Silver Silence (25 page)

“Promise me, then, that tonight, you will not let him out of your sight.” She gripped his arm. “Not for an instant.”

“Lady Antonia. I do not think—”

“Just promise me. Please.”

He regarded her in silence for a moment. Then he nodded. “As you wish. If you promise you will retire for the afternoon. Clearly, the events of the last few days have exhausted you. You are in quite desperate need of rest.”

Uther Pendragon looked so much like his ancestor, Marcus Aquila, that Rhys half expected Britain’s high king to grin and declare his pretension of royalty an elaborate jest.

He did not.

The king’s expression was grim. The battle had been engaged, and lacking Myrddin’s support of Uther’s army, the fighting was fierce, with casualties high on both sides. Uther, upon learning Rhys had returned, withdrew from the field. He glanced down at Rhys from atop his warhorse as Rhys finished donning his borrowed clothing. “You did not find Myrddin.”

“I did find him, Your Majesty.”

“Why is he not with you?”

“He could not make the journey. His magic is gone.”

The color drained from Uther’s face. “Gone?”

“I assure you, I speak the truth. Myrddin’s magic has fled. He sent me in his stead.”

The corners of Uther’s mouth slashed downward. “You do not have half of Myrddin’s power.”

“That may be true,” Rhys said evenly. “But at the moment, I am your only choice of Druid ally. I have received Myrddin’s instructions, and I am prepared to remove Igraine from Tintagel. That is the objective of this war, is it not?”

“It is.” Uther regarded Rhys gravely. A soldier’s death cry bled from the battlefield. Uther’s stallion shied at the sound. The king, his expression grim, controlled the great beast with one hand.

“Let us hope, Druid, that your battle magic can turn the tide of this skirmish.”

“It will not. I have no intention of entering this war with battle magic.”

Uther spit a curse. “Then you are less than useless. You waste my time! Take yourself out of my path.” His mount reared as he spun the beast about.

Rhys lunged, catching the bridle before the beast could charge the field. “You arrogant idiot! War is not your solution. Do you imagine you will be able to fight your way into Tintagel in time to save the duchess? You will not.”

Uther snarled down at him. “I can and I will. Drop the reins, Druid. I will win this war, with or without your help. Once Gerlois is dead, no man will dare bar my entrance to Tintagel.”

“Perhaps not.” Rhys anchored his grip on the leather. “But what will you find when you enter? At this moment, Lady Igraine is at Dafyd’s mercy. He will kill her this very night if you are not there to prevent it.”

Panic flashed in Uther’s eyes. “That is why I must fight!”

“Nay. That is why you must not. Believe me when I tell you, Myrddin is in agreement. The scheme I am about to propose to you is his.”

Uther’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”

“Dismount,” Rhys countered, “and I will.”

Uther did not even blink as Rhys described the dangers of Myrddin’s plan.

“Cast the illusion,” he said when Rhys fell silent. “I am not afraid.”

A wiser man, or a less arrogant one, would have been very afraid, Rhys thought. His own fear was manifested as a tightening of his chest that would not relent. The spell Myrddin had proposed was not a simple illusion. Light magic alone would not pierce Dafyd’s pall. The bishop’s evil had repelled even Rhys’s deep magic.

What Myrddin had proposed was something far more sinister. Deep magic, aye, but deep magic wound with dark magic. This was far different from Rhys slipping a light magic illusion into Dafyd’s pall, as he’d done during Gareth’s duel. This time, he would claim dark magic as his own. The thought of casting such a spell opened up a pit of dread in Rhys’s stomach.

But he would do it. For Breena. Despite the howling of his conscience, he did not for a moment consider turning away. His honor lay in a heap of dust before his love for Breena. He very much feared there was no magic he would not cast, no depravity he would not entertain, to ensure her safety. And if that realization brought searing guilt, it also, paradoxically, created an oasis of calm in the center of his turbulent emotions. A feeling of profound rightness.

Loving Breena was the single aspect of Rhys’s life he had never once doubted.

“You must understand what you are about to undertake,” he told Uther. “This spell is not an illusion. It is a transformation.”

Myrddin’s scheme wove Rhys’s shape-shifting deep magic with dark magic. “You will not simply look like Gerlois. You will
become
Gerlois. The spell will not be stable. The shifting will be very painful; it may even kill you outright.” He would not proceed unless Uther knew what he risked. “Even if the spell is successful, you may find that you will not be able to return to your own form afterward. You may be forced to live out your life as Gerlois, and put it about that Uther was
killed in battle. I do not know what that will do to your political alliances. Even worse, you cannot risk leaving Gerlois alive in such an instance. There cannot be two men with the duke’s name and face.”

“I will kill the bastard in any case,” Uther said. “If you mean that requirement to be a deterrent, it is a poor one. As for the rest, I will take whatever risk is necessary to see Igraine safe.”

In truth, Uther’s unwavering resolve surprised Rhys. The man went up a notch in Rhys’s estimation. Perhaps the high king was even worthy of the throne upon which he sat. Uther was the distant progeny of Gwen and Marcus, after all.

Uther raised his hand and spoke to the dozen knights waiting nearby. None were strangers to Myrddin’s magic, but Rhys fervently hoped none of them would fully understand the nature of the spell he was about to cast on their king. All the warriors, and Uther himself, had exchanged their red tunics for clothing bearing Cornwall’s colors, which they had stripped from Gerlois’s dead.

Rhys also wore mail and a green tunic emblazoned with the black tower of Cornwall. A sword hung at his hip. He could not get used to the unbalanced sensation. He nodded at Uther. “Ready?”

“Yes. Get on with it. Time is growing short. By your own assertion, we must reach Tintagel before dark.”

Rhys was well aware of the position of the sun, and the full moon that would rise with the sun’s setting. He was also aware that Uther’s men were watching him with wary eyes. He wanted to cast the spell out of the sight of Uther’s men, but the king refused.

“They must witness the change,” he’d asserted. “If they do not, there is the risk they will not believe.”

Rhys had agreed with some reluctance. “Very well. Close your eyes, and brace yourself for the pain.”

He cleared his mind. It was not difficult to find his shape-shifter magic. It was a part of him that was never far from his consciousness. Casting that magic upon someone else, and controlling the form it would take, was far more complicated. Before Myrddin had described in detail exactly how such a feat could be accomplished, Rhys had not even known enough to dream of the possibility.

Simply transferring his own shape-shifting power to Uther, difficult as that was, would not be enough. Rhys’s deep magic alone could not pass through Dafyd’s pall. Dark magic was needed.

He cast his mind out over the battlefield. It took but a moment to sift through the tangled life essences on the field and locate the soul unique to Gerlois. The duke, pressed upon by a contingent of Uther’s best warriors, was caught in the frenzy of battle. With his concentration overwhelmed, his grip on his life essence had loosened.

Rhys called Myrddin’s dark spell into his thoughts. His lips did not want to form the Words; his tongue felt swollen and thick. Bile rose in his throat. His stomach threatened to heave. He concentrated on Breena, on an image of her held captive by Dafyd. He would do what he had to do. If it was wrong, so be it.

His body shuddered with revulsion as his lips formed the Words. He cast the spell quickly. A fragment of Gerlois’s soul separated from his body. Rhys wove the glowing strand with the fabric of his shape-shifting spell. He bound the result to Uther’s life essence.

The transformation struck with a vengeance. Uther gasped with the first shock of it. He dropped to his knees. As one, his men surged forward; the king held them back with one raised hand. Uther gritted his teeth, bowed his head, and bore the rest of the transformation in silence.

Fearful murmurs ran through Uther’s knights. Before their eyes, Uther’s handsome face melted into Gerlois’s bitter features. His body thickened with age and corpulence. When at last he stood, and faced his men, Rhys realized Uther had been very wise to force his knights to witness this magic. If he had not, the twelve men would have raised a dozen swords against the enemy standing before them.

Uther looked at Rhys with Gerlois’s eyes. “Will the guard allow me to pass as Gerlois?”

Rhys fought a surge of nausea. “I have no doubt.”

He only hoped Dafyd’s magic would be fooled as easily.

W
aiting was torture.

Breena sat with Igraine, alone in the solar; Nesta had fetched Lady Bertrice to mediate some squabble in the kitchens. The dying sun glinted through the western window, painting the walls crimson. Breena could not tear her eyes from the cracked pane in the eastern window. The full moon would soon rise, directly behind it.

Surely Morfen would keep his promise to stay close to Dafyd’s side. The bishop would not enter the room alone, as he had in Breena’s vision. If reality began differently from her nightmare, did that mean it would end differently as well? Breena clung to that hope.

She paced to the window and peered through the broken pane. Dark clouds scudded above the land, but a slice of clear sky showed just above the sea cliffs. She stood, transfixed, as crimson, lifting from the horizon, bled into blue. The leading arch of the moon rose like a bloodstained sphere. As the orb traversed the fissure in the glass, it looked as though it had been sliced in two.

Breena sucked in a breath. Perhaps she should have told Igraine the whole truth—that Breena had Seen the duchess’s death, and that she very much feared there was nothing she could do to stop it. If death was to be Igraine’s certain fate, the duchess had the right to pre
pare herself for it. But Breena could not bring herself to give up that last thin thread of hope that her vision had been wrong. Closing her eyes, she braced for what she knew would happen next, even as she fervently prayed destiny would be thwarted.

She opened her eyes. Magic thickened the air. It had begun, then. Much as she wished this was a dream, another vision from which she would awaken, she knew it was not. Silence had not descended. The wail of the wind outside the window was plainly audible, as was the hitch of Igraine’s breath, and the thudding of Breena’s own heart.

She stared into the glass. A soft snick sounded as the door to Igraine’s solar opened. A man’s reflection appeared in the glass, eerily framed within the split moon.

Breena turned. Igraine had risen to greet Bishop Dafyd. Her spine was straight, but her hands trembled. Breena’s gaze darted into the gloom beyond his shoulder. Where was Brother Morfen?

Dafyd stepped fully into the room. Breena could not see the sorcerer’s aura, but she could feel his magic—reaching, expanding, snaking around her limbs and torso. Her stomach roiled. She tried to walk forward, to rush to Igraine’s side. She could not move.

Dafyd approached Igraine. The gnawing fear in Breena’s gut became a full burn. “No,” Breena whispered. “No.”

“My lady,” Dafyd said, halting before the duchess.

Igraine’s gaze darted to Breena, then back to her visitor. “Excellency. To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

“Need I a reason to offer succor to my brother’s—” Dafyd’s gaze raked Igraine’s body with an insolence Breena had never before witnessed. “—whore?”

Igraine gasped. “I am no whore. I have been faithful to my husband.”

Breena struggled to move. Struggled to speak. Frantically, she looked through the door. Morfen had still not arrived.

“A faithful wife does not plot betrayal,” Dafyd said. “A faithful wife does not encourage the attentions of her husband’s enemy. You, my dear, have done both. My brother is a blind fool. He loves you too well. He is too soft.”

“Too soft with his fists?” Igraine said. “I think not.”

“Insolent whore. Devil’s harlot. You question your husband’s right to chastise you? If only Gerlois had listened to me, and thrown you from the cliffs upon your return from Caer-Lundein. Or better yet, killed you as soon as you became his wife! You are far too dangerous to live, my dear, even with your magic bound.”

“My…my magic?”

“Do not pretend you do not know what you are!” With sudden violence, Dafyd’s open palm connected with Igraine’s cheek. Her head whipped to the side. As she cried out, he grasped the neckline of her gown, and ripped it open. “Do not lie to me. There! You wear the mark of Satan.”

Breena’s Druid pendant glinted silver against Igraine’s alabaster skin. The duchess cried out, and wrested the edges of her torn tunic from the duke’s hand.

“Harlot.” He thrust her away from him.

She fell hard upon her knees. “Please. Do not hurt—”

Her plea fell on deaf ears. With a snarl, Dafyd fell upon her, his hands closing about her throat. It was happening, just as Breena had foreseen. She stood frozen with horror. She could not allow this tragedy. She had come to this time to prevent it. There must be a way. Surely the Great Mother would not have given her an impossible task.

Her body would not move. In desperation, Breena threw her mind toward Igraine. Her magic collided with Dafyd’s, to little effect. His evil was an impenetrable wall, thick and oozing with malice. It surrounded Igraine, wrapping her with filth. But through it all, one point of Light remained.

A glow encircled Breena’s Druid pendant. Avalon’s mark. The symbol of the Great Mother, merged with the sign of the Carpenter Prophet. Protection and Light. Breena reached for the magic of the charm. Somehow, through the pall of Dafyd’s spell, she touched it.

A burst of white light arced like lightning. Breena’s magic, and Igraine’s, joined as one. A shower of white sparks burst forth. Dafyd jerked back. And Breena found herself suddenly free of her paralysis.

She stumbled forward. Igraine was bent double, coughing. She raised her head as Breena grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Red smudges marred the skin of Igraine’s neck. Breena’s rage surged. She shoved the duchess behind her and spun to face her adversary.

“You will not touch her.”

“You think to stop me?” Dafyd’s lips parted in a sneer. “With your paltry magic?” He laughed. “This bitch’s usefulness ended when she birthed her daughter. I would have killed her then, if Gerlois had not stopped me. He claimed to love her too well, even though her disdain shriveled his cock. My brother is a fool. But he is not here now, to interfere with what must be done.”

“I will fight you,” Breena whispered. “With every breath in my body.”

Dafyd laughed again. “Then do so, by all means.” He spread his arms. “I am waiting.”

Breena had never in her life cast deep magic. Would
her spell go terribly awry, as Rhys’s had on the tournament field? She did not have time to consider the risk. The risk of not acting was far greater.

She let her rage rise. It surged with her magic and her will. A great gust swept through her body. She trembled with its power. She knew her mortal form could not contain it for long.

She flung the power outward. It struck Dafyd’s chest. Sparks flew.

The bishop stood unharmed. “Is that the worst your magic can do? I am disappoint—”

The words choked in his throat. Breena watched in bewilderment as Dafyd jerked forward, eyes wide, mouth open. He hung suspended in that grotesque pose for a single heartbeat. Then he crumpled slowly to the ground.

Breena leaped backward with a cry as his heavy body thudded at her feet. She collided with Igraine. The two women sought to steady each other; when Breena regained her balance she looked up. Igraine gave a soft cry. Brother Morfen stood over Dafyd’s body.

“You came,” Breena breathed.

The monk’s good eye blinked. “Yes.”

“Thank you.”

He gave a tight smile, the ruined side of his mouth turning it into a grimace. He bent and grasped the cowl of Dafyd’s robe. Standing, he tossed the bishop aside as if he weighed nothing. Dafyd’s neck issued a horrifying crack as his body hit the ground.

Breena gasped, and backed away.

“It does not seem,” Morfen said softly, “that you truly wish to thank me.”

“What…what do you mean?”

Morfen advanced a step. Instinctively, Breena tightened her grip on Igraine’s arm.

“Do you not know me, Breena? Did you not guess at my identity when I bade the fair minstrel sing my mother’s song?”

“The minstrel…” Her eyes widened. “You…you claim the goddess Ceridwen as your mother? But…but that is not possible.”

“All things are possible,” he said. “I am Afagduu.” His single eye flashed with dark emotion. “You believed me pitiful. You believed I was the captive of this soft, sorry priest. I assure you, it was he who was
my
slave. He who did
my
bidding. And he did not even know.”

He nudged Dafyd’s body with his foot. “I grew tired of his stupidity. I find I wish to complete his task with my own hands.” His gaze touched on Igraine. “It will be blissful pleasure to kill the last Daughter of the Lady, and watch the Light fade from Britain permanently.”

“You are truly evil,” Breena whispered. “As ugly as your face.”

Afagduu laughed. “Men call evil ugly. But that is not right. Evil is lovely. Seductive. Darkness holds unbounded beauty.”

His eyes flicked over Breena, leaving a dirty trail of shame. He lifted a hand. A black haze seeped from the ground.

“Once Igraine is dead, I will show you.”

If not for the bloodred moon rising, Rhys would have laughed at how easily Uther’s party passed through Tintagel’s gates. The high king had only to shout a command, and the guards jumped to grant their duke entrance. Uther rode into the forecourt, swung from the saddle, and tossed the reins to a waiting stable lad.

The head of the castle guards hovered nearby, as did Tintagel’s steward. Uther ignored them. Jaw set, he strode through the great hall and into the inner court
yard, his knights at his heels. The soldiers guarding the tower door hastened to lift the crossbar. Boots thudded across the garden and onto the stone stair.

A poisonous wave of magic met them on the ascent. Red sparks mingled with darkness. The knights stumbled. Only Uther and Rhys kept moving through the pall. The king unsheathed his sword and took the last steps at a run.

Uther burst into the duchess’s solar, Rhys on his heels. Thick black smoke obscured the room. “Breena!” Rhys shouted.

A form emerged from the gloom. Through the haze, Rhys recognized the ruined face of Dafyd’s acolyte. Magic swirled around the monk—magic that Rhys had believed was Dafyd’s. With a shock, he realized the power belonged to the slave, not the master.

His throat closed. Where was Breena? Frantically, he cast his senses into the gloom. He shuddered with relief when he touched her power. She’d wrapped it around Igraine. The two women crouched in the far corner of the room

There was still time to save the future.

“Welcome, my king.” The monk greeted Uther with mocking laughter. “You are surprised your paltry disguise does not fool me? Ah, well. Perhaps Myrddin is not as clever as he thinks.”

Rhys was not certain the monk had even noticed his own presence. He gave no sign of knowing what Rhys was. He fought to keep his magic muted as he edged along the perimeter of the room toward Breena.

Uther, with a cry of rage, lunged at his enemy. The monk halted the attack with nothing more than a raised hand. Uther’s sword froze in midair, as if it had struck stone. Before the king could react, a shaft of crimson light shot from the monk’s palm, to explode in Uther’s face.

The king howled. His sword clattered to the tile as
he staggered backward. Rhys ran the last steps toward Breena. Her white magic provided a fragile shield against the sorcerer’s fury. Without hesitation, Rhys dove through it. He knew Breena’s magic would never reject him.

She gasped. “Rhys! Gods! What is happening? You and Gerlois—”

“Not Gerlois,” he grunted. “Uther. He is disguised by magic.”

“Dear Christos!” Igraine cried out as Uther’s body hit the ground. She struggled against Breena’s grip. “Release me! I must go to him!”

“No,” Breena said. “You—”

Her words died in a shower of red sparks. With the explosion came a roll of black smoke. A feeling of unfathomable hopelessness descended, crushing the air from Rhys’s lungs. He struggled to breathe, struggled to find a spell to fight the sorcerer’s attack. His light magic was too far away. He could not reach it, could not cast it.

He reached for his deep magic instead.

Icy blue sparks shot from his fingertips. Whether the blast hit its mark or not, he could not tell. A surge of crimson malevolence responded. A noxious stench, dung and sulfur, filled his nostrils. As Rhys prepared a counterstrike, he became aware of Breena standing at his side. She held out her hand. Deep magic gathered, rippling in her palm like a living river.

“What are you doing?” Rhys rasped. “Get back. Protect Igraine. I will deal with the monk.”

“No! Rhys, you don’t understand. He is not a monk. He is not a man! He is Afagduu. You cannot hope to defeat him alone.”

Shock slammed into Rhys’s brain. “Afagduu? The…the son of Ceridwen?”

“The same.”

Rhys swore. He felt Breena’s magic expand. It spread in a white mist toward Afagduu’s darkness. He sent his own magic, bright blue and pulsing, to intertwine with hers. She spoke the truth. United, they were far stronger than they were apart. But would their combined magic be enough to smite a god?

Afagduu met their attack with a stream of fire. The flames blasted Breena’s protection, licking at the edges of her spell. The resulting heat was sweltering. Rhys felt like an insect caught under glass.

If his fate was to fight to the death, so be it. Why should he have any choice in death, when he’d had so little in all his life? But Breena did not deserve such a fate.

Rhys launched a stream of cooling blue at Afagduu’s fire. Breena added a torrent of icy white. The power flowing through them was heady, and dangerous. He and Breena had bound themselves together in a union that, in a way, was far more intimate than their physical joining had been. He wanted to grasp the power, and Breena with it, and never let either go.

But there was vast danger in the deep magic as well. With each pulse of the attack he wielded, Rhys felt a piece of his soul sink into a bottomless abyss. This was the void Rhys’s grandfather had feared more than anything in his long life.

Rhys did not care. He would be willing to brave the bowels of the earth to defend Breena. He would sell his soul if necessary. What he would not do was allow her to be destroyed with him.