You must make him drink the potion at least three times during the day,” Nimue told Ilsa, as she pushed garments and possessions into the saddlebags sitting on the ground. Nimue was already wearing dark, sturdy travel clothes.
Ilsa hefted the heavy flask of liquid Nimue had pushed into her hand. “I am not a healer,” she said. “Wouldn’t a surgeon serve Ambrosius better?”
Nimue straightened. “No one can heal the King now.” She touched the flask. “This poppy concoction will make him comfortable, at least. He will need more of it each time, toward the end.”
Ilsa blinked away the hot ache in her eyes. “I cannot do this…”
Nimue cupped her cheek. “Have courage,” she said. “While the men tear themselves apart adjusting to the news, you will help Ambrosius.” Her small smile faded. “It will be very bad for a while, Ilsa. Uther is not ready. He thought he was. Now he stands upon the brink he knows he is not…and his grief will distort his judgment, too.”
“I am just a woman,” Ilsa breathed. “I cannot help him.”
Nimue merely smiled once more. “Watch to the north and the west,” she said, and closed the saddlebags.
“Saxons?” Ilsa breathed, her fear expanding in her chest.
“When they learn about Ambrosius, they will try to take advantage of the chaos he leaves behind.” Nimue wound a dark cloak about her shoulders and pinned it. Ilsa realized it was the first time she had seen Nimue wearing anything but white. The glow of her features had not faded, though.
“Do you have messages I can pass on for you?” Nimue asked.
Ilsa shook her head. “With the ships running all summer, we have been sending letters constantly, and Ban took many back with him.”
Nimue hugged Ilsa. “I return to Brocéliande as the gods demand, yet my thoughts will remain with you and yours here, where the future shapes itself.”
Ilsa gave in to the worry which had been nagging her for months. “Will I ever see Lorient again, Nimue?”
Nimue squeezed her hand. “Yes, Ilsa. You will return to Lorient. Your children will know their heritage, too.”
Ilsa shuddered. “Thank you,” she breathed.
Nimue did not smile.
FOR TWO DAYS, THE SUDDENLY empty Tintagel seemed to ring with echoes and whispers. Gorlois took not only the small contingent of men he had arrived with, but nearly every able-bodied man in Tintagel and Dimilioc.
“If the King really is dying, then my husband will need every man to hold back the Saxons, who will try to take advantage of his fall,” Igraine had explained to her women, the next morning. Anwen had been summoned to attend, leaving Steffan to deal with the girls. The reason for the summons became clear after Igraine dismissed the women and beckoned Anwen to her side.
They were in Igraine’s private chamber, with the large bed and thick wall hangings, the cushions and drapes and silver trays. Igraine sat in the chair by the window, watching the sea. “Is it true what Gorlois told me, about Morgan?” Igraine asked her. “Have you known all along?”
Anwen clenched her hands. “I have known nothing for certain, my lady, and I still do not. The duke places greater faith in Morgan’s nightmare than would I. She sometimes shows remarkable knowledge, although she likes learning and absorbs facts the way moss draws up water.”
“The duke gambles,” Igraine said. “When he reaches the King, he will send a message. We will know then if Morgan is merely a good student or something more.”
Anwen returned to her room and the task of teaching, her thoughts troubled. The daily routine swiftly settled the household, so it felt as though Gorlois had never arrived and left so precipitously.
Only, the visit had left its mark, which Anwen learned two days later.
It began with a simple question from Morgan. The girl had been unaffected by her night time terror and Anwen forbore from asking her about the dream. It would be cruel to remind her of the upset if she did not remember it.
Others in the household did not have the same consideration, though, Anwen discovered.
Morgan tapped Steffan’s wrist, which both girls had learned was an acceptable way of drawing his attention to them. “When you fought beside my father, Steffan, did you get to meet Merlin the Magician?”
Anwen raised her head from Morguase’s slate, which she had been correcting. “Why do you ask that, Morgan?”
“Canna, the goat herd, asked me if I was like Merlin,” Morgan said. “I didn’t know who Merlin was, so he told me how Merlin was the most powerful magician in Britain. He cast a spell that drew the standing stones in Ireland all the way to Britain, floating on the air. He made dragons fight and he said a magic word and Vortigern dropped dead, miles away.”
Anwen’s lips parted. She had not heard such tales before. All she knew for certain was that Merlin was Ambrosius’ son, and had the Sight, which made him unsuitable in some way to be the High King’s heir. Everyone had always known that the High King’s brother, Uther, would be the next king.
She cast about, wondering what she might say to Morgan in the face of such fantasies.
Steffan laughed, a long, low belly-shaking sound which seemed genuine. He leaned back on the bench and gripped the edge of the table, balancing himself, as his mirth rocked him.
Morguase hitched farther along the bench, away from him. She had been silent for the last two days and Anwen wondered if she resented the sudden interest and concern over her little sister.
Morgan put her chin on her fist, watching Steffan laugh, a frown marring her smooth forehead.
Steffan got himself under control once more. He wiped his eyes. “Is that what they say of the man?” he asked Morgan. “The tales have grown in the telling to the point where I no longer recognize them.”
“They’re not true, then?” Morguase asked, with an eager note in her voice.
“There is a kernel of truth in them,” Steffan said. “That is all.”
“What is the kernel, then?” Morgan asked, also eager.
“I can assure you, no dragons fought each other,” Steffan said. “No real dragons.”
“Dragons aren’t real, anyway,” Morguase said to her sister, with a chiding tone.
“Two dragons did do battle, though,” Steffan added.
Morgan smiled, pleased.
“The white dragon was Vortigern’s emblem,” Steffan said. “Ambrosius and Uther Pendragon use the red dragon. When Ambrosius defeated Vortigern at Doward eight years ago, you could say that dragons fought each other, although there was little fighting in it, for Merlin did most of the work.”
“With a magic spell?” Morgan said hopefully.
“Merlin told Vortigern what was in his future,” Steffan said. “He prophesied death and ignoble defeat, and that all history would forget Vortigern. Vortigern so feared that future, he sought to change it. He abandoned the fort he was holding and rushed to Doward, which they say is impregnable. It was there Ambrosius defeated him.”
Anwen drew her breath to warn Steffan that he should say little more about the style of Ambrosius’ defeat. Talk of burning out a keep while people were in it was not something a child who already suffered nightmares needed to hear.
Even Morguase seemed interested in the tale. “Then there was no magic at all?” she asked.
Steffan shook his head. “Not in the way the goat herd thinks.”
“But Merlin does have the Sight?” Morgan asked.
“Do you understand what that means, Morgan?” Anwen asked.
“Mary the cook told me. It means someone who can see the coming weather and tell whether a baby will be a boy or a girl, before it is born.”
“Shepherds and fishermen can do that,” Steffan said. “Merlin does have the Sight, Morgan. It lets him see the future, sometimes, or things which are happening right now, yet far away.”
“Then he is a magician,” Morgan breathed, delighted.
“He’s just a man,” Steffan said. “And the Sight hurts.”
Both Morgan and Morguase stared at him, startled.
Anwen could feel the same astonishment curling through her. “It hurts?” she asked.
Steffan nodded. “When the gods speak through him, Merlin is ill afterwards. Sometimes for days. He writhes upon the ground while they speak and he often doesn’t know what he has said until someone tells him. I have seen him in the midst of it. His whole body contorts, as if invisible hands prodded him with sharp knives.”
Morguase smiled, while Morgan looked thoughtful.
Anwen approved of this sobering telling of facts. She coaxed Steffan further by saying, “What of the standing stones he lifted and flew to Britain?”
Steffan nodded. “He did bring the heart of Ireland to Britain. I heard Cador speak of it, for his father wrote to him about the feat. Merlin didn’t use magic, Morgan. He used knowledge.” He tapped his temple. “Merlin is a master of mathematics and engineering. He floated the stones to Britain not on the air, but by barges sailed across the sea. He used block-and-tackle to tear them down. He uses the same engineering tools to raise them again, on Salisbury Plain. They will be the monument marking the death of five hundred kings and leaders, murdered by Vortigern’s betrayal of them to the Saxons, the year Ambrosius returned to Britain.”
Morgan’s and Morguase’s eyes shone.
“Then Merlin is truly clever,” Morgan said.
“Very clever indeed,” Steffan said. “He doesn’t just acquire knowledge. He uses it.”
Morgan nodded and sat up, her hand dropping. “I will be very clever, too,” she said firmly.
“Only if you learn your lessons well,” Anwen said.
“Can you teach me mathematics and engineering?” Morgan asked.
Steffan’s sightless gaze met Anwen’s. His brow lifted. “I cannot, for I am not a master,” he told Morgan. “Although, if you show promise, I am sure a suitable tutor could be found for you.”
Morgan’s smile was incandescent.
Morguase shifted on the bench once more. “Why do you use your staff sometimes and at other times you do not?” she demanded.
“Morguase, you cannot ask such—” Anwen began.
Steffan lifted his hand. “When did I not use the staff, Morguase?” he asked, his tone gentle.
“The night Morgan dreamed about the King. You came into the room as you come into any other room and you didn’t have your staff. You’ve never been in that room before. How did you know the way?”
Steffan shifted on the bench so he was facing her. “I was directed by Morgan’s screaming. When I was inside, there were many more people running and talking and it told me where to go, too.”
“You told my father you can see, sometimes,” Morguase said. Her tone was accusing. “Blind people can’t see. Are you really blind?”
Steffan’s smile was tight. “I cannot see you right now, Morguase, although I have grown good at guessing about appearances from the sound of people’s voice and the way they talk and what they do.”
Morguase’s shoulders straightened. “What do I look like?”
Steffan considered. He held his hand out and raised it. “You are this high.”
“You can tell that from my voice.”
“Black hair,” he added. “Black eyes like your mother, and her chin. Your father’s white skin, but none of the freckles. And you are wearing…” He paused. “Blue,” he finished.
Morguase smoothed the blue gown over her knee. “You cheated,” she said. “You can see more than you admit.”
Steffan’s smile was wry. “It is cheating to be given the smallest glimpse of light, which everyone around me takes for granted?”
Morguase’s gaze shifted away from him. Her cheeks tinged pink.
Morgan tapped his wrist. “You sometimes look as though you can see.”
Anwen nodded, for this was true.
“I have learned to compensate,” Steffan said. “We have other senses which are blunted because our sight tells us nearly everything we need to know about the world around us. Take sight away, and the other senses grow stronger. Much stronger.”
“What are senses?” Morguase said.
Steffan reached out and tapped on Morgan’s wrist. “Touch is one.”
“Hearing things,” Morgan said.
“Yes. And taste,” Steffan said. “Although taste is not as useful as touch and hearing…and smell.”
Morgan giggled.
Steffan smiled, too.
“Then you really can’t see anything at all?” Morguase pressed.
Steffan hesitated. Anwen knew he was weighing, deciding. Then he said, “Sometimes, I get the faintest glimpse of things, then they are gone again. It doesn’t last.”
“Everything goes black?” Morgan asked.
He shook his head. “It isn’t blackness I see. It is light and color.”
“Color?” Morgan said, her interested rising yet again. “Is that why you know Morguase is wearing blue?”
“She is?” Steffan smiled, pleased. “The colors I see are not related to the colors you see. They are representations, I think. Emanations of feelings or movements.”
Morgan wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Steffan considered. “Very well. Look at Anwen and tell me what colors you see.”
Both Morguase and Morgan looked at her. Anwen cleared her throat. She realized she was smoothing down her dark brown gown the same way Morguase had straightened hers and made her hand stay still.
“Brown,” Morgan said flatly.
“Yes,” Morguase added. “Dark brown, all over.”
“What I see when I look in Anwen’s direction is gold,” Steffan said.
The girls stared at him in disbelief.
“She isn’t wearing gold,” Morguase pointed out.
“I’m not seeing what Anwen wears. I see something else. The essence of her. I see glowing golden brown.”
Anwen’s heart pattered. She made a fist of her hand, resting on her knee. “And what do you see of Morguase?” she asked, deliberately turning the conversation.
Steffan smiled. “That is easy. The color of strawberries.”
Morguase laughed. She liked that.
“And me?” Morgan asked.
Steffan’s smile faded. “I do not know for certain. Perhaps, a pretty lilac?”
Morgan’s mouth pursed and her nose wrinkled.
Anwen watched Steffan’s face. He could not see, yet his eyes could be expressive. She watched them shift and move away from Morgan and knew he had lied.
From the corridor outside the door came shouting. “A messenger! A messenger comes!”
With it came a buzz of conversation and calls, as everyone reacted to the arrival of news. Feet ran. Doors slammed.
A slave pushed open the door to Anwen’s chamber. “The lady bids you attend her at once,” he said breathlessly and slammed the door once more.
“Does that mean she wishes to speak to me or you?” Steffan wondered aloud.
“We should all go, just to be sure,” Anwen said, as relief touched her. The conversation had become uncomfortable, although she was not certain why. She wanted everyone to think only of languages and letters or the arriving news. “Morgan, let me inspect your gown. Yes, that is clean enough. Tie your chemise strings properly. Morguase…yes, you are very neat today.”
Morguase beamed and ran from the room. Morgan followed. They called to each other as they traversed the corridor to the big circular stairs.
Anwen stood and brushed down her own gown, smoothing out the folds and arranging it properly. Steffan remained upon the bench, his head down, as if he was deep in thought.
Anwen did not consider waiting for him. He was capable of finding his own way to Igraine’s chamber.
Only, as she moved to the door, his hand shot out. He gripped her wrist. She gasped at the uncanny accuracy of his reach. “How did you know I was there?”
He swung his feet over the bench and stood. It put him far too close to her. There was barely a hand-span of space between them. “Scent, air movement, sound. The glow which marks you wherever you are.” His voice was low. He drew her wrist up toward his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, pulling at his grip.
“Confirming you are as I see you.”
“See…?” Her breath caught as he brought his other hand to her face and touched it. Her flesh sizzled at his touch and she shuddered. “Steffan—”
“Shh.” His fingers ran over her face, her hair and her throat. They came back to her face and rested there. “Beautiful,” he breathed.
“Then you are truly blind.”
He shook his head. “I suspect I am the only one who sees you properly.” His fingers stroked.
“Stop that,” she whispered, for his touch was sending hot waves through her.
“Why?” he breathed.
She could not speak of the throbbing which weakened her. Instead, she reached desperately for harsh facts. “I am old, Steffan.”
His fingers shifted. “There are no wrinkles here. I would not care if there were.”
“I am older than you.”
His hand slid down her throat, leaving sizzling flesh in its wake. His fingers rested over her heart. “You are not older, in here. Here, we are the same.”
Her entire body wanted to reach through the tiny space between them and surrender to him. Her eyes ached as sour knowledge prevented her. “You dally with me because I am to hand. If you really knew me, if you could see me—”
“I do see you,” he breathed. His lips hovered only inches away.
She turned her head away. “If you really did, you would know my fear.”
He turned her chin, so she looked at him once more. His gaze was steady. It truly seemed as though he studied her. She shivered.
“I know your fear,” he said, his voice low. “I see your longing, too.” He reached behind him, unlatched the door and opened it.
Relief touched her, as he held it open for her. She went to step through, but he caught her arm, making her heart leap again.
He leaned close to her, so the warmth of his big body enveloped her like a cloak. “One day, you will be mine,” he breathed in her ear.
Then he released her. She was free to stumble into the corridor, her heart slamming and her body shrieking with competing tensions.