Irene Radford - Merlins Descendents 03 - Guardian of the Vision

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Prologue

23 April, 1553, St. George’s Day, sixth year of the reign of our most sovereign King Edward VI, of

England, Ireland, Wales, and France. The border hills beyond Carlisle.

I turned my face into the rising wind. My hair whipped away from my eyes. The bite of salt stung my

cheeks and chin. My horse shied and tried to turn east, away from the approaching storm. I mastered his

headstrong grasp of the bit and surged forward, north and west into the storm and toward our target. I

reveled in the savage lash of my primal element. It matched my anger in ferocity. The rain would come

soon, covering the tracks of the two dozen mounted men who rode with me. We would be across the

crumbling remnants of Hadrian’s Wall when the storm crashed around us. Our quarry retreated just

beyond the border of Scotland, close enough to menace our home, far enough to be beyond our king’s

laws and justice.

Justice. The thought hammered at the minds of my men.

The outlaws would lose their refuge tonight, and Meg would be avenged.

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Our sister could regain her wits without fear.

To my right, Donovan, my twin, raised his hands to the storm, seeking to draw its power into himself. He

could not, of course. I had inherited the magical talent from our grandmother that skipped my father and

my twin. With the wonders of magic comes responsibility, Grandmother Raven’s voice pounded inside

my head.

I ignored her. This was man’s business. Meg must be avenged.

Peace is man’s business. There is always an alternative to war. “Shut up, Raven!” I spoke into the wind,

letting my element carry my opinion home.

You know I am right. You question everything I say, challenge the traditions I pound into your thick

skull, Griffin Kirkwood. Now you must question yourself. “Not in this, Raven. Not in this. We must

avenge Meg. She cannot heal unless we bring her attackers to justice.”

I heard her mental snort of disgust. An inkling of doubt crept into my mind. Helwriaeth, my wolfhound,

mighty warrior that she was, let loose with the triumphant battle cry that I kept trapped within my throat.

Seven more wolfhounds took up the trumpeting challenge. The sound rolled around the hills and vales as

thunder.

“Quiet the dogs, Griffin,” Da snarled at me. “Those black raiders outnumber us and are well armed. We

need surprise this night.” I could surprise our enemies more effectively than Da and other mundanes who

needed the silence and darkness of the night. But Grandmother Raven had warned us not to use magic to

defeat our enemies.

Was a spell for invisibility black magic?

War is black magic, Raven’s voice reminded me like a sharp caw released with the thunder.

They started it! I replied instinctively.

Silence.

Raven’s silence was always the worst reprimand she could give me. I should be the one to break the

mindless quest for vengeful violence. I knew it without Raven’s biting words in my head. I would be the

Pendragon when she died. Twas my responsibility.

I needed to halt our forward plunge and think about this. Donovan showed me the layout of the enemy

village through our unique mind-to-mind communication. I instantly knew their vulnerabilities as well as

their strengths.

“I know how to plan a raid,” he said with his voice. He grinned at me again. “I tumbled one of the maids

yesterday while I scouted the terrain.” “There.” Da pulled his horse to a halt atop a low ridge. He pointed

to the broken silhouette of a destroyed castle on the next higher ridge. Only bats and ghosts threatened

us from the ancient stronghold. But below it, nestled into the sheltered vale between us and the

abandoned fortress, lay a cluster of thatched cottages. Two or three lights winked at us from behind

closed shutters.

“The girl lives in the end cottage. Says she has a sister who’s just as accommodating.” Donovan grinned

again. An image of hair the color of faded red autumn leaves and soft gray eyes came and went so fast I

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nearly lost the picture of her. She’d been eager for Donovan’s attentions and not a virgin. Our sister Meg

had not been willing and had prized her virginity.

“Remember, Donovan, what they did to your sister. To us! ” Da hissed at us both. He had four other

daughters, by his three wives, But Meg was special. Meg was… Not Meg anymore. The Scots must pay

for what they did to her. “All the more reason to plant our bastards in the bellies of their daughters.”

Donovan kneed his horse forward, level with Da. “An eye for an eye!” But his mental images were

heated by lust rather than anger. Did the girl manipulate his emotions from a distance, or was she truly the

answer to his randy prayers? “These raiders are so vile, their own lord begged us to clean out this viper’s

nest. Paid us, too.” Da’s eyes gleamed in the dim light from our shielded lanterns. He was spoiling for a

fight. Any fight. The Scots and Meg were merely an excuse.

Donovan looked at Da strangely at that statement. His clear and logical thinking tried to question

something about Lord Douglas. Something… Da raised his hand and signaled me forward. I, with my

preternatural sight, led our little troop down the hillside. Helwriaeth came behind me, sniffing the true path

for the rest of the pack. Youngster though she was, she kept the dogs quiet. War dogs one and all; they

knew their business sometimes better than we. By the time the ground leveled out beneath us, I had

guessed why Lord Douglas wanted us to raid his own village. He wanted to steal something valuable

from them, using the raid as cover, to blame us for his perfidy. He would trap and slaughter us at the

same time, silencing our witness. I raised one hand to stop the others. We needed ; to go back, before

Lord Douglas trapped us. I thought I knew a better way.

In the back of my head, I felt Raven smile. There is always a better way. Lightning flashed and thunder

rolled at that moment, unleashing the full fury of the storm upon our heads. In the flare of blue-white light,

with my senses extended, I saw a score of mounted men waiting atop the next hill. Not our men. Da

pressed forward, too eager for the fray to exercise caution. “Da, wait!” I called to him quietly, using

magic as well as good sense to persuade him.

He ignored me. I raised my hand again, wanting a spell to hold him in place, not knowing how to do that.

The storm raged. More lightning and thunder ripped the skies apart. Energy crackled from the sky to my

upthrust I hand.

It grabbed hold of me. My mind fled. Power shot through me. Fire shot from my hand to thatch.

The largest cottage in the village burst into flames with a mighty explosion.

Blinded, I rocked back in my saddle.

Power drained from me along with strength and will. The leader of the border raiders resided in the now

blazing cottage. ‘Twas he who had led the men who stole and murdered within the boundaries of

Kirkenwood. ’Twas he who raped Meg in the hut where she had gone as midwife. He had murdered

the new mother and her babe. ‘Twas he who would be the first to die this night. By my hand.

Smoke blinded me. The smell of burning hair and flesh gagged in my throat. I doubled over in pain at the

passing of a life.

Helwriaeth let loose another howl. Sadness ripped through me. I wanted to lift my head and match her

note for note. But while she exulted, I mourned. Endless moments of burning agony ripped through me

and my victim. We couldn’t breathe. Pain. PAIN.

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And then nothing.

A silent numbness descended.

I looked upon the scene as if from a different body, a different mind. And then the raiders were upon us.

Cold steel clashed with cold steel. Crossbow bolts flew through the air. Smoke choked us. Horses

reared and screamed. The dogs lunged, jaws snapping. I saw one break the leg of a riderless horse with

his massive jaws.

All around me the confusion and noise of battle circled, leaving me isolated. And yet I was vastly aware

of every life within the village, natives and invaders. I doubled over in empathic pain every time a life fled.

Raven had warned me. Sometime, when I least expected it, my powers would mature and grow into their

full potential. I had to be cautious. I had to control that moment. And now… I shared each death with

agonizing clarity. The echoes and cries disappeared. My ears became as numb as the rest of me. I

looked down upon it all and saw myself sitting dumbly upon my horse, inert, in the middle of the fray.

Donovan dragged a young woman from the end cottage. He held her easily with one arm around her

throat. His other hand fumbled to release his now swollen codpiece. She screamed and kicked. She

clawed at him. Not the willing maid of yesterday. Her gray eyes widened with panic and fear. I shared

the emotions with her and nearly fled the scene. Meg’s plight became more real. For a moment I relived

her rape. I felt the shame, the stabbing pain, the humiliation and degradation. My privates withered.

Behind Donovan another maid, perhaps a year younger, with hair to match her sister’s, slammed an iron

griddle into the back of his head. He sprawled headlong in the dirt, his clothing half undone and his foul

deed incomplete. He was in danger of being trampled by our own men. Donovan’s victim stared at

me—or the spirit of me that hung above my body—from beneath Donovan’s inert body. Our gazes

locked, hearts beating in the same erratic rhythm. The soulless depth of her gray eyes drew me in,

threatened to drown me in her anger and despair. I knew her then for kin. Kin in talent if not blood.

“I will remember,” she said quietly.

I heard each syllable distinctly.

The two women fled into the arms of a waiting wall of warriors I did not recognize.

The men of the Black Douglas of Hermitage Castle.

He wanted the girl. He wanted her talents as well as her body. My soul sank with a sickening lurch. My

head reeled. I looked out upon the world through my own eyes. Ghostly double images superimposed

upon real ones. “Donovan!” I screamed with my mind and my voice as I kneed my horse closer to my

fallen twin.

Friend and foe alike impeded me. With every pounding hoof I feared for my twin’s life.

I honed the link of communication with Donovan to a fine barb and aimed it to rouse him. He moaned

and stirred. The pain in his neck and behind his eyes became my pain. Under this new onslaught, my

heart stuttered and nearly failed. Light flared all around us, bright white, smelling of strange acids. The

sharp and deafening bang of gunfire.

“Donovan!” I cried again in panic. Who among us could afford enough powder to fire an arquebus?

Who had the time to mount one upon a tripod and aim it? None of our men carried firearms, preferring

cold steel to the expensive toys of clockmakers.

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Lord Douglas had stockpiles of black powder stolen from a hundred raids across the border. Rumor

placed at least three wheellock weapons in his possession. All grew unnaturally still around me. I lost the

ever-present awareness of Donovan in my mind. Helwriaeth’s comforting touch faded as well. I no

longer sat atop a horse. The battle, the fires, the screams from the hurt and dying disappeared.

I stood alone and lost in the midst of the terrible light. Columns of white heat rose all around in an

unbroken circle. No exit, no entrance. Sweat slicked my body. I smelled my own fear.

I turned around and around, seeking escape, seeking answers, seeking… anything but this circle of

blinding whiteness.

A golden sword with a jeweled hilt hung before my eyes. Ancient runes engraved on the blade burned

red with power. All light seemd to radiate from that magical blade.

I knew that sword from my lessons and my dreams. It came from the past and lived on in the future. I

knew the otherworldly power it contained. Only a chosen few wielded it with impunity.

I lunged for the weapon. It eluded me.

Again I reached, with my mind as well as my hands. Again it backed away before I could so much as

brush the blade with my fingertips. Then it shifted, molded, shrank, became three crowns one atop the

other, forming a vague miter suspended within a pillar of blue flames. I had seen a simpler version of that

crown before, on the head of a bishop at a great mourning procession in the streets of Carlisle after the

death of the old king. Da had bowed to the authority of the man wearing that mitered crown.

Grandmother Raven had not.

But these visionary crowns were older, more powerful, filled with wisdom and kindness. I knew they

came from God.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” I breathed.

I think I fell to my knees, hands clasped before me in prayer. Even with my eyes closed, the vision of the

crowns and sword and the eldritch flames remained clear and bright within my mind.

The crowns grew brighter. Behind them, the sword hung suspended, its hilt forming a cross.

“I must become a man of God in support of the Holy Father in Rome,” I murmured. Only that could

explain the triple crown. “I must defend the church from her enemies.”

I must defy family tradition and honor one religion over another. We had survived the persecutions of

Henry VIII’s reformation of the church by switching allegiance quite readily. Mostly we realized that God

had many names and no matter what we called Him, He would listen. I knew that when Edward VI died

of a sickening of the lungs—as surely he must soon—we would survive his sister Mary’s restoration of

the Catholic church just as easily. But if I embraced the church, I must renounce the magic that governed

much of my life; I must renounce any claim to being the Pendragon of Britain. Raven would never forgive

me.

Chapter l

Kirkenwood Castle, 24 April 1553, just after dawn. “YOU planned to do this all along,” Donovan

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accused me. We had returned to our home at Kirkenwood from the raid in the early hours of the

morning. Lord Douglas had carried off all of the surviving villagers: men, women, and children. He’d left

us the sheep—most of them stolen from our lands to begin with—a few dead bodies, and burning

houses. Nothing more.

We had returned home to the news that Meg had roused from her fever and her fear of every shadow

and movement. But her seeming recovery was marred by the sense that she had retreated into the mind

of a small child, unknowing of her ordeal. Unaware of her betrothed, her duties as midwife, and the life

she had lived between the ages of five and sixteen.

Raven had been unable to break through the walls of forgetfulness Meg had built.

I had been unable to heal her with my magic or my love. Now I packed in preparation to leave for

France. No Catholic seminaries remained in England. Helwriaeth slumbered at the foot of the bed I had

shared with Donovan from earliest memory, but never would again. I must be gone before sunset. I

already ached as if a part of my gut had been cut out by an enemy sword.

Occasionally Helwriaeth opened one eye a bit to see if I was ready to lead her on the next adventure.

Until then, she’d rest and store her energy. I had no doubt that she would follow me even if Da tried to

cage and muzzle her. She was my dog, my familiar. She and her dam, Raven’s familiar Newynog, had

chosen me. I had yet to confront Raven with my decision. I would rather cut out my own tongue than

disappoint her. But God had called and I must obey. His authority was greater than Raven’s—but no one

dared tell her that. “That is my doublet!” Donovan grabbed the padded and embroidered red velvet out

of my hands.

Hard to tell which garment belonged to me and which to him; we both wore everything in the wardrobe.

We’d never questioned possession before. How could one own something exclusive to the other? We

were the same person. Until now. I’d not need red velvet in the seminary.

“You planned to betray your inheritance, Raven’s trust in you. You planned to betray me!” Donovan

turned his back to me, clenching and unclenching his fists, tightening his shoulders, and stalking rapidly to

the shuttered arrow-slit window.

“I didn’t plan to become a priest. I planned to follow Da as Baron of Kirkenwood and Raven as

Pendragon,” I said calmly. My air of projected calm and control was at war with the jumping inside my

stomach and the quivering in my chest. “But God called me, and I cannot refuse the call.”

“If you did not plan this, then why have you always questioned all that Raven has taught us? Why did

you pay greater heed to Father Peter’s lessons than to Raven’s?” Donovan screamed as he circled our

room. He was never one to stand still and listen. He constantly moved, mentally and physically. He would

rather yell than speak in normal tones or whisper.

“I questioned everything, as Raven taught us both to do.” “You never questioned who fathered

Peregrine and Gaspar, the two bastards you claim.”

“I accepted responsibility for the boys’ education and well-being because I am the eldest, am… was…

Da’s heir. But there is no telling which of us fathered the boys. We shared their mothers equally, as we

have shared everything.” Da had never curbed our randy exploits. Indeed, he had encouraged them as

proof of our virility and strength. All he asked was that we take responsibility for our actions, as befitting

warriors and leaders.

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“We shared everything but your secret desire to be a priest, Griffin.” Donovan spat bitterly. “Everything

but your magical talent. How are you going to explain that to your new masters in the church? Witchcraft

is considered heresy, you know. How are you going to humble yourself to be the lowliest servant when

you have been raised to be the master?”

“Is not the master more a servant to his people and the land than those who tend him?” That’s the way it

should be. But few barons of my acquaintance recognized the ancient responsibilities.

“And who is to replace you here with your questioning mind and your single-minded dedication to find

answers no matter where the quest leads you?” Raven stood in the doorway, black hair hanging loose

down her back, swept away from her face with silver combs that matched the silver streak running from

her right temple the full length of the thick mane. She held her staff—taller than herself by a head and a

half—with the black crystal atop it in a white-knuckled fist.

Her mouth and nostrils looked pinched and strained. A bit of blue showed through her paler than normal

skin. Her suddenly diminished posture and careworn face—a face I had always considered

ageless—frightened me. Helwriaeth leaped up to greet my grandmother and Newynog, the wolfhound at

her heels, dam to my own dog. The fact that Helwriaeth had come to me rather than Raven meant that

Raven would not live to see Newynog whelp another litter. I almost faltered in my resolve. Raven had not

long to live. How long? Only she and God knew the answer to that.

Perhaps the dogs knew as well. Was I prepared to abandon her—more mother to us than grandmother.

Mentor, tutor, refuge. She was all of that and more. And then something sharp flashed across my mind,

and I knew I could not allow this woman or my twin to have their way. I must follow my own path. “My

twin has the same training as I, both as our father’s heir to the barony and heir to you as the Pendragon

of Britain, the Guardian of a proud heritage and…” “The Guardian of peace and harmony in Britain,” she

finished for me. And then she added, “But the Pendragon is more. The Pendragon is responsible for

maintaining a balance and harmony with the forces of nature. Only when that balance and harmony are

controlled, then will the mundane duties of the Pendragon fall into place. We lost so much during the wars

between the white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster, and through the religious wars of Henry

VIII. You must not jeopardize all that I have done to restore peace to Britain.” She pounded her staff

into the stone floor for emphasis. With each lifting her tool seemed heavier.

Her right fist clenched, and she brought it to her chest. I knew how much pain I gave her. My magic as

well as eighteen years under her tutelage showed me every nuance of her mood. And yet I must follow

my own path, not hers.

“Donovan shared every aspect of my training. Even when you tried, you could not keep certain aspects

of it secret from him. We are one soul in two bodies,” I protested. Instinctively, my spine stiffened and

my jaw firmed. I knew better than to try to argue with Raven without conviction. “Your twin has not the

ability to control nature, to seek out the harmonies, to work magic,” Raven said sadly. “If you leave now,

you rip his soul apart as well as your own.”

Donovan stopped pacing. I felt his anger rising in him like a storm-driven tide. “I am sorry to disappoint

you, Raven. But this is something I must do.” Donovan had been right, I’d wanted this for a long time. I

had always been fascinated with the church and its mysteries. I had always longed for a deep communion

with God that only the church seemed to offer me. Raven’s Goddess seemed too remote, too ineffectual,

too lost.

“If you leave Kirkenwood today, you may not return while I live.” Raven turned her back on me and

marched across the gallery above the hall. She disappeared into the shadows, little more than a shadow

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herself. The Episcopal Palais of Notre Dame de Paris, home and administrative center for His Grace, the

most Catholic Bishop of Paris, Eustachius du Bellay, 21 June, before dawn of the Summer Solstice,

1558.

Bloodstained waves crashed over me. I gasped for air, desperately swimming upward toward light and

life.

A sharp stab of mental pain in the back of my head partially roused me. I was aware of the hard bed

beneath my back and the bare walls around me. Details of time ad residence in my body rather than as a

part of the sea wind remained elusive.

I tasted another presence in the wind.

“Raven?”

Her beloved face rose up before my mind’s eye, more careworn and paler than I remembered. An astral

wind stirred her raven-black hair. White streaked it at both ted pies and crown now.

Five years since I’d seen her or heard from her, and now she stalked my dreams with visions of blood

and disaster You waste time, Griffin Kirkwood, she spat.

“Grandmother Raven.” I reached out a hand to her. I passed through her ethereal image.

You must put aside sentiment, Griffin. Time passes too swiftly. Queen Mary lies dying. She rejected me

as advisor as anything more than a meddlesome beldame. She did dared the heritage of the Pendragon

outdated, heretics and useless to her.

My grandmother paused a moment in her grief. I knew her disappointment as well as her current

urgency. Dread and astral winds stripped away mundane barriers. Queen Mary will linger several months

yet in her illness but she cannot recover. In the meantime, forces gather I rend England into scattered

baronies that want to & kingdoms.

“As in Arthur’s day.” My history lessons came back j me as if she had slammed a heavy tome into my

forehead. Peace and unity in Britain had not come easily to fractious and independent barons who

resented the authority of the crown, the church, anyone—including the Pendragon.

As in Arthur’s day. In King John’s day. Any day the monarch does not keep a firm grasp upon the

barons’ about to make war among themselves. She sighed heavily will regret. You must come home and

help me. With you by my side we can put Elizabeth on the throne and restore peace before Mary dies.

You can make sure that Elizabeth acknowledges and heeds the Pendragon as part of her kingdom. But

we cannot approach her until she takes the throne. The Pendragon cannot make himself known to the

heirs, lest he seem to choose the next monarch. That is why we lost contact with the crown during the

wars. Now we can work with the princes again to maintain peace and unity. We can ease the struggle of

transition. “I cannot, Raven. I have taken vows.” My mind burned with a flash of resentment toward her.

I conquered the emotion, too elated that she had reached out to me to bother with past hurts.

Vows to a foreign church, foreign princes, have never bound such as we! She sounded disgusted.

“Then it is about time they did and that we honor any vow we take.” You do not understand. Have all

my lessons been washed away by this church that demands total control of every aspect of life, including

your private thoughts? “The church has opened paths of enlightenment to me that you kept closed.”

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Irene Radford - Merlins Descendents 03 - Guardian of the Vision

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