DAWN CAME LATE and dark under a heavy pall of cloud, but no rain had yet begun to fall. Dylan Fawr’s escort, swelled by half a dozen newly hired guards and a pair of servants, made their way by torchlight to the quay and the ship that waited there.
Cernunnos was a tidy ship, with a captain who looked human enough until his eyes caught the light and gleamed green. Averil had last seen such a thing among the wildfolk; she had never thought to find it here.
The man—if man he was—bowed low over her hand. “Lady,” he said. “Such a great honor.”
She bowed her head in return. His touch made her shiver. The wild magic was strong in him.
Nor was he the only one. Most of the sailors were likewise fey, and some were not as human to a second glance as to the first.
One of them, all but speechless with awe, led her into the ship’s cabin and made it clear she was to stay there and quiet until they were well away from Lutèce.
She offered no argument. Cernunnos’ protections were strong; she did not try to add her own to them. If either Esteban or the king happened to be hunting, he might catch the scent of her magic where it should never have been.
There were others who would look for her, whom she hated to leave without a word, but Dylan Fawr had promised to see to that. She had to trust that it would be done. If she came back, and she fully intended to, she would need the help and the friendship of Lutèce’s Ladies.
If they truly were her allies, they would understand. If not…well then. This was a test; they would have failed it.
Shut into the dark closeness of the cabin, she marked time in the pounding of feet on the deck and the calling of orders in a language she half knew: not quite the language of Prydain but one that seemed older, wilder, full of strange magic.
The ship was moving, gliding down the river. Rain had begun to fall, pattering on the roof, but no wind blew. That was all to the good: it would keep the king’s watch within doors and discourage hunters from the hunt.
Averil curled into a ball on the shelf of a bed that half filled the cabin. It was much more comfortable than it looked, and its blankets were wool, well woven and warm. In a little while the tongue-tied sailor brought bread and meat and apples chopped with honey and spices, with strong brown ale to wash it down.
Jennet was asleep—again. Esteban’s spell had never quite left her; even when she walked and rode and seemed awake, she looked as if she drifted in a dream.
Tomorrow they would come to the Isle. The Ladies would know how to remove the spell. In the meantime, Averil did her best to keep the gnawing worry at bay.
Averil reckoned herself a patient person, but it was agonizing to lie in the cabin, shut away from the world, and wait. She stood it as long as she could, but when her bones told her it was close to noon and the ship was well away from Lutèce, she had had enough. Surely she could open the door and let the air in, wet and cold though it might be.
As she rose, wrapping herself in mantle and blankets, a flurry of voices brought her to a halt. Someone or something had boarded the ship.
There were no cries of alarm; it was not an attack. But the tone of Dylan Fawr’s voice raised the small hairs on her arms. It was soft and smooth, but the sharpened steel was perceptible beneath. Whoever had come aboard was no friend.
Averil pressed her ear to the door and focused every sense on catching the words that drifted through the hiss of rain. “Indeed, messire,” the captain said, “we’re sailing for Prydain at the queen’s summons.”
“So I see,” the stranger said, “but our king begs to entertain her majesty’s ambassador for a little while longer. If you and your people will come with us, we’ll leave the ship free to return to your country.”
“I do regret,” said Dylan Fawr, “that we haven’t seen more of your king; but her majesty was explicit. She wishes us to return as soon as may be.”
“But surely,” said the king’s man, “a day or two more—”
“Alas,” said Dylan Fawr, “we cannot. Will you take wine before you return to your king?”
“We will take you, messire,” the king’s man said.
“I think not,” said Dylan Fawr. From the sound of it, he was smiling.
Averil felt the arming of the ship’s wards. She knew the spell, but this was stronger and more complex than the simple workings she had seen. It forged chains of magic and focused will, surrounded the ship and thrust away whatever dared menace it.
It also thrust away the netted stars that were the Knights of the Rose. Emptiness yawned where they had been, but Averil made no move to call them back. It was safer for them all if she let be.
Just as the chains locked shut, Averil saw the gap: the weakness no broader than a snake’s body. On the other side of it was a wilderness of vivid green and a single flame-bright blossom, and the king’s face.
She was almost disappointed not to see Esteban—a disappointment that did not bear too close examination. This was an older if no less deadly enemy.
He looked her straight in the face. She had not thought he could see her as she saw him. Nor, maybe, had he: his eyes widened.
She flung a mist across herself, but it was too late. He had recognized her. The dart of power that pierced the wards might have been meant for the ship, but the full force of it focused on Averil.
She struck it aside. The effort nearly felled her. The ship rocked as if at a blow.
There was a long, breathless pause. The king’s awareness was gone. But something else was there, something altogether different—cleaner, stronger, and far more terrible.
The storm struck like the wrath of God: a blast of wind and a torrent of rain. The sea rose to meet it. The ship, caught between them, groaned in its every timber.
No mortal magic could stand against that. Averil clung for dear life to whatever offered a hold. For all she knew, the ship was empty; the others had been swept into the waves.
She would have been mad to venture onto the deck in this. Trapped, battered from every side, locked in the dark, Averil rode out the storm as best she could.
She struggled to see beyond the walls, but magic itself was torn asunder by the power of the storm. She could only see water—water everywhere, and the wind sweeping every living thing from the face of the sea.
There was no marking time; no counting breaths over the wind’s shriek. It went on forever, until she was deafened and stunned, and her arms ached with holding on to a post that she could not see.
She prayed as much as she could with her thoughts torn to shreds by the wind. She gathered such magic as she had left and held it inside her. God knew what she would do with it, especially if she drowned, but there was no arguing with instinct.
Within the magic she had gathered, a familiar presence stirred. Even the wards could not keep him out: he was part of her.
Gereint shone like a beacon in the dark. His magic was strong and pure. She caught hold of it as a lifeline and drew herself along it, out of the world, away from the king’s attack.
The ship came with her, with the chains that bound it and the lives that clung to it against the torrent of wind and water. She felt the weight of it in her spirit, dragging at her body, but she held on. Gereint’s strength sustained her.
He gave it without stinting, as he always had. Whatever she asked, he offered freely, never asking why. She followed the path he showed her through the madness of the storm.
Whether hours passed or moments, she could not tell. The wind was all about her, and the water’s rage. The king was nowhere in this world; nor were the serpent mages who had allied against him.
This had a taste of the Isle. Had she roused its defenses, then? Fool and thrice and ten times fool, not to send word ahead that she was coming.
The ship’s timbers groaned. They were made to ride out mortal storms, but this battered them with almost living malice. It smote again and again, snapping the mast with a shock that ran through Averil’s own body.
Even Gereint’s strength had limits. It was holding, but it was wearing thin around the edges. If they both let go, the ship would burst asunder.
There was land within reach. What land it was did not matter, if only it was not Lys. It was not the Isle; Averil would have known that from the far side of death. It must be Prydain, or far Hibernia.
No matter. She aimed the ship through the wall of wind and water as if its prow had been a battering ram. The wind fought back; the water roared against her. The tiny sparks of life that rode in the ship began to go out.
She gathered every fragment of magic she had left and cast it into the working.
The ship broke like an eggshell, spilling bodies into the sea. With her last scrap of strength, Averil dived for Jennet. Even as her arms closed around the sleep-spelled body, icy water swallowed them both.