick grey clouds.

  Again, she was stopped by a guard at the gate. She repeated both her speech and tactic and was admitted.

  She rode into the courtyard, dismounted, and gave her horse to a stablehand. It felt good to have her feet on the ground and her legs straight beneath her. “Where might I find Myrthin?”

  The stablehand pointed to a staircase across the courtyard. “Up there, likely. That’s where he is most days.”

  She looked up at the lone window above where the boy’s finger hovered. Candlelight flickered within it, shining out in the darkness created by the thickening clouds. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky.