The messenger was just emerging from Igraine’s chamber when they reached the hall at the top of the stairs. He was dusty and travel stained, as messengers tended to be. He nodded at Steffan and Anwen as they passed.
Anwen knew the man’s face. “One of Gorlois’ riders,” she breathed.
Steffan nodded. “Drusant,” he added.
She looked at him, startled.
“He likes olives,” Steffan said.
Anwen cleared her throat and moved toward the inner chamber. Steffan followed. He did not ask her to guide him. He never asked anyone for that service. He tapped his way across the floor and stepped through to the inner chamber.
Igraine was alone except for one lady and Morgan and Morguase. The Duchess sat in the big chair by the window. There was a letter on her knees. She picked it up and held it toward Anwen. “Drusant told me most of what is in here. Please read it to me.”
Anwen took the letter and read.
Madam:
I write in haste. We came upon Drusant one day from Tintagel. He has messages from Uther, which he shared with me and I now bid him to give to you. We ride with even greater speed to Amesbury.
The High King is dying, just as we feared. You must gather and prepare the household for travel when the time comes.
Uther believes the Saxons will rise in response. He rides north as I write this, to counter the attack he anticipates.
Drusant will share more.
Cornwall.
The signature was a great flourish of unformed lines, for Gorlois did not read. His scribe’s lettering was well formed and easy to read, though.
Anwen gave the letter back to Igraine.
Igraine looked at Steffan. “You rode with my husband, Steffan. You can explain this. What does it mean for Cornwall and Britain? For us?”
Steffan leaned on his staff. “What else did Drusant have to share, my lady? That may shed more light.”
She pressed her full lips together. “Only gossip. The army, the kings, the senior leaders, are divided over Uther’s orders to ride north. There are allies in the north, they say, who will stand for Britain.”
“Uther seeks Catigern,” Steffan said. “Those who oppose Uther’s taking of the throne once Ambrosius is dead will draw around Catigern. If he removes him, then they will have no focus and no leader.”
“He thinks of politics at a time like this?” Anwen said.
Igraine looked at her, startled.
Anwen shrank back toward the wall. She had spoken without thought. Her throat tightened.
Steffan, though, responded as if her speaking her thoughts was perfectly normal. “What I remember of Uther is that he is driven by emotions more than he should be. He would be a greater leader than Ambrosius if he could contain his violent passions. Everything I have heard about him since only confirms that impression. I do not believe he thinks of politics at this time, except it gives him an excuse to act in the face of a situation he can do nothing to change.”
He grieves, Anwen interpreted.
Igraine frowned. “I do not follow, Steffan.”
Steffan hesitated. “Uther is a man of action, my lady. He cannot act to save his brother, yet he can act to save his brother’s kingdom, so he acts, no matter how rash the act may be.”
“Is it rash?” Igraine asked.
“We approach the depths of winter. Travel in the north will be hard on the men and the horses. He also risks offending the northern kingdoms, who prefer to control their own territories. If he fails to find and kill Catigern, his hunt for the man will foment the very opposition he fears. Only, Uther is not one for sitting about the home hearth and staring at the flames.” Steffan shrugged. “If he succeeds, he will win the breathing space he needs to take the crown and stabilize the kingdom.”
“It is a risk worth taking, then,” Igraine summarized.
“It is a very high risk, which is why the leaders are divided. Uther is perhaps the only man in Britain who might succeed at such a task, though.”
Igraine lifted the parchment. “And why does my husband instruct me to prepare for travel? It is close to mid-winter, as you say.”
Anwen sighed.
Steffan did, too. “Because the Duke wants all of Cornwall to attend the High King’s funeral, my lady. No lesser honor will do.”
WHEN THE THUNDER OF MANY approaching horses sounded from the north, Ilsa rose stiffly to her feet and moved to the outer room of the High King’s tent. Arawn and Gorlois, who had returned only two days ago, and at least a week before anyone expected him, also watched the tent flap.
“Is that Uther?” she asked dully.
Arawn kissed her temple. “There was no challenge from the sentries. It is him.”
Ilsa tracked the beat of the horses as someone rode them at high speed through the camp, to the center where they stood. Through the opening between the tent flaps she watched the horses burst into the square. Uther’s great roan climbed the air with his front hooves, as Uther hauled on the reins. Uther rode the creature as he would a toothless mare, barely noticing the wild movements of the horse. He slid off the saddle as the creature blew heavily and tossed the reins to the boy who sprinted to catch them.
Uther strode across the square, pulling off his gauntlets. In the light of the torches which flared and jumped in their stands around the square, his hair gleamed redly, and his eyes glittered with harsh light.
He ducked under the flap and straightened, taking in the gathering of officers.
“Success, my lord?” Arawn asked, his voice tight.
“Catigern was beheaded at dawn yesterday morning and his head put on a spear for the Saxons to find, just south of Galleva.” Uther tossed the gauntlets aside. “My brother?”
Ilsa drew in an unsteady breath. “He is dead, my lord. Not two hours ago.”
Uther’s gaze skittered and shifted. Then he gathered himself together and looked toward the inner room. “Did he speak at all?”
“Only to Merlin,” Ilsa said. “And not of affairs of state, Merlin says.”
Uther nodded. “I will speak to Merlin, anyway. Find him for me.” He pushed into the inner chamber.
Mabon stirred. “Does anyone know where Merlin went?”
“I’ll find him,” Ilsa said.
She moved out into the square, wrapping her cloak firmly around her, for the night was beyond cold. Merlin had left the King’s tent the moment Ambrosius died. He would not be far away, even though he preferred solitude.
She checked his smaller tent and found it empty, then asked everyone she came across, no matter whom, if they had seen him.
Their answers lead her to the pond at the far southern edge of the camp. It was surrounded by rushes and the water was dank enough that no one but ducks used it, and even they had fled at the end of summer.
Merlin was there—not a tall figure gazing toward unseen horizons, but a young man bent and shivering in the cold. He wore no cloak and his breath blew heavily in the frigid air.
He sat on his knees at the edge of the rushes, gripping the frozen grass as if it would keep him stable.
The black emptiness which had held Ilsa still and whole since Ambrosius had passed shattered between one hurtful breath and the next. Her heart ached.
She dropped to her knees beside him. “Merlin…”
He shook his head. “I didn’t see it. I couldn’t stop it.” His voice broke and his shoulders shook.
Ilsa pulled him to her and rested his head on her shoulder. “The gods give and the gods take,” she whispered. “All we can do is go on.”
Merlin wept.