Arawn shook Ilsa awake. She blinked in the deep darkness of the tent. “What is it? What time is it?”
“Very late. Very early,” he whispered. He tugged on her arm. “Nimue asked for you. She is in the High King’s tent.”
Ilsa sat up and glanced at the silhouettes of her sleeping children on the other side of the tent. “Why? What has happened?” Someone stood outside the tent with a flaming torch, sending leaping shadows over the fabric.
Arawn got her to her feet and dropped her gown over her chemise and tugged it into place, as she slid her arms into the sleeves. He handed her the warmer cloak and bent and pushed her shoes into place.
Ilsa pulled the cloak around her shoulders and shivered. Arawn drew her from of the tent. He took the torch from the soldier standing just outside. “Stay here,” he told the man. “No one goes into the tent. Hear?”
The man nodded.
Arawn picked up Ilsa’s hand and pulled her across the dark, empty square. The stars overhead gave little light.
There was more light in the King’s big pavilion. Ilsa could see men moving about inside, including in the inner room where Ambrosius slept.
“Arawn…” She pulled on his hand, slowing her steps.
Arawn turned back to her, the flames from the torch jumping and hissing at the abrupt change of direction. “The King is ill,” he said, his voice low.
Ilsa pressed her hand to her heart as it creaked. She was too afraid to speak another word. Instead, she moved forward again, hurrying for the big tent.
She ducked under the arm the guard thrust out to stop them and left Arawn to deal with him. There were too many men standing about the outer section with their hands on their swords, as if gripping them hard enough might change the news.
Ilsa stepped around them and into the inner section of the tent. Ambrosius had a real bed, which the people of Amesbury had pressed upon him while he stayed outside their town, as thanks for the invaluable protection his army provided them. He was lying in that bed now and appeared to be unmoving. His face was pale and sweat dotted his temples and throat.
Nimue was bent over him, her hand on his forehead.
Uther paced the carpet between the bed and the canvas wall of the tent.
Merlin stood in the darkest corner, farthest from the lamp, his black eyes glittering as he watched his father.
Ilsa touched Nimue’s arm. “I am here. How can I help?”
Nimue glanced at her. “The time you made your son ill, after he swallowed those berries…?”
Ilsa glanced at Ambrosius. “He ate something noxious?”
“He was poisoned!” Uther hissed, rounding on her.
Nimue glanced at Uther. “We do not know that for certain. He says his stomach burns. We must remove what is there.”
“He says…?” Ilsa asked delicately, for Ambrosius was clearly beyond the ability to speak.
Nimue rolled her eyes. “I can hear him,” she said. “We have little time. Help me.”
Ilsa pushed up her sleeves. “We need a bundle of the reeds growing by the pond. Enough to make the thickness of my thumb, tied together.”
Nimue glanced at Uther.
“I’ll arrange it,” he growled and strode to the opening into the other side of the tent.
Ilsa listened to him give low, strident orders. Booted feet ran from the tent. Everyone moved swiftly but almost silently. No one would risk rousing the camp with such bad news. Not yet.
The reeds were brought to them. Ilsa and Nimue sent everyone from the tent, even from the outer side. “There is no need for anyone to see what happens next,” Ilsa told Nimue, as they struggled to bring Ambrosius into a sitting position.
Merlin, though, would not move. He didn’t speak. He remained a silent statue in the corner.
The work of expelling the contents of the King’s stomach was messy and difficult. While Nimue held his jaw open, Ilsa inserted the reeds deeply enough to cause his gorge to rise and make him vomit.
At least Ambrosius was aware of none of it, she thought, until Nimue sighed. “He says the burning is diminishing.”
Ilsa had the bowl of offensive matter taken away. “Burn it and bury the remains,” she told the slave.
They bathed Ambrosius’ flesh with cool water, and Nimue listened, a furrow on her pale brow. “We must wait and see.”
A little while later, Uther returned, to resume his pacing.
Ilsa sat on the corner of the thick rug which Uther paced upon, her back against the foot of the bed. She was tired beyond belief, yet sleep was far away. From the light falling against the sides of the pavilion, she judged that sunrise was not far away. As they waited, the light grew.
Nimue stood by the side of the bed, staring down at Ambrosius, as unmoving as Merlin.
The sounds of the camp stirring for the day rose about the tent. Fires were stirred and cooking pots settled onto coals. As the guards changed outside the tent, with a rattle of armor and exchange of words, Uther hissed and turned to Nimue. “Surely enough time has passed? Well?”
Nimue didn’t move.
Uther grabbed her arm and hauled her about to face him.
Ilsa jumped to her feet. “Uther, no!”
He gripped Nimue’s arms and shook her. “Look at me! Tell me!”
Nimue’s gaze shifted from the inner focus Ilsa recognized, to settle on Uther’s face. “There was too much of it. It has gone too far. We have only slowed the pace of it.”
Uther grew still. “What are you saying?” His blue eyes blazed with emotion. He knew already.
Ilsa put her hand on his arm. “Uther…”
He shook Nimue again. “Tell me.” He ground the words out.
A solitary tear rolled down Nimue’s cheek. “I cannot save him.”
Uther roared, his arm lifting high, ready to strike her. Nimue did not move. She watched him calmly.
Ilsa shoved him. He was so much larger than her that all she could do was disturb his balance. It was enough. Uther dropped his arm.
“Get out,” he told Nimue. “Go far from here. I do not want to see your face again.”
Nimue’s throat worked. “This is the last time you will see me, Uther Pendragon. I vouch for that.”
She moved out of the tent. Even in the bright sunlight shining through the thin fabric walls, she gleamed and shimmered with power.
Uther dropped to his knees beside the bed and gripped his brother’s hand. He bowed his head.
MORGAN’S SCREAMING PULLED ANWEN FROM her bed before she was aware she was even awake. She threw her cloak around her chemise and ran barefoot through the cold stone corridors to the big chamber the two girls shared, brushing her hand along the wall so she did not cannon into it.
People were stirring, coming sleepily to the doors of the dormitories and chambers, asking what was happening. No one had the sense or was awake enough to coordinate the movements needed to light a torch and the guards had extinguished those which lit the corridors.
Anwen slipped past them all and pushed the heavy door open. It was dark in the chamber, too, but Morgan’s screaming told her exactly where the girl was. From the other side of the room came an echoing whimper.
“It’s all right, Morguase,” she said. “Morgan is having a bad dream, that is all.”
She groped for the bed and found the edge of it, then moved up to the head and felt for Morgan. The little girl thrashed and moaned. As Anwen laid her hands on her, Morgan screamed once more, making Anwen jump. It was a panic-filled sound.
Anwen gathered her into her arms and rocked her. “Shh….shh, Morgan. It’s just a dream. Wake up, little one. Wake up!”
As she rocked Morgan, Anwen heard people calling for light and muttered conversations in the corridor outside. The orange glow of lamplight showed where the door was, then moved closer. Before the lamp could be brought into the room, though, a big silhouette filled the doorway.
“Anwen?” Steffan asked.
“I’m here,” Anwen confirmed. “Five paces, and you’ll find the bed.”
He took the paces, and whoever held the lamp behind him also came into the room.
Morgan shivered in Anwen’s arms, although she no longer moaned. Anwen kept up her rocking.
Steffan crouched down by the side of the bed, his head tilted, listening.
“You heard her screaming all the way from the stables?” Anwen breathed, keeping her voice down.
Steffan let out a breath. “The horses, too,” he said in agreement. “They’d have bolted if not for the doors.”
Anwen’s gaze dropped to his bare shoulders and chest. He wore only his trousers.
Morgan gave another little shudder, pulling Anwen’s attention back to her. “Steffan, see that Morguase is comforted. Across the room, another five paces.”
Steffan rose to his feet.
More fuss sounded at the door and more light built. Gorlois moved into the room. He wore a belted robe and his hair stood at angles. Thrust into the belt was a long knife. “What happened?” he demanded.
“A dream,” Anwen murmured.
Morgan heard her father’s voice and stirred. She lifted her tear-stained face toward him. “The High King is dying!” she cried.
Gorlois came to a halt, three paces from the bed. His eyes widened.
The roused household standing in the corridor behind Gorlois muttered nervously, passing the news along.
Gorlois looked from Anwen to Steffan, who sat on the other bed, soothing Morguase with soft pats. Then he seemed to shake himself. “A bad dream indeed,” he said gravely. “But only a dream.”
Morgan wound her arms about Anwen’s neck. “He must go back,” she murmured to Anwen. “Before it is too late.” Her voice was still that of a six-year-old girl, yet the certainty in her tone belonged to a much older woman.
Anwen shivered.
“What did she say?” Gorlois demanded.
“That you must return to the High King, my lord,” Anwen said.
Gorlois stared at his youngest daughter. Then he shook his head. “The nervous mutterings of a child,” he said. Doubt colored his tone. His gaze moved to Anwen. “Or is it?” He took a step closer and his hand curled around the hilt of the knife. “Does my daughter have the Sight?” he asked.
Anwen patted Morgan’s back as the child shivered. “I know nothing about such matters,” she said truthfully. Yet all the times Morgan had ever spoken of events in the future, the times she had been aware of news which was yet to reach Tintagel—and all the occasions when Anwen had dismissed the unsettling hints as the parroting of a small child who overheard far more than adults realized—all those moments rippled through her mind, a cascade of memories. “It is…possible,” she admitted to Gorlois.
He swallowed. She could see his throat working in the dim light. “The King was in perfect health when we left, or I would not have come away.”
Morgan turned her head to look at Gorlois. “The poison wasn’t in him, then.”
Even Anwen shuddered and the mutter in the corridor rippled down the length of it.
“Poison…” Gorlois breathed. “The gods save us.” He was no longer a concerned father investigating a troubled daughter, but a leader considering the greater implications of an ailing king. “If the Saxons learn of this…”
Then he bent to speak to Morgan, who clung to Anwen still. “Are you certain he is dying, Morgan? Or was this just a dream? I must know before I order the men to give up their time here and return. It is a four-day journey.”
Morgan looked at her father. Her chin lifted. “He is dying.” Her voice was still that of an older woman. “If you leave now, you will return barely in time.”
Gorlois stood. His grip on the knife tightened. He looked at the lightening sky through the window. “Dawn comes. We will ride as soon as it is light enough to see the way.”
He whirled and left.
Anwen settled Morgan back on the bed and wiped her wet cheeks with the corner of her cloak. “You must try to sleep now. Tomorrow, if you still remember this, we can speak of it.”
“I will remember this always,” Morgan whispered. She curled up on her side and closed her eyes. The dark lashes settled against her soft cheeks and she breathed softly and slowly.
Anwen marveled. The child was already asleep.
She stood and rearranged the furs over the top of her.
Parry, the steward, stood at the door, holding a lantern, the flame burning orange. His eyes were wide. “The King is dying?” he breathed. Fear distorted his face
Anwen hesitated, doubt gnawing at her.
Steffan moved closer and said in a low voice, “We will know nothing until the Duke sends word back.”
“Yet he rides for Amesbury, because his daughter said he should,” Parry said, his tone awed.
“It is a practical thing,” Steffan said. “If the King is in good health, then no harm is done if Gorlois returns early. If he is not, then—”
“Then the child is proved a witch,” Parry breathed.
Anwen gripped the sleeve of his robe and shook it. “Hush!” she said harshly. “Have you no sense, man? You cannot speak of witches so casually.”
“She knew!” Parry breathed, fear making his voice tremble.
“If she did, then it is simply the first emanations of the Sight,” Steffan said, startling Anwen. Most fighting men were wary of the unseen power of people with the Sight. They found comfort in what they could see and touch, what they could control. Yet Steffan spoke as if he was experienced in such matters. He put his hand on Parry’s shoulder with unerring precision and squeezed. “There is no need to panic the household with talk of magic. You have a position to uphold. Set an example, Parry.”
Parry swallowed and nodded. “You are right,” he said, his voice still shaking.
“In the light of day this will seem far more prosaic,” Anwen added. “Perhaps an early rising may benefit us all. Listen. The Duke’s men are stirring already.”
Echoing through the corridors came the sound of men shouting. Out in the yard, too, there were more calls. Torches lit the yard. Horses snorted and whinnied as the men prepared them to ride.
Parry raised a brow. “They will need food for the road. Drink to see them on their way. I must rouse the cooks…” He turned and left, taking the lamp with him.
The room plunged back into pre-dawn darkness, making Anwen gasp and blink.
“He took the lamp, yes?” Steffan said. Anwen felt his hand on her arm. “Here. The door is this way.” He drew her across the floor.
Anwen took small steps, her hand raised in front of her. She had been staring directly at the flame of Parry’s lamp and now she could see nothing at all. Her heart pumped hard, dispensing fear.
“It’s all right,” Steffan assured her. “The door is right here. Wait, the air is too still…it must have swung closed.”
She halted and he brushed past her. The door swung open. Air shifted against her face. Anwen lifted her hand, reaching for the door itself, so she would not run into it.
Her hand brushed up against warm flesh. For a heartbeat which seemed to last for a year, her fingertips rested against the warmth and the solid muscle beneath.
Her heart slammed into her chest, hurting.
She snatched her hand back, breathing hard.
The darkness in front of her shifted. Steffan stepped out of the way. He had been blocking the tiny amount of light in the corridor, shed by lamps and torches far away. It was enough light to show her the outline of the doorway and the seamed stone of the corridor walls beyond.
Anwen blinked. “I can see the way, now.” Her voice shook. Her whole body rippled with a wave of sensation which made her weak.
“So can I,” Steffan breathed, his voice low and hoarse with something which made her weakness increase.
Anwen stumbled from the room and fled to her chamber.