Silver Silence (15 page)

Afagduu eagerly awaited his prize. But, as is so often the case with deep magic, disaster struck. The instant the potion’s magic blossomed, the cauldron tipped. The first three drops fell on Gwion’s lips, not Afagduu’s.

“Thief!” the goddess cried. Enraged, she lunged for Gwion; the lad barely dodged his mistress’s ire. He fled the cottage, the crone chasing after, screaming threats and imprecations.

The hapless lad, desperate to escape and overwhelmed with deep magic, transformed into a hare, then a fish, then a dove. The crone countered by shifting into the forms of a dog, an otter, and a hawk. Finally, Gwion became a grain of wheat; Ceridwen changed into a hen, and ate him.

The magical meal caused Ceridwen to become heavy with child. Nine months later, she gave birth to a new son. The child was beautiful. His fair hair shone upon his brow like silver. When he became a man, he took up the harp. His music and song spread wisdom and Light in Annwyn, and among the people of Gwynedd.

“Thus,” Rhys sang, drawing the ballad to its finish. “The great bard Taliesin was born.”

The harp song faded on a final, plaintive note. Rhys took a step back, and inclined his head.

Morfen bowed in return.

“I thank you, minstrel.”

T
he otter cut through the current, its sharp claws swiping at Myrddin’s fish body. Myrddin twisted and flipped his tail—too late. Pain slashed along his side.

Black terror consumed him. He could not die this way. What would happen to Vivian? With his last strength, he leaped, breaking the water’s surface.

The warm air singing across his scales shocked him. The sun’s rays blinded. He flailed, wildly, reaching out…for what, he did not know.

Wind caught under his outstretched wings. The downy feathers on his breast ruffled. Air magic bathed his face. He blinked, and looked down, and saw the ground fall away.

The laugh in his throat emerged as a warble. He was a dove, wild and free. Elation struck. The otter could not harm him now.

But the otter was no more. In its place, on the river bank, stood a hawk.

The great bird spread its wings, and took to the sky.

“ ‘Twas a fine show, my handsome bard.”

Rhys looked up. The serving wench was very shapely, and very bold. Her eyes held that inviting look common to loose women. Rhys had known a hundred like her. He was not interested in knowing another.

Earlier, when she’d caught his eye and smiled, he
made the mistake, out of habit, of smiling back. That had encouraged her to ply him with food and ale. All evening, she’d made a point of returning to his table. She spoke with Trent and the others, but her eyes kept returning to Rhys.

Rhys wasn’t given to vanity, but he was not so modest that he did not know there was something about him that attracted women like geese to water. His height, he supposed, and his unusual coloring. And his harp, of course. A tragic song never failed to leave a woman sighing.

He’d ignored the black-haired wench, in favor of watching Breena. Her color had risen during his performance, but now that it was done, she looked paler, and anxious.

The players that had followed the Brothers Stupendous were having a difficult time engaging the audience’s attention. This troupe also boasted a harpist, but the instrument was smaller than Rhys’s, and the pitch was higher. Rhys could not decide if he liked the difference.

He hardly noticed the serving wench sliding onto the bench beside him, until he felt her breast press the side of his arm. Startled, he jerked around, nearly knocking her over backward. Reflexively, he reached for her. His hand stroked down her arm and locked on her elbow.

“Ah.” Her blue eyes danced. “So the fair son of Taliesin remains with us after all. Here I thought he’d flown to Gwynedd, so far away were his eyes.”

She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “There. Ye can see me better now. I’m called Nesta. And ye?”

“Rhys.”

“Ye’ve traveled far, to attend the festival, if ye hail from Gwynedd.”

“Aye.” His gaze drifted to Breena, at the high table. “I’ve put a fair bit of road behind me.”

“It must be a grand thing, to see the world. Me, I’ve spent all my life here at Tintagel castle. But I do not normally serve in the hall, except for grand feasts such as this one. Most often, I attend the Lady Igraine.”

Abruptly, Rhys gave the lass his full attention. “Do you, now?”

She laughed. “Aye, and I thought that would capture your interest! If there is a man born who is not awed by the duchess’s beauty, I have never met him.”

“A blind man, perhaps.”

“The high king himself lusts after Lady Igraine,” Nesta confided. “Uther made his intentions clear last Eastertide in Caer-Lundein. ’Tis why the duke now guards his wife so jealously. She rarely leaves her chambers in the tower.”

“Indeed.”

“Gerlois could not very well keep his lady wife locked away during the festival. The villagers have been restless, clamoring to see her. But Gerlois will not allow Igraine to dance, or even to speak to any save her close companions.”

“You mean the pinched-faced matron?”

Nesta chuckled. “Lady Bertrice may have a sour face, but she is tireless in her devotion to Tintagel. She is the duke’s sister.”

“The resemblance is strong,” Rhys agreed. “And what of the red-haired lass? The one offered as a tournament prize?”

“Lady Antonia. Poor thing. Her family recently fell to the Saxons.”

“All Dumnonia is abuzz with the story of that raid.”

“ ‘Tis glad I am the Saxon wolves rarely wander so far as Tintagel.” Nesta shuddered, pressing her breast
against Rhys’s arm. “Enough talk of death. I would rather talk of beauty.” She touched his hand. “Your songs entranced me tonight, Rhys. Your fingers on the harp…they are very clever.”

Nesta had clever fingers of her own. Presently, they were skating up Rhys’s thigh. Gods. He did not need this. Subtly, he shifted away. “You flatter me falsely.”

“Ye are too modest. Your song was so bittersweet, it brought tears to my eyes.”

“ ‘Twas the tale that moved you. Not me.”

She picked up his hand and turned it over, stroking from the base of his forefinger to the tip. “Perhaps we could put that to the test. Play a song just for me, after the feast is done.”

“‘Tis doubtful I could. My companions…”

“Surely your friends would not begrudge ye a few hours of pleasure?”

“There would be little privacy. The castle forecourt is crowded with—”

“Nay, not in the forecourt! In the castle. I know a place where no one will disturb us. Lady Igraine’s private garden. ’Tis at the base of the tower.”

Rhys stilled. “Aye? Truly? But surely there are guards. How would I get past them?”

Her eyes danced. “You will not need to. There is a second entrance to the atrium. ’Tis a secret. A hidden door in the floor of the old Roman tower, under the stair. It leads to a storeroom below the kitchens. I do not think even the duke knows of it.”

“Indeed.” He pitched his voice low. “And how might I find this storeroom?”

“Slip through that door just behind you, but do not go as far as the kitchens. There’s a stair to the right, leading to the cellars. Go past the wine and oil, and the baskets of apples. There is a small room just beyond, in the foundation of the old watchtower. It is filled with
old wine casks. Look up at the ceiling, in the far corner, and ye’ll see the trap door.”

Her gaze fell to Rhys’s lips. “Will ye come, then?”

He hesitated. “Perhaps.”

In the next instant, before he could react, Nesta’s lips were on his. She kissed him, deeply, her round breasts pressing against his chest, one hand sliding down to stroke him beneath the cover of the table. His cock couldn’t help responding, and he knew she felt it. His hands went to her shoulders, to push her away, but before he could do it, she pulled back of her own accord.

She rose, and propped her empty tray against one hip. Her eyes fairly smoldered as she smiled down at him. “I’ll wait for ye near the old fountain.”

Hips swaying, she walked away.

Breena pushed back her chair and lurched to her feet.

“Lady Antonia!” Lady Bertrice frowned. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

“I…my stomach…”

“You are ill?”

Sick at heart, perhaps.
“No. Not ill. I…just need a bit of air.”

Bertrice glanced down at her plate. “The third course has just been served. Sit, and I will accompany you to the inner courtyard when I am finished.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Breena said swiftly. “I would not hear of it. I can go on my own. There is no reason for you to interrupt your meal.”

She felt Bertrice’s resolve waver. Appetite won over duty. The lady picked up her eating dagger and skewered a succulent morsel of pork. “Very well. But do not stay away long.”

The courtyard was blessedly cool. Servants rushed to and fro, none giving her more than a quick glance.
Breena gulped in a lungful of crisp air. Welcome as it was, it did little to ease the pain in her heart.

Rhys, kissing Nesta! Gods. Breena wanted to rip the woman’s hair out. And after that, she would very much enjoy taking a knife to Rhys’s—

A hand caught her arm. “Breena! At last.”

She whirled around, then sagged against the wall in relief. “Gareth! Thank the gods.”

His green eyes, clearly worried, passed over her. “Come,” he said, drawing her into the shadow of the walkway bordering the courtyard. “We must talk.”

She followed him. Opening a door, he pulled her into a small room. An office of some sort, judging by the parchment on the desk.

He was forced to leave the door partially ajar, to catch the light from the courtyard. “Breena. Are you all right?”

“Oh, Gareth. Myrddin is not coming!”

“What? How do you know?”

Breena described what she’d Seen in her scrying. “He almost looks dead. Do you know who the woman might be?”

He hesitated. “It is certainly Vivian. Myrddin’s wife. She was stricken at court last spring.”

“Myrddin has a wife?” The notion struck her as odd. But she had little time to dwell on the thought. “Gareth, there is a more immediate problem. When I touched the deep magic surrounding him, a dark spell rose here in the castle. It surrounds the castle now. I fear…I fear Dafyd sensed my magic, and is looking for me.”

The knight swore. “We must take Igraine and flee. Tonight.”

“But how can we? Igraine refuses to be a part of our scheme. She vows she will not be the cause of a civil war. We can hardly steal the duchess from the feasting
hall by force. I need more time to convince her she must abandon Gerlois and Tintagel. I will plead with her again tonight.” She would even confess her Druid powers, and tell Igraine about her vision, if that was what it took to gain her consent.

“The contest for your hand is tomorrow,” Gareth said. “I have already entered my name in the lists.”

Breena’s heart tripped. “You have?”

“Of course. Did you imagine I would let any other man touch you? The tournament will work to our favor. Once we are betrothed, you will present me to the duchess, and we will smuggle her out of the castle.”

“How?”

“There are caves beneath the castle gardens. It is possible to anchor a boat at low tide. Tomorrow evening, when I make my bow to the duchess, you will request a stroll in the gardens behind the castle. The entrance to the caves is just beyond the smokehouse.”

“But, Gareth…” Breena hesitated. “What if you do not win the contest?”

He smiled. “Have you so little faith in my abilities?”

“It is not that. It’s just…the other knights look very capable, too.” Older, and more battle hardened, as well, but she did not say that.

“Breena. Not one of those men wants you as much as—”

Footsteps sounded in the courtyard, very close. Gareth put his finger to Breena’s lips and drew her away from the door. When the servants’ steps had faded, Breena opened her mouth to speak. Her words evaporated as Gareth’s finger traced the curve of her lips.

“You are very beautiful, you know.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m…I’m not. Not at all.”

He cupped the side of her face. “I would be proud to call you wife.”

“Wife? But—”

His mouth came down on hers, absorbing her startled protest. Gods! Gareth wanted to marry her in truth? It was not possible. She wanted to tell him so, but his lips were insistent, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She felt him lift her hands and place them on his shoulders as he backed her against the wall.

She slid her palms to his chest instead. “Gareth, stop.”

He pulled back, his breathing labored. “Breena. I am sorry. I meant no disrespect. I have wanted to do that since the first instant I laid eyes on you.”

He had?
“I…I have to return to the feast. I have been gone far too long.”

“I will escort you.”

“No! That would only rouse Lady Bertrice’s suspicions. You go first. I need…a moment to compose myself.”

“All right.” He stepped away. A moment later, his footsteps retreated in the direction of the feasting hall.

Breena sagged against the wall. Gareth’s kiss had felt…strange. Like the kiss she’d shared with Penn. Not at all like the times she had kissed Rhys.

“What a touching scene.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Rhys!”

He sketched a mocking bow. “At your service…Lady Antonia.”

“You were spying on me! How long have you been lurking outside that door?”

He shrugged. “Long enough.”

She met his gaze. His tone might have been light, but his eyes flashed with icy fury.

Her own tumultuous anger answered. “
Are
you at my service, Rhys? I confess I’m surprised to hear it. I thought you’d offered your
services
to Nesta.”

“The duchess’s maid is brazen.”

“And you encouraged her! You stroked her arm. You kissed her in front of everyone!”

“Rather than slip away, you mean, to meet my lover in the castle steward’s office? By the gods, Breena, I could throttle you! What is going on? Why are you masquerading as a dead woman, under the nose of a sorcerer? I am telling you, your folly ceases this instant.”

Air hissed through Breena’s teeth. The arrogant swine! How dare he order her about. “Just…stop it, Rhys. My
folly
is none of your business. Now step aside. I must return to the feast—”

“Nay,” he said, grabbing her wrist as she tried to brush past him. “You are not going anywhere, Bree. Except out of this castle with me. Tonight.”

His voice vibrated with rage. His fingers pinched. Dear Goddess. Rhys’s anger had frightened her at a distance. In close proximity, it was terrifying.

But she would not bend. He was in the wrong, not she. She drew herself up to her full height. Unfortunately, her full height put her eyes hardly higher than his chest.

“Let me go,” she said quietly. “You are hurting me.”

“Too bad.” He did not release her. “You are lucky I do not turn you over my knee. By the gods, Bree! I thought you were kidnapped.”

“I was not. I am in this time and place of my own free will.”

“I see that,” he growled. “And it ends now. We are going home.”

She stiffened. “You have no say in this. None at all. How did you even find me? You should not have been able to follow us.”

“Us.” The word dropped from Rhys’s lips like a stone. “Who is this ‘us,’ Breena? You and Uther’s Druid, I suspect.”