Tempted by Ruin (Sons of Britain Book 4) Page 15

“Did he tell you about them?”

  “No, he made me watch. Said it would make me a man.” Agravain gave him an assessing look. “You seem man enough. Did you watch your father kill people?”

  “My father is a healer.”

  “That explains so very much.”

  Agravain walked toward him. He didn’t seem to bear any weapons but he could have had a dagger sheathed out of sight. And he had the lamp.

  “That’s how our boyhoods went. While Gawain sat in our mother’s chamber, sipping her brews and learning Cymrish, I witnessed our father’s murders. Recorded them. Sometimes, when he was drunk, he’d bring me down here and make me recount them. Point to one of those marks on the wall, and I’d have to describe the event. When he’d done it, what method he’d used, how long the victim lived before he gave in to death.”

  “We have to help Gawain.”

  “I told you. We can’t leave.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh, believe me, bear. When my mother sets her mind to something, she sees it through.”

  “Morgawse?”

  Agravain smiled. “Were you under the impression that Lot ruled these islands?”

  Arthur stared at him.

  “He did, once. He still believes he does. But Morgawse has had the helm for a while, waiting for a particular wind to blow in. And then you did.”

  “Me?”

  “All of you. Between you and me, you fulfilled a scenario she’d not dared dream would happen. You brought Bedwyr. You brought Gawain. You brought Gawain’s sworn protector. The only hitch in the line was that you came too.”

  “Why was that a hitch?”

  “Because you’re the bear, written into the night sky, right next to the dragon of her brother’s house. You’re to be protected.” He gestured to the room.

  “We’re here to protect me?” When Agravain nodded, Arthur scoffed. “Then why separate me from Bedwyr?”

  “Better chance that one of you would survive.”

  “Gods’ blood.”

  “Don’t worry about Bedwyr. She’d never let anything happen to him.”

  “Where’s Palahmed?”

  “The shieldmate? Hopefully on his way to finding Gawain.”

  “I don’t understand. Does she mean for Gawain to die?”

  Agravain shook his head. “She means for him to kill.”

  Kill Lot? “Why not do it herself? Or have you do it—you were just hunting with him.”

  Agravain squinted, as if trying to reconcile Arthur’s words with his time on the other island.

  “Not hunting?”

  “Hunting cunt, maybe. Lot keeps women on one of the other islands. When the patrol boat brought you in, she sent him to his women. Sent me to make sure he stayed there until he was, shall we say, depleted.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why she wouldn’t just order you to do it there.”

  “Because, Arthur, no one has better reason to kill Lot than my brother. It’s his right and privilege. Don’t know what he’s told you of his time here, but it wasn’t all sipping tea with Mother. Lot set a narrow eye on him early. I tried to free him of it, when I brought him south to you.”

  “You brought him for his sake?”

  “I insisted. Had to treat him like dog shit to make it convincing to my father and his men that he was along to serve me. To convince you. To convince Gawain himself. But now you’ve brought him back, so…”

  So Gawain was alone with his murderous father. Bedwyr was with Morgawse, unless he’d sensed something was off, and then who knew where he’d be? Arthur didn’t even know where he was. And Palahmed—they hadn’t seen him since the afternoon before.

  Unless…

  “Gareth and Gahers,” he said. “They’re helping you in this?”

  Muffled noises came from behind him then, voices beyond the door. Arthur braced his feet and took hold of his sword. After a moment’s silence, the wooden door burst inward.

  “Arthur!” Bed shouted.

  Agravain lifted his lamp. “They’re helping you, too. Follow Gahers. He’ll take you to your boat; your crew should already be there.”

  “What’s going on?” Bedwyr demanded.

  “Go,” Agravain said. “Gareth was charged with finding the Saracen. He’ll bring word to your ship.”

  Arthur stood rooted to the earthen floor. It could be a trap. This man before him was too different from the one he’d chafed against in that winter camp so long ago. The one who’d told him off, in a righteous fury, and then packed up his northmen and left.

  And yet, something about this rang true. Lot’s use of this chamber, the rough figures on the wall, Morgawse slowly but surely wresting control from a brutal despot. She was Uthyr’s sister, after all.

  “Come with us,” he blurted.

  Bedwyr grabbed his own weapon, as if he wasn’t certain who he might have to knock sense into first.

  But Agravain only smiled. “There’s nothing for me in the south, bear. I was born here, and I’ll die here. Be gone, while you still have your hide.”

  Bedwyr took hold of Arthur’s arm and hauled him to the door.

  Chapter 19

  Gawain squinted against the light at the cavern’s entrance. Lot looked the same as he ever had, and yet something was different about him. He’d always been wiry—they all were—but he was thinner now, maybe. Grayer and more grizzled. It made him look old.

  But he’d spent enough years with this man to know he shouldn’t underestimate him.

  “Father. Catch anything?”

  “You, apparently. Come back to your mama? Missing her teat, were you?”

  Right. The sooner he was out with this, the better. “I came to ask you not to ally with the Saxons.”

  Lot stared at him. “Why the fuck would I crawl into bed with dogs?”

  “They may offer you a lot of land to do it. We came to ask you not to, for the sake of Cymru and the North.”

  “Fuck Cymru, the gods-bedamned goats. And who’s we?”

  “I came with Arthur and Bedwyr.”

  Lot’s jaw dropped. “You brought Uthyr’s whelp into my hall?” He glared at the ceiling of the cave, as if he might spy Bedwyr from here.

  “He came as your nephew and Mother’s.”

  “With Arthur.” Lot spat at the water swirling about his boots. “Fucking lily-boys. Fucking prick gaggers. You’re one of them now?”

  “I fight alongside them,” he said, proud of how evenly it came out.

  “I wager you do.” Lot’s lip curled. “What? Couldn’t find one for yourself? Have to act the barnacle on their arses?”

  He’d have loved to throw Palahmed in his father’s sneering face. The sell-sword’s graceful strength was to be envied in this place. And he’d seen the calm, unfazed way Palahmed regarded his foes, the single-minded strokes he used to end them. He couldn’t imagine the man being intimidated by Lot.

  But he wasn’t even sure if he could count Palahmed among his allies now. Until a few minutes before, he’d been waiting in a dank cave with a basket of hopeful treats, like a fool.

  “I fight Saxons, and I fight alongside any man who does the same.”

  “I got news for you, boy. Some waves can’t be stopped, no matter how high you build your seawall.”

  “We have to try.”

  Lot mimicked him, making his voice high and scratchy, then waved a dismissive hand. “Waste.”

  “It’s not a waste.” He steeled himself. “I’m not a waste.”

  Lot gave him a withering look he knew to his bones. “Should’ve shoved it down Morgawse’s throat that night. Wouldn’t have to be looking at you now.”

  “Fuck you.”

  It rushed out of him before he could stop it and landed at his father’s boots before he could snatch it back.

  Not that he wanted to. It was possible he’d never said anything so satisfying in his life. He didn’t need this man, didn’t need anything from him. Not his acknowledgment they shared blood, not h
is respect, not even his most begrudging grunt of approval. It made Gawain’s belly churn to think how long he’d lived in this place hoping for any of that.

  Made his chest feel lighter than air, though, to think what he’d gained since he’d left.

  “I do have one of my own,” he said, full of a reckless belligerence, as if he had the power of the northern wind at his back. “He’s tall and brave and sharp and good. Everything you’re not. Everything you’ll never be.”

  Lot’s lids seemed to droop, and his jaw worked. “That so?”

  “He’s a Saracen. From Arabia, not that you could find that on a map. He’s fierce and fearless and strong as the currents and I’d raise your pyre-boat from the bottom of the sea just to fuck him on it.”

  Lot charged him.

  Gawain dodged to the side but didn’t take the incoming tide into account, and his boots slipped. Visions of his failed river crossing flashed through his mind as he threw his hands out to catch himself. The cave floor didn’t give him the forgiving splashdown the river had, and he was fighting the shock of the bruising rocks when Lot landed on top of him.

  He tried to buck him off and nearly succeeded. But Lot only pulled him sideways. Gawain attempted a roll, kicking as he went. He didn’t guard his neck, though, and next he knew an arm wrapped him under the chin and began to squeeze.

  He could do this. He was older now, a man, and stronger than Lot had ever known him to be. Digging his fingers into Lot’s wrist, he wrestled his arm off and kicked backward again for good measure. Lot grunted and Gawain gained his feet.

  But he wasn’t alone for long, and when the scalp-wrenching tug of fingers in his hair came, he shouted on it. Pain, fear, and soul-deep dread all struck him at once. Scrabbling at those gnarled fingers, he forgot to mind his feet. Lot kicked them out from under him, and then he was being dragged toward the sea.

  Panic spiked through his veins like icy lightning, and he struggled to find his feet again. He swept his arm to catch Lot’s boot but missed, clawed at his hand to draw blood but the skin was too weathered.

  Then Lot roared, his voice echoing in the cavern, and Gawain’s forehead struck a rock.

  The light, the shush of the tide, his own heartbeat…

  …they all faded down, down, down into nothing, and he sank with them.

  Chapter 20

  Palahmed skidded onto the beach from the cliff path just as a figure emerged from the cave.

  Found you, he thought, before he realized the man he saw was dragging another.

  Dragging him by his hair, and then pushing his head under the water.

  Palahmed took off toward them at a run.

  He only remembered to shout halfway to where the man crouched in the surf. “Lot!”

  The man’s head swiveled toward him, his hands still at their evil work. He shouted something back, his face livid with rage, but by then Palahmed was splashing into the sea and surging toward him.

  Lot shouted again, snarling and spitting like a rabid hound. Palahmed ignored him, his eyes glued to Gawain’s body, floating face down and limp in the tide. The water slowed him, its pull on his legs frustrating him to the point of screaming. The sound startled Lot, and when Palahmed threw his shoulder into the man, his hold on Gawain gave way.

  Palahmed reached for the hawk. Tried to roll him. But bodies don’t remain that way in water, and Gawain’s shoulders rolled back. A sudden sharp pain in his lower back made Palahmed cry out and let go, and then Lot was on him, strangling, pulling him backward and under until the water closed over them both.

  All sound muffled but for his own grunts as he struggled to free himself. Water filled his mouth, and then his nose, and he thrashed his body, seeking any escape. Lot’s hold tightened, and God, but it sounded as if he was laughing.

  Palahmed’s skin tightened in horror at the burbling sound of it. Lot was no man. He was a demon who would kill his own son. Had killed his every daughter.

  Palahmed wrenched Lot’s arm until he could bite it. It jerked hard, nearly taking his teeth with it, but then he was free. He fought for purchase on the shifting sea floor and was able to stand. Lot surfaced a moment later, holding his arm and growling.

  Palahmed didn’t think. He grabbed the back of Lot’s collar, dragging him against his chest, then drew his dagger and slashed his throat.

  Lot’s body went limp, and Palahmed dropped it. Pulling himself toward Gawain, he rolled him hard. His face was pale, his lids half open. The summer green of his eyes didn’t look right.

  “Gawain!” Bracing himself, he drew Gawain upright against his body, shaking him. “Gawain!” Breathe, breathe, breathe! his mind shouted, but the hawk’s body subsided into the water, his legs floating grotesquely behind him.

  Hooking him under one arm, Palahmed struggled toward the beach. Gradually, he gained the shore, and as soon as he could, he laid Gawain on the pebbles. Pounding on his back, he shouted for him, over and over, with no response but unconscious nods of his head.

  His own breath rasping in his ears, Palahmed stood and took hold of Gawain’s legs. Desperate, he lifted the hawk’s body, willing the seawater to spill from his lungs. Remembering Gawain on the boat, holding the pup upside down against him, he pounded his back again, rubbed and pounded, rubbed and pounded.

  Then Gawain’s entire body flexed. It so startled Palahmed, he dropped him. But then Gawain was coughing and vomiting saltwater, and Palahmed was on his knees, holding him up.

  “Yes, that’s right, be rid of it. Thank God. Oh, thank you.”

  “Palahmed!”

  He looked up to the sight of a boat hauling toward shore, oars knifing through the water. Bedwyr stood at the rail, waving his arm.

  Gawain groaned. It was a sickening, croaky sound, but there was air behind it. The man’s face was flushed, his eyelids purple with burst blood vessels, but he was alive.

  He was going to stay alive, damn it.

  The boat ground onto the pebbles. Lifting Gawain in his arms, he carried him to the ship’s side, where several men were already reaching for him. His weight left Palahmed’s hold, and then he himself was being hauled over the rail.

  He landed with a thump. Men scuttled around him, the captain shouting orders, and somewhere nearby a dog yelped, but Palahmed ignored them. Hauling Gawain with him, he braced himself at the boat’s wall and pulled Gawain against his chest. From somewhere above them, a cloak descended. He pushed it off Gawain’s face, and when his hawk blinked, he wanted to weep.

  He held Gawain against his body, chafing his back and limbs, speaking a steady stream of silly, soothing nonsense, until they put ashore again opposite the islands. By then, Gawain was fully conscious and holding his pup in his arms. His hands shook as he petted the dog’s fur. The sight fired the gratitude in Palahmed’s heart like a torch. He kissed Gawain’s hair.

  “Sweet hawk. Thought I’d lost you.”

  Gawain didn’t respond, only leaned into him.

  They made camp with a low fire, shielding its light as best they could on the seaward side. Arthur didn’t believe anyone would follow them and told him what Agravain had said. That he’d expected Lot to die this day. Not by Palahmed’s hand, but given the alternative—that Gawain would have had to do it himself—Palahmed was thankful he could take that burden from him. He would carry the weight of the deed himself and gladly, he thought as he curled his body around Gawain’s for the night, so long as his hawk’s heart kept up its thumping under his palm.

  He fell asleep to the rhythm of it, accompanied in duet with the easy rise and fall of Gawain’s ribs as he breathed. He thought, as the firelight pulsed through his heavy eyelids, that he’d never felt anything so pure and that he should tell Gawain so. That he should tell him everything. If they’d survived this day, they could survive anything. He should tell him that, he thought, and also that he loved him. With a drowsy plan to do so at first light, he sank into sleep.

  When he woke, well before dawn and shivering with cold, he was alone under h
is cloak. The hound pup whined in the dark and licked his cheek.

  Gawain was gone.

  Chapter 21

  They searched the hillsides surrounding camp, and the rocky inlets of the shore. Palahmed shouted himself hoarse calling out to Gawain, but the only response he received was the desolate whistle of the wind.

  When they turned up no sign of him, Palahmed insisted they sail back to the stronghold. It took all three of them to convince the captain to do it, but eventually he gave in and they rowed back. Palahmed swept a nervous gaze over the water the entire way, sick with dread.

  The docks seemed deserted when they arrived, and that was to be expected, Palahmed thought. Lot was dead, and the relative chaos any death caused would have the stronghold in its grip for a time.

  But then someone did appear. As he neared their boat, Palahmed recognized him as the same man who’d met them on their first arrival. Palahmed clambered over the side of the boat and ran down the dock.

  “Gawain! Is he here?”

  The man raised his hands.

  “Is he here? Did Gawain make it back—”

  “Gwalchmai is here,” the man said in accented Cymrish.

  “I must see him. Is he all right? He nearly drowned yesterday.”

  “Shhh. You must be quiet. Death is on this house.”

  “Please.” He gripped the man’s shirt. “I need to see him.”

  The man didn’t try to extricate himself, only looked at Palahmed, the lines of his face sagging in sorrow. “He will not come. He is safe, but you are not. He said to tell you to go home.”

  Home? What home was there if…

  He scanned the stone wall of the stronghold. He could fight his way through the gate, he’d no doubt. He could take down every man who came between him and Gawain. Or he could shout for him from here, scream until he showed himself, wrap him up and steal him away.

  But he’d done that once, in a way. And he wasn’t at all certain anyone was better off for it. Fighting and shouting might only endanger Gawain.

  And perhaps the hawk was simply finished with this.

  Palahmed’s heart twisted. He let go of the man’s shirt. “He’s safe?”