Tempted by Ruin (Sons of Britain Book 4) Read online

  That thought settled his ruff somewhat. Arguing over it would do no good, no matter where they were. Ignoring Bed on the matter might not work, either, but they had a couple hours to cool their heads now that Gawain’s brothers were taking him…

  “Where are we headed, exactly?”

  The older one, Gareth, looked back at him in question.

  Right. They weren’t as fluent in Cymrish as Gawain. “Where?” he asked and gestured to their path.

  “Most surprise,” Gareth said.

  Gahers nodded and put on an exaggerated mask of awe.

  Silly fools. But fine. Felt good to stretch his legs.

  And Bed had to spend the next hour chatting with his strange aunt.

  Suddenly, Arthur felt he could do with an adventure.

  He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, and the boys grinned at him. Gareth waved and they made several more turns, some down corridors, one that led them outside, another that brought them back into the building through a low door. There, Gareth picked up a lighted lamp, and then they were walking down a steep, rocky slope.

  “Wet,” Gahers said, helpfully, as his brother’s lamp shone off the rock’s damp.

  Arthur was more concerned with the uneven ceiling of the tunnel and kept a hand above his head to keep from knocking his skull. In front of him, the boys marched happily, leading him to—who knew? The bowels of the island, evidently.

  They were all right, Gawain’s brothers. A bit odd, but then he and Bed had thought the same of Gawain when they’d met him. Being born to Lot had to be some of the worst luck. Gawain had survived it, though, and he hadn’t even had the advantage of Agravain’s help. At least these two had each other.

  He was just about to ask when they might arrive at this place of most surprise, when they came to a wooden door set into the rock wall. Gareth pulled it open and led them through it. Arthur had to duck—everything in the Orcades was built for shorter folk. The ceiling inside was low as well, with a dark, slick coat of algae. The air had cooled as they’d descended, and felt damp here. It had a closeness about it that the chill of the hall didn’t.

  “See,” said Gareth.

  He was pointing to one of the rough walls, and as Arthur neared it, he realized the slime had been cleared from it to reveal something underneath. He took the lamp when Gareth offered it, holding it up to the wall.

  They looked like hash marks at first, but then he began to see other shapes. Heads and arms and legs. They were people, all drawn in the simplest fashion, as if by a child, but there were dozens. When he moved the lamp, revealing quite a large stretch of cleared rock wall, he estimated there might be hundreds.

  “Are they very old?” He’d seen similar figures in other places. Sometimes on the standing godstones, a few times on exposed rock faces. They were generally recognized as having been carved or painted by people long gone, some even before the Romans had set foot on Britannia. “Are they your people?”

  No answer came, and he turned to seek Gareth, but he wasn’t there.

  He swung the lamp about. “Hiding are we? New game, then?” Following the wall, he circled the chamber, the perimeter of which brought him fairly quickly back to the door they’d entered. No lads, and the door was shut.

  He jerked on the handle. Locked.

  “Good joke!” he shouted. “Most surprise! Ha ha ha!”

  He tried the door again, but it had the distinct feel of one that had been bolted.

  From the outside.

  Looked as if he and Bed might have more than an hour to cool off. Though he was going to reach that state much sooner down here.

  Just as he was wondering how much lamp grease he had to work with, a scrape sounded across the chamber.

  He held the lamp as far before him as he could. “Come out, you two.” He peered into the dark, but could make out nothing. “Good jest. We should get back to the hall.”

  The scrape came again, and then the scuff of boot soles. But instead of four, he heard only two approaching. When they stepped into the sphere of his lamp light, they didn’t belong to a lad.

  They belonged to Agravain.

  ~ ~ ~

  Gawain stopped pacing and groaned at the stony ceiling. When was he going to get over wanting Palahmed to pursue him?

  After leaving his mother’s chamber, he’d sought a place they were unlikely to be discovered, should Palahmed decide he wanted to stop telling lies. No one would think to look for them here, in the cavern he’d discovered long ago through the trap door in the pantry. Gahers and Gareth could appear, but last he’d seen them, they’d been playing with the pup, trying without success to teach her to heel.

  It was lowering to think he might take a lesson from a weeks-old hound. But his righteous need for Palahmed to come groveling at his feet was turning out to be futile. More than that, pathetic. The man had fifteen years of life on Gawain. A decade and a half more experience in everything he could imagine. Why would Palahmed subject himself to the demands of someone as untried as Gawain? Or even to his wishes, or his stupid hopes?

  Palahmed might be hiding something from him. Was hiding something—Gawain could feel it. But that was his right. It wasn’t as if they had a blood bond. Wasn’t as if they’d sworn anything to each other except shielding, and that was only for the mission. They might be part of each other’s cobbled family, as Palahmed claimed, but they hadn’t promised friendship or affection or even honesty.

  As much as he might have wanted any of those things. Or all of them. Or more.

  He kicked at a stone, sending it clattering along the stream that ran through the cavern. Palahmed probably didn’t even remember this place existed. He’d only seen it once, and not truly seen it then—only watched as Gawain’s brothers had emerged from it.

  So here he was, pacing a cave off a beach nobody ever bothered with, willing the appearance of a man who probably wasn’t even looking, and now the tide was coming in.

  He stooped to pick up the basket he’d filled hastily on his way through the pantry. Smoked meats, savory fish, creamy cheese, and bread crusty and chewy, fresh from the ovens. He’d even grabbed a handful of tart-sweet dried berries. As if a lover’s picnic in a winter-wet cave was high on the list of things Palahmed wanted to experience on this traipse into the scenic north.

  Idiot.

  As he was straightening, though, the sounds he’d been waiting for materialized behind him, and the already dim light of the cavern grew dimmer as that man entered it. Gawain chuckled and forgot all the words he’d practiced. “I was hoping you’d come.”

  “Doubt that.”

  The voice sent a shock across his skin, and he dropped the basket. Fighting to tamp down his wayward pulse, he turned and took in the figure at the entrance. His heart ignored his efforts to control it, beating against his ribs as if to crack them open and flee.

  “What?” Lot spread his hands. “Not going to welcome home your own father?”

  Chapter 18

  Bedwyr didn’t much like squatting on the stool while his aunt paced around him, but to stand would be rude. He turned himself to watch her.

  “Uthyr and I were close,” she said. “Your audience should understand that, first and foremost. Our father, Emrys, was…well, when he wasn’t off fighting, he was home, and that was unpleasant. Emrys was unpleasant. He was a warrior and a good one, and strong of body and mind, for the most part, and so men followed him. But when there were no skirmishes to occupy him and he was in the village, he grew bored. And mean.”

  That much didn’t surprise him. His memories of the man were few but clear, as if someone had carved them into his mind. Emrys had never smiled that he could recall, had always worn a severe scowl. Not so unusual on one’s elders. A person’s features tended to settle into its creases, but Emrys had added to his charm by shouting insults and curses, even at men he fought alongside. Whenever he’d done so to Bedwyr’s father, Uthyr had only borne them in silence. And so when Emrys had shouted at him, too, Bedwyr had
made himself still and only stared back. Once, it had made his grandfather’s face go so red, he’d thought the man would burst like an overripe plum.

  “You’re recalling it, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Most of our people could leave it in the hall. They didn’t have to go home with Emrys, didn’t have to live at his hearth. But Uthyr and I did. We protected each other. When Father started having a go at Uthyr, I would distract him. With a story, some ale, a treat I’d baked that day. For a man who led other men into battle, it was dismaying how easily he could be drawn from a target.” She shook her head. “Other times, he would aim his vitriol at me. I’d burned the stew, or left ashes on the hearth, or forgotten to mend his shirt, or done it sloppily. Sometimes it had nothing to do with my work, but with me. I was lazy, I was a misfortune to have to look at, I was a slut like my mother had been…” She stopped pacing for a moment and tilted her head. “But if Uthyr was in the house, he would always step in. Always defend me. And against our father—imagine that.” She looked at him. “Imagine going head to head with the most powerful man in your world, and you scarcely a man yourself. Can you imagine it?”

  Growing up Uthyr’s son hadn’t been easy—far from it. But hearing this, he thought perhaps he’d had a luckier time of it than his father. Uthyr had been ruthless, but fair.

  “Seeing someone—no matter who they are to you—come to your defense like that, over and over without fail… Well, it does things to one’s heart. And I was no exception. By the time I was fourteen, I was deeply, madly in love.”

  Wait. With Uthyr?

  “I would have done anything for him, and I did, as far as a younger sister could. I cooked for him, cleaned for him, made his clothes.” She stepped close and touched a fingertip to Bedwyr’s jaw. “Trimmed his beard.”

  He gripped his thigh to keep from swatting her hand away.

  “He was grateful. He thanked me, at least, and while I can see now he was only being kind—normal, even—back then… well, I was only a girl, wasn’t I? A girl with a brute for a father, but a hero for a brother. Then he married.” She drew her touch away, finally, but kept watching him. “And then you came along. Not even nine moons later. They must have been so eager for each other, Uthyr and your mother.”

  Five strides. Just five, and he could be out the door—

  “But then she died. How sad.”

  Something curdled, low in his belly, and he met her eyes. They looked as bland as pond water.

  “I did everything I could to ease his sorrow. Took care of you, for a start, not that that was any burden.” She cupped his cheek. “You were such a sweet babe. So quiet. So watchful. We used to sit together, you and I, and talk, just like this. I think it made my father jealous. He started badgering Uthyr to marry again.”

  She stepped away, and Bedwyr gauged the distance to the door once more.

  “The harvest festival, Emrys said. He’d invite everyone with a likely daughter, and Uthyr would have his pick. Someone to warm his bed and raise his son, perhaps give him several more—a whole chain of little warriors to ensure the succession. And then Emrys turned to me. He had a couple of good potential matches lined up for me, he said. He would invite them all, and what a merry time it would be. Could end in two weddings. What a grand thing.”

  The day of his own wedding flashed across Bedwyr’s memory. While the four of them had been scheming, Uthyr had been unaware. He’d looked happy. Content in a way Bedwyr had rarely seen him.

  “I was a mess,” Morgawse said. “Couldn’t keep my mind on my work, or on minding you. All I could think of was that, come the harvest, I would lose Uthyr again. I begged him not to marry, and he told me it wasn’t his choice. I begged him to let me raise you instead, and he told me my place was to make an alliance for our father. I begged him…”

  She trailed off, frowning. “Well. Suffice to say, he didn’t see our possibilities. So I decided to make him see them. When the festival came, I looked around at the young men Emrys had invited and there was my candidate: more arrogant than his experience warranted, more belligerent than any civil interaction called for. He sneered at our traditions, insulted our mountain ways, and mimicked our tongue. Uthyr despised him.” She grinned at Bedwyr. “Lot was perfect.”

  She began to pace again. “I set right to seducing him, and I’ll give myself this credit: I did a fine job of it. By the third night of the festival, I’d convinced him. Let’s elope, I said. It will infuriate my father. Didn’t take much more than that. Late that night, I slipped from Emrys’s house with nothing but my heavy cloak and a string of beads my mother had left me. Lot met me down the path, and then we were away.”

  She touched the disc-shaped beads at her throat now. “I dropped them, the beads. One by one, I sowed a trail. Uthyr would know them, and he would follow them to me. He would come for me because he wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of Lot having me. Because he would see his error and realize he wanted me for himself.” The hand touching her necklace shook. “But Lot set such a pace, and I ran out of beads…and Uthyr never came.”

  Bedwyr held his breath. His every muscle felt rigid with the need to bolt.

  Morgawse turned to him and slowly lowered her hand. Just as gradually, her frown cleared and her posture eased, and then she smiled. “That, nephew, is how you should tell that tale in future. You have to give your audience something to chew on, something to savor. Something to wonder about.” Her dark gaze flicked toward the door. “And you have to give important men, men who have more to do than listen to tales, time to get on with their work.”

  Important men. Men like her husband?

  Bedwyr stood so abruptly the stool fell over. “Where’s Arthur?”

  She tilted her head again and gave him a pitying look. “So quiet, just as when you were a babe. But not as watchful, I think.”

  He broke for the door.

  ~ ~ ~

  Arthur eyed the man before him. “Agravain.”

  “Arthur.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “Not long ago.” Agravain held up an unlit lamp. “May I?”

  Arthur gripped his own clay lamp. For all he knew, Agravain would smash it on the ground. He held out his free hand. “I’ll light it.”

  The northerner chuckled and gave it over. When Arthur lit the wick and handed it back, Agravain moved away from him.

  “Where is Lot?” Arthur asked.

  “Chatting with Gawain.”

  “So what is this?”

  “What, your being locked in here with me?” Agravain smirked. “Don’t you enjoy my company?”

  Questions met with questions—that’s how this would go. He needed to find a way out. If Lot was home, none of them was safe. And Bed was with the man’s wife.

  Not that he thought Lot sentimental enough to seek out Morgawse the moment he returned home. He did seem the sort of man who would seek out his wayward son, though.

  “Did you see Gawain?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know they’re talking?”

  “That’s the plan, isn’t it? For Gawain to reckon with our father?”

  It was.

  “Look, you might as well sit down. We’re here until someone lets us out.”

  “You came in a different way.”

  “An entrance, but not an exit.”

  Arthur stalked over to him. “What is this about?”

  “You tell me.”

  Arthur stared at him. Did he truly not know? Had he been escorted here as well?

  He supposed it would damage nothing to tell the truth. Gawain would be doing so with Lot. If Agravain already knew, it might build some small bit of trust between them to hear it from Arthur.

  “Black Rhys sent us. He got word the Saxons were making plans to meet with Lot.”

  “Why?”

  “To form an alliance.”

  “And why would my father do that?”

  “They’re going to offer him most of Cale
donia.”

  Agravain didn’t react, only looked at him, expression as flat as his usual scowl allowed. For all the years that had passed since Arthur had seen him, he looked the same. A few more scars, perhaps.

  “The Saxons wintered—”

  “In Eidyn,” said Agravain.

  “You knew?”

  “You think we don’t know their whereabouts as well as Cymru does?”

  “Because you’re already allied with them?”

  Agravain snorted at that. “Because they’re an actual threat by sea, unlike you mountain goats and river otters.”

  Arthur weighed the risks of asking, but decided it couldn’t hurt. “Would Lot form the alliance they seek?”

  “The Saxons seek no alliance, only land. They’ll keep Caledonia for themselves.”

  “We believe so as well.”

  “How about that?” Agravain said. “We have something in common.”

  The moment he said it, something struck Arthur. “You speak Cymrish better than before.”

  “I’ve spent more time with my mother than before.”

  “Why?”

  “Would you believe me if I said because she missed her Gwalchmai?”

  “No.”

  Agravain walked over to the wall with the figures scratched on it. He held his lamp to them, as if studying their shapes.

  “Who made them?” Arthur asked.

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “My father ordered me to.”

  Arthur looked at the figures. They seemed to dance in the flicker of their lamps. “What are they?”

  “A tally of the men he killed in this chamber.”

  Arthur couldn’t help the flinch that jogged his lamp.

  There were two doors he knew of, possibly more. They’d kept their armor when they arrived—he’d have refused to part with his sword. Their shields were in their sleeping chamber, but Storm’s Edge hung at his hip now.