The Dragon Prince (44 page)

The waves of pleasure subsided, and with
them, her strange dreams. She opened her eyes to see Rhun, his face
flushed and slit-eyed with contentment, his nostrils still flared
as he took long, deep breaths to recover from his climax. “This
must be a dream,” he said. “I can’t imagine this is happening.” He
focused his gaze on her. “I can’t believe you are really here.” He
reached out and stroked her cheek. “I should have been more gentle.
I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She shook her head, still dazed and
wondering herself. “It was... magical... like the night this babe
was conceived. Morguese said that the child was special, that it
was blessed of the Goddess.”

Rhun shook his head, then gave a kind of
shudder. “I will be pleased to be away from Morguese and her
enchantments. I want our lives to be simple and real once again. No
sorcery, no spells, no curses. Just you and me, a man and a woman
who love each other.”

Eastra nodded. “I would like that, too.”

“Perhaps, when this is over...” Rhun sighed.
“The thing is... I want Arthur to live, but if he does, I wonder it
will begin all over again.”

“I don’t think that will happen. Morguese
said she could heal him, but he would never be high king
again.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, but I have hopes it means
this war is finally over.”

“Now that would be a miracle.”

She smiled at him. “I believe in miracles.
Don’t you?”

The wind blew ripples across the lake,
patterning its surface. Across the water, its form half obscured by
wreaths of mist, the Isle of apples appeared to float, a dreamy
mirage of green. Morguese stood on the shore and faced those
gathered there. She wore a sheer white gown, and the breeze caught
the gossamer fabric and made it billow and dance around her. Her
long hair—which had turned completely white a few days after the
battle of Camboglanna—drifted in tendrils around her pale face. She
had lost flesh, and to Eastra, who had seen Morguese dance in
Urien’s hall, a creature of flame and heat and sensuality, the
northern queen now appeared as a lovely bloodless wraith. It was as
if with Mordred’s death had leached all the life and passion from
her, leaving behind a transparent shell. And yet Eastra was also
reminded of the Goddess’s incarnation as the Lady of the Moon, cool
and silvery and full of ancient power.

Morguese raised her arms. In her left hand
was Arthur’s sword. The huge ruby set in the hilt glinted like a
glowing red eye. Eastra heard a ripple of awe and half dread pass
through the crowd. Excalibur seemed like a living thing, and she
wondered with the others if the weapon were protesting being torn
from the hand of its rightful owner. She thought of the bier draped
in royal purple slowly being lowered into the crypt in the chapel
at the priory.
The king is dead,
the people had whispered,
despair in their hearts.

Eastra’s attention focused again on
Morguese, a pale specter on the shore of the lake. Morguese began
to speak in a voice of power and authority, belying her ethereal
form. “We come here today to say farewell to Arthur, high king of
Britain. His body has been returned to the earth, the Mother. Now
we bid farewell to his spirit, sending it back to the Otherworld.
The king is dead, but his spirit, his memory, will never die!”

She raised the sword higher. The ruby in the
hilt glowed, and ripples of light seemed to run down the length of
the shaft. “Someday Arthur will return to reclaim his kingdom, to
carry his sword into combat for the sake of all Britain!”

A soft sigh of satisfaction swept through
those watching—widows and families of the Companions; Arthur’s
footsoldiers and auxiliaries, some wearing bandages or leaning on
crutches; the monks of Avalon; servants and retainers of the royal
household; common folk who had walked long distances to pay their
respects to the high king; and Guinevere herself, looking
clear-eyed and composed.

“I, his sister, his closest living kin, have
vowed to keep his memory alive.” Morguese’s voice rose rich and
true, throbbing with emotion. “To watch over his sword until he
shall come again.” She turned slowly and, at the same time, brought
the sword to her lips and kissed the shimmering blade. Then she
raised it once more. With a strength that seemed impossible for a
mortal woman, she threw Excalibur into the air. It whipped end over
end, making a kind of wild, haunting music as it flew over the
water, then slowly descended in a graceful arc near the island.
Before it reached the water, a gauntleted hand reached up and
caught it, hilt first, and snatched it down into the depths.

Eastra blinked, then gasped in wonder, as
did everyone around her. The people began to whisper and point,
shaking their heads, their eyes wild and disbelieving. Eastra met
Morguese’s gaze and caught her faint smile. The awed murmuring of
the crowd grew louder, finally becoming a rhythmic chant. “Arthur
is not dead,” they intoned. “The king still lives. He will come
again! He... will... come... again.” Their voices swelled,
exuberant and elated. Then, as the rejoicing people watched,
Morguese raised her arms. It was as if her body had turned to
light, as if she were glowing. The mist rose around her, like a
nimbus of silver. The light faded. The mist slowly vanished...and
Morguese was gone.

Eastra shivered, caught up in the mood of
wonder and amazement like the rest of them. Then, remembering
Rhun’s instructions, she quickly left the stunned gathering.

The aura of enchantment and mystery, of
powerful forces at work, followed her as she made her way into the
forest. She heard voices whispering around her, subtle and keening
like the wind soughing through the treetops. From the thick
foliage, she could feel eyes watching her. It seemed as if
faces—gnarled, grimacing faces—peered out from the curving patterns
of the rough bark of the elm and oak trees.

She hurried onward, trying to shake off a
primitive sense of dread. It was as if Morguese had called upon
forces that had slept for centuries, ancient powers living within
the earth and in the depths of the lake. Eastra felt them swirling
around her, unsettled and restless, and she thought again of her
brother Cynebeold’s tales of the spirits of the fen, waiting to
pull unsuspecting mortals down into their murky realm. She
shuddered and then glanced down. The ground looked solid and
ordinary, green turf brightened with purple loosestrife and white
forget-me-nots, green-gold bracken and fern. But she was still
uneasy, and so she hurried on.

At last she saw the glint of water through
the underbrush. As she approached the lake, her breath caught in
her throat and her muscles went tight with dread. She was not
certain what she feared to see, why she felt so anxious.

But, in fact, the scene that met her eyes
was perfectly peaceful. At the edge of the water, iridescent
dragonflies and drab mayflies circled the white water lilies and
the purplish pink blooms of the flowering rush. The smell of the
marsh came to her, strong and earthy, and clouds of tiny insects
wafted over the still, green water. Across the way, the Isle of
Apples appeared very ordinary, a tangle of vegetation, in places
turning the brown-gold of autumn.

She stared hard at the island, amazed that
it looked so different from this side of the lake. The sense of
enchantment was gone, leaving behind only the gentle mellow beauty
of water and green and growing things. Then she heard a sound
behind her and turned. Rhun walked toward her. His chest was bare,
his hair wet, and he was drying himself with his tunic as he
approached. “Well,” he asked, grinning, “Did it work? Were we
convincing?”

Eastra shook her head. “If you only knew. It
was magic, pure magic.”

His expression sobered. “Aye, there was more
than a little of that at work. Something sent the sword to my hand
as a lodestone draws iron. When I pulled it into the water, it
seemed alive, quivering and singing in my hand.”

“Where did you put it?”

“I buried it on the island. It’s all wrapped
up and protected in a wooden box. If Arthur ever wants it, it
should be there for him.”

Eastra nodded. “Morguese disappeared
afterward. Vanished, as if she were no more substantial than a
moonbeam. How do you suppose she accomplished that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t
want
to know.”
Rhun shook his head then smiled again. “Come here. I’ve had enough
of sorcery and spells this day. I want to hold a real living woman.
You can warm me up.”

“Ooooh, you are cold.” She shivered as he
embraced her.

“Aye, but not for long.” He bent his head
and kissed her. In moments he did seem to warm. She ran her fingers
over his chest and looked up at his face. Her golden warrior, her
beautiful, wonderful Rhun, a flesh and blood man to hold her and
love her and chase away her uneasy memories of spirits and ancient
things.

“We’d better go join the others,” he said
after they had kissed some more. “I don’t want anyone to think too
much on my absence during Morguese’s performance.”

Reluctantly, Eastra nodded. As they walked
back through the woods, she asked, “How soon will Guinevere
leave?”

“Soon. Arthur’s already gone north, to an
isle off Caledon. The Picts who live there have no quarrel with
him, and they’re so closemouthed and secretive, they’ll guard his
true identity as well as it can be guarded.”

“Does he regret he won’t be high king
anymore?”

Rhun shook his head. “He said it’s time he
stepped down anyway, to let some other man guide Britain’s destiny.
He believes he accomplished at least part of what he meant to do.
Besides, he deserves some peace and happiness. He’s given over
nearly his whole life to this cause. In many ways, it’s a blessing
Morguese could not heal his sword arm. Since he’s maimed and can’t
lead men into battle, he can’t be high king. Now he can have a
chance at a normal life.”

“Besides,” Rhun added. “He believes he can
have more impact on the future as a dead martyred king than he
could have had as a living but maimed man. Already the bards are
composing songs about Arthur’s bravery and glory, about his
wondrous deeds and how someday he will return from the dead to
guide Britain to greatness.”

Eastra nodded. “Except for her blind spot
about Mordred, Morguese really does seem to have the sight. It’s
almost like a bard’s tale, the way everything has worked out. I’m
certain Guinevere is delighted with this plan. She told me she
never wanted to be queen. Now she can turn her full attention to
her own passionate cause. Did you know she’s been taking orphans
into the royal household for years? Irish and Saxon children, as
well as British ones. She knew they’d either die or be enslaved, so
she took them in and has been raising them as if they were her own.
When things got so ugly with rumors about her and Lancelot, she
went back to her father’s fortress in Dumonia and took the children
with her. Now Arthur, Guinevere, and those poor orphaned children
can all live in peaceful, happy obscurity on their northern
isle.”

“And what happens when those children grow
up and go out into the world?” Rhun asked. “Will they tell the true
story of Arthur and his quiet retirement in the land of the
north?”

“If they do, who would believe them? The
legend the bards are creating is much more enthralling than the
true tale, so that’s what people will remember. Speaking of bards,”
Eastra added “have you had any news of Bridei?”

“Well, he wasn’t killed at Camboglanna,
that’s for certain. He wasn’t even there. I guess at the last
moment, before they marched into battle, he took off. Someone asked
him where he was going, and he said something about ‘going to claim
his heritage.’ “

“What does that mean? We know he didn’t go
back to Gwynedd.”

“All I can think of is that he went to Manua
Gotodin. Because Rhiannon is a princess of the Brigantes, he may
have some notion they will welcome him as kin and even offer him
some position of authority.”

“Do you think that will happen?”

Rhun shook his head. “Although one of the
princes there may offer him a place as a bard, I can’t imagine
anyone would give him any position of importance.”

“Poor Bridei,” Eastra murmured.

“Poor Bridei!” Rhun snorted. “There are a
lot of stories about my brother, that he was an ally of Urien and
Arthur’s other enemies from the beginning. That even when we were
in Londinium, he was plotting with them.”

“I don’t believe that. I don’t think Bridei
would betray you, not if he thought it would mean your death.”

“But then, who did betray us?”

Eastra chewed her lower lip. “Perhaps now I
can tell you and you won’t be angry. The attack on us may have been
my fault. I felt sorry for the slave girl who waited upon me while
we were staying at Aurelius’s house. I told her I had once been a
slave myself and I also told her who I was, to give her hope she
might someday be free and have a decent life.”

“And you think she carried the information
that you were Cerdic’s niece and Arthur’s hostage to our
enemies?”

Eastra nodded. “It’s possible, isn’t it?
After all, the slave girl was a Pict. She had the blue markings on
her hands, the same as the ones the Pictish warriors wear on their
faces, and they are Arthur’s enemies.”

“But the Picts weren’t allied with the
Saxons back then. So I doubt very much you caused the attack by
talking indiscreetly with a Pictish slavegirl. Perhaps we will
never know who betrayed us. Although I could ask Cerdic about it
when I meet with him.”

Eastra clutched Rhun’s arm more tightly.
“Are you certain you should do that? What if my uncle takes you
prisoner, or even kills you? You’re the last of Arthur’s captains.
If he got rid of you, there would be no one to lead the British
cause.”