Irene Radford - Merlins Descendents 01 - Guardian Of The Balance

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Prologue
KA-THUMP-THM. Ka-Thump-thm-thm. The drums echoed Myrddin’s heartbeat. Faster and faster the drums beat,
calling the college of Druids to Beltane revelries. Myrddin Emrys stepped into the center of the Giant’s Dance.
Reverence for the ceremony he was about to preside over tinged the edges of his senses. But something was missing
in this time-honored ritual. He watched the revelries taking place all across the broad plain. The huge twin bonfires
roared just east of the Heel Stone. The community’s livestock had been driven down the processional avenue between
the fires to purify them for the coming year. Woodsmoke, singed hide, and the earthy aroma of livestock bunched
together grounded his awareness of his duties. The future and fertility of his community depended upon his proper
performance of ritual tonight. The community danced a serpentine pattern around and between the bonfires. All was
in place. Myrddin bent to his task, his ritual knife poised to cut sigils into the dirt—Pridd, the living Goddess.
The four elements, Pridd, Awyr, Tanio, and Dwfr, were present. The omens indicated a season of bounty. He should
begin.
Higher and higher the bonfires leaped and danced in imitation of Belenos, the sun. Naked youths broke away from the
dance and jumped over the bonfire, defying the growing flames. Red and orange sparks seemed to fly from the bronze
torcs encircling their necks. Ale and sacred mead flowed freely among all of the participants. The pattern of life
continued in the age-old celebration. Myrddin downed his third cup of the honey wine, barely tasting the blessing in
each swallow. No one should hide from Dana, the Goddess, tonight by wearing clothing. But he was forced to wear a
white robe, woven of the finest virgin wool. He must remain separated from the revelries while presiding over them.
Only he among the current generation of Druids had been gifted with prophecy.
Only he was commanded to remain separate from the celebration of fertility.
He returned to the solitary ritual the chief Druid must perform. Ka-Thump-thm. Ka-Thump-thm. The drumbeats called
him away from his duties. He deliberately blotted out the images of the annual drunken celebration. He needed
concentration to maintain the continuity within the patterns of past, present, and future.
He cut the sigils into the Pridd. Male, female, birth, death, infinity. The same symbols snaked up his arm in vivid
tattoos.
Life unfolded in unending patterns of sigils, portents, and choices. Druids interpreted for those who lost sight of their
patterns in the midst of the loops and whorls of change. Tonight Myrddin had difficulty finding his own pattern within
the sigils he cut into the earth.
Ka-Thump-thm. Ka-Thump-thm-thm.
His concentration wavered as he caught sight of the naked virgins proceeding toward the bonfire through the ritual
maze cut into the turf. He needed to join them. Join with them.
To the strongest and bravest of the young men leaping over the bonfires would go the privilege of accepting the gift
of virginity from the prettiest maid in the community. Myrddin had never tasted that glorious honor. The smell of
sweat and musky anticipation pulled his concentration away from the sigils.
Tonight the men of the community would scatter their seed among the women.
Tomorrow they would scatter different seeds in the freshly plowed fields.
Powerful symbolism to entice the blessing of the Goddess.
The wool of his ceremonial robe rasped against his skin. The drums called to him, taunted him with the knowledge his
seed would never take root. His gaze lingered on Deirdre, the priestess who led tonight’s procession. Sight of her full
breasts and gently rounded hips made his palms itch to touch her. A deeper itch grew within him. The mead heated his
veins. He downed another cup of the sacred wine of the Goddess, knowing it would inflame his desire. Yet he needed
a degree of alcoholic numbness to proceed with this ritual. Total stupor would make his duties easier, but then the
magic would desert him and the symbolism of tonight’s ceremonies. All of Britain needed his sigils, properly and
lovingly drawn, to bind together tonight’s revelry with tomorrow’s planting.
Myrddin turned his back on the sight of Deirdre dancing on the opposite side of the bonfires. Still, the heat of the
flames sang in his blood. Ka-Thump-thm-thm. Ka-Thump-thm-thm. A strong young man prepared to leap over the
growing flames of the bonfire. The tempo of the drums built to a driving intensity, inciting the athlete to greater
strength and agility. The drums changed rhythm, creating a new pattern; one Myrddin couldn’t interpret. What was
different about tonight? Why couldn’t he ignore Deirdre’s enticing beauty when he had resisted her for most of their
adult lives? Ka-Thump-thm-thump-thm-thm-thm. Faster and faster, the beat echoed in his heart. His body ached for
release. He closed his eyes, begging Lleu for control. Never in his thirty-two summers had the geas of celibacy pressed
so hard upon him. He couldn’t see a pattern in the intensity of his temptation. Male, female, birth, death, infinity. With
the tip of his bronze athame, his ritual knife, he traced the lines of the sacred sigils. He concentrated on the
embellishments that tied them to Pridd, Awyr, Tanio, and Dwfr. After each straight line, loop, and spiral, he chanted a
prayer. The beaten earth surrounding the altar stone of the Giant’s Dance became a living tattoo, writhing in the
flickering light of bonfires and torches. The living tissue of Dana, the Goddess, parted easily under his sharp blade. A
blast of horns announced the winner of the contest. The last young man to leap the bonfire had bested all other
competitors in a triumphant feat. The sleek muscles of his long thighs rippled with power. He raised his arms in victory.
His penis rose proudly to meet the challenge before him. He alone would accept the gift of virginity offered by the
Queen of the May. She stepped forward from the array of maiden attendants to meet her champion. Her firm, high
breasts brushed against his chest as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek in acceptance of him as her consort tonight.
Myrddin’s chest burned beneath his robe as if the virgin pressed her body against him and not the local champion.
The Queen of the May trembled in excitement. Moisture slicked her brow and the pale hair between her thighs. The
throb in Myrddin’s groin intensified. The last rays of the setting sun gave the girl’s smooth, dewy skin a lovely blush.
Myrddin held his breath lest he gasp aloud at her perfect, ripe beauty.
The fertility of the fields was too important to risk a less than perfect couple performing the symbolic joining of Pridd
and Sun, Dana and Belenos. The serpentine dance of naked couples wound past the bonfires toward the thirty
standing stones for the ritual offering. Myrddin completed the sigil for infinity and enclosed them all in three entwined
circles of sacrifice, blessing, and continuity.
Ka-Thump-thm-thump-thm. The drums preceded the naked celebrants into the sacred circle of standing stones just as
the sun touched the horizon. Myrddin’s erection pounded in tempo with the drums. Heat built within him. He couldn’t
watch. He had to watch. ‘Twas his duty to preside over the ceremony. The processional dance led by Deirdre, lovely
Deirdre, entered the circle of standing stones. Myrddin stood beside the altar stone, waiting. He smelled the musk of
anticipation on each of the celebrants. Honeysuckle and wild rose perfume drifted around the Queen of the May from
her crown of fresh flowers, now slightly askew from her first enthusiastic embrace of her lover. She scooted onto the
altar stone with little assistance from her attendants. Eagerly she spread her legs, Pridd ready for the first plowing. Her
mate, now wearing the sun-face mask of Belenos, joined her. Cheers and encouragement from the eager audience
drowned out the driving rhythm of the drums.
Deirdre stood beside Myrddin now, living embodiment of the Goddess, blessing this union.
Myrddin closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to keep from pushing the priestess onto the altar stone and driving
into her as the drums set the rhythm. Ka-Thump-thump-thump-thmmmmmmm.
“Lleu give me strength and understanding,” he prayed. He couldn’t leave until the couple finished. A bath in the cold
waters of the River Avon might help him enforce self-control. But he couldn’t leave yet, when he most needed to
leave. The chief Druid had to preside and bless the ritual, lest he break the pattern. Ka-thump-thump-thump. Drums
beat. For near an eternity. Horns blared in strident completion.
Myrddin opened his eyes and blinked hard. Sun collapsed upon Pridd, man upon woman, spent and replete. The scent
of sex permeated the ever-present smell of woodsmoke and mead. The remaining worshipers of Belenos and Dana
paired off into couples ready to complete their own ceremonies of fertility. One solitary woman remained within the
circle of standing stones. Deirdre. The very image of Dana. Lush breasts bursting with life. The dusky nipples
tightened from emotions Myrddin didn’t need to interpret. She opened her arms in invitation. Her full rounded hips
strained forward, eager for his thrust. A dark cloud of hair haloed the delicate features of her face. Another thatch
shadowed the secrets between her thighs. A hint of her unique musky scent mingled with the flowers, the smoke, and
the heat, whispering to him of joy. Myrddin gulped and stared at the forbidden treasures that teased his senses. His
blood boiled, demanding an escape from too small vessels. “I can’t,” he said through dry lips.
“On Beltane, the Goddess presides. The Goddess must be obeyed,” she said huskily. A slightly drunken giggle
followed her pronouncement. She danced a serpentine pattern around him, winding ever closer. Her hand brushed
against his sleeve, exposing the twisting tattoos on his arms. Another circle, closer yet. The tips of her ripe breasts
rippled against his back. And then she was in front of him, hips thrust forward, almost touching the proud bulge of his
penis, separated by only his thin robe. The scent of spring flowers and freshly plowed Pridd followed her seductive
spiral dance. He reached to grab her, pull her closer yet. She danced away, elusive, demanding, mysterious, exotic.
Ka-Thump-thm-thm-thump-thm-thm. His heart raced faster than the drums. Too much. The temptation gnawed at his
willpower. His golden torc seemed to squeeze the breath from his throat. “Dana, forgive me. I can’t!” The gods had
declared him a celibate prophet. All Britons needed his gift to guide them through the turbulent years to come. He
closed his eyes to block out the lusty images that plagued him. Behind his eyelids, Dana/Deirdre continued to dance.
Her presence banished all thoughts except his need for her.
“Come with me, Myrddin Emrys. Come,” she whispered as she twined her fingers with his own. “I rule tonight, not
Lleu. Come, Myrddin Emrys.” “Ah, Deirdre,” he murmured. He had pledged obedience to her when she became The
Morrigan, high priestess of all Druids. He wanted nothing more than to plunge himself deeply inside her, pounding
into her in the same rhythm as the drums, and spilling his seed into her receptive body.
Ka-Thump-thm-thm-thm-thump-thm-thm-thm.
“Come into the faery ring. The faeries will bless us,” she whispered huskily, then claimed his mouth in a searing kiss.
She smelled of Pridd, clean and fertile. Her mouth tasted of honey mead and yearning.
No man, least of all Myrddin Emrys, could deny The Morrigan, living symbol of the Goddess on Beltane. ‘Twas every
man’s sacred duty to honor her with fertility tonight. He followed her outside the circle of standing stones to the edge
of the grassy plateau. Just beyond them, the Great Ditch and Bank marked the perimeter of the sacred site and the
boundary of tonight’s celebration. His robe fell to the ground as he stepped into the perfect circle of mushrooms.
The faery ring mimicked the huge Giant’s Dance in smaller dimensions. Ka-thump-thump-thm-thm. Thump-thump-thm.
The pulsing intensity built within his erection. Ka-thump-thump-thump. The drums guided his hands as he worshiped
her body. The intense rhythm drove his thrusts.
So sweet, nearly painful. Deirdre cried out in ecstasy. Myrddin plunged onward, circling, spiraling into harmony with
sun, moon, stars, and Life… The Great Wheel of stars and moon showed the hour almost midnight when Myrddin
withdrew from the damp sweetness of Deirdre’s body for the third time, exhausted and replete.
“Ye’ll not leave me yet?” Deirdre stroked him with knowing fingers. His flesh responded to her ministrations with a
slight quiver. She smiled and continued coaxing him with hands and mouth.
“Later, Deirdre, love. I need a rest.” He disengaged himself from her and stepped outside the faery ring of mushrooms.
“My priestly duties call. I’ll come to your bed when I can, before dawn.” He bent over the unbroken faery circle to kiss
her one more time.
Ka-Thump. Ka-Thump. The drum slowed as did his heartbeat. Perhaps the gods, Lleu in particular, had not noticed his
lapse. Dana and Belenos reigned during this festival of Life and Tanio. Deirdre pouted, her big dark eyes luminous
with continued desire. She lifted herself onto one elbow. With shoulders thrust back, her full, round breasts rose
sharply, nipples erect, enticing. Droplets glimmered in the firelight against the dark thatch between her thighs. Thick,
lustrous curls to match the curly mane of hair that fell nearly to her hips.
“Don’t leave me yet, Myrddin Emrys!” The Morrigan commanded, clinging to the folds of his robes. “We’ve barely
begun.”
Her face blurred and reformed into the laughing image of Belenos. The sun god had used her to trap Myrddin, a
favorite of Lleu, the god of art and music. “You promised to return ‘ere dawn,” Deirdre reminded him. “May the gods
curse you if you break a promise made inside a faery ring.” Fear overrode Myrddin’s lust and carried him away from
the faery ring. He strained his long legs beyond comfort, running across the boulder-strewn field toward the ring of
standing stones.
“Dana preserve me,” he pleaded with every harsh breath. Rough stones bruised his bare feet as he raced over the
broken ground. The Giant’s Dance loomed ahead. Almost within reach. Wavering flames and shifting shadows
masked and blurred directions.
“Belenos tempted me away from my destined path. He is the strongest on this night of his festival. Let him guide me
back.” With this last prayer, Myrddin leaped through the nearest archway and fell… “Welcome, Myrddin Emrys.
Welcome to the Underworld.” The disembodied eagle face of Lleu rose up in the blackness surrounding Myrddin. The
predatory gleam of a raptor on the hunt brightened his dark eyes. Behind the god, the roots of the Worldtree tangled
in the abyss, reminding Myrddin that the punishment for breaking his geas of celibacy was hanging nine days upon
the Tree. Nine days without water or companionship to ease the pain. “I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t my time!” The
absolute wrongness stabbed into Myrddin’s mind and heart. His body seemed to have dissipated in the endless
blackness of the abyss. He couldn’t find his hands to make emphatic gestures or tear his hair. Only his mind and soul
remained, drifting endlessly in—nothing. The acrid smell of sulfur and the musty smell of rotting wood leaves told him
that some of his senses still lived. He wasn’t dead yet. He had a chance to live and return to Deirdre before dawn, as
he had promised. “The gift of prophecy denies you the privilege of laying with a woman. A fair exchange. You broke
that geas. You belong to me now.” Lleu’s melodic voice resounded through the nothingness as he transformed into
his manlike form. His long nose and shifting eyes reminded Myrddin of the eagle persona the god assumed at will. Like
the Goddess who was Dana, mother of all, as well as Andraste, the warrior queen, Lleu took several forms. Nothing
showed of Lleu’s other guise, a meek hare that foretold the future. Myrddin knew how and where to stand to divert a
running hare. But no man could keep an eagle from relinquishing its focus while its prey remained within sight. A
space of light spread around the god to include Myrddin. Solid ground supported them. Myrddin’s body became a
wisp of shadows, clothed in his white Druid robe. The tattoos on his arm glowed through the robe, a grim reminder of
his priesthood and duty to the gods. He’d not solidify or dissipate fully until judged.
The Worldtree stood at the very edge of this temporary reality, half in the light and half in the abyss. Cernunnos,
horned god of the Underworld, waited for him within the tangled branches of the Tree.
The smell of sulfur ceased biting his senses but lingered. “He belongs to me as well,” Belenos stepped into the light. “
‘Tis my night. I claim a piece of his soul.” His radiant visage dripped sheep’s blood from the sacrifices offered to him
this night. His black eyes opened into a passage into the abyss. He carried the acrid scent of burning blood and rotten
wood with him. The smells of death.
A round judgment table and four high-backed chairs appeared in the center of the circle of light. Belenos took a seat in
the chair representing East—the position of his rising power.
Lleu sat to the West. The Worldtree hovered between them. Cernunnos peeked out from the shadowy branches,
patient, knowing that eventually all life passed through his realm.
The Goddess appeared as Dana, draped in flowing robes that outlined Her femininity in maddening secrets, the
persona of love and life perpetual. “He also belongs to me. ‘Twas at my behest he made himself vulnerable.” The voice
of all women wove into the tapestry of sound and blinding light emanating from Her. If She had chosen to be
Andraste, the warrior queen clad in golden armor and carrying a flaming sword, Myrddin would have known doom.
Dana gave him hope. She chose the position of North for Her throne.
South remained empty. Myrddin wouldn’t sit there unless they found him innocent. Only then did he realize his
golden torc, the symbol of his manhood and priestly office, didn’t encircle his neck.
“I have duties to fulfill and promises to keep,” Myrddin protested. “You chose me to make Arthur a king worthy of
Britain and the gods. I, and I alone, must provide him with a warband ready to follow his lead. You entrusted his
education and training to me. He is still too young to abandon. I must fulfill your tasks.”
“Arthur’s identity remains secret, as we chose,” Belenos said. “Lord Ector and his family protect him and train him as
appropriate to his age and status. The other Beltane sons you have placed into similar foster homes thrive as well.
Arthur will rise to greatness of his own accord without your interference.” The light radiating from Belenos’ sun-face
nearly blinded Myrddin. “You can teach him many things,” Myrddin challenged the god. “But can you show him how
to give many factions common ground? Can you give him the sense of continuity that will insure those rival factions
agree on his leadership? You chose me for that task. No other can complete it as I can.” He swallowed his fear as the
fervor of his mission overtook him. “And what of the college of Druids? Our numbers decrease every year as the
Christians grow more numerous. The magic and the prophecy you gave me diminishes as well. The followers of the
White Christ will not honor you. I must help fill the empty places in the circle, or the rituals will mean nothing and you
will fade into nothingness,” Myrddin stated.
“You should have thought of that before you broke your vow of celibacy,” Lleu answered. “Celibacy is required of
those who are gifted with visions of the future.” The South chair began to fade into the mist and shadow of the
Underworld.
“A gift imposed upon me before I was old enough to know what it meant or use it properly. Most people don’t learn to
use their gift until they are adults, have lived a full life, sired or borne children. My gift was imposed upon me before
the age of five.”
“We have our reasons for keeping you separate from women. Now you must face the consequences of your
disobedience,” Belenos chortled. “What of Arthur? You chose him as you chose me for special destinies.” “Your
destiny can no longer be fulfilled by you. We must find another.” Lleu stood, his eagle’s wings grew and his fingers
became talons, ready to rip out Myrddin’s throat.
Myrddin refused to believe that this was the end of this life. He could still complete any task the gods set for him.
Arthur was too important to Britain’s future to abandon. One night of passion in honor of the Goddess shouldn’t
negate a lifetime of faithful work for the gods.
“We must train another to insure the continuance of our kind.” Dana bowed her head sadly. “The faeries will help us.
If your successor fails, we, the gods, will be forced to abandon your world for another dimension, and so will the
faeries. As we speak, the portals between worlds dim and grow weak. Other portals open wider. A balance must be
maintained.” “Isn’t the propagation of children the way to insure that our way of life, our beliefs, our unity with all life
continues through the ages?” Myrddin pleaded with her.
“Our people must face the Christians first.” Lleu stood, fists clenched against the table of judgment. “ ‘Twill take a
special child with intense training to survive the strength of their missionaries.”
“The Romans massacred all but a handful of us. Can the followers of the White Christ do worse? They are meek. They
carry no weapons. They shout peace and love from the hilltops. We should join them, show them the beauty of our
ways. Together we would become invincible,” Myrddin said, his voice falling into the pattern of song and story.
“Had you honored your geas, protected your gift of prophecy with celibacy, you could have been the bridge between
two faiths.” Lleu sat down again, once more fully a man.
“I still can—with or without my gift. It is only a tool, not a necessity to my life.”
“The Christians respect marriage and fidelity. They do not understand our reverence for the Beltane Festival, and so
you have been kept separate from it. They cannot and will not respect and listen to you, an active participant in a
ritual they abhor.”
“One lapse, in honor of Dana, the one who is all of you and all mortal life combined, need not establish a pattern for
the rest of my life. For centuries The Merlin and The Morrigan have shared the guidance of Britain, as a couple, joined
in purpose in rituals more binding than marriage. I have always considered Deirdre my spouse though I have not lain
with her until tonight.” He paused to gather his wits. The gods remained silent, listening, waiting for a better
argument.
“I am a bard and a magician. I can help blend the best of our ways with the best of Christianity. Is not their Mary, the
mother of Jesus, another manifestation of the Goddess? Is not the respect for all life as their god’s creation similar to
ours, as well as the cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth? Do they not invoke Pridd, Awyr, Tanio, and Dwfr in their
rituals as do we? The pattern of our joint effort is clear. United, with Arthur leading us, we can drive back the Saxons
who threaten Britain and you,” he sang as if retelling a great epic. His voice swelled and filled the void with the
majesty of his destiny. Images of glorious battle and victory flitted around the circle of light. Bright banners among
the ranks of soldiers depicted all of the gods marching with them. Dana watched the future unfolding before them and
nodded.
“You have the silver tongue of a bard,” Belenos laughed, banishing the images. “And the wisdom of a magician to
find and interpret the patterns of life beyond the restriction of time,” Lleu added, bringing the visions back. “ And the
charm of a diplomat,” the Goddess smiled. She plucked the banner bearing her image from the visions flickering about
them, gathering it to her breast.
Light filtered into the abyss.
“You chose my destiny before I was born. You chose me to make Arthur Ardh Rhi, the High King who will save Britain
and both religions,” Myrddin pleaded one last time.
“Your arguments have been heard.” Lleu’s presence grew stronger as the others receded. “For the well-being of
Arthur and our people, I forgive this one lapse. We mark your body as a perpetual reminder of your geas against
women. We charge you to continue your tutelage of Arthur and those who will form his warband, to raise your
successor, and keep your pledge to Deirdre. You promised to return to her before dawn. In your heart you offered love
and protection. That oath continues to her child. You must protect the child who will maintain the balance of open and
closed portals between dimensions.” “Child? We conceived a child this night?” Myrddin sat heavily in the South chair
at the stunning news. “A child to carry my heart and knowledge into the next generation, and the next.”
“A child you must protect at all costs. Deirdre cannot survive the birthing.” The image of Lleu faded along with the
judgment table and the other gods. “On the day the child is born and Deirdre leaves her earthly body, you and your
child must go into exile from your college of Druids. But remember…” The booming voice that had moments ago filled
the abyss receded as the tide. “Next time, we will not forgive. Next time…” Lleu’s words faded into a breath of wind.
Myrddin fingered the suddenly heavy torc returned to his neck. “I need the child,” Dana whispered into his mind.
“The child is why I tempted you. Your descendants form an important part of the pattern of life. Remember your
promise in the faery ring.”
Chapter 1
“Curyll!” I jumped up and down in excitement. My friend trudged up the hill toward Da and me. Our summer-long trek
through Britain was over. Da and I would spend the cold months with Curyll’s foster father, Lord Ector. As we had all
eight winters of my life.
Autumn had come early this year. I awoke this morning to find dew had frosted on my blanket. The rags binding my
feet barely kept the frost off my toes as we walked the final league to Lord Ector’s home outside Deva. The air smelled
of cold, wet, salt.
“Winter chases the wind like a hound on the heels of a hare,” I sang, trying very hard to make my voice sound like the
wind in the trees. Da did that much better than I.
I didn’t want to think about the many hundreds of people who had no shelter or food this winter. Here in the
Northwest we were secure from Saxon raiders. Soon I would be warm and safe. Safe from the Saxons and from the
Christians who threw rocks at Da and me.
Four huge hunting dogs galloped around my friend Curyll in circles that moved forward and sideways at the same
time. As usual, the three brown hounds looked to the larger, shaggy black-and-gray Brenin as their leader. Brenin
looked to Curyll for direction.
Joy at finding my friend alive when storm, disease, and Saxon raiders claimed so many, wasn’t enough to warm me. I
longed for the heat of kitchen fires—any fire, even one of my own making. But Da didn’t allow me to show off that
trick. My bouncing almost warmed my nearly numb feet while I rubbed my fingers against my hide cloak. I’d missed
Curyll terribly this past summer. Curyll lifted a hand in mute greeting to us. He had another name, one that I could
never remember. I didn’t want to remember our real names and didn’t like my own.
Real names are what parents use when they are angry at you. I’d seen my Da in a rage once. I didn’t want to see him
that way ever again. “Another half hour to Lord Ector’s stronghold, little Wren. Then we’ll be warm,” Da said. His
deep voice seemed to sing each word. He didn’t need the harp he carried in a satchel on his back to make music. But
everyone recognized the harp as a symbol that transformed us from beggars to bards. I had learned eight fun ballads
this past summer. One for each year of my life—not quite the nine complex history ballads required to call myself a
bard. Four of my songs I could sing all by myself—the other four I needed a little help remembering all the words and
to cover the notes I couldn’t quite reach. Maybe tonight Da would ask me to sing a solo.
“Blow your nose, Wren.” Da handed me a square of almost clean linen. He wasn’t angry that my nose ran with the
cold or that I had fussed and whined all afternoon.
“The Wind whistles through the heather, telling tales of the cold ocean sharpening its teeth.” I chanted a line from
another ballad. The tune didn’t come out of my raw throat as easily as before.
Clear blue skies sparkled in the afternoon sun. But the weight of clouds building to the West gave me a headache.
Damp salt in the air burned the raw patches on my nose. By sunset the storms would come. We would be snug and
dry in Lord Ector’s fortress before the rain beat the last of the harvest into the ground.
Da folded my small hands in his huge ones and rubbed some feeling into my fingertips. This gesture of love did more
to warm me than bright fires. “May I ride on the back of Brenin, Da?” I asked politely.
“You are much too big, my Wren.”
“I rode him last year.” I tried very hard not to thrust out my lower lip and screw up my eyes in an ugly face. I used to
do that all the time until Da made me look into a still pool so I could see what I looked like. Ugly. Scary. I saw more in
the pool than my own scowl. I saw Gwaed, the god of blood, Tanio, the element of fire, and myself grown old and sad.
But I didn’t tell Da that. I didn’t want to scare him.
“Ho, M-Merlin!” Curyll’s voice echoed across the moors. I didn’t expect my friend to say anything and was surprised
at the clarity of his words. Had he practiced speaking with one of his foster brothers? Most likely Lancelot the stinging
bee, Curyll’s best friend in the world. But if Stinger was busy, then probably Bedewyr, Ceffyl the horse as we called
him, or Cai the nearsighted boar had listened politely while Curyll formed each word with time-consuming care. Of all of
the boys at Lord Ector’s stronghold, Stinger, Boar, and Ceffyl were closest to him in age.
Curyll had used Da’s traveling name rather than his real name—that was reserved for the other Druids. We were all
birds. Merlin, small falcon. Curyll, a much bigger and fiercer hawk. And I was the little brown Wren, not much to look
at, but a very sweet singer—I hoped. The other boys had animal names. They weren’t birds. Bards and birds were
special.
“Curyll.” Da waved to the boy. “Good hunting today.” He pressed my back, urging me forward. I ran ahead, eagerly.
Curyll wore hunting leathers. A brace of birds hung from his belt. He’d slung two more across his back on a thong. He
smelled of sweat and earth and crushed grass. A bright cap confined his usually tangled hair. The late afternoon
sunshine peeking beneath the growing cloud cover picked gold and silver out of the sandstone color. I never tired of
watching sunlight dance colors through his hair.
Lord Ector wouldn’t let Curyll have lessons because he didn’t speak. But Curyll could trounce all of his foster brothers
with sword and lance. His big hands seemed just the right size to cradle a fledgling bird without ruffling a feather. And
he always treated me with kindness when his foster brothers were too rough with a small girl child who didn’t belong
to the fortress. I knew Curyll was as smart as his foster brothers. They tolerated his supposed stupidity because he
was the orphaned son of a respected warlord. I loved him for himself.
Curyll greeted me with a hug and picked me up and swung me in a wide circle. Only thirteen, he carried me easily. His
back would be almost as good to ride upon as one of the shaggy dogs who stood taller than I did. He smelled better
than wet dog fur, too.
“Sit beasts!” Da said to the dogs. Brenin and the other hounds continued sniffing Da’s leather leggings and boots,
catching up on all the gossipy scents he’d gathered in the last year. “I said sit!” Da fingered his gold torc with his left
hand and pointed at Brenin’s nose with his right. All four dogs sat and stared obediently at Da.
Curyll and I giggled. No one else, including Curyll, could command the hunting hounds so well.
Our joy at seeing each other couldn’t overcome my cold. I sneezed. Messily. But Curyll didn’t flinch or drop me in
disgust. He shifted his grip on me so that I could wipe my nose once more.
While I mopped my nose and his shoulder, he spoke again. “Ll—Lly—,” he stopped, unable to force out the next
words.
“Did Llygad have puppies?” I asked, noticing the fifth dog missing from the pack. Llygad belonged to Boar, but she,
like the other hounds, looked to Curyll as leader of the pack.
He nodded, smiling that I understood.
I giggled at the prospect of playing with a dozen wiggling bundles of fur. A deep frown replaced Curyll’s grin, and he
set me down—not ungently, but with little warmth.
“I didn’t mean it, Curyll. I laughed at the puppies, not you. I promise I’ll never laugh at you.” I spun in a circle on my
toes to seal the promise. Circles have no beginning and no end, and neither does a promise. He hugged me again.
“Come.” Da herded us toward Lord Ector’s caer. Long shadows stretched out from the battlements. “The sun is near
to setting and clouds gather. We’d best hurry or miss our supper.”
“A-ah-” Curyll halted our progress. He blushed and gulped before making elaborate motions with his hands. He
signed the cross of the Christian god, then placed his palms together in front of him as if in prayer. “Priest?” Da
interpreted.
My stomach turned cold. I had thought Lord Ector would protect us from the Christians who threw stones.
Curyll nodded at Da, then made motions as if eating but then stopped and made the signal to halt.
“Has Ector invited a priest to supper and we must stay in the kitchen?” Da’s face turned dark with an anger that
frightened me. His blue eyes, the same color as the sky at midnight, darkened to the uncertain froth of a storm-ravaged
sea. (I’d heard that phrase in one of Da’s hero ballads and liked it.) Curyll hung his head in apology. I edged toward
my friend and tried to hide behind him. As I edged around, I noticed he didn’t wear his warrior’s torc about his neck. A
torc was more than a piece of jewelry. The circle of metal was a symbol of manhood and a person’s status in the
community. Warriors never removed theirs. Curyll had won his last autumn in a tournament. Boar hadn’t won his torc
until a month later. Stinger and Ceffyl were a year younger, and I didn’t know if they had won theirs yet or not.
Da grasped the fat end of his own golden torc in a familiar gesture. His grip seemed to help him master his anger. His
temper hadn’t sent magic flying from his fingers. He continued, “Why a priest, Curyll? Your foster father has always
been faithful to the Goddess and the old ways.” Curyll pointed to his tongue and dropped his gaze to the heather. “I
should have expected this, Curyll. You near the age of manhood and will claim your inheritance soon. Lord Ector must
be desperate for you to learn to speak properly. He’s invited the priest to exorcise a demon from you.” Exorcise. I
didn’t like the sound of the ugly Latin word. What would the priest do to Curyll? I hoped it didn’t have anything to do
with stones.
Da glared at the increasing clouds streaked with the red of suns as if they were responsible for the priest and Curyll’s
stutter. Slowly his eyes cleared and brightened. “I have been remiss in allowing your impediment to continue so long.
Has the priest arrived yet?”
Curyll shook his head.
“Perhaps we have time. The storm might delay him.” Da continued to scan the skies for answers.
I tugged on Da’s cloak. “Curyll doesn’t have a demon in his tongue. The kitchen cat stole the spirit out of it.”
Da lifted one eyebrow at my comment. I loved that gesture and tried to imitate it. I couldn’t do more than twist my face
in a grimace. “I told you so last winter, but you didn’t believe me,” I replied, wanting to stamp my foot in frustration.
Laughter lit Da’s eyes. I loved how he looked when he did that. Their deep blue color invited me to gaze deeper into
his soul and trust him. “Yes, you did tell me that, Wren. Perhaps you are right. I must study the cat.”
“I can tell the cat to give it back.”
“Can you now? Then we must hurry.” Da gestured to Curyll. They each took one of my hands and lifted me high as
they ran down the hill laughing. Merlin clasped his daughter’s hand, checking for signs of fever. He hadn’t liked the
way she had dragged behind him all day. Normally he and Wren chatted and laughed together as they walked through
Britain, observing the world. Her childish sense of wonder gave new perspectives on commonplace events and sights.
But today Wren had refused to find delight in an arrowhead of geese flying south. She had complained of the cold
instead.
Now she sneezed, and her nose leaked. Her palm remained cool but moist. If she ailed, the sickness hadn’t settled yet.
With a sigh of relief he nodded to Curyll and together they swung the little girl above a tussock of grass. She squealed
with delight. Another sneeze and a cough followed hard upon the heels of her giggles. She mustn’t be sick. Not now
when he thought her grown beyond the dangers of early childhood. He’d almost lost her twice in her first five winters,
once to a terrible hacking cough and fever that kept her in bed nearly an entire winter, and once to a terrible wasting
sickness that had besieged half of Britain the summer she turned two. Only his skill with medicine had saved her. Wren
was so very precious to him, he didn’t know how he’d continue without her. Curyll was special, too, but to protect
Wren, Merlin would forsake the boy and all of the other young men he monitored. Wren—Arylwren, a pledge. He’d
promised to protect this child at all costs.
She giggled merrily as they set her back down on the ground, like her usual cheerful self.
Merlin’s heart swelled with love and pride. His worries about her receded into the back of his mind.
They continued downhill another few paces before setting foot on the road. Normally Merlin preferred to keep to the
hidden ways over the hills. He checked on the ancient sacred shrines scattered throughout Britain as he traveled on
Ardh Rhi Uther’s business—and his own. But to approach a caer, even one owned by a friend, required some
ceremony and care.
He tugged Wren’s hand to the right onto the road rather than continue across the nearly trackless hills. They should
approach formally through the front gate rather than slipping in through the postern like a servant or beggar—or even
family.
Curyll shrugged at the change of direction and continued with them. One hundred paces farther the road branched.
The left-hand fork continued North to Deva. The right led up the tor to the fortress that commanded a view of the
surrounding valley.
A bustle of activity upon the point of the crossroad attracted Merlin’s attention. Garoth, Lord Ector’s second son,
directed half a dozen others in some kind of construction project.
Curious. What kind of shrine could they be erecting at a sacred crossroad when all that was needed was a clear space
for travelers to leave offerings for safe passage?
“Curse these aging eyes, I can’t quite make out what they are doing!” Merlin moaned.
“You aren’t old yet, Da.” Wren squeezed his hand. “You just spend too much time squinting at old scrolls whenever
you find them. Usually in bad light. I told you to light another lamp.”
“Always the little mother, Wren.” Merlin chuckled. “You look after me very well. But trust me, I am old enough to lose
some of my keenness. This gray hair tells no lies.”
The little girl looked at him skeptically. Sometimes she was just too wise and observing for her age.
“Curse you, Mihail!” Garoth shouted at a roughly clad laborer. Mihail dropped to his knees, cradling his left hand. He
mumbled something Merlin could not hear. Garoth slammed his boot into the man’s ribs. “If you aren’t fit to work,
why does my father continue to feed and protect you?” Garoth kicked again. Red rose from his cheekbones to his
forehead. Anger pulled his mouth down and made him narrow his eyes. The other men backed away from Garoth and
Mihail, revealing the intricately carved stone crog—a Christian cross—they had been erecting. It stood on its base
tilted to the left and twisted so that it faced half-east rather than due south to the fork in the road.
Merlin froze in his tracks. The crog was a thing of beauty, worked by loving hands. It stood half again as tall as a tall
man. A circle joined the four arms and a huge polished green stone had been set in the boss. “Stop it! Stop it, stop it,”
Wren cried. She wrenched her hand free of Merlin’s grasp and ran to Garoth. Fists beating wildly at his side, she
began kicking him with her rag-wrapped feet. Her blows against Garoth’s thick boots and leggings must have hurt her
more than her victim.
“What is this?” Merlin hurried forward.
Curyll made some inarticulate sounds of warning. Merlin didn’t have the time or patience to decipher what the boy
needed to say. But he knew a moment of disappointment mixed with fierce pride that his eight-year-old daughter had
rushed to rescue the laborer when Curyll, training to be a marchog—a mounted warrior—hung back.
“Oh, it’s you,” Garoth sneered at Merlin and Curyll. He noticed the girl pounding on him. “Get back to work, all of
you!” he shouted to the others who continued to ease distance between themselves and Garoth’s anger. Merlin
recognized a few of the laborers as tenants of Lord Ector. The three slighter built among them turned out to be Cai,
Ector’s youngest son, Lancelot, and Bedewyr, foster boys near Curyll’s age.
And all three had the self-confidence to lead other warriors. Curyll wouldn’t do it because he could not speak. The
situation needed a remedy soon. “I thought Lord Ector honored the old ways,” Merlin said. He fought to keep his face
impassive and betray none of the disappointment and… and hurt this crog represented.
Almost absently he grabbed Wren by her collar and pulled her back beside him.
She continued to fuss and strain to reach Mihail. “Well, the old ways didn’t get us what we need. You’ll find your
welcome much cooler this year, Merlin—if not out in the cold. Father has a priest coming, and he wants to make sure
the man is welcomed.” Garoth swung his left foot back in preparation for kicking Mihail again.
The hapless laborer continued to kneel in the road holding his left hand close against his body, supporting it with his
right. Pain made his face pale and moist. He sank his teeth into his lower lip to avoid crying out. In a move too fast and
unanticipated for Garoth to counter, Merlin grabbed Garoth’s foot, lifting it high enough to threaten the younger
man’s balance. Wren neatly inserted herself between Garoth and his intended victim as she cooed soothing noises
toward Mihail.
“New religions and old teach us to help the helpless and offer others the kindness we want for ourselves,” Merlin said.
“Your father never taught you cruelty, Garoth.”
“But the creature won’t work. He’s clumsy and gave up at a crucial moment, ruining the job,” Garoth whined. He flailed
his arms, trying to keep his balance on one foot. “Let go, you’re hurting me!” So like a bully to revert to childish
whines of hurt rather than maintain a position of strength. “Mihail’s wrist is broken, Garoth,” Merlin said. He assessed
the swelling and awkward angle of the hand quickly. He thought he could reset it properly and relieve the man’s pain.
But Mihail wouldn’t work for several weeks. If any of the bones had been crushed, he’d never work with that hand
again. “Then he can’t work, and he’s useless. I suppose you’ll insist we support him while he recovers and drains our
resources,” Garoth sneered. He seemed to have found his balance on his own.
“You must protect and care for all of your workers as your father swore.” Merlin dropped Garoth’s foot. “Come, Wren,
Curyll. Bring Mihail. I will see about setting those bones.”
Curyll gestured to his foster brothers, and they assembled beside him. Merlin guided Mihail upright with a hand
beneath his elbow. The laborer swayed and blanched with the effort of moving.
“You feel no pain.” Merlin pressed his left palm against Mihail’s eyes, concentrating on the message behind his
words. A wave of tiredness swept over him. The moment he withdrew his hand from his patient he lost the aching
fatigue.
Mihail straightened and smiled. He nodded his thanks and stepped on the road to follow his rescuers.
Merlin glanced at the others. Cai, Lancelot, and Bedewyr stared at him in awe. Two of the laborers made a fist
extending their little and index finger in a ward against the evil eye. Garoth and the rest touched forehead, heart, and
each shoulder. The Christian ward against evil.
That chilled Merlin more than mere superstition. Change had reached this remote corner of Britain sooner than he
expected, and Curyll wasn’t ready to work with the change to become the leader he was destined to be.
Chapter 2
I looked for the cat as soon as we entered the kitchen hut beside Lord Ector’s Long Hall. Two steps behind me, Da and
Curyll helped the injured worker. Curyll sent Stinger, Ceffyl, and Boar running off in three separate directions for the
things Da needed to help Mihail.
A bundle of orange-and-white fur flew past us to the yard before the door slammed shut. A sneeze grabbed hold of me
just as I reached for the cat. I missed.
“Poor, motherless little Wren,” Lady Glynnis clucked, rushing toward me from where she supervised the salting of the
soup. Lord Ector’s wife scooped me up in her arms, patting my back as if I were still a babe. She totally ignored Da and
the others.
I wriggled and squirmed to get down. Lady Glynnis wouldn’t let go. “We must get you warm, Wren. A hot brick and a
cup of my special tonic, I think.” She plunked me down on a bench by the fire. Servants scurried out of the way. The
warmth made my nose run again. My toes and fingers tingled painfully, too. I coughed the cooking smoke out of my
throat. Da led Mihail to the fire where he had good light. I watched him feel the man’s wrist with just the tips of his
fingers. Moments later he yanked hard on the injured hand.
Mihail screamed and blanched. He almost passed out. Then his eyes cleared and he smiled. “No pain?”
“The pain is gone for now. It will return, but not as intense,” Da replied. He directed one of the kitchen women how to
bind the wrist with the splint Boar had brought and the bandages Stinger held. Ceffyl offered a pitcher of ale laced with
willow bark. Then Da gave both the woman and Mihail instructions for caring for the injury. Final Da turned back to
Lady Glynnis and me. “Don’t you fuss about Mihail or how he broke his wrist, Wren,” Da told me. “I will deal with it.
Your task is to conquer this cold as soon as possible,” he said sternly.
I would have protested, but a chill took hold of my shoulders and I had to fight to keep from trembling all over.
“Now you stay here by the fire, Wren, for as long as it takes to get thoroughly warm. We won’t expect you and your
Da to sing tonight.” Lady Glynnis smoothed grass and twigs out of my tight mass of curly hair. She clucked and shook
her head at the perpetual grass stains on my shirt. I held my breath until the next sneeze passed. Lady Glynnis
wouldn’t believe I was warm enough to prowl the clusters of outbuildings looking for the elusive cat if I continued to
expel demons through my nose. I needed to find the cat before the priest arrived. Cats like to play hide and seek. They
hid, I sought. Sometimes the game went on for days.
Lady Glynnis wrapped a hot brick in flannel and placed it under my feet. I clung to the rough bench as I wriggled my
feet flat to absorb as much heat as possible.
“Drink this up.” Lady Glynnis handed me a cup of something hot and spicy. “What is your Da thinking? Dragging you
from one end of Britain to the other and back again in all weathers and not enough warm clothes to keep the chill off.
Not even decent girl-clothes on you. You look like a beggar boy with those barbaric legging and short shirts that hang
only as far as your knees. Children need a home, and a mother to take care of them.” She continued to fuss over me,
brushing my knotted hair, washing my face, picking burrs off my clothes. ‘Twas the same every year when Da and I
first arrived for our wintering-in. Across the room, Da winked at me. Only when Lady Glynnis took a moment away
from her sons and fosterlings to notice me did I sense that I missed having a mother. Everything else I needed,
including fussing, Da gave me. Curyll hurried along the passage from the hall and living quarters. The harsh, square
lines of Ector’s Roman villa had been softened by the cluster of more traditional buildings surrounding it. Unlike many
strongholds, covered passageways—some fully enclosed—connected Ector’s “rooms.” Curyll handed a thick blanket
to his foster mother, his mouth firmly closed. But he wore his torc again. Curious.
“Thank you, Curyll.” Lady Glynnis wrapped the length of wool around my shoulders.
I sank into the folds of cloth. Warmth finally penetrated my bones. The soothing drink made me sleepy. I needed to lie
down on my bench, but I didn’t want to take my feet off the hot brick.
Then I saw a little pink nose and wisp of whisker poking out from beneath a stack of baskets. The wily cat hadn’t
slipped outside after all. She challenged me to follow her.
“Curyll,” Lady Glynnis called as he started to sit next to Da. “You must wash before Father Thomas arrives. I will not
have you presented to the priest smelling of dogs and pigeon blood. And take off your torc. You know Father Thomas
disapproves of pagan jewelry.”
Curyll nodded and rose to his full height, taller than Lord Ector’s wife, almost as tall as my Da. He had to walk past me
to the passageway. With his back to Lady Glynnis, he patted my head. “Cat,” he mouthed the word without uttering a
sound. He fingered his torc as if his right to wear it was tied to his ability to speak.
“I promise.” I shaped the words with my mouth equally silent, I couldn’t turn in a circle while sitting on the bench, so I
extended one finger and moved it as if stirring my tonic. Curyll almost skipped with joy on his way to the baths. A
vision of life patterns flickered around the edges of my sight. I knew I’d dream tonight, and perhaps tomorrow it would
all make sense. A flipping tail tip joined the nose and whiskers under the baskets. If I dove across the kitchen as fast
as at bird, I might capture the sneaky cat. “Wren keep the blanket around your shoulders.” Lady Glynnis redraped the
heavy wool, pulling it closer around my throat. “Oh, and, Father Merlin, the simnai behind the oven isn’t drawing
properly. Can you do something before the bread is spoiled?”
I couldn’t smell the baking bread, and the extra smoke in the room barely penetrated the clog in my nose.
“Have you cleaned the simnai of birds’ nests?” Da raised one eyebrow. His left hand automatically reached for his torc
while the fingers of his left hand twisted into a complicated gesture.
“No, I did not!” Hands on hips, Lady Glynnis glared back at him indignantly. “I ordered Lancelot and Bedewyr to do it
last week as punishment for stealing apples from the storeroom.”
“Well, then that must be the problem.” Da’s mouth twisted as he fought to suppress a smile. “You didn’t include
Curyll in the task to supervise and make certain it was done properly.” He bowed his head, eyes closed, and mumbled
something.
I knew what he was doing and braced myself for the hot, scentless Awyr that swept through the kitchen. The tiny
whirlwind circled the room. It flitted into every corner as if seeking an escape and finally found the simnai.
Immediately, much of the smoke cleared away and the fire burned brighter. Da was more gifted with the element Awyr
than I. But I controlled Tanio with the ease of a thought.
“Next time, Lady Glynnis, if Curyll is busy elsewhere, I suggest you have one of the older boys, Fallon perhaps,
supervise to make sure the job isn’t left half done.” He didn’t mention Garoth.
In the wake of the whirlwind, the cat emerged from tier hiding place far enough to wash a dainty paw. The tip of her tail
flipped two more times, daring me to try to capture her. “I’ll take Wren to our quarters, Lady Glynnis.” Da picked me
up, blanket, cup, and all. “The usual place?”
“Of course, Father Merlin.” Lady Glynnis fussed with my blanket one more time. “The boys have already set your
harp and packs there. We honor a bard with a warm room next to the hall. Not like some of our neighbors.” She blew air
through her long nose, showing her disgust for those who didn’t keep the old ways.
And yet her husband had invited a priest of the new religion to cure Curyll, they erected a Christian crog at the
crossroad, and she had ordered my friend to remove his torc.
Da lifted one eyebrow again in question. Lady Glynnis didn’t see it because she had stooped to scratch the cat’s ears.
Of course, now that I couldn’t get to her, the cat emerged from the pile of baskets.
I looked sharply at the cat and then back to Da. He looked at the cat and then back to me, shaking his head. “Later.
When you are well.” Before I could protest the need for haste, he carried me through the covered passage to the Great
Hall. No cat would dare enter the large central chamber of the caer. All of the hunting dogs lazed around the fire pit in
the middle of the room, seemingly asleep, but ready to pounce on any prey, especially a presumptuous cat. “Da, the
cat!” I reminded him. “I’ve got to talk to the cat before supper.” “Don’t whine, Wren. Father Thomas won’t hurt Curyll,
and he doesn’t cast stones at unbelievers. We have all winter to cure Curyll. You need to be free of this cold before
you try any magic with the cat. She calls herself Helwriaeth, by the way. Remember to call her name properly and she
will come.” That night, I succumbed to the fever that often stands behind the left shoulder of a cold. A storm blew in
from the Irish Sea, bringing sleet and wind, but no priest. The urgency to cure Curyll left me.
Helwriaeth knew I wasn’t strong enough to make demands upon her and perversely settled into my bed with me. She
told me a long tale of circling around the outside of the Great Hall to avoid the monstrous dogs. Her very
discriminating nose led her to a small crack in the stone foundation—a mousehole from the scent-memory I shared
with her—that gave her access to the open space between the walls. From there she managed to find a smoke vent
near the rafters filled with the aromas of hundreds of past feasts in the Great Hall. The drop into my room proved easy
after that.
“That’s a lovely tale, Helwriaeth,” I murmured as I stroked her soft fur. “I have a very important job for you. You will
be the most special cat in the whole world if you do this job.”
Helwriaeth preened and said she was already a very special cat. An important one, too. None of the other kitchen cats
could catch as many mice as she. “Since you have so many mice to play with, you don’t need Curyll’s tongue, too,” I
whispered. My breath caught in my chest again, so I held it. My cough might scare Helwriaeth away before she
promised to help Curyll. She sat up, looking offended. Her tail flipped an ominous warning. She hadn’t stolen the
entire tongue, just the spirit that guided it. I scratched her ears until her neck sagged. She considered trading the
tongue’s spirit for a special gift, one worthy of her beauty and her talents as a mouser. “What kind of gift,
Helwriaeth?” I continued scratching her ears until she lay down and purred.
More scratching, she told me, and the right to nap in my bed anytime she chose might be worth giving up the tongue’s
spirit.
“Promise, Helwriaeth?”
She flipped her tail and thought about it.
“I’ll give you an extra bowl of cream after you give back the tongue.” Helwriaeth nudged my hand for more caresses. I
stroked her back and scratched her ears..
She purred her acceptance of the bargain. “Seal the promise, Helwriaeth,” I instructed as I traced a neat circle with her
tail. She glared at me and retrieved her tail. “You must seal the promise, or I can’t give you the cream.” She drew a
circle in the air with the tip of her tail but continued to stare at me. I grabbed her tail and drew a second circle on the
blanket. Satisfied, we both fell asleep.
When I awoke, Helwriaeth still slept, curled up beside me. Curyll and Stinger stood in the curtained doorway. They
came as often as Lady Glynnis allowed, sneaking sweets from the kitchen for me and clean-smelling herbs from the
stillroom to ease my sore throat. Today, they each brought a squirming puppy. Curyll bent at the waist to show me the
bundle of fur secreted under his leather tunic.
Helwriaeth woke up, instantly alert. She hissed and arched her back.
“Oh, my!” I reached to pet the puppy, still cradled in Curyll’s arms. Helwriaeth moved faster than me. She hissed again
and batted the shaggy bundle of black fur on the nose. The puppy yelped and hid beneath Curyll’s clothing. Stinger
laughed and backed away from Helwriaeth and her claws with his puppy. My friends shrugged and retreated from the
room, cooing reassurance to the frightened dogs. The indignant cat began her bath with a smug smile, as if she’d done
me a favor.
“You didn’t give back Curyll’s tongue!” I scolded. She left the room in a huff. The angle of her tail told me the
presence of the puppy had ruined the opportunity. Besides, Stinger would be jealous of the gift and would want
something special, too. That was not part of her bargain. She would let me know what she considered a proper time
and place. At last the day arrived when Lady Glynnis allowed me out of bed. I could smell and taste again. The world
looked bright and clean and happy. Frost rimed the edges of the well and bit the exposed noses and fingers of the
kitchen lads every time they scooted out for water or wood. But the sky was the deep endless blue that was both so
close I could almost touch it and so distant it stretched forever. The sky reminded me of my father’s eyes when he
smiled at me with love. Boar and Ceffyl spotted the storm-delayed priest from the watchtower soon after.
“Father Thomas comes. He’s riding a donkey,” Ceffyl shouted to one and all. “He’ll be here about an hour before
supper,” Boar added, equally as loud. He couldn’t see the distance as well as his foster brother, but he could calculate
the speed of the donkey.
I had a lot of work to do and a cat to catch. I needed to make sure the priest did not frighten Helwriaeth away forever
with his exorcism spell. I also needed to make sure that his spell didn’t steal the tongue’s spirit from the cat. She had to
give it back, or it would not stay.
I had watched the Ladies of Avalon prepare for festivals and magic rites, so I know how to go about it. First a bath.
One had to approach magic clean of body as well as spirit.
Lord Ector’s caer had begun as a Roman villa with a hypo… hipno… a system for heating water and a big pool. I
hurried through the ritual cleansing before anyone could haul me back to bed for risking a chill. Then I assembled my
herbs and stole a candle from the stillroom. This was the tricky part. I’d never performed a formal spell before, though
I’d seen Da and The Morrigan do it. I knew the general form, but not the substance. I assembled my tools: flowers
from Pridd, Tanio burning, Dwfr in a pristine basin for the vision, and smoke representing Awyr. As I laid each stalk of
dried flowers into the brazier that heated my room—I lit it from the main fire, not from my thoughts since I thought I
might need the extra energy Tanio always drained out of me—I said an extra prayer to Dana for guidance. I breathed in
the aromatic smoke. It swept away excess thought and sensation, sharpening my senses with simple clarity. Then I
gazed into a bowl of clear water. Nothing happened. I breathed deeply again and coughed. I choked and gasped for air,
taking in more smoke. It burned inside my barely healed lungs. I tasted green phlegm and coughed again and again.
Each time I grabbed a breath, the smoke went deeper into my body and my mind. The room spun around me, bright
lights flashed across the smooth surface of the water. Dark clouds creased by lightning blotted all else from my vision.
Abruptly, my sight dimmed and darkened, except around the edges. The water cleared and I saw more than a reflection,
less than substance. Curyll grown older, stronger, more confident, leading armored men into battle. They rode large
horses and carried long swords strapped to their backs, the like of which I’d never seen before. Curyll’s sword shone
through the vision like a star borrowed from the heavens. Power hummed in the air around its jeweled hilt. The sharp
scent of the smoke turned sour in warning. Without knowing how I knew, the vision told me that my best friend would
receive dire wounds in that battle. I had to go to him, heal him… I knew an urge to laugh madly, as Da did when he
spoke true prophecy. Instead, I coughed again. The vision died. My stomach ached and my back hurt from holding
back the racking coughs. Tears ran down my cheeks unchecked. The smoke stabbed my mind and burned in my gut.
I coughed again, trying to rid myself of the foul smoke. I nearly gagged on the taste of burned herbs turned acrid. My
body grew weaker. I hadn’t the strength to fight the coughs that racked my body.
Da dashed through the curtain separating our room from the other chambers. I was barely aware of his hands as he
slapped my back to clear my lungs. “Cease!” Da cried in an ancient language I did not understand. And yet I knew
what he said and why.
The smoke fled the room like a cat exiled by a swift broom. The room remained warm and still.
One last flash of lightning streaked across the basin of water and cleared my vision. Blurred reflections in the water
answered my original request. The orange-and-white cat sat frozen between two barrels of apples in the cellar. In that
moment I knew Helwriaeth had gone to one of her favorite hunting grounds. I knew she had just killed a mouse. And I
knew she would remain there. I had called her true name and she awaited my command. She would return the spirit to
Curyll’s tongue willingly. But upon my command or another’s?
“What were you doing, Wren?” Da’s hands made soothing circles on my back as the coughing eased.
“ I have to find Helwriaeth, so she doesn’t run away forever with Curyll’s tongue when the priest comes.” Fat tears
welled up in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. I gasped and breathed shallowly, afraid that if I took the great gulps
of air I wanted, the coughing would return. My stomach really hurt. My throat burned, crying for water.
A little bit of triumph eased my hurts and exhaustion. I had found Helwriaeth and bound her to my wishes.
“Didn’t I tell you to let yourself heal first? Magic takes a lot of strength and training to understand the patterns of
摘要：

PrologueKA-THUMP-THM.Ka-Thump-thm-thm.ThedrumsechoedMyrddin’sheartbeat.Fasterandfasterthedrumsbeat,callingthecollegeofDruidstoBeltanerevelries. MyrddinEmryssteppedintothecenteroftheGiant’sDance.Reverencefortheceremonyhewasabouttopresideovertingedtheedgesofhissenses.Butsomethingwasmissinginthistime-h...

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