Bedwyr listened to Arthur’s boots scuff their way out of the hall, eyes shut and jaw tight.
Damn the cub for pushing, and in front of their men. He’d not wanted to throw a punch so keenly for a long time. He held back now only because the wall looked painfully solid.
How could Arthur even consider it? It was sorcery, and the fact that Philip had subjected himself to the charm wasn’t evidence it was safe, or wise, or anything else his cub seemed willing to believe.
“Bedwyr.”
His skin jumped at the low voice, spoken just over his shoulder. Philip had much to answer for. So did Rhys. Opening his eyes, he turned to face them. “I want a private conversation with you both.”
Quietly, Palahmed left the hall with Gawain and Safir in tow. Only Morien hung about for a few heartbeats, until Rhys cocked his chin toward the door and his son left with the others. When they were gone, Bedwyr looked at Rhys.
“How long?”
“Me? Since birth. I was born a magpie shifter. My father Rhodri was one, as was his father, and on back.”
“So Morien was born one too?”
“Yes.” Rhys frowned. “Is that a problem?”
“He’s helping to raise my nephews,” Bedwyr growled.
“And?”
“I think I deserve to have known!”
“With all due respect, Bedwyr, they’re your nephews.”
“Medraut may be Arthur’s son. Didn’t he deserve to know? Didn’t Gwen or Elain?”
“Morien is no danger to those lads. He doesn’t bathe with them.”
“He swims with them. I’ve seen him do it.”
Rhys frowned. “Do you regularly shoot your seed when you swim?”
On certain occasions and under very specific circumstances, yes. But otherwise, “No.”
“And are you implying Morien would put your nephews in any other situation in which they could come into contact with his seed?”
“No—”
“Or even witness him shifting?”
“No, it’s just—”
“It’s just prejudice, is what it is, Bedwyr. Unfounded intolerance based on a fear caused by ignorance. Has Philip not explained the mechanisms to you all?” He glanced at Philip, who nodded.
“Yes,” Bedwyr admitted.
“Look. Bedwyr.” Rhys sighed. “It was always our intention to tell you. But not until you needed to know. That’s how all shifters operate. To do otherwise could bring about our extinction. Can you understand that?”
He certainly could understand it. Eradicating the creatures from the earth seemed a wise course just this moment.
That thought brought him up short.
Eradicate them? These men he’d known for so long?
Maybe Rhys was right. This did feel like fear. He couldn’t imagine raising a weapon against this man, or his former tutor, now his people’s Myrddin.
Nor Morien. His nephews loved the fellow as if he were a family member.
“Philip said my father knew.”
Rhys glanced at Philip again and nodded. “I told him when we were about your age.”
Some quick arithmetic set Bedwyr’s teeth on edge. “That long ago? Why didn’t he tell me? Philip said it’s Ta’s tale to reveal, but I want to know now, Rhys. You know him best.” He took a bracing breath. “Please.”
“It wasn’t because he didn’t consider you his heir, so put that out of your mind.”
His breath gusted out of him in an exposing way.
“For what it’s worth,” Philip added, “Uthyr believes you’re the dragon in the sky as much as Arthur does.”
“Then why keep me in the dark?”
“Men must prove themselves trustworthy of such knowledge.”
He looked at Rhys. “I’m his son.”
“Who, in a very short stretch of time, defied a long list of his direct orders to make a blood bond with your shieldmate.”
“That was years ago. Have I not proven myself since then?”
“Of course, and Uthyr and I have discussed it most autumns since. The truth is…” Rhys glanced at Philip again.
“What?” Bedwyr demanded.
“The truth,” Philip said, “is that it wasn’t you Uthyr was unsure of. It was Arthur.”
“Arthur?”
“Or rather, Uthyr was very certain of Arthur. Very certain that he would want to take advantage of the potential as soon as he learned of it.”
Bedwyr snorted. Of course his father would have predicted that. He knew the warriors he’d raised. “And he didn’t think he was ready.”
Rhys chuckled. “He didn’t think Cymru was ready, let alone Arthur.”
Bedwyr smiled despite himself.
Philip reached up to grip his arm. “For what it’s worth, Uthyr knows we’re telling you now. He asked us to.”
“Asked?”
“Demanded.”
Knowing that Arthur would want the ability immediately. Something else occurred to him then. “Do Arthur’s parents know about shifters?”
Philip nodded.
“And they know you’re telling us.”
“Yes.”
His next question was much too revealing, but he couldn’t help but ask. “What is Master Matthias’s opinion?”
Rhys frowned. “Why would you wonder that?”
Bedwyr set his jaw, unwilling to say it.
Philip spoke up instead. “Uthyr approaches most decisions on instinct,” he told Rhys, “as you well know. My advice usually comes from an intellectual place. Matthias is often the voice of compassion in our community.”
“Compassion for everyone?”
“Yes.”
Rhys looked at Bedwyr, his keen eyes studying him. “His opinion matters to you?”
“Of course. Arthur’s his son.”
That wasn’t the only reason. As a young man, he’d harbored a soft spot for Master Matthias. He’d even kissed the poor fellow unexpectedly once. Matthias had reacted just as Philip had described, with compassion. Rhys didn’t need to know any of that. But sometimes, when Bedwyr was faced with a decision and wasn’t sure how to proceed, he would wonder what Matthias would make of the situation and how he might decide. Doing so had centered his mind more than once.
“Matthias says it should be up to Arthur and you.”
“That’s no damned help!”
Rhys laughed out loud.
Philip’s smile was gentler. “He trusts Arthur to forge his path as he sees fit, and he trusts you to do the same. He said, ‘No matter what they choose, at least we know they’ll be side by side.’”
Bedwyr’s cheeks went hot. Some shambles they’d made of that prediction, ringing the rafters with their shouting and now sulking, each in his own corner, miserable.
“You’re shameless,” Rhys said to Philip.
“I am not.”
“‘At least we know they’ll be side by side’?” Rhys said dryly.
Philip looked affronted. “That’s what he said!”
“Right,” Bedwyr said. “I need to fetch Arthur back and talk this through rationally—”
Distant shouts sounded outside, and then Gawain skidded through the door. He ran toward them, and Bedwyr’s heart froze at the fear on his cousin’s face. When he stopped before them, he held up a blade.
Arthur’s dagger.
“Found it behind the villa,” Gawain panted. “In the dirt. There’s blood there, and boot prints. More than one man.”
Bedwyr bolted for the door.
He came to a halt in the yard at the drum of hoof beats. Palahmed and Safir streaked past him on horseback, making for the gate. More thumping and rushes of air on either side of him as an owl and a magpie hauled themselves into the sky. In the distance, a third bird already circled the forest.
“Don’t worry, cousin.” Gawain clapped him on the back. “We’ll find him.”
Together, he and Gawain searched the villa’s buildings from kitchen cellar to stable loft, and then the surrounding forest. He made himself hoarse shouting Arthur’s name, and then worried that the ring of his cries in his ears might deafen him to any response. From across the holdings, Gawain called out, too, and once in a while, Bedwyr could hear other shouts—Palahmed and his brother from their mounts.
But he didn’t hear his cub. He returned to the rear wall of the villa several times, scouring the ground for some clue he might have missed, some small hint of the direction the men had taken Arthur. It would have been eastward, but half the world lay to the east. He’d been heartened to see that the spill of blood could be measured in drops, not some dreadful puddle or violent spray against the wall, but he lost the trail within a few strides of the building. So did Khalida, though they presented her with Arthur’s spare shirt. Gawain had little more luck, spotting only a few more scuffs in the dirt, but so close to the villa that the captors could have veered off at any angle and been out of sight in a few breaths.
Bedwyr’s own breath began to fail him after several hours’ searching, and his voice soon after. He stopped himself repeatedly to close his eyes and try to sense Arthur’s presence. Over and over, he reached out to his cub, begging some part of him to answer.
No reply came. After a while, he had to admit it was wisest to go back to the villa and regroup.
One by one, the men returned. Each wore a hopeful expression until they saw Bedwyr’s. The last to return was Philip, late into the night. Bedwyr nearly tackled him.
“Do it.”
“I’m sorry, Bedwyr, I didn’t catch sight—”
“Do it, Philip! Say the charm over me.”
Philip stared at him and swallowed. “Are you… Bedwyr, you haven’t spoken with—”
“Please. It’s my best chance. It might be his too.”
He’d had hours to consider the thing. Yes, he could wait until the horses had rested and haul himself atop one of them. Put Gawain on the other and fan out. But even then they might be too late, and they might never find Arthur at all.
His cub had been right. Sometimes a man had to take the extraordinary opportunity that fell into his lap.
He’d fallen in love with the man, after all, and followed him for the past eleven years into battle after battle. They’d given up their home for each other, given up any semblance of a normal life to live one of their choosing. Side by side, Matthias had said, and by the gods, they would remain so.
Even if he had to give himself up to sorcery to ensure it.
“I can find him, Philip. Please.”
The old man didn’t hesitate further, and soon Bedwyr was kneeling in the yard, naked and shivering. The moon shone bright overhead, casting his shadow on the hard-packed dirt, and the thought of how different it might look soon made his teeth clack together in a way that had nothing to do with the chill night air. Philip paced a circle around him, speaking words he’d never heard before, touching him occasionally with an oily fingertip or drip of hot wax. The rest of the men stood in a circle around them. When he thought he might shake apart, he closed his eyes and willed himself to reach out to Arthur again. He didn’t expect a response now, but he sent the message anyway.
I’m coming for you, cub. I won’t let them have you, not while I live—
A sensation unlike any he’d ever felt tore his thoughts crosswise. Every part of his body seemed to tighten at once, to lock up so that he couldn’t breathe, and then he felt as if something were blowing him up like a calf’s bladder from the inside. Startled shouts sounded around him, and he lost his balance, falling onto one shoulder. He felt heavy, massively so, and when he sucked a breath to try to regain a sense of himself, a rush of scents assaulted him—dirt, grass, frost, manure, sweat, wax, smoke…
He tried pushing to his feet and fell over again, rolling onto his side. The moon looked hazy overhead. Everything looked blurry in degrees. In fact the only thing he could see clearly was his hand.
He had claws, long and curving. His hand was wide. It was covered in fur.
He blinked at it. Weren’t dragons meant to have scales?
“Bedwyr.”
He lolled at Philip’s voice. It sounded different, as if it had more facets, like a chiseled stone. But he knew it. Then, the man was there before him, kneeling.
“Bedwyr, stay still a moment and listen. The charm worked. You’ve turned.” Philip reached toward him and laid a hand on his head. “You’ve shifted into a bear.”
A bear.
No. No, that wasn’t right. Arthur was the bear. Arthur had always been the bear, everyone said so—
“Stay calm now, remember what I told you—”
He reared away from Philip, coming to a wobbly stand.
On four feet. Gods, what had he done? He shook his head, tried to shout, but it tore from his throat in a sound so deep and loud it startled him.
Khalida yelped in fear. A loud patter of footfalls said she’d fled.
“Khalida! Damn.”
“Hawk—don’t.”
“Bedwyr. Bed. Look at me.”
He stilled himself. Gawain stood before him, hands spread. He smelled of fear, but he also smelled familiar in a way Bedwyr had never noticed. Gawain leaned close, and then Bedwyr could make out his features.
“You look fierce, cousin, but I know you’re there. They say bears have keen noses. Is it true?”
It seemed to be. The scents surrounding him were almost overwhelming.
“Let’s walk to the back of the villa, aye? And see if you can pick up Arthur’s scent?”
Hope charged hard against his ribs, and he made a clumsy attempt to walk. His right shoulder dipped strangely, as if he’d stepped in a hole.
“Take care, cousin. You’re missing that paw.”
Right. Philip had told him he would be. Becoming a shifter didn’t give a man back what he’d lost.
It did give him other things, though, and he was beginning to understand them for the true gifts they might be. He rounded the rear corner of the villa with Gawain and immediately caught a scent as near to the core of his being as any he’d ever known.
Arthur.
He opened his nostrils wide, and the notes of the scent washed over him. Arthur’s sweat, his skin, his hair. The apple-ish scent of his breath, the musk of his groin. The barest residue of anger. A whiff of alarm.
And his blood.
Putting his nose to the ground, Bedwyr sniffed the area, following every little sign. He was aware of the other men watching him, but he didn’t care how he looked, snuffling as he was in the dirt and grass. He had the scent and he wasn’t going to lose it. Wasn’t going to lose Arthur. Finally, he came to a point farther from the villa than he or Gawain had discovered earlier, and the knowledge sent a shiver over his skin.
Wait for me, cub. I’ll find you.
Morien crouched on the dirt to shift, but Safir grabbed his arm. “You should stay here.”
The man’s hand was shaking enough to rattle Morien’s shoulder. “Stay? Why?”
“Because you’ve never met with Saxons.”
“He’ll go,” his father said.
Safir let go of his arm and turned to Rhys. “He can’t defend himself.”
Morien stood. “I can defend myself.”
Safir shook his head. “No, you can’t.”
Indignation made his neck feel suddenly hot. “I can.”
“He’ll be in flight,” Rhys said.
Safir turned back to Morien. “Stay here. Wait for word.”
Morien blinked at him. “From whom?”
His father stepped between them, facing Safir. “You’ve done enough, don’t you think?”
“He shouldn’t go, Rhys. It isn’t safe. You said—”
“Enough! You’ll have your surcoin. Morien, shift!”
But he couldn’t. He had to know. “What are you paying him for?”
“To accompany you here,” Rhys said, his words clipped.
Safir sidestepped, meeting Morien’s gaze. “And to make sure you didn’t slip away.”
Morien stared at him. “Slip away?”
“Home. He said not to let you fly away home. I didn’t realize he meant it precisely.”
But Safir had gotten the gist. And being Safir, he’d figured out just how to manipulate him into staying.
The man had done what he did best—seduce—and for the same reason he did anything. Not because he liked Morien, as he’d claimed, or found him attractive or any other thing that had made his chest light up.
He’d done it for money, as he did everything else.
The worst part: Morien wouldn’t have flown away. Or run, or ridden. But not because his father had ordered him to come to this place.
He’d have stayed because he didn’t want Safir to think less of him.
“Morien?”
He looked up to find Safir’s brown eyes wide. Worried, even.
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” Gods, how humiliating. How infuriating.
“No,” Safir insisted. “That’s not why. I wouldn’t have used your virtue against you.”
“You’ve used it against me since we met! Everything you’ve ever said to me has been because of it. You just finally figured out how to get paid to take it.”
Safir flinched as hard as if Morien had struck him.
Morien knelt. “I’m as much a son of this place as you are, and I’ll help defend it.”
He shifted, and then hauled himself into the sky without looking back.