Silver Silence Read online

  She broke off, her eyes flaring with hurt as he took a second step back.

  “Breena, I—” He swallowed and dropped his arms to his sides. “I am sorry. That never should have happened.”

  She lowered her arms and hugged herself. “I see.”

  He made a sound in the back of his throat, and shut his eyes briefly. “My disrespect is inexcusable.”

  “Disrespect,” she repeated. Heat radiated from her body, but her tone was like ice.

  His apology stumbled on. “It will not happen again. Now, please, let us leave this place.”

  She drew herself taller, and tighter. “No, Rhys. I’ve told you. I am not going anywhere.”

  “You cannot stay here. There’s a pall of dark magic over this castle.”

  “I know that. It is my fault. The spell rose when I scried for Myrddin.”

  He swore. “Dafyd is certainly searching for you. The longer you stay here, the more likely it becomes that he will find you.”

  She seemed to falter at that. “I will leave before that happens.”

  “Aye, you will leave with me. Now.”

  Her head came up. Anger caused her aura to crackle. “You have no right to order me about. I did not ask you to follow me here.”

  He made a sound of disbelief. “You thought I would just let you vanish into the Lost Lands?”

  “Hard as it might be for you to believe, I was not thinking of you at all. Why should I? You’d made it very clear the night before I left that you did not care what I did or where I went.”

  Rhys muttered a curse. “You are twisting my words. You know I care for you. I always have. You are like a—”

  “Do not say it!” she hissed. “I swear to you, Rhys, if the word ‘sister’ passes your lips, I will scream loud enough to bring fifty soldiers running!”

  If Breena’s blue eyes had been daggers, Rhys would have been lying on the ground, flayed and gutted. “Breena. Please. We can fight later, if you like. Once we leave this cursed castle.”

  “I am not going anywhere. I have a task to complete. Have you even asked me what it is? No. If you would shut your arrogant mouth and listen for but a moment, you would understand! Myrddin told me—”

  “Myrddin!” Rhys spat the sorcerer’s name. “I am sick to death of hearing you utter that man’s name. He is a menace. He deals with deadly magic. Do you know, Uther Pendragon has not lost a single battle since his Druid counselor appeared at his side? I am sure Myrddin wins the high king’s wars with deep magic.”

  “I do not know if that is true,” Breena said. “If it is, Myrddin has good reason to cast that magic. He serves the Light.”

  “He uses deep magic as it suits him!”

  “So do you.”

  His jaw tightened. “It is not the same.”

  “It is just the same. Don’t you see? Myrddin is desperate. He needed a Seer at Igraine’s side. Rhys, her life is in danger!”

  “And now yours is, as well, because Myrddin saw fit to bring you here.”

  “It was necessary. I am the one destined for the task. And Igraine’s life is much more important than mine.”

  “Excuse me if I do not agree,” Rhys said tightly.

  Breena’s grip was hot and urgent on his arm. “You will change your mind when I tell you who she is. Rhys, Igraine is the woman in my vision. The one I’ve seen murdered more times than I can count.”

  Abruptly, Breena’s willingness to involve herself in deep magic began to make sense. “Myrddin knew this? Even before he came looking for you?”

  “Yes. Rhys, don’t you see? This is the purpose that Gwen spoke of, when she told me the Great Mother had sent my vision for a reason. I am here to prevent my nightmare from coming to pass. I have Seen it happening very soon—at the rise of the harvest moon, four nights hence! If Igraine dies then, evil will erupt. Myrddin knows of your grandfather’s prophecies. He has worked all his life to prevent the chaos Cyric foretold in his dark vision. As you have.”

  Rhys was silent for a long moment. “Myrddin told you all this?” he asked finally.

  “Yes.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “I did.”

  “How can you know he spoke the truth? How can you be sure the woman in your vision is the duchess? In your dream, you have never seen her face.”

  “Since I’ve arrived at Tintagel, I have. Igraine’s face has been very clear in my nightmares.”

  Rhys began to pace the tiny room. “Your vision changed when you met the duchess?”

  “Yes.”

  “It could be her stifled aura, affecting your Sight. Igraine is strong in magic, Breena, but her power has been trapped.”

  “I know that. I can even see Igraine’s aura. She is a Seer. Or should be. That is why Myrddin chose me to protect her. I’ve linked my magic to hers.”

  “What has been done to Igraine is despicable. I can only wonder who cast such a spell.”

  “Dafyd,” Breena suggested.

  “Nay. The spell is very old. Dafyd would have been a child when it was cast.” Rhys’s lips thinned. “But Myrddin would have been old enough.”

  “No.” Breena’s eyes snapped. “He would never do such a thing. Myrddin is of the Light.”

  “He is ruthless.”

  “Believe what you want. I see I cannot change your mind. But know this—Igraine is in danger. Rhys, Gerlois beats her! She carries the bruises. Myrddin and Uther planned to take Igraine from Gerlois. But now that Myrddin is trapped in a trance, I fear Uther will not arrive in time to stop Igraine’s murder. That is why Gareth—”

  “Aye,” Rhys interrupted. “The boy knight. That one is eager to get under your skirt.”

  Breena scowled. “That is why Gareth and I have decided to take Igraine out of the castle tomorrow night.”

  “I know. I heard his plan.”

  “You are welcome to help us, Rhys,” she said quietly. “In fact, I would be very much relieved if you did.”

  “I have no wish to be a part of any scheme of Myrddin’s,” Rhys told her. “But I see I have little choice if I am to get you out of this place. So I will help. You will promise to leave with me afterward.”

  “I will. Of course. Once Igraine is safe.”

  “Fair enough.” He paused. “But it will be my plan we follow. Not Gareth’s. Where do you sleep?”

  She blinked. “In the tower.”

  “With the duchess?”

  “No. Two levels below, in a storage room adjoining Lady Bertrice’s chamber.”

  “Good. I will come to you tonight, and I will tell you what you are to do tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  He stepped back, and gestured toward the door. “Not now. I have much to consider, and you have been away from the high table for far too long. Go back to the feast, before someone comes after you.”

  The feasting went on until midnight. The Brothers Stupendous lingered, drinking and gambling. Dermot had, apparently, turned a blind eye, for no one arrived to shoo the errant minstrels from the feasting hall.

  The highest ranking nobility, Breena included, had already withdrawn. A good number of guests remained; many would bed down in the hall once the tables were cleared and shoved to one side. Servants bustled about, clearing tables and sweeping away the debris of the feast.

  Trent was exultant. “The duke loved us! He will surely heap rewards upon our heads.”

  Howell threw his dice, and grunted. “I’ll believe it when I have the coin in hand. Ah!” he said with satisfaction as he counted his roll. “My win.”

  “You have the devil’s own luck,” Floyd grumbled, pushing a pile of small stones in Howell’s direction.

  The outstanding success of the performance had increased the troop’s luck in other directions, as well. Trent, Howell, and Floyd each had a woman at his side—or, in Howell’s case, the wench’s arms were draped over his shoulders from behind.

  Kane sniffed his disapproval. “Put away the dice, I implore you. It is unseemly, he
re in the duke’s feasting hall.”

  “Do ye imagine anyone cares, man?” Howell retorted.

  “True,” declared Trent. “Why I can see four games of chance from where I sit! If I were a great hulking beast like Howell, no doubt I’d see a dozen.” He laughed. “And Howell and Floyd do not even wager real coin.”

  Howell threw the dice, then cursed at the roll. Floyd chortled, and took back every marker he had lost.

  Howell’s woman grinned at Kane. “You are far too young to be so…rigid. You need a lass to soften you, lad.”

  The men laughed; Kane reddened. Howell’s wench waved across the hall. In a trice, a fourth woman—barely more than a girl—had joined them. She made eyes at Rhys, who sat alone, but her friend chided her. “Not that one. He belongs to Nesta. Take the youth.”

  Nesta, thankfully, had not yet appeared to assert her claim on Rhys. The new girl, smiling, slid onto the bench next to Kane, and bent her blonde head to his dark one.

  “You are the flautist, nay? I have never heard such music as you played this evening.”

  Rhys was amazed to see Kane actually reply to the lass. An hour later, when Dermot came by to shoo the troupe from the hall, it seemed a pleasant night was in store for each of Rhys’s companions.

  “Go on without me,” Rhys told the others. “I mean to stay behind for a bit.”

  Unbuckling his pack, he pulled out his old shirt, and quickly divested himself of his ridiculous yellow tunic. “Kane, would you be so good as to take my harp to the tent?” Rhys knew the young flautist would treat the instrument with care, even with a wench on his arm. He could not say the same for the other three.

  “Gladly,” Kane said, taking the pack, “but you cannot stay—Dermot will not allow it.”

  “Dermot will turn a blind eye,” Howell said. “He willna want to anger the duke’s favorite players! Rhys is off to corner that black-haired serving wench, I dinna doubt.”

  “Aye,” Trent said with a grin. “The way she was fawning over you, I thought she’d drop to her knees and service you right here in the hall. Be off, man. But do not spare us the details in the morning.”

  With a forced grin, Rhys took his leave of the troupe. After what Breena had told him, he was loath to call even the simplest lookaway spell. Grabbing a wooden trencher and an empty pitcher, he slipped through the door Nesta had indicated earlier, trying to look as though he belonged among the kitchen staff.

  He found the cellar stairway easily enough. Two servants, chatting amiably, stepped onto the treads behind him. Once on the lower level, he abandoned his props and quickly hid himself amid the casks of wine. The two men turned in the opposite direction. Rhys eased from his hiding place and lifted one of the tallow tapers from the sconce at the bottom of the stair.

  In the area beyond the wine, he found only clay amphorae, marked as carrying olive oil. He looked about. There were no baskets of apples. No fruit of any kind. He circled the area again, silently cursing. Finally, he located a root cellar. Similar enough, he supposed. He ducked into the empty room. A door in a far corner led to a tunnel. He followed it, not at all certain it led in the right direction.

  The passage turned to the left. The floor was dirt, the odor musty. The dark all but swallowed his candle. He had definitely taken a wrong turn. He was sure the foundation of the tower lay farther to the east.

  A deadening silence permeated the passage. With a sigh of frustration, Rhys turned back. A sudden noise drew him up short. The slap of a whip, followed by a grunt of pain.

  The sound emerged from a side passage he hadn’t noticed on his initial approach. Gripping his taper, Rhys moved silently down the corridor. The passage turned sharply to the right. Ten paces on, a vertical shaft of flickering light limned the edge of a stout ironstrapped door.

  Another blow sounded. A staccato cry followed. Rhys jabbed his taper into a crack in the stone wall. With a sick feeling in his gut, he advanced.

  The hiss of a whip. A man’s sob. “Cleanse me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “The devil must be defeated, my son.”

  Rhys dropped into a crouch beside the door, drew a breath, and peered around the jamb.

  Bile rose in his throat. The room was lit by a single blazing torch. The spitting flame cast Bishop Dafyd in harsh light. His raised arm held a Roman flagellum. Three leather straps hung from the wooden handle.

  “For the glory of God!”

  Dafyd’s arm slashed. The whip struck its target—the thin, naked back of a man. His black robes hung limply on his hips. Of all the monks Rhys had seen, only Dafyd’s hideous acolyte—the one who had requested Ceridwen’s ballad—wore black. Arms spread and wrists bound, he was bent nearly double over a low wooden frame.

  “Cleanse me, Father.”

  Thwack. Dafyd plied the flagellum. His victim did not beg for mercy; he begged for more chastisement. His body jerked with each blow, but he did not twist in his bonds, nor seek to escape. That was when Rhys realized that though Dafyd’s victim’s back was a mass of welts, there was very little broken skin, and only a trickle of blood.

  When Rhys had found himself on the receiving end of a flagellum, there had been broken skin. And quite a lot of blood. The straps of Dafyd’s whip were not tipped with bits of metal. Still, the bishop did not mute his blows. The monk’s pain was very real.

  “Your soul is black,” Dafyd hissed. “Only Satan himself would take pleasure in a song of the demons of old.”

  Gods. This beating was on account of Rhys’s song.

  “I meant…” Thwack! “…no harm. I most humbly…” Thwack! “…beg mercy.”

  Dafyd paused, his breath heaving like a bellows. He’d at last struck hard enough to break his victim’s skin; a stream of blood dribbled across the acolyte’s flank. Almost reverently, Dafyd bent his head, and drew his tongue across the crimson line.

  Dark magic rose in a noxious rush. Rhys’s gorge rose. He gripped the edge of the door, and fought a wave of pure revulsion. Blood magic was the darkest magic known to man.

  So this was how Dafyd gained his vast power.

  “Please, Father.” The acolyte twisted in his bonds, sobbing. “Allow me my penance, I beg you.”

  Dafyd straightened. “You want it now?”

  “Oh, yes. Now. Please.” The acolyte’s moan sounded more like pleasure than pain. Rhys’s stomach turned.

  Dafyd’s whip thudded on the dirt floor. With a trembling hand, he reached out to stroke the welts on his victim’s back.

  The acolyte arched, and hissed. “Hurry.”

  Rhys sickened to the core, watched as Dafyd bent to kiss the flesh he’d abused. Then he straightened, and opened his robes. Rhys caught a glimpse of his engorged member before the bishop turned his back fully to the door. Grasping the monk’s drooping robes, he shoved them over his thin hips and onto the floor.

  Rhys spun away. He pressed his back against the wall of the corridor, chest heaving, as Dafyd’s grunts of pleasure melded with his acolyte’s cries of pain. Or bliss. Rhys was not sure which.

  Shaken to the core, he retrieved his candle and quickly retraced his steps to the wine cellar. The kitchen servants were gone. Sinking down on his haunches, he dropped his head back against an oaken cask and shuddered.

  Rhys had done much, seen much, in his life. Some of it had been very dark, some of it had shamed him greatly. Never had he witnessed anything half so revolting as what he’d just seen.

  The taint of perversion clung to his skin like a dark stain. He suspected he could rub his flesh raw and still not feel clean. At the same time, he was aware of a dark excitement, an unbearable restlessness. Despite the chill of the cellars, his face was flushed, and sweat heated his brow.

  The pall that hung over Tintagel castle was seeping into his own soul. But he, at least, was no innocent. He’d known darkness, both in the outside world and inside his own soul. He would survive. What he could not bear was the thought of that same darkness touching Breena.

  He had to get h
er out of this foul place.

  “You came,” Breena said.

  Rhys slipped into the room and shut the door. “I said that I would.”

  “But Lady Bertrice—”

  “Is a very heavy sleeper.”

  Breena knew Rhys could move like a wraith, even without magic. Still, she could not believe he’d actually gotten into the tower.

  She drew up her legs as he sank down on the end of the bed. His long legs stretched almost to the wall. The flame of the hand lamp on the table by the door leaped erratically, releasing a curl of black smoke. She’d trimmed the wick, but the inferior oil did not allow it to burn cleanly.

  “How did you get past the guards?”

  “There’s a hidden door under the tower stair. An escape built by the Roman soldiers who once manned the outpost.” He hesitated. “Lady Igraine’s maid told me about it.”

  “Nesta!” Her eyes narrowed. “You planned a tryst with her, didn’t you? Why else would she tell you how to get in?”

  “She planned a tryst with me. I made no promises.”

  Breena gave a tight smile. “Still, I imagine she was not pleased when you did not turn up.”

  “She’ll find another man. Women like her always do.”

  Silence fell between them. Rhys did not look at her; he stared at the blank stone wall. He seemed restive, his dark energy coiled and ready to spring. He shifted one knee, then dragged a hand down his face.

  “Rhys—”

  “I hate that you are here, Bug, ensnared in Dafyd’s darkness. The man is evil. More than you know.”

  His voice was so gentle, so filled with concern, her heart tripped. For once, the use of her childhood name brought no anger.

  “In less than a day, we’ll be gone,” she said.

  “We will,” he agreed. “But we will not follow your knight’s plan. It has more holes than a broken sieve.”

  “Gareth is not my knight.”

  Rhys shrugged.

  Breena hugged her knees tighter against her chest. “What is wrong with Gareth’s plan?”

  “He wishes you to gain permission to walk in the gardens behind the castle. I was given to understand Lady Igraine’s movements are restricted to the tower.”