Chapter Fourteen

The images floated in and out of my view, sharper than dreams, but they were no longer of Morgan. They were of war. Men on horseback, hundreds of them, swords glittering in the fading evening light, horses braying and whinnying as the men chased something—or someone—I could not see. Before I could blink, the whole scene melted as my vision blurred.

Shapes and colors were all I could make out now. It was as if someone had draped a gauzy veil in front of my eyes. Light and darkness alternated as I struggled to get my bearings.

“She is beginning to awaken.” An echoing voice spoke from somewhere across a great void.

I tried to tell the voice to leave me alone, but my mouth wouldn’t work. This was all so strange. Why wouldn’t my lips move? Where was the rest of my body? All I could feel was an odd tingling engulfing my other senses and the sensation that my head was on fire.

“Guinevere, love, I’m here.” The voice spoke again, washing over me in waves. “You are ill, but I will take care of you, I promise.”

My eyes slowly began to focus. I could now make out the form of a girl about my own age sitting next to me. Her hair looked like my head felt. I knew this girl. Who was she? I searched around in my addled mind, sifting through names that refused to attach themselves to the faces that stared back at me.

Isolde? Was that it? I must have said it out loud.

“Yes, and Elaine and Merlin are here as well. We were very worried about you.”

Her smile was warm, concerned. As she spoke, something cold and comforting skimmed over the fire in my head, momentarily causing it to sputter. In that moment of relief, my mind was clear. I remembered my conversation with Merlin about Morgan and my disconcerting visions.

I looked around, seeking Merlin. He was at the foot of the bed, watching me closely.

“Guinevere,” he said softly, “you fainted. I brought you to your room. It appears you are quite ill. Your illness has weakened your resistance to the sight. You’ve been mumbling about your visions for some time now.” He rounded the bed so he stood over me and bent down close. “It is best not to fight it. Your body needs rest, and if you resist, all you will do is weaken yourself more. Just give in and let the Goddess show you what she wills.”

His last words echoed in my head, pounding to the same rhythm as the pulse of my blood as I struggled to remain conscious. I was losing, and I knew it. I was being sucked into an eddy, helpless to fight the swirling disorientation that had captured my senses.

From somewhere in the back of my mind, a loose strand of memory floated free, Argante’s ominous warning from the day I was called before her to demonstrate mastery of the sight.

“For the remainder of your life, the sight will come to you of its own bidding when one to whom your soul is bonded is in peril.”

I fought my leaden eyelids, wanting to ask Merlin if Argante was right. I was beginning to think so. First, the vision of my mother’s death. Now the nonsense about Morgan. But was the sisterhood bond enough to count? I shivered despite, or perhaps because of, my fever. The sight beckoned. What was to come?

As if she could hear my thoughts, Isolde squeezed my hand. “I will not leave you,” she pledged.

It was last thing I heard before darkness dragged its cape over my eyes and the visions began again.

I could hear his thoughts, this man whose dark complexion marked him as a descendant of Britain’s ancient tribes. I knew him at once. The resemblance was too certain for him to be other than Lot, King of Lothian, father of my estranged lover. And he was plotting rebellion—treason.

It had been far too easy to get to this point, simpler than anyone could have ever imagined. Clandestine meetings with others of like mind, whispered words of treachery concealed in darkness; alliances formed as gold flowed from one hand to another.

His claim to the throne was legitimate, if one followed the ancient laws of the land, which passed title and power through the matriarchal line. Because Uther had no living sisters, his wife’s daughter, Ana—Lot’s wife—was next in line, even though she wasn’t related to the high king by blood. Through her, Lot and his sons had as much claim to the throne as Arthur, perhaps more. This, coupled with the widely known understanding between Uther and Lot that upon Uther’s death, Lot would assume the throne until his eldest son came of age, was why Lot refused to swear loyalty to Arthur.

The problem was that everyone believed Merlin’s account of Uther’s deathbed scruples—which Lot doubted ever took place, though no one could deny Arthur’s skill in guiding the bereft army to victory. On top of that, no one knew what rule Arthur followed. Being half Roman and half Belgae, he seemed to follow whatever tradition suited him best at the moment.

These young upstarts have no sense of loyalty. Lot glowered.

Lot’s supporters were smart enough to stay silent, at least in public. Some had even taken oaths of loyalty to Arthur. But those taciturn allies were growing in number daily, thanks to the network of spies and mercenaries Lot had employed to sow the seed of doubt in the minds of the most powerful men from one end of the island to the other.

Those who did not join his cause willingly were subjected to harsher measures. When loyalty couldn’t be bought, it was coerced. Many of the tribes’ most powerful men and women had been lax in obeying their own laws. Lot smiled as he thought of the power contained in the slightest bit of shameful information. A few illegitimate children, a throng of indiscreet lovers, a couple of misplaced alliances, and a handful of murders had given him support from within almost all of the key kingdoms.

However, the most drastic measures had been reserved for Arthur’s staunchest supporters. They began disappearing three days ago, taken from their own homes by brute force. The price of ransom spread across the land like wildfire: the lords would only be returned upon Lot’s coronation, after they had publically declared an oath of allegiance to him.

I could see them now—Lot’s soldiers. Banging on doors in the middle of the night or disrupting households at the break of dawn, dragging out by force the lords and clan chiefs who resisted Lot’s cause. The soldiers were under strict orders to harm no one during their raids. Lot insisted this be a bloodless revolution. He couldn’t risk the people regarding him as a tyrant. No, he would not be branded another Vortigern; he would be their savior.

The element of surprise gave Lot’s men leverage, but every so often, someone would resist, and one key player had escaped. That was why they were here, hidden amidst the foliage of the forest southwest of Lothian, lying in wait for the king.

A young boy approached them from behind. Without turning to look at him, Lot grabbed the boy by the throat of his tunic, his eyes trained steadily on the road.

“What news?” he rumbled.

The boy was taken off guard by Lot’s swift action and the tightness of his grip. “The king. . .”—he struggled to breathe—“approaches from the south. He—”

Lot relaxed his knuckles.

The boy sucked in air. “He will cross us as his party emerges from Eildon Pass.”

Lot nodded, still fixated on the narrow path that wound its way out from between mountains. “Does he suspect?”

The boy shook his head, although he knew Lot was not watching. “No, my lord.”

“And the second unit?”

“In place, sire. As soon as the king’s party halts, they will surround them, cutting off any chance of escape.”

“Good.” Lot released his hold.

The boy quickly scampered away, deep into the trees.

A few moments later, the steady clomp of hooves and the clattering of disturbed stones broke the silence of the forest. A small posse of men had made it through the pass and spilled out into the clearing. Before I could even search their faces, Lot’s men sprang out, weapons drawn like a band of robbers.

Curses and oaths filled the air as the men reeled from the surprise and took a defensive stance, their own weapons at the ready.

Fearless, Lot approached the group, his black eyes singling out the largest warrior. Thanks to Lot’s ruminations, I knew without looking who this man was, but I still gasped in disbelief at the sight of him.

King Arthur looked just as Merlin had described him, but his armor and traveling cloak made him look even more imposing. His tanned face and clothes were stained with grit from the road, and the aggravated expression on his face made me fear for Lot; Arthur was not a man I would want to cross.

“Arthur, so good of you to join us,” Lot purred, as if he were greeting guests at a feast.

Arthur raised a hand, and his guards relaxed their stance but left their weapons trained on the opposing party. “I remind you, Lord of Lothian, I am your king, and you would be wise to address me as such.” His voice was surprisingly deep and gravelly through his tightly clenched jaw.

Lot made a show of looking around. “King, you say? I see no king here but myself.”

“Then your eyes deceive you,” Arthur rebutted, “for I stand right in front of you.”

Lot pretended to refocus his eyes. “No. All I see is a man who stole the mantle of power from his own kin by contrived tales and trickery. This man is no king. I am the true heir to the crown of this country, and I am here to claim what is mine.” Lot drew his sword and pointed it straight at Arthur.

At the same instant, Arthur mirrored the motion.

Lot’s men edged in closer, itching for the battle to begin.

Arthur again signaled his men to stand down, many of whom were shuffling their feet and trembling with the effort to keep from rushing their king’s aggressor.

“Lot, I do not wish to kill your men. Shedding their blood would only needlessly create widows and orphans.” His rich indigo eyes scanned the opposing force, halting abruptly. “Uriens, will you too betray me?” he asked a gray-haired combatant with the intensity of a far younger man. “My brother-in-law has always opposed me, but you swore an oath to me.”

“I am supporting the true claimant to the throne,” Uriens stated confidently.

“Then I regret I must oppose you as well, friend.” Arthur sounded truly pained. He turned his attention back to Lot. “I have heard of your plans—and of your claims. If it is a war you want, you have picked the perfect way to start one, but I doubt that is your intent.” He studied Lot, appraising his opponent’s every reaction. “No, you are a man of peace; despite your recent actions, you will not be satisfied if this road runs red today. It is I you desire, and so you shall have your chance. I accept your challenge of combat.”

Lot snarled. This was not a turn he had been expecting. He was an excellent fighter, but to cross swords with Arthur was a dangerous proposition. He had been counting on someone else to do that part of the work. Now Arthur gave him no choice. It was either fight or lose face in front of his troops.

“Move away, men,” he ordered.

Both sides fell back to give the combatants room. Arthur waited patiently, reflecting Lot’s every move to give him little advantage. Lot swung first, his sword easily glancing off Arthur’s shield. Arthur responded, and the dance went on. Finally, Arthur landed a blow to Lot’s shielding arm, causing him to drop his defense.

The tide was turning rapidly against Lot, and he knew it. He made a pretense at following strategy, but soon struck out in desperation, slashing at any area of Arthur’s exposed skin. It was the wrong move; Arthur nimbly avoided him and quickly had Lot on the ground, sword to his throat.

Lot’s men shifted their weight nervously, unsure if they should rescue their fallen leader.

Arthur’s back was toward them, but he understood their quandary. “If none of you make an aggressive move, you will be allowed to return to your homes in peace and without charge. Any other action will be considered treason.”

Lot’s men sheathed their weapons.

Arthur heaved Lot upright so that he was kneeling, facing Arthur’s men. “The law states that I should take your life,” he said plainly. “But I am hesitant to rush to judgment.”

Lot’s eyes bulged; he was incredulous that he had not already been slain.

Arthur began to pace in a circle around Lot, the point of his sword never losing contact with Lot’s flesh. “You see, I am intrigued by your mind. It took an astonishing grasp of strategy to plan and execute so brilliant a coup. It seems such a waste to kill you.”

Silence reigned for a long moment.

“But then again, I would be a fool to let you go outright, so I am asking myself, what is of the most value to you?” He mused aloud as he paced, clearly enjoying the tension his delay in action created. “You no longer have any money or power—I have seen to that.”

“What?” Lot choked, unable to keep the requisite silence. He immediately shrank back, anticipating Arthur’s violent rebuke.

But Arthur merely stopped and looked Lot square in the eye. “You did not know?” A wide grin spread across his face. “You mean to tell me that with your contingent of spies and informants, no one told you my reason for traveling north?” He gave a dubious laugh and then his face turned to granite. “I was coming to your kingdom to personally deliver your formal censure. Your treasury has been turned over to the crown for proper dispensation in light of your own misuse.”

Lot’s face was ashen, his mouth open wide like a drawbridge.

“Yes, I was a step ahead of you. Even if this unfortunate situation had not occurred, I was taking steps to cripple your power.” Arthur looked up, like a thought suddenly occurred to him. “That reminds me, I also have in my possession a decree stripping you of all your authority and awarding it to your wife. She will rule in your place.”

Lot was processing the information as fast as he could. Ana? But she was Arthur’s sister—she would never betray him. The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning. That was the point. Arthur had severed the artery that fed Lot’s influence; he would never again be able to plot an insurgence without someone knowing. A string of curses and foul words flowed through his mind.

“But all of this was going to happen anyway,” Arthur continued. “I am back to asking myself, what is the most fitting punishment for your crimes?” He said it almost as if he were expecting Lot to answer. Then his face lit up with inspiration. “If I do not take your life, perhaps this will illuminate for you where your loyalty should lie.”

At the slight incline of his head, one of Arthur’s men came forward, grazing his own blade against Lot’s neck. Arthur rushed into the throng of men, disappearing from view. When he emerged, he dragged forward two men with tattooed right arms. He shoved them to the ground at Lot’s knees. Two other men with identical markings were treated the same by one of Arthur’s guards. The hands of all four were bound, and each now had daggers to their throats.

Had I voice in this realm between worlds, I would have screamed. One of them was Aggrivane.

“Your sons came to warn me of your treachery and voice their opposition. They accompanied me on this journey to witness your censure. Now I find they may be more useful than I expected. Perhaps the sons should indeed pay for the sins of their father.”

Arthur turned his back to Lot, and one of the guards applied pressure to his blade, drawing a thin trickle of blood from Lot’s eldest son, who flinched but remained silent.

“It is your choice, Lot. Your life or theirs. And by the way, I know where my sister and your youngest are staying at the moment. Tintagel, isn’t it? It would be a shame if your boy had an accident.”

The threat behind Arthur’s words was so real I could almost see it come to life: a young boy, an untried horse, a mountainside trail, and bloodied rocks below.

Lot wrestled with himself internally, fighting two opposing instincts. His sense of self-preservation urged him to sacrifice his sons, but his impulse as a parent was to save his progeny. Compromise. There had to be a compromise.

“Is there no other way—no middle ground?” he finally said, and as he did so, his demeanor cracked.

Arthur only watched impassively as tears seeped from his prisoner’s eyes. Behind him, Lot’s sons bowed their heads, sharing in their father’s anguish.

“So be it then.” The words were the last breath escaping from a dying man. “Take me,” Lot answered. “I have sealed my own fate.”

Arthur approached, and as he drew his sword, Lot lowered his head. He waited, resigned, but the death blow never came. He opened his eyes and slowly looked up. Arthur stood before him, naked sword at his waist, tip to the earth.

“Lot of Lothian, I will take your life but not your mortality. Swear to me now an oath of loyalty, and you shall live.”

Lot pledged his fealty, kneeling at Arthur’s feet and kissing his hand. He acknowledged Arthur as the one and only high king of Britain, swore to uphold and defend him, and to remain true to him to his dying day. His words were repeated by all of the men who joined him in revolt. They had seen to what lengths their king was willing to go to preserve his title and were not willing to stand in opposition of him.

“All of my former conditions regarding your treasury and your right to rule remain in place,” Arthur said. “And I will release your sons on one condition—”

“But they have done nothing wrong,” Lot protested, back to his belligerent self now that the danger had passed.

Arthur silenced him with a single glance and continued as if uninterrupted. “They will take up permanent residence at my court. I know they will appreciate the opportunity, and should you ever decide to rebel again, they are easily within my reach.”

Arthur’s threat—or was it a promise?—weighed heavily on my mind until I finally slipped into complete unconsciousness.