Arawn ordered his men to divide and move farther along the track in both directions, far enough to be out of earshot while still guarding them. He climbed from his stallion’s back and tied the reins to the lowest branch on the oak Ilsa stood beside, his hands moving in sharp, hard motions.
Ilsa waited, puzzled by Arawn’s anger and a little afraid of it, yet more than half her attention was upon the hawk. Had it fallen? Would someone else find it? She wanted her arrow back, at least. In the back of her mind, she regretted the loss of the meal she had been anticipating.
“Can someone at least find the hawk I brought down?” she asked him.
Arawn swung to face her, his face working. “A hawk?” he repeated.
“I shot the hawk just as your men saw me. It will be that way—a quarter mile, no more.” She pointed.
He glanced over his shoulder in the direction she had pointed. “Impossible,” he said.
“It will be there,” she said, keeping her voice steady, even though she wasn’t certain it would be, for she hadn’t seen her arrow strike home.
Arawn considered her for a moment. He let out a deep, gusty sigh and whistled. A soldier cantered down the track to where Arawn stood in the middle.
“Look for a hawk with an arrow through it. That way, a quarter mile,” Arawn said.
The guard looked over his shoulder as Arawn had done. “My lord?” he said, sounding both amused and disbelieving.
“Just look for it,” Arawn snapped.
“Yes, my lord.” He wheeled his horse about. Ilsa listened to it thud down the track, her heart matching the beats of the hooves.
Arawn was studying her, his thick black brows drawn together. “You cannot wander the land alone the way you are used to,” he said, his tone flat. “You are a queen, now.”
“A queen or a prisoner?” she said. “For they appear the same.”
His jaw rippled. He was very angry, Ilsa realized. Her belly tightened. His anger was out of proportion to the minor sin of leaving the town unescorted. “I know how to take care of myself,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “I have done so for a long time.”
“No, you do not understand,” Arawn said, pressing the side of his fist into his other gauntleted hand. “It is not only wild boars and thieves who threaten you here. Do you know what would happen to you if a man…if anyone realized who you are? The ferryman? The men of the village you must have circled around to get here?”
Ilsa licked her lips. “There is a reason I dress this way,” she said. She still didn’t understand the exact reasons for his anger yet her wariness grew.
“Uther saw through your disguise,” Arawn shot back. “Any astute man with half an eye would! I will not have it, Ilsa, do you hear? I will not allow you to risk yourself this way! It is too important! You must live. You must thrive or…” His hands flexed and closed.
“Or you will be less one wife and have to start again?” she snapped.
“Yes!” he cried.
Coldness trickled through her. Her head hurt. “I see,” she said. “It is not a coincidence everyone in your household minimizes how much they speak with me.”
Arawn’s gaze cut away from her.
“They don’t want to know me. They don’t want to…be friends. Just in case,” she concluded bitterly.
Arawn turned his head away.
“And the guards who appeared at the end of the corridor to our bedchambers…are they there to guard access to the wing or to keep me in? Will you be punishing them for letting me slip from the house?”
He met her gaze, his brows together. “They did not expect…” he began, his gaze moving over her.
She drew in a shuddering breath. “Then I am a prisoner.”
“No! It is not meant like that,” Arawn said.
“I cannot exist in that chamber and do nothing else with my days,” Ilsa cried. “I will go mad for lack of work!”
“You are safer there!”
Frustration bit her. “If your curse truly exists, it will find me there, too.”
His gaze met hers once more. They stood, both breathing hard.
“You don’t believe the curse?” he asked. His anger was not altogether gone, although his surprise had taken the edge off it.
Ilsa sighed and unstrung her bow and pushed it into the arrow bag over her back. “I know nothing of magic and curses,” she told him, as she worked. “Everyone in my village, whenever they spoke about the lack of rain, would also speak of a time of no rain in every generation. Their grandfathers told them, or their fathers, of the last great dry years.”
“Your village doesn’t think there is a curse, either?” Arawn asked, sounding even more surprised.
She shook her head. “Not connected to the rain, at least,” she added. “Rain will come on its own, they said. You though…they do think you are cursed.”
“Because my wives die,” he finished.
“Yes.”
“You believe it, too? That I alone am cursed and this drought has nothing to do with it?”
Ilsa spread her hands. “I am a wood-cutters daughter, my lord. What would I know about such matters? They are the province of kings and princes and other high born people. What I do know is out here.” She waved toward the trees. “Everything out here teaches lessons if you know how to look for them.”
Arawn’s anger drained. She could see it leave his eyes. His jaw relaxed. “Why did you agree to marry me, if you don’t believe the curse?”
“Because I could be wrong,” she said. “My parents and my village suffer from the lack of rain…or at least, they did suffer, until now.” She tilted her head. “Stilicho told me you sent them help and water and food and they are now recovered. Thank you for that.”
Arawn cleared his throat and looked away.
“If I am wrong about the curse and did nothing when marrying you might break it, it would be my fault no rain falls,” Ilsa finished.
“You agreed to the marriage just in case?” Arawn asked.
Ilsa shrugged. “If I said no and there is no curse, I will have done no harm. If I said no and there is a curse, I would bring more harm on innocent people.”
“By saying yes, you risk dying yourself,” Arawn said, his voice harsh. “If there is no curse, you may be safe enough. If there is…”
“I might still be safe, if I break it.” She threaded her hands together. “People are suffering. Surely it is worth trying anything which might work? Even this.”
His gaze met hers. “Yes,” he breathed. “That is exactly right. It is what I told myself, the day we met—that I would do anything, no matter how mad it might seem, if there was a chance it would work.”
He really had the most interesting eyes, Ilsa decided. She had not noticed before. They were quite black and the whites were clear. Thick, long lashes framed them. The lashes might have been too feminine, except they were offset by a strong chin and jaw. No one would ever accuse Arawn of being weak. On her way to break her fast in the mornings, she had seen Arawn wrestle larger men during daily training in the quadrangle and bring them to the ground easily.
“I was on my way to sprinkle water upon stones, to see if it would work,” he said.
Ilsa had the strangest sensation Arawn was not thinking about what he was saying. His thoughts were elsewhere.
She shifted on her feet. “I am ready to return to the house, now. That is why you are here, isn’t it? To take me back?”
“I came,” Arawn said, reaching for the horse’s reins, “to make sure you had not tripped and broken your neck or fallen foul of a robber or man with an observant eye.”
“You knew I had gone hunting?”
“Your bow was gone.” He walked around the horse and drew the reins over his head. His gaze met hers over the back of the horse. “I understand why you fret about being enclosed in the house. You are not used to the restrictions which come with such responsibility. If you mean what you said about being willing to try anything, then I ask that you give your attempt every chance to work.”
“By not risking my neck,” Ilsa said and shook her head. “I wish I had not told you. You will use it against me now, every time I wish to do something that doesn’t suit you.”
His brows came together. “I only ask that you restrict yourself for a while. A short while, until we know if we are right or wrong or neither. For the sake of my people, I ask you this.”
Ilsa sighed. “Very well.”
He jumped on the horse and held out his arm. “Get up.”
Ilsa reached for his hand.
“Where is your ring?” he asked.
She dropped her hand. “In my arrow bag. It falls off all the time, my lord. I didn’t want to risk losing it among the trees. And I thought people might know the ring, too.”
“They would,” Arawn said, relaxing. He held out his hand again and hoisted her up onto the horse behind him. She gripped his belt as she had the first time. He plucked her wrists away from the leather and drew her arms around him. “You do not smell in the least objectionable and there is not a spot of mud on you,” he said. “I would rather you be safe. Hold tightly.”
He had pulled her arms around him so firmly her chest pressed up against his back. He was warm and solid and his scent was familiar. When had she grown so accustomed to the way he smelled?
As the stallion trotted out into the cart track, she felt in no danger of falling backward if he leapt forward, the way she had before. Arawn was right about this. What else might he be right about?
Was the curse real?
As Arawn gathered the men around him once more and the unit galloped for the ferry and home, Ilsa struggled with the notion that even though she did not believe in the curse, it may actually exist. If it did, then it was the cause of the drought, not a great generational cycle of weather as the old men in the village insisted.
She had married Arawn because of the possibility that the curse existed. Therefore, to maximize the likelihood she might break the curse, she must act as if the curse was real. She should not risk herself. Not in any way.
Only…she didn’t know how she could withstand being contained inside the house—even a grand house like Arawn’s. It had been so good today to move freely among trees.
Yet, if the curse was real… And so her mind continued to twist, first one way, then the other, fighting itself. As they clattered across the little bridge over the pond and into the quadrangle of the house, she still could not absolutely agree with Arawn’s request that she restrict herself indefinitely. It was not in her nature.
Arawn handed her down, as grooms hurried out to help with the horses. He held onto to her hand and slid to the ground beside her. They were surrounded by restless horses and men, hidden from everyone.
His fingers tightened their grip on hers for a moment and his gaze met hers. “I know what it is I am asking of you,” he said quietly.
Ilsa swallowed.
His gaze held steady. “If you find you must be free, promise me you will not slip out as you did today. Come to me, instead. Explain your need. I can arrange a safe escort, men to watch over you.”
“Your men cannot move quietly, my lord. Any prey with a heartbeat would scatter before I could close in on them.”
“Would it not be enough to walk among the trees and pretend?” he asked, his tone reasonable. “You failed to catch anything this morning. Future hunts might also be unsuccessful, yes?”
“I suppose, yes,” she said. Walking among the trees this morning had been enough, until she had caught hint of the hawk’s movement.
“My lord!” One of Arawn’s men pushed through the horses. “I found it!” He held up Ilsa’s arrow. The hawk was hit squarely and cleanly through the breast and laid still in the man’s palm.
Arawn stared at the catch, his eyes widening. “Impossible!” he breathed and looked at Ilsa.
She ducked her head, trying to hide her smile.
Arawn threw his head back and laughed. “Take it to the kitchens, Baldash! Tell the cook to prepare it for my lady’s supper!”
“My lord Arawn!” Stilicho cried. He strode around the length of the verandah, heading for the nearest opening in the wall, where he moved out to meet Arawn at the edge of the quadrangle.
Arawn stopped and listened with his head down as Stilicho murmured. He turned and looked for Ilsa and waved her forward.
Ilsa hurried to his side. “My lord?”
Stilicho’s eyes widened as they took in her appearance. He regathered his focus and said, “We have noble guests, my lady. Nimue, Lady of the Lake, arrived with her retinue a short while ago. She awaits an audience.”
“Have a fire set in the hall, Stilicho, and wine and food prepared,” Arawn said. He glanced at Ilsa. “It is the usual custom,” he said, with a note in his voice which sounded apologetic.
Ilsa realized that such an order was something she should have given. The entertainment of royal and noble guests was her responsibility. She nodded. “Pull the furs from the floor in my bedchamber, Stilicho. Put them in the hall, beneath the chairs. It will add to the warmth and comfort.”
Arawn lifted his brows. “A fine idea,” he said. “Use mine, too.”
“I must change,” Ilsa replied and hurried for her room, shedding her bow and arrows, her cap and her cloak as she went.
The first guest. If she was to be the queen and break the curse, she must behave as one. Only, it was hard to rid herself of the joy of having breathed free air, even for a short while.
While the four women shrieked and fussed about the servants shifting their stools and the table to get at the furs beneath, Ilsa stood at the open cupboard and chose a gown from among the few sitting upon the shelves.
Merryn moved up behind her and peered over her shoulder. “A guest, my lady?” she asked.
“Nimue, Lady of the Lake,” Ilsa replied.
“Lord above, protect us,” Merryn muttered and crossed herself.
“If that is his role, he has not done well so far, has he?” Ilsa asked her and pulled out the emerald green gown. As Merryn’s mouth parted in surprise, Ilsa shook out the dress. “Where is the golden underdress?” she asked.
NIMUE, LADY OF THE LAKE, was the latest in a long line of powerful, gifted women who had donned the mantle and the responsibility to care for the minds and bodies of the kingdom. The Lady’s powers extended beyond the edges of the King of Brocéliande’s lands, though. Her reputation for healing and other gifts, including prophecy, were known across Greater and Lesser Britain, Gaul and beyond.
Perhaps even Rome had heard of her, although no one sought her from that far away. Since the withdrawal of Roman troops from Britain forty years ago, news from Rome had grown scarce. What news did arrive was unhappy. Civil wars, assassinated emperors, dying citizens. Fires, disease. The little information the western borders of Rome did hear was enough to convince them they were on their own—Rome had too many troubles of its own to deal with. It would not have surprised anyone to hear Rome had collapsed, the buildings torn down, the earth salted over, and its people scattered.
Most Britons understood they must take care of their own affairs now, even though Britain was still technically a Roman province. They turned, instead, to the old gods, the old ways, and strengths and resources native to Britain. One of those resources was the Lady of the Lake.
Ilsa met her in the hall, where the furs were spread and chairs arranged for the meeting. The household appeared one by one, still tugging finery into place and brushing at their hair, to stand between the chairs and the fire, to receive the grand guest.
Stilicho did the introductions. Arawn, as the king to whom the Lady was subject, could not. “My lady Nimue, the king is pleased to present to you his queen, Ilsa.”
Ilsa inclined her head as she had seen Stilicho do.
“Queen Ilsa, this is Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, the king’s most loyal subject, and a servant of the people. I commend her to you,” Stilicho finished.
His tone was stiff and formal. Ilsa guessed he did not like Nimue. Of course, he could not show his dislike.
Nimue’s smile was small as she murmured an acknowledgement. Nimue was tall for a woman. She was almost as tall as Arawn. However, she was not correspondingly wide. She was a slender woman—and barely a woman at that. She looked to be near Ilsa’s age of twenty, perhaps even younger.
It was difficult to judge, for even though Nimue wore no cloak or mantle, she seemed to be wrapped in a glowing light. Her hair was lighter than any Saxon’s, almost white in appearance, and the long tresses hung freely about her shoulders and hips. Her gown was white, edged with golden thread, and her shift was white, too. The gown, which might be the finest spun wool or made from light itself, hung in elegant folds from her hips to sweep the floor behind her as she walked. Despite the length, the cloth was immaculate, with nary a stain to ruin the light and warmth.
Nimue’s eyes, on the other hand, were far-seeing and wise. They reflected a much older person. Wisdom was there, and great strength. If it was true Nimue had made her first prophecy when she was still a child, foretelling the fall of Benoic and the coming of Ban and Bors to Lesser Britain—which had indeed happened only a year later—then Nimue had spent all the intervening years peering into the future. Perhaps it explained the distant look in her eyes.
Nimue considered Ilsa for a long, silent moment. She did not seem to be in a hurry to fill the silence. She did not seem uncomfortable with not speaking. Then she stirred and said with a musical voice, “So…Ilsa the Hunter. We meet at last.”
Ilsa gasped. “You know of me?”
“I do. You lived near my lands and have wandered my borders many times.” Nimue smiled. “You have a fondness for hedgehogs.”
Stilicho, who remained outside the circle, awaiting the king’s pleasure, took a step farther back, away from Nimue, his gaze on her back.
Ilsa gripped her hands together. Arawn was frowning at the mention of hunting. “I no longer hunt,” she said.
“You no longer hunt hedgehogs and deer and hawks,” Nimue said.
“Let us sit and partake of wine,” Arawn said, motioning to the three chairs sitting upon the furs. None of the three was Arawn’s great, high-backed chair. They were all the low Roman-styled chairs with crossed legs.
Ilsa waited for Arawn and Nimue to select their chairs. She took the remaining one and arranged her dress around her knees.
Nimue’s dress, she noted, seemed to fold and trail away from the chair in a beautiful curve, all without Nimue touching it.
Nimue accepted the cup of wine Arawn held toward her with a nod of thanks. She sipped then said to Arawn, “In the cart I brought with me are thirty barrels of water from my lake. The water was poured through fine cloth and boiled in a kettle larger than any man. It is safe to drink. It is my gift to you and your kingdom, Arawn. I will happily refill the barrels whenever you need them.”
Arawn’s eyes widened. “You are most generous, Nimue. The water is gratefully received.”
“I realize thirty barrels is but a token,” Nimue added. “I have not yet learned the spell to make rain.”
Stilicho hissed. Between Arawn and Nimue, Ilsa could see his hand, held down by his side, making a powerful sign against witchcraft and evil.
“There is a spell to make rain?” Ilsa asked, the words pushed out of her in a gasp.
Arawn laughed. “Of course there is not. Spells are for witches. Nimue is joking.”
Nimue’s smile curved the corners of her mouth and made her eyes dance. “My dominion is over living things, which, alas, does not include rain or thunder or lightning. Perhaps it is as well, for if I could control lightning, there would be far fewer fools in the world.”
Arawn laughed, while Ilsa stared at the tall woman, astonished. This was the Lady of the Lake? The most powerful woman in Britain? “Is it true you can turn people into a pillar of stone?” Ilsa asked.
Arawn’s laughter faded.
Ilsa squeezed her hands together. “I meant no offense. I am not used to magic and curses and people with…gifts.”
Nimue laughed. It was a merry peel, making her sound young. “Is that what the people say of me? That I turn them to stone? Oh, my…” She sighed and wiped her eyes. “If only it was a gift,” she added softly, her amusement disappearing. Even the light wrapped about her seemed to fade for a short moment.
Ilsa’s heart fluttered. “You can?”
“You overstep your bounds, wife,” Arawn said.
Nimue held up her hand. “It is a reasonable question,” she told him. “Especially for a queen still learning all she must to serve her kingdom.” Nimue’s gaze slid to Ilsa. “Are you asking if I have the power to change lead to gold and frogs to princes?”
Ilsa drew back, startled. Then she realized. “Oh…you are joking again.” Although, behind Nimue, Stilicho was still making the signs, his cheeks thin and his eyes wide.
Nimue’s smile grew. “Any charlatan can claim such wonders. They will promise to make it rain if you cross their hands with gold. They will make a man love a woman for a price. They cast spells to bring a child to a barren woman…these are the talents of witches and priests and lesser gods, who all demand their price for an uncertain outcome. True power, though…” Her smile faded. “Real power takes its price from the one who wields it. It tears through one, shredding the soul. With each glimpse of the future comes a corresponding burden, for few futures are happy.”
Ilsa clutched the cup which had been handed to her, her heart beating unhappily. “You know my future…” she breathed.
“I know of many futures for you,” Nimue breathed. “As I also know the many futures lying before your king. I even know the choices I will face. Finding the right future…ah, well, that is the test.”
“You make the future?” Arawn asked, his voice low. He looked as unsettled as Ilsa felt.
Nimue gave him a warm smile. “We all make the future, with every simple decision. Stilicho, for example, chooses to be afraid of a woman he thinks of as a witch. Right now, he wonders if I can see into his mind and know how his people used to deal with witches.”
She did not shift her gaze from Arawn, even though Stilicho drew in a startled, gasping breath. His was not the only gasp. From the people standing behind him, Ilsa could see other signs against evil being made, not all of them Christian.
Nimue still did not move. She said, with a smile, “Are you not afraid I might turn you into stone, Stilicho?”
Ilsa was watching Stilicho and the people behind him, so when Nimue said the word “stone”, Ilsa saw Stilicho grow still. His hand hung in the air, half-way through making another sign. His breath halted. He did not blink.
Arawn licked his lips. “He is as still as stone…” he whispered.
Everyone standing close to Stilicho drew backward, their eyes wide.
“Demonstrations of power often look like simple tricks,” Nimue said, waving her hand. “They are misunderstood and earn one an undeserved reputation.”
Stilicho gasped, his hand going to his throat. He drew in a ragged breath, staggering away from the chairs. A path was cleared for him, as he turned and hurried away.
Arawn drew in a slow, slow breath and let it out. He drank. Ilsa could see the throbbing in his neck.
The demonstration had shaken him, too.
WHEN ARAWN SPOKE OF the feast being prepared for the entire household in celebration of her arrival, Nimue had demurred. “There is no need to deplete your stores in this way. If the meal has been prepared, let your people eat it before it spoils and enjoy it without the company of a witch who worries them. I would rather eat with you and those closest to you. Those whom you trust,” she added. “There is much to discuss, Arawn, and I return to the lake early tomorrow.”
A round table was set up in Arawn’s antechamber, where Ilsa presumed his captains and battle commander would join Arawn and Nimue to eat. It would leave Ilsa free to dine in her own chamber, a not unpleasant proposition. Although, when she emerged from the bathhouse shortly before sunset, Stilicho stood waiting on the stony ground beyond the door.
He had returned to his urbane, controlled demeanor. Ilsa forbore to remind him of what Nimue had done, even though she longed to ask him what it had felt like to be the victim of real magic.
“The Lady has requested you attend the supper table,” Stilicho told her.
“Me? Are you sure it is me she asked for?”
“‘Ilsa the Hunter’, she said.” Stilicho’s mouth turned down. “There is no other of that name.”
Ilsa wrapped the cloak about her, for the chill in the air felt even colder when she first stepped out of the bathhouse. “I must hurry,” she said.
“Yes,” Stilicho said, his tone dry.
ILSA WAS NOT THE only woman whom Nimue had requested attend the meal. As Ilsa moved across the corridor from her bedchamber to Arawn’s antechamber, Evaine and Elaine hurried toward her, both adjusting their mantles and their hair and sliding bracelets into place.
Ilsa was struck again, as she was often, with the beauty of the two princesses. They were lovely, pure and without visible imperfections, yet despite their outward appearance, they were also women of good character. Perhaps that was what made them so remarkable and caused kings from kingdoms across Europe and Asia Minor to approach Arawn with marriage proposals. Great beauties often lacked humility and good grace, for they had no need of them—their beauty compensated for the lack and let men forgive them for almost any sin. Neither Evaine nor Elaine was guilty of that emptiness.
“You, too?” Ilsa asked.
“I was surprised, too,” Elaine said breathlessly. “Not that she asked for you, but for me. She liked you.”
“She did?” Ilsa said, startled.
Evaine rolled her eyes. “She cast a spell over Stilicho because she wanted to impress you.”
“Oh.” Ilsa caught up her sagging jaw. “I did not realize…”
Elaine laughed. “Stilicho is far too confident. The lesson in humility will do him good. Shall we go in?”
Evaine gestured to the guard, who pushed the door open for them.
Arawn stood behind his big chair, drawn up to the table. The table was spread with meat dishes and a tureen of the shellfish stew which was a daily staple in Brittany. There were sweetmeats and vegetables that steamed.
Nimue also stood waiting. She smiled when she saw them. “We are all here. Good.”
Arawn scowled.
“Where are the servants?” Ilsa murmured to him.
“We are to serve ourselves,” Arawn said shortly.
They sat.
“This feels strange, to have so few sitting at the table, and a high, round table at that,” Elaine said brightly.
“You will learn to discard many customs of your Roman heritage, Elaine,” Nimue said, as she settled on the chair beside Arawn.
Elaine’s eyes widened. She looked frightened. Had Nimue just prophesied her future?
Ilsa touched Elaine’s wrist. “Eat. Everything always seems better when you are not hungry.”
Elaine nodded and reached for the spoon to ladle the shellfish stew into her bowl. Her gaze remained firmly on the tureen.
Nimue carved off three neat slices from the venison. “I have asked only you to dine with me, because the four of you have roles to play in a future which has arrived more quickly than I foresaw. I must put you on the path to that future.”
Arawn reached for the wine. “Is there any hope in your future?” he growled. “Or is it as bleak as you say the future usually is?”
Nimue did not seem put out by his tone, which was far from polite. “It depends how far into the future one peers. The farther one can see, the brighter the future becomes, yet the path between here and there is often dark and difficult. It is the only path to that future, though.”
“We must take your word for it?” Arawn growled. “If you tell me I must walk upon red coals to reach a happy future, perhaps I will choose not to.”
“You can choose a different path, of course,” Nimue said, still quiet and unmoved. “Such is the challenge of my work. I must anticipate even your objections, king.” She ate a small mouthful of the venison and sipped her wine, while Arawn glared at her. “I am the Lady of the Lake,” she told him. “Has not the Lady served your kingdom well in the past?”
“Yes,” Arawn growled.
“Do you trust the Lady works for the betterment of your people and people everywhere?”
He pushed his hand through his hair. “Yes,” he said at last.
“Trust in the office, if you do not trust me. What I do now, what I have ever done, is only to better mankind. Even petty displays of power have a purpose.” Her gaze flickered toward Ilsa, then back to Arawn.
It was Arawn whom she must convince of her good intentions. While the Lady held dominion over minds and bodies, Arawn was the king she served.
Arawn rubbed his chin, his whiskers rasping. Ilsa could almost feel his doubt.
“The problem, Nimue,” Ilsa found herself saying, “is that you speak of great affairs and far flung futures, while we face problems far closer to home and cannot look up from them.”
Arawn grunted and drank.
Nimue replied, “Did you not tell your husband, Ilsa, that the animals and birds teach a man everything he needed to learn?”
Ilsa caught her breath, a cold shudder rippling through her.
Elaine and Evaine watched with close attention, their meals forgotten.
Nimue nodded. “They were good words,” she said. “Wise beyond what you realize. You hunt hawks, who hunt smaller birds, who hunt insects and worms, who feed upon even smaller creatures in the soil and the trees. Trees provide shelter and change the air we breathe. What you have sensed about the animals and the trees and the world beyond these windows is true of everything and everyone, Ilsa. We are all connected in ways we often cannot see. What we do affects everything else. Take away the worms and the hawks will die, even though neither of them senses the other.”
Ilsa drew in a harsh breath. “Are we the worms or the hawks?”
Nimue smiled. “Neither. I only mean to confirm the great lesson you have begun to learn is a true one. It is why I speak now of matters the Lady usually keeps to herself. A thing has happened in Morbihan that forces me to reveal the arrangements I must put in place. Time is short.”
She turned to Arawn. “You see me dabbling in affairs beyond your borders and think I am trying to distract you from your work. Your queen understands, though, that what I do will affect your kingdom, too.”
“What is this thing that has happened?” Arawn demanded. His tone was not so gruff.
“A boy stole aboard a ship in Wales and arrived in Carnac,” Nimue said. Ilsa watched her gaze turn inward and unfocused. Her voice smoothed and grew stronger. “A tiny pebble dropped upon the shore and has begun a cascade which will change the world. From that pebble will grow kings and kingdoms. Their deeds will be sung in song and tales which will last into a future where men fly among the stars themselves. There, they will become another pebble upon another shore that changes the future of mankind.”
The air grew chilled around them as everyone at the table stared at Nimue. As she finished speaking, wind gusted through the high windows. The torches on the wall fluttered. With a flare, they extinguish altogether, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the small lamp upon the table with its three tiny flames.
Evaine’s shaky breath was the only sound. Her eyes were wide and black in the lamp light.
Nimue stirred and put her hand to her temple. “I’m sorry…it comes upon me in this way, sometimes.” She rubbed her temples, then reached out for her wine cup. Her hand trembled.
Still no one moved. Ilsa’s throat was too tight to speak. She could barely breathe. For one tiny moment, it felt as though she had seen the future herself. She had glimpsed the cycle of man through time and how the tiny decisions she made now could reach through time itself to tap the shoulders of people not yet born and change them.
She shuddered. Was this real magic? Was magic a power than every human held in their grasp, of which they remained ignorant?
Nimue drank deeply and sighed. “I do apologize.” She waved her hand.
The torches flared and came back to life, and light filled the room once more.
Elaine gasped.
Arawn cleared his throat. “Perhaps…you might explain this thing that has happened in Morbihan?” he said, his tone reasonable.
“You will be acquainted with it soon enough.” Nimue sounded ill. Her voice was weak and the glow that wrapped her diminished. “The boy is called Myrddin Emrys. Ambrosius has taken him under his wing and arranged the most knowledgeable men to teach him. Uther believes Ambrosius to be obsessed in the Roman way. Uther, though, will soon learn the truth for himself…that Merlin Emrys is Ambrosius’ son. It is how it will start.”
“What will start?” Ilsa asked.
“Why should I care about anything that happens in Budic’s kingdom?” Arawn added.
“You ask that only because you are angry about Budic’s lack of regard for his bastard daughter, king,” Nimue said.
Arawn’s gaze flickered toward Ilsa and away.
Ilsa’s heart squeezed a little tighter. She concentrated on cutting her slice of mutton into smaller and smaller pieces, as Nimue continued speaking.
“Your sister is hand fasted with Bors of Guannes,” Nimue said. “You must hurry the wedding now, for that will bring you into the sphere of men who will see Ambrosius crowned High King of Britain.”
Arawn put down his cup with a soft thud. “It will happen? Ambrosius will win Britain?” The hope in his voice was raw and naked.
Nimue sipped her wine once more. “The coming of Merlin makes that future possible. I seek to enhance the possibility. Evaine must marry Bors. That is another step.”
“Another?” Elaine said sharply. “What was the first?”
Nimue gave a small lift of her shoulders. “Your brother married the hunter he came across in the forest, merely to save his people.”
WHEN THE STRANGE AND unsettling supper was finished, Nimue rose and thanked Arawn. She turned to Ilsa. “I would have you accompany me to my quarters, if Arawn is agreeable.”
Ilsa looked at Arawn, startled. He frowned. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.
Nimue wasn’t looking at him yet seemed to sense his approval. She moved to the door, the hem of the white gown trailing behind her. Her glow had returned.
Ilsa had studied the glow during the meal, trying to determine if it was magic, or merely a trick of the light against the white clothing and her white skin and hair. She was still undecided.
She caught up with Nimue and walked beside her, feeling shorter than usual. Nimue remained silent until they moved out into the hall. The fire was extinguished and everyone gone to their rooms, or lingered in the triclinium, for Ilsa could still hear chatter from that direction.
They moved down the length of the hall to the verandah which led to the east wing where Nimue’s guest chamber waited. A nearly full moon lifted above the horizon before them, as they stepped down to the verandah level. Nimue paused with a hand on the half-wall, looking at the moon with a small smile.
A high, soft hoot sounded and a flutter of wings. Something white flashed high in the night sky.
It was an owl, soaring on the wing, gliding down to where Nimue lifted her hand toward it. The owl dropped its claws onto the wall and folded its wings and hooted softly at Nimue, its eyes large and unblinking.
Nimue stroked the bird’s head. “A hunter of the night,” she said, her smile growing. “I wanted to speak to you, Ilsa. I saw the women who are in service to you. They are kind enough although they are much older than you. You have not seen fit to find yourself companion ladies who suit you better?”
Ilsa strung her fingers together. She looked down at them.
“You may speak freely with me,” Nimue said.
“I have learned much from them,” Ilsa said. “They have served all the queens before me, and if I…If I am not…”
“If your fate is to be the same as every wife before you, why bother finding anyone else?” Nimue finished.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Yet you do not believe the curse exists.”
Ilsa wanted to be shocked Nimue knew this, too, although she had grown accustomed to the idea that the Lady knew everything in her heart and mind.
Nimue nodded, as if she had seen Ilsa’s resignation, too. “Have you considered that if you act as if the curse does not exist, you will not be playing into its hand, if it does exist?”
Ilsa puzzled it out. “You mean, if I act as though the curse is real, I will make it real?” She shuddered at the thought. “That is…disturbing.”
“Knowing the future is disturbing,” Nimue said. “Curses are merely different forms of prophecy. Prophecy is the tool of my life’s work. Think about what I have said.”
“I will.”
“And, if I may…there is a woman in my care—she is close to my age. Her skills and her inclinations make her unfit for training as an adept. She would, though, make a fine lady-in-waiting to a queen. She was born in a royal household and understands the workings and politics which can trip the unwary.”
Ilsa considered the idea. If she was to pretend the curse did not exist, she should find herself more suitable companions. “What is her name?”
“Gwen,” Nimue said.
Ilsa shuddered hard. The owl fluttered and resettled, with a soft squawk. Nimue stroked its head, soothing it, her gaze upon Ilsa’s face.
“What was that?” Ilsa breathed.
“You have been touched by time,” Nimue said. “A ghost of the future brushed past you and you felt it, that is all.” She straightened. “I will send Gwen to you as soon as I return tomorrow. Goodnight, Ilsa the Hunter. I will see you soon, for we will travel together to Guannes for the wedding.” Her smile was that of a young girl, full of delight and simple happiness. “We will have fun, you and I.”