"I admit, I would like that. The people here are perfectly charming about heating water, but I would like a bath that's less labor-intensive. And I do not like the way those monks looked at young Emrys."
"When you're in a court, it's only necessary that there are court intrigues. Fascinating as it would be to meet King Uther, I think we'd better go home. And if Emrys is willing to help us, I think it's our best opportunity."
His first teacher had showed him how to keep his breaths regular, to appear to be sleeping, or preparing to meditate before the fire. But it was a struggle not to try to see his guests from beneath his eyelashes.
Light footsteps, a drift of fragrance, and Lady Catherine rose to check on him, then return to his chair. "I hate to leave him like this," she said. "He's a good boy. Sprague…?" Her voice arched up in a question.
"In our world, this lad is absolutely essential to the future of the British Isles. If we took him back with us, we'd be meddling with history… I like him too…"
Emrys' eyes were welling. In a moment, the tears would spill out, and they'd know he'd been listening.
"But we can't take the risk. It's not our world."
Both adults sighed heavily, and something in Emrys' heart chilled, probably forever. He let his awareness drift away. At least, when his guests went back to their rightful place in that Philadelphia?how civilized it must be, like Egypt, perhaps, or Athens, he'd be able to remember that they wanted to take him home with them, but he had a destiny to fulfill.
Damn his destiny. Whatever it was.
None of his servants thought it at all amiss that Emrys would wish to show his guests, who had been so kind to him, the High King's grave. But his servants all went in healthy awe of him, Emrys thought. The real test would be whether he could guide his friends through the labyrinth of guards and other unfriends and hold them off while they sought whatever shrine they claimed lay within the henge.
He had not had their company that long; but the certainty that they wished to depart, coupled with what he knew the need for their departure was?for their own lives, if not for his?weighed on his heart even more than the day, remembered now as a sorrow long ago, his mother had left for the convent, abandoning him to his grandfather's fosterage.
In those days, he'd gone up into the hills and found Bleys, his master.
It was not inconceivable that, in the years to come, he would find others, equally as dear.
He unfastened his pouch and handed it to Emrys. "As a parting gift, my bag of tricks," he said. "You may find some of them useful after we leave."
He handed it to Emrys and clasped his arm, as if they'd been warriors together. Then, he held up his free hand. Light gleamed from off a gold ring.
"We're close," he whispered to his lady. "Look for any stonework that looks more… more modern than the rest." He stopped and turned to face Emrys again.
"I want to thank you," he began, as Catherine drew closer, setting her hands upon Emrys' shoulders.
"You know," said Lady Catherine, tightening her hands, "it isn't inconceivable we could meet again. In the tales of our world, you disappear, shut up in an oak tree, underground… Yes, none of it sounds particularly pleasant, but consider the possibility that you come to us instead. It wouldn't hurt…"
"No?" asked her husband. "My dear, you're breaking the prime directive. And besides, if Emrys came to us in Philadelphia, you'd only drag him to the dentist."
No real mirth underlay their laughter, but Emrys made himself laugh too.
And then, too quickly, fell silent.
"We're being followed," he said. He froze where he stood, listening with all his being. One step, then a pause, then a drag, as if the man who followed them limped.
"Gildas," he said, more in exasperation than fear.
Would the young monk never leave Emrys alone? Was it just that they were rivals for a scholar's praise? Or that Emrys wore the Raven's brand? Probably, he would never know.
One thing he did know: let Gildas find him aiding his friends to enter Aurelius' tomb?or let Gildas concoct a plausible tale of grave-robbing?and swift death, far preferable to execution, could be the best that he?or all of them?could hope for.
He took the torch Lady Catherine carried and snuffed it on the ground. Let Gildas find them in the dark: he carried light; he could be tracked.
He gestured his friends on ahead. What if he did not see them depart? If all went well, they would be gone and he?this was his world. He had coped with its spites, petty and great, before.
The Lion set out across the turf, his wife at his side. Quickly, she turned, rushed back to Emrys, and kissed him, fast and hard, then followed her husband. The tomb was ringed with fire. Emrys could remember when it was built and where?atop ancient stonework. Perhaps hidden in that wall was the door they sought to their home. He would have to have faith they succeeded.
He would never know now, he thought.
He turned to wait for Gildas, watching the light bobbing toward him as the monk limped as fast as he could. He should never have come out alone, Emrys thought. If he were what Gildas thought, what qualm should he have about killing him?
Not very logical, his Gildas, but a good hater. Emrys dropped a hand to the pouch the Lion had given him, withdrew what he sought, and waited.
Gildas' torch drew closer, close enough for the monk to see that Emrys stood alone, as always.
"Where are your demons?" demanded the young monk. He stood unevenly, the firelight gleaming off the cross hung round his neck. "I heard them speaking of forbidden magics."
Forbidden to whom? Gildas never quite understood that not everyone was a Christian. Or cared.
"My guests are gone." Where you will never find them.
"To rob the High King's tomb?"
"Have you been swilling sacramental wine again?" Emrys asked. No need to waste what he was coming to think of as his gift, or curse, or even logic when insults would do.
"Blasphemer!" With the high hot temper of the Celt, Gildas rushed him, torch out to strike and maim.
It was the moment Emrys had been waiting for.
He threw the handful of metal filings he had drawn from the Lion's pouch onto the torch, then hurled himself back as it exploded into violent light.
Gildas shrieked and fell, but not before the torch set his robe ablaze.
Emrys kicked out the fire?perhaps more vigorously than need be. Thoroughness, his teachers had always said, was a virtue.
When the fire was out, and Gildas safely unconscious, Emrys hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him to the nearest guards, dropping hints the monk had wrestled with a demon and been saved through Emrys' wisdom.
After all, if Gildas was going to hate him, he might as well have some grounds for his grudge.
He could just imagine how his guests would smile if only they knew.
If only.
He waited until the guards had left before he sighed and returned to his quiet rooms.
None of the servants had touched the triangles inscribed the night before: how should they dare? Emrys set the pouch down, and carefully arranged the parchments.
He clapped his hands for his body-servant. The man entered so fast that Emrys knew he was under constant scrutiny. He knew that, from now on, he would always be watched, and awe?maybe turning to respect should he deserve it?struck him as better than hatred and suspicion.
"Set out clean clothes for me. Then go and ask whether the High King will receive me."
He washed, then smoothed his hair and dressed as neatly as if Lady Catherine were going to approve him. He was attaching his new pouch to his finest belt when the word came: Uther would indeed grant him audience.