THE LEGACY OF PRATOR: CURSED

An Ellora’s Cave publication written by

ANNIE WINDSOR

MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-451-5

Mobipocket (PRC) ISBN # 1-84360-452-3

Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), & HTML

© Copyright Annie Windsor, 2003.

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave.

Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc. USA

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Ellora's Cave Ltd, UK

This e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax, or any other

mode of communication without author/publisher permission.

Edited by Ann Richardson

Cover Art by Christine Clavel

To:

Manysouls, who never laughs at me,

Cheyenne, who laughs at me all the time (in a good way),

A good friend, who can probably make an RPG module out of this,

And my wonderful editor, Ann, who puts up with much “guff.”

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Prologue

Camelford

Late Fall, 470

Davyd drove his cock deep inside the cleaning wench’s wet silk.

“Yes!” the woman screamed, arching to meet his thrust. “Deeper, you bastard. Harder. Harder!”

Alla. He thought her name was Alla.

Her unruly red locks spread like fire on the sweat-soaked pillows. Davyd closed his ale-swollen eyes
and pounded the woman’s pussy. His sac fairly belted her well-formed arse, and her melon breasts
rubbed against his scarred chest.

“I’m comin’.” Alla’s voice rose like incense and her apple perfume, spicing his thoughts.
“Now…now…now! Ah, fuck me, you war dog!”

Davyd moaned as he emptied his seed into Alla’s wide slit. Her ample body cushioned him as he
relaxed, and she gripped him tight with both legs.

“Best stallion in the herd.” Alla’s voice sounded light and fresh, as if they hadn’t spent the last hour hard
at sporting. As if her nipples weren’t sucked to a dark plum bruise, and her pussy weren’t sore around
his spent cock.

But that’s what his second in command told him about this wench. How Alla could go until yer dick
falls off.

And Alla had heard from her sisters and friends that handsome, yellow-headed Davyd Krell could ride
a woman ‘til ‘er spokes break.

That’s why she picked him from the manky bunch that slunk into Camelford’s common baths, aiming to
take willing women back to the guard tower for a turn in the hay.

“Mmmm.” Alla hunched against him. “Give us another go, love. The night’s young.”

Davyd grinned and kissed the wench’s waiting lips. Soft as butter, they were.

She rocked him back and forth, coaxing him back to life—until his bedchamber door opened with a soft
creak.

Alla’s eyes widened, and so did her smile. “Ye got friends? More’s the fun for me.”

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Davyd heard a quiet cough, and then, “Please pardon my intrusion, Master Krell, but I must speak to
you.”

God’s teeth! The queen!Davyd rolled away from the voice, wincing at the wet sound of his cock leaving
Alla’s hot pussy.

Alla realized the emergency, for she scrambled up and snatched the sheet, wrapping it like a robe
around her nakedness.

“Please, do not be shy on my account.” Lygnel’s words rang like music against the stones and rushes of
Davyd’s candlelit bedchamber. The queen smiled at Alla. “You have been blessed with much. Hide
nothing in shame from me.”

Alla turned the color of blood on snow. Her mouth worked, but no sound escaped. Before Davyd could
reach out to her, the girl bolted from the room, slamming the chamber door behind her.

And then Davyd became aware of his own lack of clothing. He glanced at his breeches, which lay
beside the sheet Alla had dropped on her way out. Completely beyond his reach from the bed.

My luck. Of course.

He grabbed for a pillow, but the queen caught his wrist in her cream-white fingers.

“I said do not be shy.” Lygnel used her diamond-blue eyes like a weapon. Sure as any sword, those
jewels. As she stared at Davyd’s hardening cock, he felt like a hostage.

This was no serving wench. This was his queen, though barely of woman’s age. Lygnel was the Dark
Prince’s unwilling bride. A thousand painful deaths awaited any man who dared to look upon her in a
wanting way, and she was known to be rigidly faithful—but for one instance. Which, after all, had been at
her foul husband’s command.

Yet there stood Queen Lygnel, shocking Davyd with her sultry gaze.

“You have quite the reputation for endurance,” she murmured. “I have heard much about your skill.
From many sources.”

Davyd’s manhood betrayed him by springing up to confirm her statement. He tried to swallow, but could
not. His eyes fixed on the queen’s lips. Carved ruby, cold-sweet. They had been the downfall of many
lesser fools than Davyd, and he well knew it.

What did the lady want, coming here like this?

The Lord of Camelford had been away nigh on twenty days, but he was due back any hour, to celebrate
the coming of his first child. A babe, born a week ago. To this woman-girl, who looked as if childbirth
had taken no toll on her. But then, the castle’s midwife was known for her healer’s skill.

Lygnel swept toward Davyd’s bed and sat beside him, moving like a woman free of burden or pain.
Davyd drank in her heady scent of roses and light powder. Beneath her gown of red and gold, her
perfect curves threatened to slay all who might resist, and Davyd was not of a mind to refuse a woman’s
attention. Even this woman. Especially this woman.

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Damn the peril.

Outside the castle’s great stone curtain, thunder tore the air.

Lygnel didn’t flinch. She kept her diamond gaze on Davyd’s cock. He could fairly imagine her satin
touch on his burning skin. Or those lips, taking him inside her clean, soft mouth.

Four hells. I be a dead bastard come the morn. Aye, but a happy dead bastard.

“Heed me, good man.” Lygnel glanced up at Davyd, and he saw both resolve and passion in her eyes. “I
have a task, and only you to trust.”

In halting words, the queen explained what she wanted of her husband’s training master, and what she
would give in return. With each sentence, Davyd’s mouth opened a little more, until his chin touched his
muscled chest.

After a few seconds of silence, Davyd hung his great head, barely conscious of his still-throbbing cock.
A lion’s mane of flaxen hair fell about his tan face, nearly covering the jagged scar on his left cheek.
“Dunna ask this of me. I beg you, Milady. Even for your sweet favor—I canna risk his lordship’s wrath.
No man could stand such a storm.”

Lygnel caught his manhood in her hand and began to stroke. “Serve me, and your reward…will not
leave you wanting.”

At those honey-slick words, heat rose in Davyd’s face, spread through his chest, and crept down,
down, down, to where her fingers worked his swollen shaft.

Lygnel seemed to read his mind, leaning closer, allowing her full bosom to brush against him. She
pumped him like a well, faster and faster. Davyd grunted in spite of himself, mind spinning as his queen
pushed him toward an explosion of warrior’s proportions. Lygnel’s hair, famous and infamous for its
likeness to Queen Gwenhwyfar’s, spilled like spun gold down her lightly freckled shoulders, and Davyd
realized she was wearing naught but a thin night tunic. As sheer as moonlight.

Her nipples made dark, full cherries against the fabric.

As Davyd’s grunts became groans, he could well understand how even the fabled King Arthur believed,
if only for a short time, that Lygnel was his angelic wife.

On orders from her cruel husband, Lygnel had successfully passed herself off as Queen Gwenhwyfar for
nearly a month, sharing Arthur’s Camelot.

And his bed.

Davyd licked his lips.

Had the king himself tasted that carved ruby mouth? Before Arthur realized that his true queen was
Mordred’s captive, had he known the pleasures of Lygnel’s wet folds?

By Arthur’s one God, she was as full as any fruit. No doubt juicy but without question, bittersweet.

Cursed.

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That’s what the old ones said. The ones who remembered magik, and Merlyn, and the times before the
fair folke left Briton for less populated shores.

As his climax neared, Davyd grasped the False Gwenhwyfar’s free arm and pulled her to him. So soft,
that royal skin. The color of milk, firm but yielding beneath his eager fingers.

Abruptly, Lygnel stopped her massage.

Davyd’s back bowed, so great was his frustration. He started to protest, but his queen lifted her tunic
and discarded it on the floor with the sheet and breeches.

Candlelight played on her naked form as she lay down beside Davyd and spread her legs. His eyes
widened at her sun-colored triangle. At the full, red swell of her moist lower lips.

How could she have given birth but days ago? Surely this was some spell. Some trick. Old magik.

“You may touch me,” she whispered. “In fact, I command it. Sample the wares, Davyd. Touch me until I
come. How else can you make your decision?”

Davyd’s heart nearly swelled from his chest, but he didn’t need a second invitation. His trembling hand
covered Lygnel’s quim and pressed, drawing a sigh from her depths. Woman’s musk filled Davyd’s
senses, and his cock throbbed until he thought he might spill himself before completing his queen’s
command.

Sensing his urgency, Lygnel grabbed the base of his manhood and held tight, forestalling his eruption.
“Not until I have what I want. Everything I want.”

“Yes, Majesty.” Davyd’s voice was no more than a hoarse croak. Dizzy with the sight before him, he
thrust a finger into Lygnel’s damp hair.

She groaned as he parted her slick folds and found her swollen clit.

“Rub me,” she demanded. “Now. I tire of waiting.”

Davyd’s breath caught. He stroked his queen in gentle circles, picking up speed as if his life depended
on her pleasure.

Lygnel’s throaty moans spurred him onward. She kept her grip on the hilt of Davyd’s cock, and with her
other hand, she rubbed one cherry nipple. Were it not for her forceful grasp, Davyd would have
succumbed at that moment.

Instead, it was Lygnel who thrashed beneath his fingers. Her orgasm shook her fair body, and Davyd
gloried in her satisfied woman’s smile.

As the tremors subsided, she locked her diamond eyes on him once more. “Kiss me,” she said in her
undeniable queen’s tone.

Davyd obeyed her command, bending down to taste the forbidden fruit of her mouth.

Her lips were as sweet and soft as he imagined. More so.

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Lygnel urged him to give her his weight, which he did. His pulsing cock pressed inches from the hot
welcome of her quim.

The queen shifted beneath him, opening her legs, inching up until the tip of his manhood slid against her
opening.

Davyd groaned.

Lygnel wrapped her hands in his long hair. “Is that what you want? To take me?”

“Aye. But I fear paining you. You gave birth—”

“Never mind that. The midwife did her work well. I have no pain, Davyd. Only questions. Now, answer
me—do you want to be inside me?”

Davyd ground his teeth, barely able to restrain himself. “Yes. I do.”

Once more, Lygnel shifted beneath him. He felt her wetness close over his sensitive head.

“How badly do you want me, Davyd?”

Muscles tensed to the point of ripping, Davyd growled and bit his lip ’til it bled. Queen or no queen, he
was close to rutting on her like a crazed hound. “Name your price, woman. Name it!”

Lygnel’s eyes blazed. “I have. I simply await your agreement.”

The sensation of her walls pressing toward his near-bursting staff became unbearable enough to
convince him that the Lady of Camelford’s request, it was a small thing.

Hiding the babe from her demon-father and winning Lygnel’s favor would be fair worth the prize he
would claim.

“I will do it,” he grumbled.

“I would die to see her free of our stain.” Lygnel’s nails dug into Davyd’s shoulders. “Do I have your
blood-oath?”

“Yes, curse my soul. Yes!”

And with that, Lygnel opened herself wide. Davyd rammed himself deep enough to tear a scream of raw
excitement from his queen.

He took her like a man possessed, humping hard and fast.

Lygnel met his every thrust, pounding her hands against his back. “More. More. Make me scream,
damn you. Make me scream until I have no throat!”

Davyd doubled his efforts, rutting like he dreamed of only moments before. The bed crashed against the
wall, and the stuffed straw mattress split apart from the power of his strokes.

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Lygnel pinched her nipples and pressed them against his chest, bucking higher and higher until she indeed
screamed. And screamed.

Davyd bellowed with his own release, pouring his seed into his queen’s quim—the one most forbidden
of places.

But the queen did not release him.

She kept him well into the wee hours, satisfying her every whim, like a woman spending her last day of
life exactly the way she chose to spend it.

* * * * *

Davyd was a half-score from Castle Dore by dawn, riding hard away from the sea and clutching his tiny
bundle like treasure, before his Lygnel-besotted mind cleared enough to realize that he would likely be
captured. That the Lord of Camelford would hunt him to ground for this betrayal, and gut him for his
treachery.

In seconds, Davyd’s still-swollen cock deflated. He had seen with his own eyes what happened to those
who betrayed the Dark Prince, and such sights were not enticing.

No, he would never again taste the fruit of his dizzy desire.

Lygnel was lost to him, like a dream upon waking, her image already becoming faint and ghostly in his
sharpening thoughts.

The bundle in his arm wriggled, and he shifted it from his chest to his broad hip. “Be silent,” he urged
Lygnel’s infant.

The babe complied, for the moment.

Davyd’s gaze flicked to nearby trees. Thick branches and heavy leaves seemed menacing in night’s pale
light. From behind any bush, from behind any trunk could ride his doom. Camelford Forest had long
been rumored to harbor ill omens and poor fortune for any opposing the Dark Prince.

Cursed, like the false queen. Cursed, like this poor slip of a child.

The babe made a tiny, helpless noise, and Davyd felt a ripple in the clouded pool of his soul. He gazed
into the infant’s elfin face and found it strangely bright against night’s shroud. Perfect, and soft, and above
all else, innocent.

How could such a tiny thing bear the stain of her father’s misdeeds? It seemed hardly fair.

Davyd’s heart stirred, or that piece of his heart yet beating after so many battles. So much blood. He
was only twenty years of age, scarcely a day older than the babe’s mother, but he had known enough
death to last him a lifetime.

The babe responded to his thoughts by regarding him with a simple trust he could scarce tolerate. In that
moment, the wee child won his heart as surely as her mother had, and Davyd knew he must not allow the

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infant to come to harm.

Have I taken leave my senses? If I fail… Dear One God of Arthur. If I fail to get this child whole from
these foul lands…A sound brought Davyd’s head around before he could finish the thought. Beneath him,
his roan steed pranced and shied.

Hoof beats.

In the distance.

His war-worn ears told him that more than one horse approached, riding hard.

Davyd’s battle-senses sharpened, and his muscles flexed beneath his tunic. Brute strength, of that he was
well-possessed, but cunning was not among his many weapons. And yet—the babe! He couldn’t risk a
battle with the babe at close quarters.

A mist rose in the moonlight, filling the path behind Davyd. Sweat, from the approaching horses. From
the Camelford patrol who planned to kill him, and no doubt had a mind, or orders, to slaughter the child.
The Dark Prince was not above the murder of innocents to punish his duplicitous queen.

Roaring in his mind, Davyd spurred his mount.

The beast lunged forward, hitting full stride on the third stretch of legs. Earth churned beneath the
frightened steed’s hooves. Davyd urged the war stallion forward. Faster. Faster than a horse could run.
Faster than any horse should run.

With desperate strength, the big man clutched Lygnel’s innocent to his chest. His thoughts ceased to
flow or connect. The leaves wailed above him. Branches swiped at his hair and beard, while bright eyes
gleamed from the darkness. Slanted eyes. Inhuman eyes. The very ground seemed to fight his horse’s
stride.

Four bloody hells! The woods be after me!

The air went so frigid Davyd could scarce stand to breathe it. Icy plumes shot from his steed’s frosted
nose.

Howls rose from the ebony thickets on either side of the path, and Davyd’s gut clenched. His stallion
held course, but flinched with each screeching bellow. If Death screamed, surely it would sound like
those bone-scraping yowls.

Davyd knew he would never make it out of the black trees alive. He could fight the riders, but how
could he fight dark magik, too?

Help me. If there be anything fair left in Camelford, help me!

As if summoned, a new voice joined the howls. Loud but cryptic. Human. Wizard-deep and relentless.
No sense could be made of the words, but Davyd felt the forest shy back from their power.

Something hammered at his mind like his stallion’s hooves pounded the ground. Davyd refused to open
his thoughts, but the force overwhelmed his meager mental defenses.

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Ride,came the command. Magik, no doubt—though male or female, good or foul, Davyd had no clue.
Nor did he care. He saw only the path before him. Only his purpose.

Ride, man. RIDE!

Davyd complied like a child fleeing his father’s wrath.

Behind him, the Dark Prince’s minions pursued with the speed of bad fortune, but Davyd forced the
rumbling hoof beats from his thoughts.

Catch Davyd, they might, those dogs at my heels. Aye. If they be skilled enough to ride down the Devyl
hisself!

Chapter 1

Early Spring, 490

Prator Castle at Chapel Down, Scilly Isles

Eduard watched Ysbet stroll across the stone courtyard.

The princess drifted side to side, as if lost in some secret enchantment. Above her, clouds kept a lazy
rhythm with her walk, and the sun made her black hair seem almost blue. No doubt she was headed for
Prator’s library.

The druids would be furious.

As usual.

Eduard resisted a smile.

The priests wished to ban Ysbet from the scrolls and books because she was impertinent and
temperamental, and they claimed she didn’t take care of the sacred texts—but King Roland forbade it.
After all, who could stand against Ysbet if her will was fixed?

Her will, indeed. That and her intelligence set her far and above most females Eduard knew. Her
rounded hips and jutting tits screamed woman instead of girl now.

Eduard blinked and gripped the hilt of his sword. His cock hardened, and he ground his teeth. Erections
were not a proper response to the princess, especially from Prator’s captain of the guards.

Just then, Ysbet passed several of the aged cooks. They shied from her, and one hissed and made signs
of protection. The other muttered a single word.

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“ Custey.”

Eduard fairly strangled his sword at that slight.

Accursed. Damned.

He had heard this most of Ysbet’s life, from the older servants and those who still followed the druids. If
King Roland discovered them disrespecting his daughter, he would have them stocked or flogged. But
Roland rarely caught them, and Ysbet’s mother Twyllian scarcely left the keep—and yet, somehow
Ysbet endured. It was enough to tear even a soldier’s heart, to see a woman so spirited, but so alone.

Woman.

His cock throbbed.

No! God’s teeth. She’s still but a child.

A child born of mystery, when Mordred and Arthur yet lived, and Camelot stood on the brink of
disaster. When the Black Prince and his Saxon allies covered Land’s End, camped at Camelford, barring
escape to the sea.

Eduard knew the tales and remembered much, though he was only a boy when Camelot fell. Arthur’s
Men were poised for escape with Camelot’s heartstone and Gawain’s Roland as their future king—but
Roland’s wife, heavy with child, delayed the host. Then came a storm, with lightning striking like a god’s
hot wrath. Wind lashed the trees as Twyllian’s babe came forth, stillborn, by rumor. But old magik roiled
in that storm’s heart, and a madman fetched the babe from doom.

Or so it was said.

The old ones believed Ysbet was a changeling. Some imp or faerie with evil purpose. Darker rumors
held her to be the spawn of Mordred himself. On two things, the superstitious agreed: Ysbet was not of
Roland’s line, and Ysbet was not fully human.

As Eduard watched the princess all but vanish into the castle’s open door, he wondered about the truth
of those whisperings. And not for the first time.

Ysbet.

Could your magik have saved Arthur at Camlann, if you had been older?

And yet, foul Mordred perished by his side. With you, we escaped the Cornish coast, and Mordred’s
minions drowned in a great wave. It was as if Briton chewed off her tail to protect you and Arthur’s
Men. If that was not magik, then I have never seen it.

What has fate planned for you, Ysbet?

* * * * *

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“Pendragon buried at Avalon these many years, and Mordred’s best men drowned in his pursuit.”
Eduard’s voice rang through the training stable beneath the clang of metal and grunts of bested men.
“You would think such a loss of life would be sufficient to appease even the cruelest gods.”

Ysbet squared her shoulders, and despite the impossible weight of the great helm covering her head, she
nodded. Not that she agreed, and not that her opinion would matter if Eduard had the first clue who
occupied the suit of mail before him. He always ignored her, even though she was a princess.

Because she was female. Because in her world, in her time, women were playthings. Arm decorations.
A haven for hard cocks.

That thought made Ysbet shift inside her armor. She felt like a delicious secret, naughty in her disguise of
metal, hidden in plain sight in a room full of half-clad soldiers. The thrill of deception mingled with the risk
of discovery, stirring Ysbet to new levels of excitement. The soft, firm cloth of her gambeson, the quilted
fabric shielding her flesh from the chain mail, rubbed without mercy against her nipples and her wet quim
below.

Each move she made brought exquisite pleasure with a dash of pain, and her breath came in gasps. If
she took but a few steps, she might come violently, right there in front of everyone.

To Ysbet, the conventions of her time bound her like the armor she dared to wear. If she had her way,
she would break the rules. Any of them. All of them. And she would choose her father’s guard captain
for her wanton partner.

Ysbet had no sense that Eduard was “destined” for her by some prophecy or magik. And she knew he
was far shy of perfect. But he was honorable and brave, much more the warrior than his father
Andrus—and moreover, Eduard had a bright mind. The strength of his wit matched the might of his
muscle, which Ysbet thought a rare match indeed.

All that remained was convincing Eduard they were fit for each other, and finding some way to
circumvent ridiculous rules and laws about royal marriage.

Her extra senses and her rudimentary knowledge of roots and leaves might help her in these quests. Just
like those skills had helped her choose today for her gambit, and brew a potion to further enhance the
strength she had so carefully been training.

As Ysbet watched Eduard, the warm fabric gripped every area she wished she could tempt him to
touch. He went about polishing his longsword to a wicked shine. His coal curls and impossibly broad
shoulders reflected in the blade, along with the rush-covered stone floor of the training barn. Above them,
rafters boasted hay and dust, and ropes holding straw dummies for sparring.

His Majesty’s Captain, Eduard of Kent, had just dispatched such a dummy, and Ysbet had more than
enjoyed watching his grace and fierceness. Not for the first time, she wondered if Eduard’s chest might
be hard to her touch. Like the metal of his breastplate. Like the smooth, polished firmness of the great
helm beside his muscled thigh. And the bulge in his pants…

Spirit of the gods, what would he look like aroused? What would he feel like?

Though she had never known a man, she had imagined fucking Eduard hundreds of times. She had
envisioned long, sweaty hours in the castle keep, tangled in the soft sheets of her bed while Eduard rode
her like a man possessed. While he thrust into her until she cried out again and again. Her breath grew

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ragged, and the rubbing of the cloth became too much to bear.

Ysbet twitched as the heat of orgasm flooded her. The warmth grew as her eyes widened to take in the
room full of men. Watching, but not knowing what they saw.

And what if they realized?

Wave built on wave while Ysbet gently rocked inside the mail to increase the pressure. She bit her lip,
refusing to let go of her view of Eduard, of all the other soldiers so close by as pleasure flooded and
ebbed, flooded and ebbed.

And then her knees gave, and she almost buckled under the weight of her armor. With a tremendous
effort born of will, she steeled her muscles.

If I do not rein in my thoughts and my body, I shall fall and give myself away like some swooning
maiden.

“Krell shows his foolishness, driving us like staghounds.” Eduard’s tense, deep tones caused Ysbet to
shiver in the aftershocks of her climax. His words were like fingers, slowly working up her spine.

“Why would those Saxon beasts take interest in Arthur’s Men with the mainland for bounty?” He
continued. “We have naught for plunder but moss and shells, and shards of rock pretending to be a
castle. Prator. What does it matter if this hovel holds a stone from Camelot? It is no prize for the taking.”

Ysbet watched her reflection in Eduard’s sword as she nodded. She held herself solemn and still, and as
man-like as she could manage after such an explosion.

Her quim throbbed.

Already the fabric was back at work, stroking her clit while she clenched and unclenched her thighs.

The whole stable smelled of male sweat and the men’s energy, and it was all she could do not to climax
again each time she drew a breath.

“Mark me. Roland makes a fine sovereign, but with Arthur dead and Mordred’s ghostly venom lingering
in every eager ear, it is a cursed shame that Queen Twyllian fell ill before bearing a proper heir.” Eduard
snorted. “She’s left us naught but a bitch pup for succession. How will a child the likes of Ysbet hold any
alliance intact? Long live the king, I say.”

Ysbet’s pleasure sank like waterlogged petals in a river.

A stream of curses rose to her lips, rage mingling with her excitement like some dangerous wizard’s
draught. But she dared not speak her mind. She would save her epitaphs, store them like fine-tipped
quarrels, ready to fire at Eduard at the first proper opportunity.

Bitch pup, indeed! And this from the stable’s worst mongrel.

Her heart pounded beneath the ruby dragon covering her breastplate. Her birthright. The Pendragon
coat of arms. Though in truth, she doubted her lineage. Ysbet was nothing like her mother or father.
Nothing like her cousins, or the other women of the castle.

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Ysbet fit with her kin about like a wailing wolf fit on a hut’s hearth. She was restless. Different. Wild, and
out of place. And so she studied in the libraries day and night. History and lore and ancient druidic
beliefs. The allowed texts, and the forbidden. No one dared to stop her, though a few high druids
muttered a single word when she passed.

Cursed.

She had been hearing that since her earliest recall, though she hadn’t a clue why.

Cursed.

Some of the older druids would not cross her path. Which of course drove her father to a fine rage. If
they had not been holy men, he would have killed them with his own hands. Ysbet chose to ignore them.
Superstitious old gits. What did they know, anyhow?

When she wasn’t ignoring fools, reading, sleeping, or practicing the arts of herbs, spices, and the
little-known plants of the woods, Ysbet challenged her body. And thought of ways to be close to
Eduard.

Take this excursion, for example.

It had taken Ysbet months of exercising, of lifting stones to take even a step within her armor—and the
strength potion to complete the task. No woman she knew could lift a longsword much less wield it in full
battle dress. She had never made it so far, fooled the pages and squires, even the knights and Eduard.
This was her finest day, and she would not let his damnable mouth ruin her triumph.

Even as Ysbet stoked her resolve, a great crash silenced the constant murmur of the training stable.
Stomps followed curses, and a scream ripped the dust in the air.

Dear One God of Arthur!Ysbet’s heart pounded even harder. Krell is coming! Why now, of all times?

All thoughts of the cloth’s rub on her body vanished. A great thrashing and crashing rose from the
training yard that separated Prator’s two keeps from the tumbledown training barn and sparring floor.

Ysbet straightened her shoulders once more, and placed herself in the most still and sturdy pose she
could manage.

Krell would not know. He would not be able to tell that a woman wore the guard armor of Prator. The
training master was not observant like Eduard. No. Krell was fire-tempered and quick to the blade, and
if those traits were strengths, they were the only gifts Krell offered. Why her father trusted the likes of
that mad Saxon mutt, Ysbet would never know—even if he was killing handsome for an older man—and
even if he supposedly rescued her from an early death.

With another explosion of clatters and curses, the training master stormed into the stable.

Ysbet quaked in spite of herself.

Krell’s unbound golden hair shone in the board-filtered sunlight, and Ysbet tried not to let her gaze linger
on the training master’s horrible scars. Two blazing red marks scored him like a herald flag, one on his
cheek, the other across his chest. He boasted often of the battle that stole some of the beauty from his
face, but remained silent as a post about the mark beneath his neck. Ysbet always thought someone had

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tried to run him through.

Tried, but failed.

Krell was not a man to trifle with, and not a man to lose in hand-to-hand combat. Nearly twice her age,
he was like a sexy, fire-breathing older brother, and Ysbet feared his temper far more than the king who
had worshiped her every step since birth.

As Krell stalked toward Ysbet, he surveyed his regiment, and to Ysbet’s great horror, he began to
count his soldiers.

Page and squire alike busied themselves at all manner of tasks, real or staged, clearly in hopes of
avoiding the training master’s attentions. Even Eduard was polishing his gleaming sword with a new
vengeance, and Ysbet felt the want of something to do with her own hands.

Krell finished his tally and stroked his jutting chin. Ysbet allowed herself a wild hope that he would leave,
but while she stared through the slit in her great helm, the training master shook his head and started his
count again.

Ysbet groaned to herself. In a nervous pique, she clenched her fingers, and the gauntlets covering her
hands pinched deep into her flesh.

“Oh!” she squeaked before she could stop herself.

Eduard’s head whipped around. He stared at her with wide, dark eyes. Ysbet saw first amazement, then
fear, followed by abiding fury.

The passion in his eyes nearly caused Ysbet’s heart to burst.

“Get out,” Eduard hissed. “You will have my head offered to King Roland in a basket!”

“Father has better use for his baskets,” Ysbet whispered, still reeling from his heated glance. Somehow,
she kept herself from moving. If truth be told, she could not move. Between her orgasm and standing so
long in the weighty mail, her strength was fairly drained.

Eduard opened his mouth to offer more insult, but closed it. Ysbet’s own wit and breath left at the same
moment, for Krell had again stopped his count. The training master’s hawkish blue eyes settled upon her.
His lips twisted, and he pointed straight in her direction. “That one!”

Heat rushed to Ysbet’s metal-covered cheeks. Krell would reveal her now, and Eduard, the king’s
captain, would be held responsible for her misbehavior in his training stable. Her father would fly into a
fury, and likely have Eduard flogged for permitting the princess to put herself at risk by suiting for battle.

“To the yard,” Krell growled.

Ysbet managed to pull herself up straight beneath the burden of the metal.

Walk. I must walk. The longer I can hold this charade, the less likely Eduard will pay for my folly with
his flesh.

“Master!” Eduard’s tone was firm but thin. “This—this—page. He was but suited so that I might test his

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metal. By no means is he ready for your challenge.”

“Pah.” Krell spit on the ground. “Pup’s ready enough for what I’ve a mind to do.”

The training stable went tomb-silent, and Ysbet feared breathing lest her panic rasp for all to hear.

“Why not me, Master?” Eduard stood with a cat’s lazy grace and held his longsword high. “King
Roland’s new captain could fair stand a sparring match. We will make an example, for the younger
amongst us.”

“The boy.” Krell’s voice was deadly quiet. As Ysbet tried desperately to choke back her terror, the
training master waved his hand by his ear like he often did when he was angry or otherwise emotional.
“The boy, and the boy alone. Carry him to the yard, if ye must.”

Eduard hesitated, but Ysbet knew he had to defer. Krell was the training master, and his authority was
absolute. Even the king’s captain dared not stand against him, for on Krell, life depended. The master’s
hand guided the hands who raised swords beside Eduard. The master’s fingers checked each inch of the
captain’s armor before a battle. A twist of a bolt, a shift of a plate, and Eduard would be dead with none
the wiser. Only a foolish soldier would deny his training master’s whim.

“Sit down,” Ysbet whispered to Eduard. She took a step toward Krell, but the effort of guiding her
cumbersome body nearly staggered her.

“Have ye naught better to do?” Krell roared at the nearest knight.

The knight almost fell on himself as he seized his sword and busied himself with a straw dummy. The
other soldiers scrambled back to tasks in similar fashion, and Ysbet found herself quickly ignored. She
was left alone to struggle toward the half-crazed training master, but Eduard’s dark eyes were
undoubtedly searing holes in her backplate.

The very thought of Eduard’s intense gaze pushed her forward. She was no fainting blossom like the
serving wenches he saw fit to bed and then dismiss. She was a head taller than each of them, to be sure.
And she was nothing like her mother, Queen Twyllian, who fainted at insects and the slightest startle.
Eduard seemed to have no time for such women.

Eduard seemed to have no time for anything save his precious swords. Perhaps he might find interest in a
female of strength and skill.

Krell’s monstrous cursing tore Ysbet from her distractions, but not before she realized her own thoughts.

I will cease being smitten by an arrogant warcolt like Eduard! If it’s the last thing I ever manage…

Anger drove her the last few steps to the training master, who actually appeared to be amused. His
mouth opened, and he gave a short, sharp laugh when they stepped from the stable into the training yard.
With surprising speed, he slammed the barn door behind him and severed Ysbet’s invisible connection to
Eduard.

For the barest of moments, Ysbet considered lurching forward and ripping the door open again. At least
with Eduard’s stare for company, she had not been so completely alone.

“So, boy. What’ll it be?” Krell faced her now, mere feet away in the deserted training yard. He drew out

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his words until each seemed to take a ten-count. “Do ye fancy a bit of offhand practice?”

Ysbet swallowed, but her throat clenched. The dual keep of Prator, her father’s castle, loomed above
her, mocking her for her foolishness. What had she been thinking to risk Krell’s rage like this?

Dizziness swept over her. She blinked furiously, trying to fight the afternoon heat and the fatigue from
hefting the incredible bulk of her armor.

Offhand practice.

Practice for a knight robbed of horse and primary weapon. A knight forced to rely on his weak hand,
and his final option. Not only would she have to make an effort to fight the training master, but she also
would have to do it left-handed. If she failed, King Roland’s lash might yet scar Eduard’s fine back.

Before she could draw another breath, the training master seized her by her armour’s shoulder pauldrons
and threw her belly-down onto the training yard’s worn cobblestones. Her breath came even shorter and
more shallow as she tried to kick, tried to flail—anything to right herself—but she could not move.

In seconds, Krell’s crushing weight dropped on her. Had it not been for the armor between them,
Ysbet’s spine surely would have snapped. Her eyes blinked inches from the reddish-brown stones that
marked most of Prator’s grounds. The single eye slit of her great helm allowed precious little air to her
nose and mouth.

A man was on top of her, and a handsome man at that, even if he was a bit wild. For the first time ever,
she felt male bulk pressing her down.

Had it been Eduard, Ysbet would have been excited instead of terrified. Krell was a fine example of
manhood, but for his temper, and his madness—Ysbet’s nerves and attraction to Eduard overrode her
body’s natural reaction to Krell’s god-like presence.

With one swift punch, Krell loosened her helm but did not remove it. Instead, the cold point of a dagger
nipped the flesh behind her ear.

“Is this what ye be playing at, girl? Dying, and leaving me cursed to my grave? Answer me. I’d sooner
run this tip to stone than wait for lies, Ysbet.”

The heat of anger battled with the heat of the day as Ysbet forced words through her clenched teeth.
“Get…off…me…you…son…of…a…wolf!”

Krell hesitated. He shifted and barked, and barked again. Ysbet realized that the training master was
laughing. Once more, he seized her by the pauldrons and flipped her onto her back.

This time, his dagger slid under her great helm to prick at her throat.

The tip was close. So close. Another hair’s breadth, and her blood would season the blade when she
swallowed.

“Be quiet,” Krell muttered, and at first Ysbet thought he spoke to her. He waved his hand by his ear.
“Stupid old fool. Can ye not see me doing what ye asked?”

He quarrels with the air!Ysbet contained her surprise to an eyeblink. How could one so handsome be so

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completely mad?

“Ye thinks I’m daft, don’t ye, girl?” The training master’s eyes narrowed, making his scar the more
rugged and fearsome. And a little more handsome, despite his foul humor. “Mayhap I am. But I’m all ye
ever had. This here dagger, she be a mizzercord. A Norman knife, and harder than most. Just right for
going under the plates. For the right moment, to let a weaker fighter best a stronger man.”

Ysbet heard the training master draw a rasping breath. She thought of screaming, but decided against it.
Mad dogs bit when they scented fear.

“When next ye be seeing this knife,” Krell muttered, “Don’t be saying a word. Keep her close, I tell ye.
Ye be needing her bloody bite, unless I miss me guess.”

At that, Krell stopped talking, but not because he had said his piece. The tip of a longsword had eased
over his shoulder, almost shaving his scar like unwanted beard.

Ysbet’s eyes widened.

“I will thank you to take your hands off the princess,” Eduard murmured in a low, bone-rattling tone.
“’Tis clear you have caught her at deception. Do what you will with me for being fool enough not to sniff
her out, but I will not stand by and watch her mistreated.”

Seconds ticked by in the quiet training yard.

Krell heaved a great sigh. His blade withdrew from her throat. In moments, his weight left her, and
someone hoisted her to her feet. Krell had pulled her up. The man was still nimble, despite more wars
and battles than anyone knew how to count.

Her head spun from being so quickly lifted, but somehow, she managed not to fall.

“There’s yer pretty.” The training master smiled at Eduard, showing his white, feral teeth. “No worse for
the testing.”

Ysbet dropped her gaze from Krell’s scarred face to his scarred chest, feeling a mild wave of revulsion.

As if in answer to her unkindness, Krell turned his broad back and stomped away.

A mix of frustration and relief flooded Ysbet. “Thank you for your kindness, Eduard, but I would have
preferred you not threaten him.”

“I—what? How can you say that?” Eduard’s cheeks blazed. “He had you pinned! And the dagger. That
was hardly a kindness.”

“I am capable of defending myself, Captain.” Ysbet worked to keep her words cool and removed—and
harder not to topple over like a great metal tree. “And the master seemed at greater purpose than his
actions conveyed.”

Eduard’s expression was positively livid. “What lunacy do you speak? Or is this some ruse to have me
forget your treachery?”

“Treachery. Hmph.” Ysbet continued to feign a coldness, to put at bay the hot stab of Eduard’s

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disapproval. “I am the king’s daughter and his only heir. If I want to try his knave’s armor on for size, I
might well do so any time.”

“At least you are constant, Milady.” Eduard affected a ridiculous bow. “Your wants rise above all else.
Why let simple matters like trust and betrayal come between you and your wish for the moment?”

Ysbet tried to stamp her foot and stumbled for her trouble. “How dare you speak to me in such a
fashion?”

Eduard righted her with one strong hand, and he gripped her forearm’s vambrace longer than he should
have. His dark eyes bored through the single slit of Ysbet’s helm, and his splendid, muscled chest
pressed into her shoulder. “On the morn, you rose a woman, determined to complete your chosen
challenge. By afternoon, you become a child at tantrum. Perhaps it is time, Your Highness, to decide
what truly fills that armor.”

Ysbet fancied she could feel the warmth of Eduard’s palm, penetrating the metal and brushing her skin
beneath it. His breath had been hot when he spoke, and it smelled of fresh ale and apple spice. His long
curls framed his chiseled warrior’s face as he studied her, seeming to know the unsettling effect he had on
her balance and poise.

Before she lost her senses and collapsed against his sturdy chest, she ripped her arm from his hand and
staggered back.

Eduard didn’t offer to steady her again. Instead, he grinned at her. Mocked her with his half-smile.

“Leave me,” she demanded.

“As you wish.” With another flourishing bow, Eduard turned and strode away across the training yard,
headed toward his private quarters in the guardhouse between Prator’s twin keeps.

The spring of his step and dip of his shoulder drove Ysbet to a new fury, and she jerked her great helm
off her head. Raven tresses tumbled down her armor as she hurled the headpiece at Eduard’s retreating
back.

It missed, of course. The clatter rang in Ysbet’s ears as she limped and struggled from the yard, still
fuming.

Nothing ever strikes Eduard with the force I intend.

Chapter 2

“Confound her!” Eduard slammed through the center room of the quarters he shared with his father, his
erection throbbing with merciless force.

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Andrus, King Roland’s former captain, lifted from his straw mat on one shaky elbow. “Ysbet again?”

Eduard did not respond, though he knew his silence and the jutting bulge in his breeches were answers
enough. He threw his gauntlets against the wall and sat heavily at their single table, refusing his father’s
wizened gaze. Andrus had suffered injury to his back only last year, and his limbs remained of little use.
Even still, his voice held the force and bite of a two-headed war axe.

“Have I not told you to steer her a wide passage?” Andrus’s words held all the energy of a man who
could yet walk and spar. “You have no business seeking her company.”

“I did not seek her company,” Eduard grumbled, glad at least that his father’s disfavor was killing his
painful arousal. “’Twas my last wish to encounter her this day, or any other.”

Andrus laughed. “At least do me the courtesy of truth, my son.”

Eduard seethed, but shied from his father’s bait.

After a few seconds, Andrus chuckled again and shook his head. “As you wish. My eyes are old, and
mayhap weak, but I have seen how you look at her.”

“I look at all fine wares.” Eduard waved a hand to dismiss the thought.

“Do not take me lightly, boy.” Andrus changed from humor to instruction as fast as he once shifted a
knife from hand to hand. “Ysbet is your princess. Someday she will be your queen. If you offer even a
hint of impropriety—”

“I am a grown man!” Eduard leaped to his feet, upsetting his chair. “King’s captain—and still you would
lecture me on my station? I know my station. Only too well.”

Before Andrus could respond or chastise him, Eduard stalked from the room, but even his closed
chamber door could not block Andrus’s parting shot. “Twenty-four years makes you patron of much but
master of naught!”

Master of naught. Truly what he thinks of me.Eduard flopped into his only chair, working the tired
knuckles of his off-hand. All day at spar, preparing Arthur’s Men for battles they likely would never fight,
much less win. Master of naught. Indeed.

And what did his father know of his feelings for Ysbet? Always the insinuation that Eduard desired the
likes of that selfish pip, beyond the simple way a man notices any beautiful woman.

That was ridiculous. The princess was focused only on her own fancy. She was boorish and
pig-stubborn. Even her father King Roland came near to ripping out his beard over the girl’s antics, and
he loved her like breath and sunshine. A wonder Ysbet had been to her father, to all from Camelot to
Prator, from the moment she filled her lungs and screamed to save her own life.

Eduard’s own memories of the night Ysbet came into the world were scant. Arthur’s Men were living in
a perpetual state of readiness, their lives packed into sacks and wagons. Any moment, the order would
come to set forth, to flee Mordred, the bogeyman of children’s nightmares. Eduard had been only four,
and still reeling from the loss of his mother to a vicious fever.

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More than anything, Eduard remembered the knock on their cottage door. Remembered his father
answering, and the drawn face of Kyla, the cook.

“A girl,” she said. “And the babe was stillborn. Nary a breath, and blue as the waters of Avalon.”

“Ah, Heaven’s Gate!” Andrus had torn at his hair. “Are we to be without even a cousin of Arthur’s
blood to take his throne in exile?”

The rest was naught but odd images and sensations to Eduard, but he had oft heard his father tell the rest
of the tale. How the midwife bundled Twyllian’s lifeless babe, stopping briefly to muss the child’s dark
and matted hair. How she had taken the babe to the river to wash her for a proper Christian burial, only
to be struck down by a falling branch with the babe still in her arms. The next the midwife knew, a man
was carrying her back to the castle, babe and all. A man bloodied from more wounds than could be
counted. A man fierce and dark, and shouting above the roar of the storm.

Shouting to Merlyn, the old wizard who was already a year gone from Arthur’s counsel.

Andrus spoke of how the wild man kicked open the door of Camelot’s Great Hall, and of how he
carried midwife and babe directly to the Round Table, like he knew the way.

“Stretched them out, he did,” Andrus related at every telling. “And both of them seemed dead as night’s
cold kiss—and all of us, swords drawn, ready to run Krell through where he stood.”

“Hold!” Krell wheezed, spitting blood on all too near. “I bring you a miracle from your God, and me a
non-believer. Would you turn your back on this holy gift?”

“This be no gift.” Arthur held Roland’s elbow while the man cringed away from his dead daughter. “Why
have you done this terrible thing?”

But at that moment, the midwife stirred and disturbed the babe, who made her own wee presence
known with a lusty cry.

“Madness,” Andrus would later laugh. “Never saw so many nursemaids and attendants and knights
falling on themselves like foolish children. And Roland. Well, the moment he gripped his child and beheld
her black curls and pale but pinking cheeks, he was a father besotted. Drunk with Ysbet ever since, and
hence her spoiling.”

And so Davyd Krell, a defector from Mordred’s personal guard, had come bearing an unbelievable
gift—and an unmistakable message from Merlyn, wherever the old coot might be keeping himself:

Protect this child. With your last blade, your last drop of blood.

Only through her will Pendragon endure.

Perhaps Ysbet did hold some power, as had always been rumored. Some blessing, yet unrealized.

Or some darkness.

The druids, the keepers of the old ways—they had their opinion.

Cursed.

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Ysbet ignored these lesser minds. In fact, at times, she openly defied them. Reading in the libraries,
dragging out the forbidden texts. The more they hated her, the stronger she held to herself.

That, Eduard had to admire. The princess seemed to have some hidden fortitude. Some secret wish or
goal, driving her on. And yes, in that strength and purpose, Eduard did have an interest. In Ysbet, in the
princess as a woman-just-become, Eduard tried to believe he held no stake.

She was barely older than a girl. She thought she knew of love and the relations between man and
woman, but she was an innocent. And a royal.

He could not allow desire to rule his destiny. He would not pursue Ysbet.

Even as he finished the thought, his hand rubbed his head, just outside his awareness. He caught the
action and jerked his fist to his lap. A tick. A gesture that had earned him a dozen beatings in his
youth—for lying.

But I speak no falsehoods. Ysbet is of no interest to me. A man would sooner pin his heart to a star than
hope for a moment’s kindness from her. Besides, I am no Lancelot. Though of Lancelot’s prowess, I
might boast.

And yet those green eyes. Ysbet’s eyes, deep and shining like the sea itself, towing him to murky depths
each time he chanced to catch them. She was so pampered. So well kept. Would she not be tender as
spring’s first daisy? Soft and dewy-damp in those nether regions he barely dared to imagine.

Eduard’s shaft hardened to rock, and he was sorely tempted to relieve the pressure with a long, healthy
fantasy of Ysbet’s perfect skin and untouched breasts.

The mere thought sent his hand to his cock. Eduard massaged himself through his breeches, then pulled it
out to do the job properly.

A sweet picture formed in his mind, of Ysbet, reclined against silken pillows. Naked. Legs spread,
waiting to welcome him.

His hand moved faster, pumping his shaft as he saw himself mount the princess and fill her quim with a
single, masterful stroke. She would be so hot, so wet and ready for him. He would fuck her hard and
fast, until she screamed with her orgasm.

Eduard’s hand moved like lightning as his thoughts ravaged Ysbet. Climax came in a swift wave, and his
seed spurted high and far across the room.

Farther than usual.

Relieved from his tensions at least for a moment, Eduard sighed. If truth be told, he had done this often.
Found release with thoughts of the princess.

After a moment of enjoying the relaxation, he got up and cleaned his mess with a cloth, then dropped it
in a stack with clothes awaiting wash. When he sat back down, his renegade mind immediately returned
to Ysbet.

Eduard groaned to himself. Perhaps he would try his cock again and see if he might better his last mark.

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As if hearing his thoughts, Andrus coughed from the center room.

Guilt lashed Eduard’s heart. Father! Ah, my cursed temper.

Eduard left his chair in a hurry, and in three steps, he reached his bedroom door and threw it open.
Moments later, he knelt by his father’s side. With strong but tender arms, he cradled the frail body that
once commanded legions. Andrus hacked and choked, fighting for a full breath. Eduard gently tapped his
father’s back, helping him expel the bit of phlegm or food holding fast. Even these simple things have
become a labor. Would that Heaven spare him more pain, more infirmity, but I could not bear to
lose him.

Andrus patted Eduard’s hand, and Eduard winced at his father’s hot, dry skin. Noted two new sores on
Andrus’s shoulders.

Master of naught.

“Forgive me, Father. I should have turned you more often this week. And your dinner is late, as usual. I
will fetch it.”

“You are the king’s captain.” Andrus’s quiet voice held a dignity that was unapproachable. “Do what
you can to see to me, but see to Roland’s business first.”

Roland’s, indeed. Not Ysbet’s! Eduard smiled at his father. “His Majesty has no further need of me this
night. I will hie to the kitchens and bring you back a warm meal.”

Andrus nodded, and Eduard carefully eased his father back to his pallet.

The moment he was certain that Andrus was resting comfortably, Eduard hurried from their quarters and
headed toward the kitchens, lost in a swirl of irritation and worry. Ysbet had taken time and energy, the
two things he most needed and had least. Time and energy rightfully devoted to King Roland. And to his
father. All for her little game. Who was she, to play at being a knight, princess or no?

As if any woman could fight alongside a man.

Eduard resolved to speak to Roland on the morn, to ask his help in reining back his spirited filly. Ysbet
would hear no authority but her father’s—and that, barely.

As he reached the kitchen door, a flicker of movement caught Eduard’s attention.

Krell was crossing the courtyard, waving his hand at his ear, lost in his perpetual arguments with his
imaginary Merlyn.

And above Krell’s rangy blond head, from her window midway up the keep, Ysbet watched.

Eduard’s intake of breath was sharp.

Unaware. She had caught him unaware, just like she had done in the training barn.

Immediately, his pulse galloped. Desire quickened against his leg, and he scarcely could deny his
attraction at that moment.

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Ysbet seemed to glow, alight with some strange power that swallowed him whole.

He could discern her delicate form, free of armor and clad in less than he should see. Backlit by a dozen
candles, the line of her ample breasts was clear and obvious, pushing rosy nipples against her gown.

Lace, of course.

Silken cloth against fine, full softness. And below that, the gown offered a hint of the darkened patch of
paradise Eduard wanted badly to touch. To taste. To sample with his aching, hardened manhood.

His arousal made him groan.

Krell moved out of the courtyard and vanished into the darkness, leaving them alone.

The evening fell silent. Tempting wafts of cinnamon and roasting ham carried on the air. Eduard barely
noticed, preferring to imagine the gentle perfume of Ysbet’s neck. The musk of her excitement.

Ysbet’s eyes widened as she realized she had Eduard’s undivided attention.

Her hands lifted, slowly, moving up her flat belly as if to say, See what I offer? See what I have been
trying to give you since I was but a girl?

Why do you turn me away?

Eduard’s mouth ran dry but quickly flooded wet, wishing to taste every inch her fingers covered. The
vision entranced him, rendered him rigid to the point of ripping through his breeches. Duty warred with
desire, but if an executioner had placed him under the blade, Eduard would not have moved his gaze
from the princess.

From the twin swells in her luxurious gown, where her fingers now traveled. Agonizingly slow, up and
around, fanning to cup the ends of her breasts and squeeze.

Eduard moaned.

No woman he had known—and he had known his share—had ever been so bold, and yet so exquisitely
innocent and unspoiled.

Ysbet kept her hands where Eduard longed to put his mouth, and he clenched his teeth.

She held his gaze with wide eyes, then pressed her body forward, into the opening, and touched herself
between her legs.

In that splendid moment, she might well have been naked and performing only for his pleasure. Eduard’s
body tensed. If he gripped himself, he would spend his seed on the courtyard stones.

His hand flexed at his side, and his gaze darted left and right.

They were still alone.

A single squeeze would do it.

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And the princess would see everything.

Her breath made hot halos in the air, and she rubbed up and down once, tilting her head back. Pleasure
radiated from her lovely face.

God’s teeth!

Eduard grabbed his cock through his breeches and pulled, biting back a groan.

Ysbet’s hand moved in circles, picking up speed until she leaned forward, hand on the sill, shaking with
orgasm.

Eduard huffed with surprise, with thrill, and his essence blasted into his breeches.

Eyes closed, he sagged against the courtyard wall. Seconds passed while he attempted to reclaim his
spinning wits.

When he looked up to the window again, Ysbet was gone. Her curtains had been drawn shut.

“What the—” Eduard began, but the murmur of voices in the outer bailey cut him off. Someone was
coming. People Ysbet had seen from her higher vantage point before Eduard realized their approach.

But his breeches…

Eduard surveyed the spreading stain. In a rush, he loosed his tunic sash, letting his long shirt cover the
worst of it.

Several men entered the courtyard, one with unmistakable regal bearing.

“Eduard,” came a cool greeting from across the stones.

Eduard almost dropped where he stood, but he reminded himself that Roland could know nothing of
what just transpired—or Eduard would already be dead.

The king came into view. His powerful gaze fixed on Eduard’s face. “I know you must be seeking your
father’s dinner, but I have need of your time. A strange bird arrived this morn with a message you must
see. We have much to decide, and quickly.”

The king’s gaze flicked the place Ysbet had so recently occupied. “Much, indeed.”

Eduard’s tongue hung sluggish against his teeth, but he forced words into the cool night air. “Y-yes,
Your Majesty.” He let his hand drop to hold his tunic against the stain of his indiscretion. “Of course.”

Chapter 3

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Ysbet’s chest rose and fell fast, like that of a rabbit after sighting a fox. She peeked ’round the thick
curtains at the training yard below. Her father stood by the kitchen door, pole-straight and more stern
than she had ever seen him look. He glanced toward her window, and she withdrew. For a moment.

As she eased back to her vantage point, she saw Eduard bow to his king before rising to attention. His
shoulders made a straight line, squared, accentuating the sharp taper from tunic to breeches. Where only
moments ago, he had flailed himself, let loose his passion for a few brief seconds.

What an incredible sight, his strong face taught with climax. The way his body shuddered.

Ysbet turned her back on the courtyard and leaned against the curtains. Plunging her fingers into her wet
quim, she imagined Eduard pounding his cock again and again while she stroked herself to a second
climax. Orgasm blistered her insides, heating face and skin alike. Ysbet sank to her knees, convulsing,
pushing herself to the next peak, and the next.

She would have Eduard.

What she had seen in the courtyard made that clear.

Collapsing on the hard stone and rushes of her floor, Ysbet brought herself to pleasure once more,
spreading her legs, dreaming of the moment Eduard would thrust inside her.

As the last shocks of her climax faded, she relaxed. Rough straw poked into her skin.

How long could he last?

Would he fuck her on the floor of the training barn?

Perhaps in the woods, with only the pines and oaks for witness?

She closed her eyes.

The beach. Yes.

Or maybe her own bed, if she could tap the rebel’s heart she knew he possessed and convince him to
take the risk. That part of him that was more warrior and more man than any male at Prator.

Ysbet sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. Her body hummed from head to toe. Everything she
had ever wanted dangled just within her grasp, and yet an odd flicker of fear troubled her.

Which was ridiculous.

She frowned.

“I fear nothing,” she said to her empty bedchamber. This was not far from the truth, but still, her heart
had started to beat faster. Not from pleasure.

From the thought of Eduard, passion unbound, fucking her at a time of his own choosing, taking what

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she had so willingly offered.

Would it hurt?

Ysbet bit her lip.

Would he be angry or intrigued?

Both?

Her limbs trembled. Again, not pleasure. Almost a premonition. As if danger lurked just outside the
stone enclosure where she sat.

Getting to her feet, she shook her head. “This is foolish.”

A knock rattled her door.

Ysbet choked a scream.

“Your Highness?”

Ribs aching from the startle, Ysbet recognized the lyrical voice. It was Nallad, her bound servant, come
to make Ysbet’s bed for the evening.

“Come in.” Ysbet managed, annoyed at her own weak tone.

Nallad entered quietly, closing the door behind her.

The familiar sight of Nallad’s dark, statuesque form calmed Ysbet instantly. She let out a long breath,
trying to banish the heady madness of the last few hours while her handmaid smoothed sheets with long,
graceful fingers.

“Tell me, Nallad, do men think of naught but war?”

“Which mon? Your fadder, or your playfancy?” Nallad spoke in musical rhythms, reminiscent of her
distant home. Exotic, like her color. Like the tiny blue half-moon carved into her left cheek.

Ysbet sniffed and fanned her face with her sleeve. “Eduard is no fancy of mine. He is naught but a
boorish cad.”

Nallad plumped a pillow on Ysbet’s bed. “Hmph. A cad wit a face made to kiss.”

“Mind your tongue!” Ysbet feigned outrage, but harbored no surprise when Nallad ignored her. Of all
the castle inhabitants, Nallad alone had that privilege, and the ability to speak her mind with no fear of
Ysbet’s ire.

Ysbet admired Nallad, from her quick good humor to the way she carried her thirty years with beauty
and dignity. Ysbet had long ago noticed that Nallad’s willowy height, ample bosom, and mysterious
appearance turned any head not familiar with her—and many that were.

Nallad had escaped the Romans and found shelter in Camelot like so many before her, but her family

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had perished in their flight. To Ysbet, Nallad had become more a mother than simpering Twyllian. She
was a role model, and the only woman Ysbet wished to emulate as she aged. If indeed, like she
sometimes dreamed, Ysbet was not of her parents’ blood, she secretly wished she was Nallad’s bastard
daughter.

Nallad was sister, friend and confessor. And to Nallad, Ysbet was everything. Ysbet well understood
that. These truths passed between them without mention, but each knew their treasured spot in the
other’s heart.

“Come. To bed wit you.” Nallad held up an embroidered coverlet.

“Bother with bed.” Ysbet twisted a strand of her midnight hair. “I will but toss and thrash.”

Nallad clucked. “Toss and thrash yourself to sleep. Girls need deir rest.”

“I am no girl.”

Nallad smiled, causing Ysbet a stab of humiliation. “Girl, woman, no matter. Best be in this bed when
your fadder checks, lest he wonder who been eyin’ his captain ‘round those curtains.”

Ysbet’s skin caught fire under her fierce blush.

Had Nallad seen…no. Ysbet knew she would have sensed it. She had an uncanny instinct about things
like that. A rudimentary ability to seek truth in the universe—like whether or not people were observing
her. That skill was another of her many talents, which she kept stored in her mind like prized jewels.

Snorting like a wild boar, she snatched the cover from Nallad’s hand. “Very well. Lay me down like a
weanling, to be pampered and tucked tight by her father every eve.”

“Hush.” Nallad kissed her forehead as she settled into the bed. “The night he don’ tuck your blankets be
the night your heart breaks in half. Now, I have to go.”

“Wait.” Ysbet grabbed Nallad’s graceful hand. “I—do you—your husband. Have you good memory of
him?”

Nallad drew back, her face darker than dark in night’s candle-shadows. “Yes, child.”

“Do you miss him still?”

Ysbet heard Nallad’s deep sigh before the woman answered, “Yes. Like he lef’ my side only
yesterday.”

“Have you—was he the only man you ever knew? I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” Nallad put her hands on her hips. “Such questions, about private tings! Before
marriage, still a maiden—playin’ at bein’ a boy in armor today. Child, leave sleeping dragons lie.”

“Nallad, please.”

“Hush, now. You go to sleep.”

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Nallad moved so quickly from the bedside that Ysbet wondered, not for the first time, if the woman
could vanish.

Surely Merlyn hasn’t sole purchase on all the magik in Briton.

Candles winked to darkness, and the sound of a door closing told Ysbet that indeed, Nallad had
departed. She was alone. As always. Left to ponder the growing storm within her.

Must she figure out each step in her life with so little guidance?

“Eternally the child! Mother would have me a babe forever, and Father—yet longer! Have they no eyes
to see my true growth, my true heart?”

My true heart.

Eduard.

Ysbet squeezed her lids closed, trying to banish all images of Eduard’s square jaw and hard-chiseled
arms. She could still see his smirk. His lips, parted. His face close to hers when he swept up from his
mock bow. And then his face, taught at the sight of her in the window.

Bird-flutters began anew in her chest, and Ysbet’s heart beat so hard that the thin fabric of her gown
stirred.

What did he think when he saw me touch myself? By his actions—surely he recognized my womanhood.
I can fill a suit of armor, and this gown, too. Why must I choose?

Her hands cupped the swell of her breasts, and she dared to squeeze them ever so gently, rekindling the
flames in her sensitive quim.

Because I have growth here, and none between my legs, am I not fit to fight? And because I wish to try
my skill at fighting, am I not fit to touch?

Unbidden came an image of Eduard fingering her breasts like she was touching them, and Ysbet
shuddered. Awash in a sweet triumph, a delicious release. His hands would be larger. Stronger. His grip
rougher, with more power. And he would not stop with his hands on her breasts. His lips would press
against hers. She would taste his want for her. His weight would force her into her pillows.

Ysbet arched her back, imagining his power, the heat of his passion, and her own longing nearly
overcame her. Gripping her sheets, she cried out softly into the growing darkness.

Almost immediately, the creak of her chamber door brought Ysbet’s imaginings to a brutal halt. Her
breath came in ragged gasps, and perspiration clung to her face. She mopped her cheeks with her sheet,
all the while trying to appear motionless. Normal. Never had she been so grateful for darkness.

“Daughter?” King Roland’s voice loomed large, even though he whispered. “Are you well?”

“I—I am well, Father.” Ysbet felt her father tug her covers about her shoulders.

“Dream sweetly, my dear.” His lips brushed her damp hair, and he hesitated. “Are you certain you are
well?”

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“Yes. I am only tired.”

“Ah. Yes. Eduard spoke of your day’s mischief.”

Ysbet went rigid. No! He would not—he did not mention the window! No, of course not. He must
mean the training yard, and Krell… Dear, sweet gods. I will lose my mind from this heat.

“Ysbet, you must leave men to their work.” King Roland’s somber tone dug at Ysbet’s belly. “This I
ask, for selfish reasons, because I have no wish to punish you, or restrict your movements about Prator.
It is for your own safety. Women are ill-suited to war’s rigor, or its trappings.”

An icy chill replaced Ysbet’s passion. Her next words came clipped and pointed, even to her own ears.
“Did Eduard ask you to contain me?”

“Did you expect my captain to do less than protect his king’s only beloved child?” Roland paused. “He
pleaded for my intercession, and I granted his request. Cease hounding my knights, child. And cease
your attentions to Eduard.”

“My attentions?” Ysbet sat up so quickly she heard her father step back. “My attentions? That
split-tongued devil-pig!”

“Ysbet!”

“As if I would offer him the barest notice! Hound. Hound from the bowels of—”

“Daughter!” Roland’s hands came to rest on Ysbet’s shoulders. “A man’s head can be turned in many
ways.”

“I shall black both of Eduard’s eyes the next time we meet.” Ysbet slammed her hand against her bed to
illustrate how hard she would strike the knave.

King Roland’s fingers tightened, pressing into her flesh enough to cause pain. “You will not. I forbid it.”

Ysbet frowned at her father. His tone had hardened, like granite beneath a waterfall, and once more she
felt grateful for darkness. There was an odd tension about him tonight, which did nothing to quell her
rage. In fact, her ire increased when she assumed her father thought the worst of her games with Eduard.

“As I requested,” he continued, “you will leave my captain and his charges to their own business. Have I
your understanding and agreement?”

“Father, I—”

“Assent, my daughter.” King Roland’s firm grip on her brooked no further argument. “This matter is not
for debate.”

“I see,” Ysbet snapped. “Yes. Of course. What choice have I, if the mighty Roland would have it so?”

Cloth rustled, and Ysbet wondered if her father had flinched. He hated her anger, and lately, he had
grown less tolerant of her barbs.

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Silence ensued, but King Roland did not leave. In fact, he seemed rooted, as if struck, and considering
something. When at last he spoke, his words seemed calm. Too calm, and too direct.

“Ysbet, you are far more intelligent than most I have known, woman or man. Your knowledge of lore
and medicine—you far outdo even our high druids, much to their consternation.” Roland sighed. “Since
you were but a babe, there has been a—a power about you. To have what you will. And I have done
little to change that. As if I could.”

He paused, but Ysbet said nothing. Her father had never so directly acknowledged her differences
before. He was in the habit of dismissing her dreams and visions, laughing off the strength of her potions
and drafts, disfavoring those who came to her for healing—and now, he was expressing—what?
Admiration? Approval?

She felt a deeper chill.

Something was definitely amiss in the universe.

Roland cleared his throat. No doubt preparing to come to his point, and a difficult point at that.
“Daughter, all of this knowledge and magik aside, you would do well to learn a kinder tongue. No
husband will tolerate what I have allowed.”

Many things Ysbet expected to hear, but her father’s last statement caused her genuine surprise. And a
healthy dose of new anger. She pulled free of her father’s grasp and flopped backward, wishing he
would leave.

“I have ample time to soften my tongue.” Her tone was darker than she intended, but she couldn’t help
herself. “After all, I have no marriage plans.”

King Roland stood. His footsteps echoed as he walked to the door and opened it. Scant candlelight
from the hall outlined his profile, especially the resolute jut of his chin. “When I woke this morning, I was
yet your father, and yet your king. Marriage plans, among many things, are not your decision, and the
time between now and when you will wed may be shorter than you think.”

The door slammed before Ysbet could throw the screaming tantrum swelling at her soul’s center.

What did that mean?

Does he aim to arrange some mockery of vows for me? I would sooner die!

She rolled to her belly to sob out her rage, but her elbow struck something hard and cold beneath her
pillow. Her fingers worked at once to locate the object, and in seconds, she drew it forth.

Tingles ran from her palms, chilling places lately warmed by thoughts of Eduard.

The hard, cold object was Krell’s strange dagger.

The training master’s words echoed in her heart. Thundered through her mind.

When next ye be seeing this knife, don’t be saying a word.

But her father ordered her to stay clear of men’s business. A plate-piercing blade would surely be in that

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category.

Keep her close, I tell ye. Ye be needing her full, bloody bite, unless I miss me guess.

Ysbet glanced once about the dark room, suddenly worried someone might see her. Had old Merlyn
kept some watch on Prator, from wherever he had gone? This would be the sort of thing he revealed,
with a whisper in King Arthur’s ear.

Would Nallad brook a dagger in her girl-child’s bed? Of certain, not.

Nallad often left little bags of this or that under Ysbet’s pillow. Most recently, a small blue cloth full of
purple stems, lance-shaped green leaves with a downy coating, and reddish and yellow flower bits. Dried
mugwort, she had told Ysbet when asked. To ward off the moths.

Nallad had averted her eyes when she said that, but Ysbet had not pressed. Nallad’s people knew
magik older than the forbidden books. If Nallad was working a charm, no doubt it needed to be worked.
Moreover, Nallad would never harm her, of that much Ysbet felt certain.

And Nallad would never leave her a knife.

There was only one explanation then. Krell had snuck into Ysbet’s chamber and left it. The man was
mad. He had to be.

Ysbet slowed her heart by force of will, and brought her breathing back to steady. She eased the knife
back beneath the pillow, this time into the folds of cloth wrapping the pillow’s feathers. It should be
hidden there, until…until… Ye be needing her full, bloody bite.

“Stop this,” Ysbet told herself aloud.

I will forget the blade for now. No better choice to make. Forget it, and sleep.

As if sleep would come to her this night.

She huddled against her pillows, pulled the covers tight around her neck, and closed her eyes. Her hand
slipped under the pillow where the knife lay hidden, and her fingers found Nallad’s cloth and the bits of
mugwort.

The rough clippings brought her some comfort.

If this is a charm, she thought sleepily, let it help me now, when most I need it .

No sooner had the thought formed than dizziness swept over Ysbet like a black fog, and—

Ysbet walked in a meadow strange to her, at nigh on daybreak. Pink clouds skittered above her, moving
too quickly. Wet grass chilled her bare feet. The air smelled of strange, bitter spice, and a cool breeze
prickled her skin.

Somehow, she knew she was far from Prator, but the thought did not disturb her. She had seen this
place before, at other times, in other visions and dreams. Cumbria, perhaps. Or the Caledoninan Wood,

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or maybe even Glascow. And she had a purpose. A mission.

This freakish dawn, she would not fail.

A bird fluttered in a nearby tree, and Ysbet glanced at it.

An owl’s ghostly face gazed back at her, yellow eyes wide and searching.

She shivered.

The thing seemed more spirit than fowl, but Ysbet knew it was the kind of owl that lived in the rafters of
the stables or the training barn. Wherever men lived, yet always out of man’s reach and rhythm.

Odd that the little specter chose to fly in daylight. And to watch her, as if it were seeing for someone
else. And to use those all-too-sensitive ears to track her every heartbeat and thought.

Cold premonition stabbed Ysbet’s heart, and she hurried on her way, toward a mud and thatch hut
almost hidden at the edge of a great forest. Vines wound over the cabin like a roof, and massive, dark
tree trunks crowded it back, to keep her from seeing it.

The hut had no windows, and a wooden door hung loosely hinged, waiting for her to open it. A single
plume of smoke rose from a stone chimney—the source of the bitter spice, and the only part of the hut
still standing straight after the ravages of time.

Heart fluttering in protest, Ysbet reached out, clasped the door’s smooth, ancient wood, and pulled it
open.

“GET OUT OF HERE, GIRL!”

A voice—so loud it threw her toward the meadow.

Ysbet hit the ground on her backside. Hard. But she felt no pain. This caused her wonder, but only until
a blinding light filled the hut’s uneven doorway.

“As if you would have sense enough to notice pain, even if I wished it on you.”

The voice was calmer now. Not so threatening.

Ysbet squinted at the light, and through the glare, she made out a man’s naked form.

A splendid man. A god. Tall, over six feet. Perhaps over six and half. Blond like the men from above the
sea, but not slight and wiry like men of height so often were. This one was heavily muscled and
well-endowed. He was looking at her kindly, without desire, like a father might survey his offspring at
play.

A smile played on Ysbet’s lips, and she wondered if this man’s cock was smaller or larger than
Eduard’s.

As if hearing her thoughts, the man covered himself with his great hands.

“Mind your thoughts. I am old enough to be your grandsire, twice removed!”

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“You look no more than thirty seasons.” Ysbet heard herself say. “Thirty-five at the most.”

“A cruel trick of fate,” the voice muttered. And indeed, it sounded irritable in the way only an old man
can be irritable. “Go home, chit. There is nothing for you here.”

Without knowing why, Ysbet said, “I have come for answers, from one who walks time backward. I
know I am not Roland’s daughter. Tell me who I am, Myrddin.”

White light blared from the hut, causing Ysbet to scream and cover her face.

“YOU DARE CALL MY TRUE NAME?”

A wind howled through the meadow, growing into a roar. Ysbet huddled on the ground, gripped with
terror. The wind charged toward her. Lifted her up. Higher. Higher. Until she hovered eye-level with the
ancient Lailoken.

“If you do not tell me who I am,” she whispered, “I shall find my answers elsewhere.”

At this, Lailoken, known to some as Myrddin, and yet to others as Merlyn, hesitated. The concern on
his old-yet-youthful face was unmistakable.

Ysbet pressed her advantage. “I have studied the old scrolls. I know who to ask.”

Merlyn raised his great hands and pushed the wind away from him. Ysbet’s belly fell like a stone while
she flew, like the ghostly owl, pumping its wings just outside the maelstrom.

In the distance, the wizard’s loud voice followed.

“BY THE OLD GODS. YOU ARE YOUR FATHER’S DAUGHTER!”

Ysbet sat bolt upright, heart pounding. A light film of sweat covered her face and chest. Near to
screaming, she leaped from her bed and stood in the shadows, panting.

What in the name of fate did that dream mean?

Was it some figment of bad food?

“It was real. It was real!” She rubbed her chest.

And my lifelong fears and hopes are made true. I am not Roland’s daughter or Twyllian’s spawn.

But, then, who am I?

And the voices of the druids and old believers answered in her mind, as they had so many times when
she crossed their paths.

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Cursed.

You are cursed.

Your only identity. As always has been, and always will be.

Ysbet rubbed the side of her head as if to force the reality away. The libraries. Yes. She would go to the
scrolls and study what she had seen. Make real her threat to the old wizard. If she learned of other
beings older and more powerful than Merlyn, they might be more willing than he to strike a deal.

But, in truth, what creature held more strength than Arthur’s former counsel?

Ysbet’s mind rifled through a dozen potions and drafts she might brew. Some would enhance her
second sight. Others might calm her nerves and bring sleep. But she knew that she wanted only one thing,
in truth. And that was the comfort of her soul’s mother.

Nallad.

Keeping her steps light and quiet, Ysbet stole from her room and down the keep stairwell to the lower
sections of Prator.

Nallad’s room lay in the far left section, and Ysbet passed guard after guard as she hurried toward her
destination. The soldiers didn’t glance at her in her nightclothes, because such was not allowed.

Half-stumbling and still breathing hard from the fright of her dream, Ysbet pushed open Nallad’s
door—and found the handmaid’s small room empty. The shutters on Nallad’s courtyard window stood
open, and Ysbet hurried to look outside.

When she reached the sill, she caught a flicker of movement toward the common baths. Ysbet squinted
into the darkness, barely able to discern Nallad’s graceful form slipping through the bath doorway.

Odd. Very late for washing. Perhaps she, too, had some unusual vision?

Without reservation, Ysbet climbed out of the window and picked her way across the dark courtyard.

The common bath was a long square building with wooden walls and a roof of thatch. Underground
springs provided three warm pools for the servants and soldiers to soak away the day’s toil, and the
stores were always stocked with scented cleansing oils and soft cloth towels. Nobles rarely ventured into
the baths, as they had their own private tubs and wellsprings, but Ysbet had been inside a few times to
help Nallad replenish the oils.

Senses on high from her dream, Ysbet moved cautiously through the main door.

Mist rose off the naturally heated waters, filling the bath with a light steam scented with eucalyptus and
mint. Ysbet blinked and rubbed her eyes. She was about to call out for Nallad when she heard a sound
she didn’t expect.

Kissing—followed by sharp moans of passion.

Ysbet’s mouth dropped open.

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Her first thought was to turn and leave, but curiosity quickly defeated good sense and discretion.

Heart surging, Ysbet stole to her left and slipped between the wall and the large shelf where oils and
towels were stored. She made her way down the length of the shelf toward the noises in the far
pool—which grew louder and more frenzied with each passing moment.

“By the fates, I have missed you.” Nallad’s voice carried through the light fog. “Yes. There. Ah, yes.”

Ysbet’s cheeks burned, but she had to see whom Nallad chose for her pleasure.

A man’s guttural purr gave Ysbet shivers.

Trembling, Ysbet reached the end of the shelf and peered toward the nearby pool.

Mists swirled and parted, then swirled again.

Ysbet saw Nallad’s clothing in a heap on the ground. Nallad herself leaned on the edge of the pool, half
submerged in the waist-deep water. Her head titled back, and her eyes were closed. The half-moon
etching on her face glittered in the low torchlight, seeming larger, and Ysbet saw other markings on her
bare chest, between her breasts. The markings looked like a small star, or a sun. Perhaps both
interlocked.

A tawny-haired man suckled the other breast with obvious delight. Ysbet could see his profile, but the
mists obscured the detail of his face.

Nallad moaned and stroked his head. “Do not make me wait, mon barbare . I beg you.”

The man pulled away from Nallad’s breast, and for a moment, stood without moving. Nallad gazed at
him with love and passion. Her dark fingers brushed his pale, muscled shoulder, and he seized her and
lifted her up.

She gasped as he settled her against him, and with a jolt, Ysbet realized the man had entered Nallad.

Ysbet gulped. She knew she should leave, but her feet felt rooted to the spot. Every nerve in her body
came to life, and her quim began a raging ache as Nallad moved slowly up and down on the man’s staff.

Nallad’s arms held him tight about the neck. “ Cherie. Mon barbare!”

Water sloshed around them as they fucked, slowly at first, then faster and harder. Nallad bounced
against the man. Her forceful groans filled the misty air, blending with the man’s lustful growls.

Ysbet’s hands found her own breasts, and she squeezed her nipples through her night tunic.

Gasping and murmuring in her strange tongue, Nallad let go of the man, reached behind her, and braced
her hands against the pool’s rim. Her dark breasts, ebony tips beaded with arousal, rocked as the man
gripped her buttocks and doubled the power of his strokes.

It took a great force of will for Ysbet not to turn loose her own moans as the scene unfolded before her.
These were lovers who knew each other well. Their movements were sure and fluid, and their pleasure
flowed like the water around them.

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Unable to bear the throb between her legs, Ysbet pressed her wet clit and rubbed it furiously. The
muscles in her legs pulled and tensed, and she feared she would fall. Still, she pounded herself with the
same rhythm the man in the pool kept as he fucked Nallad.

Ysbet’s belly caught fire. She came in seconds, twitching and biting her lip.

In the pool, Nallad bucked and moaned anew, shaking with her own climax.

The man slowed his strokes, then stopped.

Nallad climbed from the pool and lay on her back, and the man got out behind her. As he turned, Ysbet
could see him more clearly.

Krell!

Ysbet’s flush doubled, then trebled. She had never considered Krell in a sexual way before, but she
could scarce avoid that now. He was unusually well-endowed, his body even more sculpted by muscle
than Ysbet had realized.

Handsome bastard.

Nallad opened her legs and spoke again in the language Ysbet did not know.

Krell seemed to understand her. His massive hands massaged her thighs as he sank down between her
legs. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known,” he told her in a voice more smooth and
kind than Ysbet expected.

To her further surprise, Nallad laughed. “Dis from one who bedded a queen. The False Gwenhwyfar.
Now I know you be tellin’ sweet lies.”

Krell hoisted himself over her, then slipped his massive cock into her waiting quim. “Aye. Lygnel was
fair. But you—you warm me heart.”

And with that, he drove against Nallad, who raised her hips to receive him. Ysbet could see her dark
folds glisten as Krell’s length slid in and out.

This time, it took only moments for their coupling to grow forceful and fast.

Ysbet chewed her lip harder. Her fingers jammed against her aching clit, and as she rubbed, again her
breath kept rhythm with Krell’s deep thrusts. What would it be like to feel Eduard inside her like that? To
be fucked like Nallad, spread wide beside a warm, fragrant pool.

Would she moan so? Would her body pulse with pleasure-filled spasms?

Orgasm after orgasm shook Ysbet, and by the time Nallad screamed with release, Ysbet could take no
more. She forced her hands away from her drenched quim, straightened her tunic, and crept back down
the length of the shelf.

To the bath’s door.

Out, into the courtyard.

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Ysbet’s knees felt weak. Her belly churned with guilt over spying on Nallad and sharing the older
woman’s pleasure, even from afar. More than anything, though, Ysbet’s heart tore with want for Eduard.
She could barely think past the images she had just seen, and the fantasy of substituting herself and
Eduard for Nallad and Krell in those positions—until she reached her chamber door.

At that moment, Ysbet finally processed what Krell had said to Nallad. About Lygnel. And what Nallad
had said to him, about bedding queens.

“Lygnel,” Ysbet murmured. “As in Mordred’s Lygnel. God’s ghost! Did Krell bed the Dark Prince’s
wife?”

For certain, I have sorely underestimated that man. There is more to Davyd Krell than I yet understand.

And then she wondered something else.

What did Krell have to do, to exact a reward so splendid?

No sooner had the thought formed than Ysbet dismissed it. A cold pain formed in her core, and she
folded her arms around herself and sank into her bed.

Chapter 4

After the debacle of the window, Eduard avoided Ysbet for two full days.

On the third afternoon, he took himself to the woods at midday. To his private place, a clearing on the
edge of Prator’s ample west field and rushing stream. The air smelled fresh there. No traces of hay or
sweat. No horse dung or bellowing training master. Only the light scent of pine, moss, and clear water
over rocks. With a strong breeze, the sea would have made her presence known; however, this warm
day, there were few breezes.

Eduard stripped off his training mail and undergarments and dove into the river’s chill. His breath left him
in a rush, and he experienced a brief moment of relief from his endless desires for the princess. The icy
waters soothed his swollen passions—but only until he left the frigid bath.

No sooner had he climbed back to the river’s bank than his body began torturing him again. Beyond
frustrated, Eduard sank to the ground and lay naked in the cool, whispering grass.

The air’s kiss did nothing to ease his pain.

His body had been naught but misery since he had seen Ysbet’s show in her window. His thoughts had

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been little better. A mere jumble—from that shock, and the shock of Roland’s later revelations.

A falcon had come from the mainland, from enemies they thought long dead or distracted. The bird had
carried a dread message—Saxon threats and rhetoric—and an unthinkable proposition.

Surely Roland would never agree to such barbaric demands.

Arthur’s Men had little in Prator, but they had one another, and their proud heritage, and their hopes for
the future.

What the Saxons wanted would strip them of all three, and any sense of dignity.

With a loud sigh, Eduard shoved such bleak thoughts from his mind. He had come here to relax.

And he had come here to determine his next course of action with Ysbet. After all, he could not avoid
the princess forever. The only reason he had been fortunate enough to do so was that Ysbet had taken ill.
Nothing serious, Nallad had assured him. Only a wicked dream that upset her delicate balance.

Or perhaps the dream Ysbet had in her window, before ever daring to sleep…

Eduard sighed again.

It would be better if he could go on avoiding Ysbet. Perhaps if he enticed a serving woman to relieve the
pressure in his loins—but, no. Who but Ysbet could ease his longing?

He was lost.

What kind of fool was I, to play her window games?

Even at the thought, Eduard hardened. The vision of Ysbet, her nipples dark against her soft gown,
touching herself so intimately…

“Merciful gods.” Eduard ground his teeth. If he could have his way, he would seek out the wench, royal
or not, throw her down, and show her what it meant to tease a man so.

Her skin would smell of milk and ginger, like a proper lady. And her quim would be clean and fresh,
unspoiled by any man’s touch.

She would be so tight. So wet. Her spirit and strength would have out in her passion.

He could almost see Ysbet’s face, flushed and surprised. Angry, yet desiring. And her nipples, they
would fill his hands and mouth. How he would make her ache for him before he entered her. How she
would beg!

His teeth, nibbling her pearl-white flesh. His tongue on the beaded ends of her breasts, inside the wet
curls between her legs. Her moan of pleasure when he slid his throbbing manhood to her quim…

Eduard’s erection reached full height, stretching for the clouds.

Lost in his fantasy, he took himself in one hand and began a slow rub. Imagining Ysbet, stretched
beneath him, crying out while he fucked her—

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And then more fingers gripped his cock.

Gentle fingers. Smaller than his.

Eduard’s eyes flew open.

Ysbet’s fascinated expression came into focus.

Her full lips parted in a half-smile, and her green eyes blazed with curiosity. She was dressed in simple
purple gown typical to Prator’s noblewomen, with a thin white scarf hanging low about her shoulders.
The Pendragon crest held it firmly in place, but the clasp did not hide the perfect swell of her cleavage.

Ginger and lemon filled Eduard’s senses.

“Do not fear,” she said in a voice both girl and woman at once. “’Tis only the bitch pup. Prator’s
unworthy heir.”

Damn! This is no fantasy!

He tried to sit up, but Ysbet squeezed his manhood so hard he flopped back, grunting.

Ysbet’s eyes widened as she eased the pressure, but she kept her hold. Sliding her fingers up and down,
light as the wind itself.

“Do not move,” she whispered. “Give me a chance to change your mind about my worth—and my
dog’s status. Let me finish what you started. ”

“You cannot.” Eduard resisted and surrendered in the same moment. Even as he spoke, his lids closed
of their own volition.

I have gone completely mad!

But the sweet clutch of her hand on his rigid cock overpowered him.

In seconds, her lips brushed his mouth, and he groaned.

“Ysbet. You must stop.” He forced his eyes open and reached for her arm, but she evaded him and
once more doubled the pressure on his swollen staff. “Ah, damnation, woman!”

“Stop resisting, or I shall break it off at the root.” Her voice turned husky, and Eduard saw the flush in
her creamy cheeks. “And I would truly hate to do that. Close your eyes and pretend you have passed
into the Gray Realm. The world of sleep. Or perchance stumbled into a faerie circle, to be enchanted.”

Biting back a yelp of pain, Eduard complied and lay still.

Ysbet’s grip went from hellish to heavenly.

Her fingers stroked him from moist tip to tender sac—which she paused to handle. Slowly. Before
returning to her deliberate, soft assault on his shaft.

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“It is larger than Merlyn’s,” she said, and Eduard wondered if he heard her correctly.

What in Arthur’s name was she talking about?

Before he could ask, she added, “I have dreamed so often of touching you. Have you had similar
fantasies?”

Eduard hesitated, more certain than ever of his slipping sanity.

Ysbet’s velvet lips brushed one of his nipples. Bolts of pleasure rocked Eduard’s body, even as her
moving hand brought him to the very edge of relief—and paused. “Tell me, Eduard. The truth. Have you
wanted to fuck me?”

“I—I—yes, curse you. Please, do not stop.”

Ysbet’s release of breath sounded like a sigh from Earth herself. Eduard burned as she pumped his
straining cock again with that silken touch. Exploring, yet following his need like she lived in his very
mind.

“I want to see you climax.” Her voice was honeymeade to his dry soul. “Only this time, I want to bring
you delight. Does this please you?”

Eduard’s body tensed. He dug at the grass, fearful of causing her to squeeze him too hard again—or
worse yet, causing her to stop.

“Ysbet. Devyl take me. Ysbet!”

And with that, he emptied himself like a pent volcano, molten white.

Incredibly, Ysbet’s face showed no revulsion. Only curiosity, and innocent joy. Her full lips parted in a
smile, and she rubbed his shaft with both hands until his eruption finished. With whisper soft kisses, she
cleaned the fluids from his legs and belly.

Surprise upon surprise.

Did nothing daunt her?

Her spirit was enough to make him thicken again, though he aimed for Ysbet not to realize her absolute
power over his flesh.

She sat up and leaned forward to kiss him, her damp hands light against his bare chest.

Eduard’s dazed senses drank in her fresh ginger-lemon scent, the softness of her lips on his. The spark
within his soul ignited, and his male instincts caught fire.

For a few blissful moments, he didn’t care that someone might happen upon them, finding a naked guard
captain being slowly driven mad by a fully clothed princess.

In seconds he held Ysbet firmly by the shoulders, deepening their kiss. She didn’t struggle. On the
contrary, she leaned into him with a groan of delight.

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Of surrender.

Eduard took the control she abdicated, sitting up and pulling her to him. He claimed her mouth with a
passion close to fury—and Ysbet tensed.

He realized he was gripping her too hard. Moving too fast.

Cursing himself, nearly shaking with the force of his wanting, he eased his hold on her. She stayed close
to him, but her chest heaved, and her eyes were wide.

Ysbet was afraid.

This woman was a virgin. And a young, protected virgin at that. She thought she wanted the unbridled
love of a man—but she did not know what she was asking. Eduard could not let himself forget her
innocence again, despite her bold moves.

“You are not ready for this,” he muttered.

Ysbet’s already colored cheeks went a deep red, and she stiffened in his embrace. “How can you say
that? After—after—I cannot believe you have such nerve.”

“I have not half your nerve.” Eduard heard his own playful tone, understanding too late that it would
infuriate Ysbet.

Her deep green eyes blazed, and Eduard pulled her close again. She fought him, but with half a heart.

He held her against his aching body and kissed her ginger-scented hair. So soft. She was so incredibly
soft.

“Forgive me.” He spoke in her ear, rewarded by her involuntary shudder. “I do not mean to anger you.
Or hurt you. Or give in to my desires, no matter how great, until I know your mind and body are truly
ready for a man’s love.”

For a moment, Ysbet held still against him.

Eduard feared she was tuning for a major outburst, but instead, he felt her lips on his neck, and heard
her lyrical voice in his ear.

“I understand. But as usual, you underestimate me, Captain.”

Chapter 5

Ysbet’s heart hammered in her throat, but she made her words sound firm. “You always underestimate

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me.”

Eduard’s chest was hard like she imagined, and yet infinitely softer. His male scent of leather and barely
washed sweat excited her, as did the salty smell and taste of his seed. Eduard’s nipple had rested firm
and hard in her mouth, never mind his stiff cock in her hand. Sweet gods, but she wanted him inside her.

And yet the wildness of his emotion, the strength in his embrace—he had frightened her.

Damn him for sensing that.

Damn him for stopping.

Could he not tell how much she wanted him?

“If I have underestimated you, I apologize.” His black eyes flashed. Anger. Desire. Challenge.

Ysbet leaned away from him and removed the clasp on her scarf. It fell away, showing Eduard bare
shoulders and cleavage.

“Prove you are sorry,” she demanded.

Eduard’s surprise and approval became apparent in his hungry stare.

With one finger, he traced the neckline of her simple dress, sending shivers down her spine when he
reached the dip between her breasts.

Keeping his gaze locked with hers, Eduard bent down and kissed where his fingers had traveled. His lips
pressed strong and moist against her skin, and Ysbet’s nipples ached for his mouth.

“Yes,” she sighed as he kept up his teasing kiss-and-touch.

At the very moment she wished for him to rip her gown from her body and kiss her everywhere, Eduard
caught her breast through the soft layers of fabric and squeezed.

Ysbet groaned and put her hand over his. She pressed down, begging for more. Her nipple strained
against his palm, even through the gown, undergown, girdle and corse. Eduard found the rock-hard swell
and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger once.

“Do you like that?” he asked, half-serious, half-mocking.

When it became obvious Eduard would not continue until she answered, Ysbet moaned. “Yes. And you
are terrible to taunt me so.”

“One good taunt deserves another.” He pinched her nipple again, then continuously while he kissed her.
Deeper. Ever deeper, until that same wild passion gripped him once more.

This time, Ysbet felt no fear. Only a wish to be naked, to be beneath him, taking whatever he had to
offer.

But Eduard made no effort to disrobe her.

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Instead, he laid her down in the soft grass, moved his attentions to her other breast, and tortured her
through the fabric and cloth.

Ysbet thought to ask him for what she wanted aloud, but her ability to form words had deserted her, at
least for the moment. Heat flared between her legs. Heat like she had never known, and her dampness
soaked through her gown’s muslin.

Eduard’s kisses burned her lips, her neck, and the dip in her cleavage. He fastened his lips over her
nipple, and moisture from his mouth drenched through her dress to her sensitive skin.

She cried out and thrust her breast higher, wishing he would tear the barriers away. “I want you to touch
me. Please, Eduard. Please!”

Eduard groaned and ran his hand across her belly and down, between her legs, searing her through her
gown. She bucked against the pressure of his fingers, wanting his skin on hers so badly she could scream.

He tugged at the cloth, moving it up until he slipped his hand beneath it, all the while kissing her,
capturing her attention so that she never knew exactly what he was doing—until he loosened her girdle.

The warmth of his hand pressed against her hip, scalding her like flaming oil.

Thank the stars.

Ysbet gasped when he slid his fingers over, toward her quim, into her wet curls. “Please, do not tease
me!”

For a moment, Eduard lingered and stroked the pelt between her legs. “You are so soft. Here.
Everywhere.”

The arousal in his voice gave Ysbet more shivers of delight, and when he dropped his fingers into her
slippery quim, she spread her legs and cried out with relief and renewed wanting.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, massaging her swollen center firmly but gently.

Ysbet’s voice deserted her again. She could do nothing but move beneath his circling touch. Nothing but
arch her hips to meet him while he left a thumb on her tender clit and plunged two fingers into the heat of
her wet core.

No sensation had ever thrilled her like that.

Eduard rumbled his own opinion, delving into her deeper. “Tight. Just for me. This is only for me.”

“Yes. Sweet gods, yes!” Ysbet rushed toward the summit. She wanted to prolong the erotic perfection
of Eduard’s hand inside her. Eduard’s thumb deftly pressing her swollen, sensitive bud. But she could no
more slow down her climax than stop an onrushing tide.

Heat flooded her, and her body shook with the power of her orgasm. She clenched against Eduard’s
fingers, and he pumped into her quim harder and faster, drawing out her pleasure until she screamed with
a second orgasm, and a third.

His lips brushed her cheeks, her mouth, her forehead while he brought her down, slowly, softly, slipping

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his fingers out and cupping her sex until the last aftershock left her limp against him.

“Do not move your hand,” she pleaded. “Do not ever move your hand.”

But Eduard did move, only moments later.

In seconds, he freed himself from the many layers of her woman’s clothes and brought his fingers to his
mouth to taste her juices.

Ysbet’s cheeks warmed when her intimate smell filled the air between them, but Eduard smiled. “Your
scent, your taste—every inch of you is splendid, and we have only begun to discover each other.”

“Discover more,” she murmured, and pulled him down to kiss her.

At that instant, a horse whinnied in the woods nearby.

Eduard froze.

Ysbet’s heart crashed against her ribs.

Someone was coming!

With a masterful twist of his arms, Eduard let go and leaped away, crouching like a beast ready to spring
to protect his mate at all costs. His eyes held a feral gleam, and he seemed aware of nothing but the
approaching horses.

Ysbet, however, sensed no danger for herself. Instead, the seriousness of Eduard’s peril slammed her
full force.

If the neighing horse bore her father, and Roland found them together like this, Eduard would be put to
death where he knelt.

Her spent muscles rebelled, but she forced herself to her feet.

“Go.” She pointed to the river.

Eduard tore his eyes from the trees and looked at her as if she were daft.

“If we are found together, my father will have you killed!” Ysbet pointed to the water again. “Go.
Pretend to bathe!”

Awareness at last penetrated Eduard’s protective frenzy. As Ysbet suggested, he rushed to the stream
and plunged into the waiting eddies.

Dry-mouthed, belly fluttering, Ysbet snatched up her scarf and clasp and fled into the trees. At first, she
ran pell-mell, looking neither left nor right. Branches smacked her cheeks. Vines snatched at her ankles
before her better sense reclaimed her mind.

If I do not use my wits, I shall run headlong into those I flee.

She slowed her step and gathered herself, forcing her breath to cooperate. Her panting subsided, and

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her unusually keen hearing picked up several horses, far to her left and closing on the clearing.

Probably perimeter guards, returning to exchange with the afternoon watch.

Her second sense, that frighteningly accurate instinct she had carried since childhood, confirmed this.

The knots in her belly untied.

I am safe. Eduard is safe.

A searching father—that would have been catastrophe. But two tired soldiers, she could handle them
easily.

With determined speed and stealth, Ysbet headed right and away from the horses, as far into the forest
as she could go, until she broke out on the far Scilly cliffs, by the break of the sea.

The spray of the surf caught her by surprise when it blasted over the edge of the overlook and bathed
her with brine and mist.

She looked down at her spattered gown and laughed in spite of her tension.

“Nature provides.”

Another wave broke against the rocks, and another rain of sea foam completed the pattern. The wet
marks on her gown blended completely with the sea’s kiss, obscuring the places Eduard’s mouth had
been. Her appearance would pass casual scrutiny, and probably hard examination. Not that anyone
would check her so closely.

Ysbet calmly straightened her hair, then refastened her shoulder scarf.

After watching the ocean’s afternoon play for a time, she started for home. Still mindful of the wet ache
between her legs—but much more mindful of the risk to Eduard of satisfying that ache.

I had to have been daft, to tempt him to ravage me in broad daylight—in the woods, no less!

But coming upon him like that, in the clearing, while she had been gathering plants for salves and
ointments…

Eduard, aroused and naked, hand on his cock, in such obvious need of her touch.

Ysbet could not have resisted taking action. Sweet action.

Her nipples began to ache, but Ysbet folded her arms across her chest while she walked. Even if she
found Eduard poised to fuck her around the next corner, she could not put him at such risk again.

There had to be another way. A saner way.

What am I thinking, to gamble his life for a moment’s pleasure?

Her guilt grew with every step, warring with her desire and driving it back.

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She really had risked Eduard’s life. His life. And to fuck him, no matter how delicious—the
consequences outweighed even the most exquisite pleasure she might imagine.

And it would be exquisite.

How can I be so selfish?

Ysbet bit her lip.

In the distance, men’s voices and laughter wound through the trees, from the clearing. Eduard had no
doubt won the soldiers easily, and no one suspected his earlier activity.

For a moment, she was tempted to loop back for one last glance at his chiseled, naked form—but, no.
She had to behave in a sensible fashion.

Prator lay just ahead, on the other side of the trees.

Ysbet hurried forward, but the tree-break eluded her. She quickened her step—to no avail. For every
stride she took, the pines and rowans seemed to take two.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered in the silence. “Trees cannot walk. I must have taken a strange turn.”

As if in response, a lacy fog rose from the ground and swirled about her ankles. Ysbet broke into a run,
casting about for familiar sights. A known tree. A recognizable boulder. The forest yielded nothing.

This is absurd! I know this island like I know my own name!

But Ysbet could have sworn she had never seen this part of the woods before. Ancient trees towered
above her, filtering the sun. Rocks the size of horses blocked her way and turned her left, right, then left
again, until she stumbled into a clearing she knew she had never traversed.

Sun broke through the impossibly high treetops, but the air’s chill deepened until Ysbet could see the
plumes of her breath. Strange spice burned her nose as the fog cleared to reveal grass green as polished
emerald.

Ysbet realized she was standing on a small knoll surrounded by huge mushrooms. Flat white tops
stretched in a great circle, closing her in. While she stared, the mushrooms flared like torches and began
to glow yellow-gold.

“A faerie circle.” Ysbet turned full around. “And I crossed inside without tromping a single stalk.”

But faeries long ago left Briton, along with elves, dwarves, and all the fair folke in between. Too many
men. Too much trouble. At least that was Krell’s loudly-voiced opinion, and King Roland had
concurred.

Only wizards remained, and even they had been scarce since Arthur’s death and Merlyn’s
disappearance into the Crystal Cave. It had been so long since anyone saw old magik that Prator’s
children thought it the stuff of tales and myths.

“Do I seem like myth to you?” asked a deep, resonant voice from behind Ysbet.

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A woman’s voice.

Ysbet startled so badly she almost sat right down on the hill. Forcing her knees to cooperate, she spun
around to find the source of the sound—and nearly sat down again.

The woman stood taller than Ysbet by head and shoulders, and an energy radiated around her like a
blue mist.

Her slender but ample body shone through a sheer black tunic belted at the waist by what looked like
green vine and silver leaves. Black hair the color of a starless sky spilled across her shoulders, and her
wide green-gold eyes slanted toward her delicate nose. Her lips were slight, but the color of bruised
roses. And her ears—her ears rose to a fine, sharp point.

Fey. One of the fair folke!

The woman’s thin lips pulled back to reveal perfect teeth, white like sun-bleached bones. “I asked you a
question, Ysbet of Prator. Do I seem like myth to you?”

“N-No.” Ysbet’s voice wavered. She had been taught since she was naught but a babe—never speak
to the fair folke, even if they spoke to her. But this woman’s presence consumed all air and space. She
was so beautiful Ysbet wanted to touch her—but such thoughts! She had to keep a grip on her wits.

Fair folke could be treacherous. They spoke in riddles and double meanings, and came to humans only
with fey purpose at heart.

The woman smiled at Ysbet. “Caution is always wise when dealing with one older and more powerful
than yourself. A lesson you would do well to learn.”

The sound of the fey voice slid through Ysbet like a quiet shiver. Part of her wanted to ignore those
musical, enchanting notes. Yet part of her wanted to taste the woman’s purple-red lips.

Steady.Ysbet bit her tongue to bring herself back to reality. Her heartbeat rattled her throat, and her
hands clenched and unclenched. Who was this lovely, treacherous creature? What was she—and what
purpose brought her to Prator’s forest?

“Many of the fair races live here, and on the other scattered isles.” The woman approached with graceful
strides, floating more than walking. “As for me, my name is Modron, though your ancestors found
Morgain more suitable. Witch, faerie, sorceress, goddess—what I am puzzles even my own kindred.”

Morgain? Sweet gods. Arthur’s bane.

Though Nallad fiercely argued that point.

The Modron is not evil, Nallad had insisted many times. Nor did she oppose your cousin. Dese tings
we heard much of, even as slaves. Modron, she be about her own business, is all. Just because she
don’ hop when a body calls on her…

Ysbet reined back her jittering nerves and lifted her eyes. “What do you want with me?”

Morgain tilted her beautiful head. “Ah. Courage. You will need much of that in the days to come.” She
reached out one graceful hand and stroked Ysbet’s cheek.

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To Ysbet’s great shame, her body responded with a deep, aching want.

What is wrong with me? I love Eduard.The force of that realization struck her so hard she wanted to
wail. I love him!

“Of course you do.” Morgain’s nimble fingers caressed Ysbet’s ear and neck. “He is a fortunate man,
though men seldom realize their bounty.”

Lost in Morgain’s sensual touch, Ysbet could not respond.

Morgain’s hand dropped lower, stroking Ysbet’s breasts until Ysbet’s nipples grew hard as field stones.
And then her clothes were gone. Simply gone. She was standing naked before the woman rumored to
rule the faerie kingdom with a merciless hand.

Merciless hand. Merciless hands…Ysbet’s mind swam even as her body burned.

“The superstitious ones have called you cursed. I think you bear great blessing. And now you know the
truth of why I often ignored Arthur.” Morgain continued to touch Ysbet like no human had touched her
before, squeezing her bare nipples until Ysbet groaned with dizzy excitement. “He was a man, and I have
little use for men beyond a moment’s quick pleasure. You, however, have grown to a splendid young
woman. Eduard will soon delight in your perfection.”

Ysbet knew she should feel shame or fear, but neither emotion troubled her. Instead, joy rushed through
her at Morgain’s words. Soon. Eduard would soon delight in her—and she in him.

But this—this touching was wrong. She had to stop it. Her will rose up, but fell back like a bested
knight.

“Do not struggle.” Morgain’s smile dazzled through the semi-darkness. “No human can resist the fair
folke, sweet Ysbet. Even those of mingled lines. But you, even less than most, owe no apologies for
taking pleasure where you find it. Have you not realized the truth of your blood?”

The woman’s hands moved down, between Ysbet’s legs. Ysbet bit back a cry of delight even as her
mind churned.

Truth of my blood?

“Yes.” Morgain played in Ysbet’s wetness, against a swollen center seemingly the size of an apple. The
fey woman’s hands were solid heat against Ysbet’s liquid ache, killing her with each stroke. “Surely you
know you are no child of Roland’s.”

“Ahh.” Ysbet managed, thrusting her hips forward. She felt too dizzy to think, but Morgain kept talking.

“Fey, but not fey. Fair, but not fair folke.” Morgain traced molten circles between Ysbet’s legs, grasping
one throbbing nipple at the same time. Her pinch was rough, yet soft. Perfect. And perfectly timed.

Ysbet screamed as she climaxed. Flashes of light blinded her, and her knees gave. Yet she didn’t fall. In
her dizzy, drunken state, she felt like she was floating.

Morgain’s mouth seemed to be everywhere, suckling her breasts, nibbling her neck, tasting the nectar of

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her excitement. Before she could make another sound, Ysbet succumbed to a second violent orgasm.
Her body thrashed in Morgain’s arms, and then seemed to sink back to Earth.

Warm, soft grass brushed her feet.

When Ysbet’s vision cleared, she saw that Morgain was naked, too. And the woman’s body was
indeed fair. Youthful and supple. Timeless, and shining with the silvery light of her magik. Three blue
marks twinkled, two from the center of her chest, and one from her belly.

As Ysbet stared, the symbols seemed to grow and flare, then fade—but not before Ysbet discerned
them. Star and sun, interlinked between Morgain’s breasts. Moon, with beams reaching, etched on her
smooth stomach.

The smell of cinnamon rose through the clearing, mingling with pungent, sweet spices Ysbet had likely
read about but could not name. Sensation covered her like a feather-soft blanket, relaxing her to the
point of slumber.

Morgain’s sumptuous, scarlet-nippled breasts rose and fell when she slipped her hand from Ysbet’s
quim and touched her own dark triangle. Ysbet watched, eyes widening, while the woman’s graceful
fingers moved faster and faster until Morgain’s head fell back. The faerie woman’s body trembled, and
she released a soul-rattling sigh.

Ysbet echoed Morgain’s heated orgasm deep in her center, and she wanted nothing more than to spend
hours pleasing and being pleased by this splendid being. She could learn so much from Morgain. Things
that might win Eduard, and—

“You will win your true love with no help from me.” Morgain’s kiss took Ysbet by surprise. The fey
woman’s lips tasted of orange and mint, and Ysbet heard herself groan from the exquisite softness.

Morgain pulled back and smiled. “In fact, you won him long ago. But like I warned, men are often
ignorant to their bounty. At least for a time.”

Body to body with Morgain, Ysbet could scarcely think. But her ears took in the faerie’s next words.

“I have watched you since birth, Ysbet, and I will always be close. Hear me, and heed me. The man you
call your father is a shadow of your true sire. He will betray you, and it will seem that you must flee his
treachery—but do not. You must go where fate takes you. Promise me this.”

“I do not understand.” Ysbet slurred her words. She was so drowsy she barely could stand. Morgain’s
oddly strong arms supported her.

“You do not have to understand.” The fey woman’s voice entranced Ysbet with each syllable. “But you
must promise, or I will keep you here until all the folk you know are long in the grave.”

Time. Time passing. The stories, of those who stumble upon the magik realm and return hundreds of
years later…

Fear intruded on Ysbet’s perfect peace.

How much time had already passed in the world outside the forest?

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In seconds, Ysbet heard herself make the promise Morgain requested. And Ysbet knew that promises
made to fair folke could be broken only on peril of death. Not for herself, but for all those she loved.

Sweet gods. What have I done?She shook her head, but it would not clear. I am cursed. And faithless,
and weak. Devyl take me!

Morgain released her, and Ysbet barely managed to stand under her own power. Even after such deep
satiating passion, the fey woman’s eyes were still hungry. Eager. “These gifts may help.” She pressed a
silken bag into Ysbet’s limp hands. “Now go. Home with you. And remember—I will not be far away.”

Those last words would have pleased Ysbet only moments before, but now, they chilled her. Her body
yet throbbed from Morgain’s magik touch—but had it all been a ruse to exact Ysbet’s oath?

Fey, but not fey. Fair, but not fair folke…

Ysbet tried to focus on the woman, tried to force questions from her throat. Demand answers. And yet
her body refused instruction. Darkness closed around her, and she sagged slowly to the silken grass.

As sleep claimed her, she thought she saw Morgain step away, smile, and take to the sky on glittering,
diaphanous wings. As the fey woman rose above the trees, the sun, moon, and star on her flesh cast a
baleful blue light through the clearing—and then Morgain was gone.

Chapter 6

The outer gates of Prator stood open, and the courtyard was almost deserted when Eduard stalked out
to look for Ysbet. He stopped outside the castle’s paltry stone curtain and searched as far as he could
see—the meadow, the edge of the near woods—even the distant haze of the sea.

Where is she?

Sunlight yet poured from the cloudless sky, but long shadows stretched over the grass. The chill air of
dusk bit Eduard’s cheeks. He glanced at the sun’s position and frowned. Evening watch was in the
middle hour, and training time had ended. Andrus had his early supper, and most of the soldiers had
retired for baths or wenching. Even the king had taken his queen to the keep for a private dinner.

The whole island seemed to be shrouded in an unearthly silence.

It had been four hours since he held Ysbet by the river, since he touched her so intimately. Since she
held his cock in her eager hands.

God’s teeth, but he wanted her so badly execution seemed but a small price. To be kept away from
paradise—now, that would be the true death.

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She should have made it back to the castle before him, yet time slid onward and the princess—his
princess—kept away.

Was she trying to worry him?

Tease him with thoughts of what she might be doing?

His face burned with a mix of worry and anger.

Ysbet might be a virgin, but she was no innocent. The girl knew what she wanted, and she was bent on
getting it. Damn the consequences. This devyl-be-hanged attitude of hers—it infuriated him and still, it
drew him to her.

What did she want of him?

An adventure? A few fucks and a good time?

Eternal devotion, or the first notch on her royal bedpost?

Eduard had to admit he truly did not know. He had realized that for all his knowledge and
misconceptions about Ysbet, she could be abed this very moment with a woman of the house staff, as
was common for unmarried royal girls.

Eliane. No doubt she would be Ysbet’s choice.

Eduard paced slowly down the south length of Prator’s curtain. Eliane was a bonded servant from the
easterlands, dark of skin but fair of hair. She had eyes almost as green as Ysbet’s, and a temper near as
hot.

Yes, if Ysbet took a woman for pleasure and learning, Eliane would be the teacher. He could see the
two of them in his mind, slowly unlacing the undergowns that so frustrated him.

Ysbet’s eyes would be half-closed as her breasts overwhelmed the fabric and fell free into Eliane’s
golden hands.

Eliane, of course, would already be naked. More aggressive, that one. And more experienced. She
would capture Ysbet’s nipple in her wide mouth and suck until the princess moaned and begged for
mercy. And then Eliane would show none, treating Ysbet’s second nipple to the same slow torture.
Tongue and teeth and hot, wet pressure until Ysbet grabbed Eliane’s hair and forced her away.

Would they kiss then? Silken lip on silken lip?

Eduard stopped at Prator’s boundary and drew a slow breath. His cock was so hard he could scarce
take another step, but he made himself turn and start back for the gates. Somehow, walking watch
seemed like action, and Eduard needed action to wear out his worry—and his desire.

Yet still his mind tortured him with images of Ysbet, naked thighs wide to receive Eliane’s eager mouth.
Eliane’s fingers, plunging deep into the tight passage Eduard had already plundered.

His steps ground to a halt.

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But what if the princess wasn’t with a woman?

What if Ysbet had a dozen soldiers at the beck and call of her curious fingers?

Rage rose like a dry fire in Eduard’s soul.

His grabbed his sword and almost drew the blade before he realized how utterly insane that would look,
should anyone see.

The king’s captain, outside the gate, battling with meadow ghosts.

Heat spread across the back of Eduard’s neck despite the cold, and he was more than grateful for the
sudden breeze that seized the near woods. It blew like iced wind, piercing his tunic and breeches, easing
the force of his erection.

Although not completely.

Eduard was beginning to think he would never reach flaccid again, not until he spilled himself in Ysbet’s
welcoming depths.

Once more he glanced at the near woods. As he drew a deep breath to put rein to himself, he caught a
whiff of strange spice. So strong. Pungent. Dizzying. Like a potion or a charmed draught.

And the edges of the woods seemed to shimmer and move. As if they were changing into something
new—or changing back to their old appearance after some unseen shenanigans.

This time, Eduard gripped his sword without shame.

“Yes, boy. Sometin’ be wrong here.” Nallad’s clear voice fell like an anvil between Eduard’s shoulders.

He flinched, then turned and glared at Ysbet’s exotic servant. “Are you certain?”

Nallad’s narrowed eyes gave answer enough. She stood like a wooden image, with a blanket folded
over her arm.

Eduard pivoted and strode away. At least pacing offered no riddles to needle his already angry mind.
But if he spoke the truth to himself, he had to admit he could feel a strangeness in the air. A crackle. A
spark. Like a fire’s ember-wisps, blowing toward a black night sky.

There was powerful magik afoot, of light or dark purpose.

Sweat creased Eduard’s brow. The message from the mainland, from the enemies of Arthur’s
Men—what if…

No. Surely not. Roland’s answer had not had time to reach them. The Saxons would not act before they
knew the king’s mind.

And still…

One hundred men to defend an island only a few leagues in length and breadth, and those men were
scattered hither and yon, on various guard posts. There were no hiding holes at Chapel Down. No caves

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or natural aid to the warrior, and no strongholds save the castle. The sea and secrecy had been their
greatest defense, and both of those were close to breach.

Frustration mingled with fear, stirring a brew stronger than ancient ale in Eduard’s gut. He drew himself
up and faced the source of his uneasy feelings.

The near woods.

Ysbet was there. His instinct—his heart—knew it.

“I will go after her,” he murmured, more to himself than to the still, silent woman who once more stood
behind him. Closer than she had been before, though he could have sworn he stopped a good distance
from her.

“Don’ be a fool.” Nallad’s tone remained cool, like a polished blade. “You won’ be bringin’ her back
from the Other World. Up to her to find her way.”

Eduard glanced at her and frowned. “Superstition. Foolishness. People do not speak of such things any
more. Not since, not since—”

“Not since the Lailoken gone away?” Nallad finished his sentence, shocking him near to stone.

“How do you know that name?” Eduard cast his voice low, part from astonishment, part from old
training never, ever, ever to speak that word aloud.

At his surprise, Nallad managed a small smile. “You Britons, always tinkin’ magik be yours alone. Don’
you know Myrddin has no true peoples? Him one of de ancients. Ancients go where dey please, as dey
please.”

Eduard massaged his sword hilt, as if his weapon would sustain him in a battle against a power as great
as Arthur’s Merlyn.

And he would fight Merlyn, if need be, to regain Ysbet.

Without question, yes. Damn it all to ten thousand hells, yes!

And Eduard felt like he could defeat the old wizard, too, if Ysbet were the stakes.

“The fair folke, as Britons call dem, dey not dead. Far from it.” Nallad shivered, then rubbed her own
arms as she stared at the woods. “Just more to demselves now. And plenty of dem here, on this island.”

Once more, Eduard glanced at Nallad. The strange blue moon on her cheek seemed to glitter as she
spoke, and he felt rather than saw two other marks. A star, a sun, intertwined at her center. As if it
radiated from her very spirit.

The vision unnerved Eduard, and he clenched his sword in earnest.

Strange times. Dangerous times. I should trust no one.

No one but Ysbet.

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Nallad’s expression hardened, as if she heard his thoughts. “Tell you sometin’ else, too. Myrddin don’
be dead or locked in no cave. He be about his own business, is all. And he be back one day. Mark what
I tell you.”

Before Eduard could speak, Nallad’s attention flickered to the woods, and she gasped.

Eduard wheeled around.

A woman stumbled from the trees, clutching what appeared to be a thin green gown about her otherwise
naked form.

“Ysbet!” Eduard moved before he finished speaking, forgetting Nallad and breaking into a run.

Ysbet staggered as if she heard not a word.

Eduard drew closer and realized Ysbet’s hair was loose and in wild disarray. Twigs and leaves filled her
ebony tresses, and dirt smeared her face and arms. Her clothes—the clothes he had taken such pain to
circumvent in the clearing—they were gone.

The princess seemed to be wearing a gown of twisted vine.

Most frightening, though, were Ysbet’s eyes. Glazed and fixed on some other time, some other place, as
if her mind had been left behind in the near woods.

Eduard reached her in a few strides and caught her in his arms, oblivious to the risks he took in doing so.

She flailed against him, but he held her to his chest, tucking her head under his chin.

“Ysbet. What happened? Where have you been?”

Ysbet didn’t speak. She stood still in his arms for a moment, then began to shake and cry.

Heart swelling, Eduard rocked her gently, feeling the softness of her nearly bare flesh.

She smelled of loam and spices Eduard did not know. And something else. Something musky and
intoxicating.

Against his wishes, his cock stiffened. He held Ysbet away from him and searched her eyes. “What has
happened to you? Come back to me. Please. Come back.”

Ysbet remained silent, but her green eyes seemed to focus, to rejoin him, if only a fraction. Her breasts
heaved within their slight vine prison, and Eduard could see the dark circles of her nipples, trying to break
free.

God’s teeth, but he wanted to help them.

No. Not now. Not with her in such a state.

“Turn her loose,” Nallad commanded from behind him, breaking his complete focus on Ysbet’s
consuming presence.

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Eduard’s first impulse was to ignore the woman, and his second was to rage at her. His third, however,
proved the most rational, and he followed it, turning around with Ysbet to face Nallad.

“I cannot let her go. She needs me.” He kept an arm possessively around Ysbet’s shoulder. The fact
that his actions were scarcely within the law concerned only a small part of his mind.

“She do need you.” Nallad grasped Ysbet’s wrist and pulled her away from Eduard with one tug—a tug
too powerful for a woman. A tug too powerful for a man.

Eduard gaped, half-surprised Ysbet’s arm was still attached to her body.

Nallad’s black eyes blazed like stoked fires. “Thas why you let her go, because she need you. And step
away. Now. Before de king, he put you in de stocks. Or to de sword.”

A chill of reality crept up Eduard’s neck and down his throbbing cock as his head went to war with his
heart. Nallad was right, damn her to the depths of the sea. To claim Ysbet would be to betray his king
and dishonor his station and his father. He would have to fight an army single-handed and flee the Scilly
Isles in disgrace with Ysbet in tow.

Do it now,his heart demanded.

Do not be a fool, his mind argued. Do this and she might die with you.

And without Eduard, Andrus would die in a matter of days.

His true choices were few indeed.

Growling, Eduard stepped away as Nallad had instructed. His body, his maleness, his very essence
roared against the action, but his honor and better sense demanded it.

Ysbet gazed at him, and did not protest his decision. Something about her appearance troubled his mind
further, though—and at last he grasped what it was.

In the center of Ysbet’s dark tresses, over her left eye, a shock of her hair had gone silver-white, like a
moonbeam fallen to earth.

“One God of Arthur,” he murmured, reaching toward it, then thinking better of his actions and dropping
his hand back to his sword hilt. “She did go to the Other World. And came back. But how?”

Nallad wrapped Ysbet in the blanket she brought. “It was only a matter of time, boy. I tought even you
might understand dat.”

This rendered Eduard without adequate words to ask the many questions swirling in his heart. Nallad
gave him no time to ponder. She simply turned Ysbet toward the gates and walked her slowly into the
bailey and out of Eduard’s sight.

Eduard followed at a proper distance. When he entered the yard, several off-duty soldiers, a few cooks
and house hands were busy at the evening’s tasks. They nodded to him, but gave little heed to Ysbet and
Nallad.

After a few moments, Eduard formed a suspicion that the other people in the courtyard could not see the

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princess and her servant at all. By the time they reached the keep door, he was certain of it.

Should that surprise me?

He shook his head in wonder and confusion.

“Eduard.” Krell’s resonant voice carried over the bailey, and Eduard wheeled around to face the training
master. He expected some upbraiding for his absence from his post, but Krell’s angled face was alight
with a strange despair.

“What is it?” Eduard clenched his jaw, tired of feeling one step behind on this odd, ill-fated day.

“Have ye not heard? Roland wants the men to gather at sundown. Many as can be spared off watch.
Made his decision, he has, on the Saxon demands.”

Eduard’s life force seemed to sink from his middle to his feet. He tried to maintain a stoic expression, but
Krell clearly caught the flicker of mistrust and dread and responded to it with a grunt.

“I be with ye, lad.” The training master shook his head. “Ain’t no good to come of this. Nothin’ but
trouble from here, ye want my mind on it.”

As if drawn by some irresistible force, Eduard turned his head and glanced up, toward Ysbet’s window.

An image of her barely-clad body filled his mind, followed by a deep premonition of unrest.

His throat ran dry, and he nodded to Krell.

They moved off together to collect the soldiers of Chapel Down, and to discover what doom awaited
them.

Chapter 7

Night squeezed Ysbet in its relentless fist, and the very darkness seemed to mock her. Thought-pictures
flooded her mind like high tide.

Eduard’s cock, hot in her hand as the river rushed beside them.

Morgain’s fingers, dizzying with their touch.

Nallad, moaning as Krell pounded her to sweet explosion.

“Drink dis.” Nallad’s voice floated through Ysbet’s consciousness even as the sexy vision of Nallad and
Krell in the baths faded.

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Ysbet sat up and squinted at a piercing light—which turned out to be nothing more than one of several
candle flames in sconces on her bedroom wall.

She was in her own bed, naked, under a single soft sheet. Her nipples ached, and her quim felt warm
and slippery, and full of life.

But what was real, and what was fancy?

“Drink,” Nallad said again, holding out a steaming cup.

Ysbet wanted to argue, but she felt half-paralyzed and mute. Her tongue seemed the weight of a suit of
mail. Staring at the blue half-moon on Nallad’s cheek, she took the cup and dared a small sip.

Orange peels and cinnamon in hot brandy, with something pithy and slightly bitter. Ysbet made a face at
the taste, but felt compelled to sip again. She knew what this was, and why Nallad wanted her to
consume it, but her memory would not cooperate and help her locate the words for it all.

As the liquid slid through her mouth, it loosened her tongue. Her focus sharpened, and the room came
into better view.

The rest of her body, however, heated up and began to throb. With each gulp, new wetness suffused her
thighs. Her nipples tightened until she wanted to touch them, but she couldn’t.

Nallad was still standing beside the bed, watching. “Mandrake,” she said. “Cut de root fine. Only ting to
help after goin’ to the Other World.”

“No human goes to the Other World and recovers,” Ysbet whispered.

Nallad snorted. “Nonsense. Even if dat was true, you could go and come, provided you learn de ways.
And de medicines.”

“You make no sense.” Ysbet fanned herself. She was starting to feel drowsy again, but still incredibly
aroused. It was the Mandrake root. Her mind was working better now. Mandrake might heal her from
contact with such old magik—if it didn’t kill her outright—but it would also arouse her, then send her into
a deep sleep.

“Why would I be granted privilege to the Other World?” she asked suddenly, slurring her words. “And
what did Morgain mean about my blood? You know, don’t you? You know who my parents are.”

Nallad’s only response was a sigh.

Ysbet opened her mouth to ask more questions, but the Mandrake took hold and snuffed her awareness
like an errant bit of flame. Her last thoughts were of Nallad pulling the bedclothes snug around her,
placing something under her pillow, then padding quietly from the room.

The next Ysbet knew, she was tossing and turning. Her sheet bound her like a wet rope, and she could
find no comfort. Over and over, she closed her eyes and willed herself back to dreams. And woke again.

And again.

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The Mandrake should have kept her deeply asleep for a half a day. Maybe a whole day.

How much time had passed?

Somehow, Ysbet knew only a few hours had slipped by.

Her body was battling the Mandrake’s pull, even though such resistance should have been impossible.
And yet, the respite and restoration of sleep eluded her like stags foil hunters.

At last, annoyed beyond reason, Ysbet threw off her sheet and stood. She was drenched with sweat
and every part of her ached.

She wanted Eduard with her. There in the bedroom.

Despite the lingering fatigue from her encounter with Morgain and the Other World, and despite the
Mandrake drugging, Ysbet’s mind was her own again. She felt strangely older and more determined than
ever to have what she wanted.

By Arthur’s one God, she planned to claim him, too.

Ysbet turned back to the bed and felt under her pillows. First, she extracted Krell’s dagger. Second, she
took out what Nallad had left before departing after the Mandrake treatment.

The bag Morgain had given Ysbet in the forest. In the Other World. Ysbet didn’t open the bag. She
wasn’t even tempted to do so, knowing in her heart that old magik lay within the velvety purple cloth.
When the time came for its use, her second senses would tell her so. And hopefully, her hours of studying
herbs and lore would be of benefit as well.

In minutes, she was dressed in a peasant dress, laced tight over her bosom. The satin of the light blue
cloth pleased her, as well as its lack of decoration. She was in no mood for royal splendor. Krell’s
dagger and Morgain’s gifts were fastened to her leather belt, and leather riding boots, soft as the dress
and reaching to her knees, clung to her legs. The seasoned hide muffled her footfalls when she tiptoed out
of her room and through the castle, evading servants while they dashed chamber to chamber, cleaning.

Purposeful and careful, Ysbet slipped across the darkness of the courtyard, inched beyond the
lackadaisical sentinels on the battlements, and crept toward Eduard’s cottage.

She knew Andrus slept in the outer room, but she also knew which window belonged to Eduard.
Coming upon it, she pushed open the unlatched shutters and peered inside.

A single taper, flickering smaller and smaller, lit the little room. Eduard’s bed stood empty, as did the
single chair by the table next to his fireplace.

Ysbet’s ire rose.

Where is he?

In the main room with Andrus? Or out with some serving girl?

She gripped the window’s sill and fumed.

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The thought of Eduard sliding into a woman other than herself infuriated Ysbet. She wanted to be that
woman. The only woman he pleasured in that fashion.

“And if I had a daisy for each of my wants, I would be a meadow.” Ysbet sighed and turned away from
Eduard’s cottage. Twyllian—the woman she had called her mother for a lifetime—often said that to her.

If wishes were daisies…

But Twyllian was not her true mother. That much Ysbet had always hoped and suspected, and Morgain
made it ice-clear. And Roland was not her father. She was princess in name only, not by birth.

As she headed through the quiet night toward the stables, Ysbet wondered if she could more easily
renounce her station, should that fact come to light.

But what could she use for proof? The word of a fey woman most thought legend and the rest thought
evil beyond measure?

Ysbet passed a washing woman, toting a last basket of laundry in from the river. An older servant, and
one who remained close to the druids and the ancient ways. Ysbet nodded to the woman, but the woman
turned her face away and hissed, “Cursed.”

This drew another sigh from Ysbet.

If the proof of her parentage—or lack thereof—was laid bare, surely these sentiments would only get
worse. She would likely be burned as a halfling or foundling. Some sort of imp or demon in human form.

Either way, as princess or as scorned bastard of unknown lineage, having Eduard as a lover would be
near impossible.

The stables loomed before her, a long darkness within the darkness. It took Ysbet only moments to
sneak beside sotted grooms asleep on straw mats. Their paltry candles had burned to wick and oil, but
Ysbet needed little light to gather her horse.

Iol, Ysbet’s white gelding, welcomed her with a nicker and a flick of silver tail.

“Sshh, my swan.” Ysbet took down a soft halter and slipped it over his broad head.

Iol walked quietly from his stall and stood still as Ysbet hiked her skirt, grabbed handfuls of mane, and
swung aboard like a male rider. This was always a moment of triumph. Always a moment of knowing she
was as nimble, as strong—at least equal to those simpering pages, gasping when they toted shields and
swords.

Iol’s muscles moved strong between her thighs, and Ysbet’s dress spilled around her like froth from
waves. She guided the horse beside the grooms, moving slowly. Out, into the courtyard. Through the
main gates, left open here in the wilderness of the Scilly Isles, where nothing but grazing deer offered
affront to Prator’s piecemeal defenses.

When she was certain the sentries walked the castle’s far allure, Ysbet coaxed Iol to a gallop and
headed for the near woods. When their path met the trees, she allowed the gelding a hard run to warm
his muscles. Mist clung to tree trunks and bushes, but it thinned as she wound toward the beach. Toward
the surf. Toward the greatest freedom she knew.

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Sand soon churned beneath Iol’s hooves while they raced along the island’s eastern face. Moonlight
brightened the way, and across the waves lay Cornwall, the southwestern tip of Arthur’s Briton. The
mainland. Ysbet had never seen it. She had spent her life in exile with Arthur’s Men, and far as she could
tell, she would remain a prisoner of these faraway isles.

For what?

To keep alive the dreams of Arthur, her distant cousin? A visionary hero she last saw before the age of
recall?

Sea spray dampened Ysbet’s cheeks, and she reined Iol at The Breaks, the point where the island
reached its northeastern apex. Light gales whipped the ocean against massive rocks, overwhelming all
sound and thought, all other sights, even in the moon’s cool half-light.

Ysbet dismounted and removed her boots. She tied them together and slung them over Iol’s back. The
gelding pawed the sand once, but waited while Ysbet waded into the shallows. She closed her eyes
against the steady wind and stood, letting the sea ebb up and back across her feet. Up and back. Up and
back. Her skin chilled, and she breathed deep of salt and heather.

Ysbet…

Ysbet’s eyes flew open. Her second senses had come to life, telling her she was being watched, and she
thought she had heard a voice.

Ysbet…

It was a voice! Whispering from the waves, from the rocks. From everywhere. Ysbet turned a full circle,
but saw no one.

Ysbet…

The sea. It was a woman’s voice, and it was coming from the sea!

Ysbet turned back to the wild surf. A blue glow rose above nearby rocks. Bright. Nearly blinding. Ysbet
cried out, but the waves drowned the sound. She tried to tear her eyes away, but could not. Her feet
refused her commands to flee, and her heart rose fair to bursting against her chest.

Ysbet could see the woman now, rising over the water like a heron with wings outstretched. Young as a
girl, old as a crone, but beautiful. So beautiful. Pale blue silks hung from her limbs like garlands…and
pearls…and wreaths of flowers.

“A-are you an angel?” Ysbet managed, crying from joy and terror all at once.

Not an angel, but a servant of the same Source.The beautiful lady graced her with a smile. God and
Goddess. Many faces, one heart. All connected. Beating in the waves and currents of the mighty
ocean. In the ripples and swells of the forest pond.

A strange relaxation washed Ysbet. The lady seemed to mean her no ill. And she was likely a dream.
Yes. Ysbet was certain she would wake in her own bed on the morn, wondering about her Mandrake
vision.

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“Why have you come to me?” Ysbet asked, emboldened by her belief that this was nothing more than
phantasm.

To bring prophecy, yours by right, as my niece. To offer a gift, yours by right, as your father’s child.

Ysbet took a slow breath. “Who is my father? If you know, I ask that you tell me now.”

The phantasm laughed. Demands? To the likes of me? Well, that alone should answer your
question. Would the Light Prince have such temerity? Would the Dark Prince have such wisdom?
Search your heart, Ysbet. This is an answer you must seek for yourself.

Dark Prince, Light Prince. Ysbet took another deep breath. She remembered Krell’s conversation with
Nallad, about bedding the False Gwenhwyfar. And she knew now, without doubt, that Krell had done
more than rescue her from an untimely burial. He had brought her to Camelot. One of those men, Arthur
or Mordred—the greatest ever known or the worst ever known—had sired her.

She felt so dizzy and sick she almost laughed. Almost flew into a rage at this dream-spirit. Instead, she
forced her mind and voice to cooperate, asking, “What gifts do you bring?”

Keys, to open the world.

“To open the world,” Ysbet whispered.

Her fear had melted like sand into water. She raised her eyes to the lady, and held out her right hand.
“Give me this gift, if it be mine by right.”

You show great courage, Ysbet of Chapel Down. Consider carefully your desires. To receive, you must
give. Your heart may be broken as well as filled.

“I understand.”

So shall it be.The lady spread her fingers, and purple-blue light sailed toward Ysbet. It struck her
between her breasts and in her upturned left palm. Pain seared her senses immediately. More than pain.
Agony. Torture! The woman had set her afire!

“What have you done to me?” Ysbet dropped to her knees, gripped her wrist, and moaned. Her
breastbone seemed to be turning to ash as well. She could hardly see the lady, so great the misery of her
chest and hand. It was as if her very life force caught fire.

The lady’s wan smile offered cold comfort. When next the phantasm spoke, her voice filled the sky,
carrying the full power of prophecy.

This pain you will survive, and many to come. This pain will change you, and many to come.When Ysbet
looked up, the lady seemed neither kind nor cruel. Only powerful, and very nearly terrible because of
that power. Neither dragon nor raven will possess you; this gift and better understanding of the
small measure of sight you have—these I proffer for my blood in your veins, and your bravery.

Bravery. Ysbet felt none of that at the moment. She wanted to flee, to go soak her hand in cool water,
but she felt fixed to the sand.

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Your destiny lies in your own hands, the lady continued. This gift I proffer for your father’s blood.
Rise, Ysbet, and know your heart will not rest until you find the treasure to fill the flesh I emptied.
Until you bring that treasure back to the Tor, and beyond. To Avalon. To me. Only then can you
possess what you desire.

Ysbet could not rise. She could but tremble on her knees, pressing her aching hand into the sea. Part of
her palm had been taken. Burned away, down to bone and changed, forever. Altered, like her
consciousness, and no doubt, her destiny. She let loose a deep, shaking cry from the well of her spirit.

This woman before her, bathed in the light, she was no angel.

Ysbet now understood. She understood so deeply she wanted to shriek and tear out her hair.

She was cursed after all.

Cursed by the mingled blood in her veins. Arthur was said to have been a halfling, born of Avalon and
the physical world. And Mordred, however dark he turned, carried the same blood. This was her
lineage, then. The legacy of her father, whichever man sired her, and the responsibility of that legacy.

And this woman was the manifestation of her curse.

Ysbet now knew who addressed her, and who claimed her soul. The scourge and blessing of both of
her possible fathers. The harbinger of boon and doom, of fate itself. Viviane. Nimue. Eviene. She had
many names.

The Dame du Lac.

Or to poor, dead King Arthur, the Lady of the Lake.

Chapter 8

Eduard’s heart weighed heavy as he rode. The moon hung cruel above him, playing light off the sea. A
sea that would never again be so beautiful.

In a sane world, Eduard would have been pleasuring himself repeatedly, thinking of Ysbet in her
window. Thinking of Ysbet in the flesh—and how he might find a way to be alone with her. In an ideal
world, he would have her beneath him, driving into her until she cried out in the throes of satisfaction.

The world was far from ideal, however, and no longer sane. And fucking was far from the captain’s
mind. He lifted the skin of ale fastened to his saddle and took a swig, hoping to dull his pain. The words
Roland had spoken in the courtyard at sunset had pierced Eduard surely as any sword, though he hid his

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heart-wound from the king’s prying eyes.

Once Andrus had been tended for the evening, Eduard did the only thing he knew to do with such grief.
He took it to the waves, like he had those long summers following his mother’s death.

And yet, he found he could scarce look at the water. On the morrow, even this comfort would betray
him. These same waters would bring boats creeping round the Eastern Isles. The sea would deliver
lowbred beasts from the mainland, even now making passage through the treacherous straights of
Ragged Island.

The Saxons were coming.

Not for invasion. Not for slaughter. For bargain. For a terrible blood-price.

How could Roland agree to this horrid accord? And for that matter, what kind of man am I, if I allow it?

Eduard reined his black stallion Caen, and shook a fist at the uncaring stars. He would not allow this
travesty. Simple as that. He would find Ysbet and somehow get her off this island before it was too late.

A strange light burst over the waters, as if in answer to his treasonous decision—and quick as a blink, it
vanished. Caen gave a low grunt and challenged his bit, stamping in a plea to bolt.

Eduard fisted his rein, and caught his breath. A rider was approaching on a near-silver steed. From
up-beach, near The Breaks. Who, other than he, would be fool enough to ride so fast at night? And
toward the jutting stones, at that.

The answer from his mind and eyes reached his mouth at the same moment. “Ysbet!”

Harder and harder she charged on her Iol, like she did not see Eduard.

High tide had left but the tiniest slip of sand, and Eduard dared not press Caen into the surf when the
rocks were hidden. “Hold, Ysbet! Ho, there! Hold!”

Still she came, like rushing thunder.

Eduard’s pulse quickened to Iol’s pace. Something was wrong. He could see now Ysbet’s blank face.
Her horse’s wide, wild eyes. The rein, dragging dangerously, splashing through tidal pools.

Rocks be damned!Eduard urged his mount into the water, turned him south, and kneed him to canter.
From behind him came Iol’s relentless approach.

Timing. Everything was timing.

Caen seemed to understand, picking up his step with no protest.

Iol drew even with them. Brave Caen kept pace, heeding his master’s urgings.

Eduard gripped his stallion’s mane and leaned to the side, grabbing for Ysbet’s rein. It bounced away
from him, demon-possessed and bent on dragging him to his doom.

From the corner of his eye, Eduard saw the outcroppings of Chapel Down jutting into the sea.

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Dead end.

There was no time to regain balance. If he did not stop Ysbet’s charge, her mount would smash her into
the rocks!

He snatched at the rein again, and caught it. Barely. Around one finger.

Miraculously, Caen held his gallop despite the fast-approaching bluff. Eduard gathered the rein and
pulled.

Iol’s head dipped. The great gelding fought, as if determined to crush himself to death.

Eduard pulled harder, and wise Caen slowed his pace, giving his master the advantage. Another hard
yank, and Eduard brought Iol to an abrupt halt. Caen planted his own hooves, inches from the bluff.

Ysbet, apparently still unaware of herself, plunged headlong into the shallows. Eduard blessed the depth
from high tide before he swore and jumped from his mount. “What madness is this? Have you no sense?”

He slogged around Caen, toward Ysbet, who had pulled herself up to sit in the waves. “This is no time
for your foolish trickery—”

All anger, all reproach died in his throat when he drew close. Ysbet sat in the rising waters, hugging her
knees and shaking. Her dress was torn at one shoulder, and her gaze remained distant and frozen, as it
had been when she came stumbling from the near woods earlier that day. Her hair lay wild and wet
across her arms—and there was a second silver streak, directly opposite the first.

It was her face, though, that completely stilled Eduard’s tongue.

Ysbet’s perfect face, serious and frightened, reflected the moon in a thousand droplets. The angle of her
jaw, the tilt of her chin, the age in her exquisite green eyes, made emerald by the stars—somehow, this
was not the petulant child who marched after him in full armor, or even the brash innocent who had
touched him in the clearing. All trace of that girl had vanished.

Her lips trembled, and Eduard came undone. He dropped to one knee, and risked a tentative touch. Just
a finger on her shoulder. “Ysbet. What frightened you?”

“Eduard.” Her voice seemed small against the break of the surf. “What have I done?”

And she began to cry.

Eduard stood and gathered her, this strange and new woman. Plucked her from the ocean like a rare
flower brought in on the tide, and held her against him. He felt her shuddering breath, her wet, cool arms
sliding around his neck, her head, leaning against his shoulder.

For longer than he should have, he stood, cherishing the feel of Ysbet’s tender frame. Her chest rose
and fell against him, keeping rhythm with the waves. Her heart beat with his own, and the connection
pleased him.

Caen nickered to raise alarm about the tide.

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The beach was disappearing.

Reluctantly, Eduard eased Ysbet away from his chest and raised her to Caen’s back. She didn’t resist.
In fact, she wrapped her fingers in Caen’s black mane and bent forward.

Eduard used nearby rocks to mount carefully behind her.

God’s teeth, but she felt good in front of him. And better as she leaned back, resting her weight on him
from shoulder to groin.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he walked them up the winding path, towing Iol away from the beach and
toward the overlook of Chapel Down. Ysbet shivered, and Eduard slid one arm around her waist to hold
her closer. He felt a belt. Leather, with a bag affixed to it. And something hard and cold.

A dagger.

What did Ysbet want with a dagger?

Before he could ask her, she relaxed in his embrace, deepening the pressure of their contact. Eduard
savored the feel of her backside rocking against his already stone-hard cock.

Ysbet did not seem to notice his arousal—that, or she didn’t care. She pressed closer and closer to him,
her head to the side of his neck. If he but dropped his lips, they would brush her ear. His arms, now
against her sides, tightened of their own accord. She responded with a sigh so delicate that pounding heat
rose through Eduard’s body.

Caen seemed to walk with less and less energy, the motion of his gait pushing Ysbet harder into
Eduard’s embrace. Every fiber of his being came to attention at the sway of her body. He wanted to tear
away the fabric between them and fuck her there, on the stallion’s back. The image of her reared back
on Caen’s neck, legs splayed, bucking and screaming as she came, was almost enough to unseat him.

Clearly sensing his master’s need for more time, Caen drifted to a halt. Iol tugged his big head down and
began to graze beside a forest path. Eduard rubbed his cheek against Ysbet’s hair. Her ear…so
close…he kissed its curve, ever so lightly.

Ysbet sighed again, and turned toward him. Eduard tasted the salty flesh of her forehead, then kissed her
cheek again. Longer. Wondering what it would be like to ravage her mouth until neither of them could
breathe.

His princess shivered harder in his arms, and shame crept in to challenge Eduard’s mounting desire.

“Ysbet,” he murmured, aware of his husky tone but helpless to change it. “You are cold. I must get you
home before you chill to death.”

“No. Do not take me to Prator nor call it my home.” Ysbet’s voice was clear. Not confused, but also
not demanding. Simply…firm. Definite. “Prator is not safe, and no longer to be refuge. I sensed it earlier,
and now I know for certain.”

Eduard’s heart nearly ceased motion. How could Ysbet know what was coming? Had someone told
her? Or had she, too, received some strange bird, alerting her to her dreadful fate?

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Did the knowledge cause her panic on the beach?

“Take me to the old watchman’s cottage at Cruther’s Point,” Ysbet said. “I will end my time on this
island where I can see sunrise, and my destiny approaching.”

Eduard hesitated.

Did Ysbet mean for him to escort and leave her in a crude and undefended cottage, alone for the night?

“I do not mean for you to leave me alone,” Ysbet answered as if he had spoken aloud. She closed her
fingers on his wrist and deliberately inched against his throbbing cock. Her gesture did not feel flippant or
teasing. More like a deadly earnest move of seduction—which Eduard scarcely required.

With a jerk of both reins, Eduard steered the horses with no further thought of nations, treaties, or
rescues. There would be time enough for rescue in a few hours, once they both were sated.

Cruther’s Point, both deserted and sheltered, lay nestled in thick pine bowers less than a ten-minute ride
north. Caen bore them at a steady pace, and Eduard was left to explore the prize that had so suddenly
fallen into his embrace.

Ysbet lay against him, holding one of his hands and allowing the other to massage her nipples through the
wet cotton of her peasant dress.

They hardened under his touch, almost pleading for more attention.

He kissed her neck and she moaned, rocking against him each time Caen’s step eased her back.

By the time they reached Cruther’s protective embrace, Eduard was near to spilling himself in his
breeches. He quickly dismounted and tethered the horses to a tree.

Ysbet remained calm and strangely self-possessed, but the cold clearly had an impact on her. She asked
for a fire, which Eduard could not deny her, despite his physical misery.

He cleared an old pot and a few tin cups off the hearth, then worked at lighting the stubborn wood.

Ysbet stepped out, behind the cabin. Eduard heard the clatter-and-splash of the well bucket and knew
she was cleansing the salt and sand from her clothes and skin.

She was cleaning herself for him.

For his pleasure.

Eduard’s groin tightened. He waited until she returned, then stepped outside himself, removed his
soaked shirt, and splashed himself until he no longer felt grainy to the touch.

I must be pleasing to her.

Dear One God of Arthur. Have I gone mad?

And of course, the answer was yes. Mad in the truest sense. A lunatic, suffering the pull of the moon.
The temptation of the rising tide to go ashore.

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When he went inside, Ysbet had removed her leather belt and laid it beside the straw mat she had pulled
in front of the hearth. She sat before the fire, atop the few blankets, combing her long tresses with nimble
fingers. The top laces of her peasant’s dress already lay undone, and in fact, the leather ties lay at her
side. The rest of that dress clung wet to her flesh, tracing her like an artist’s careful brush.

Eduard could barely breathe, and his erection nearly kept him from walking.

Ysbet took her hand from her hair and beckoned for Eduard.

Like a man in a dream, he strode forward.

Chapter 9

Ysbet struggled to control her breathing as Eduard knelt before her, bare-chested and magnificent in the
firelight. She gazed into his endless dark eyes as he touched the odd burn between her breasts and
murmured, “What happened this night? How—”

She pressed two fingers against his lips. “Tomorrow, Saxon filth will land on our shores. My father has
sold me for peace, for protection. I saw this in a vision, only just this night.”

Eduard nodded, and did not seem overly stunned by her foreknowledge. He left his lips against her
fingers, and the firm wetness of his mouth almost caused Ysbet to fall silent. But she had so much yet to
say. For sanity’s sake, she moved her hand to his cheek.

“Understand me.” Her tone was so forceful Eduard rocked back on his heels. “I would sooner fling
myself from The Breaks than give my maidenhead to a stranger. Especially the likes of a Saxon.”

Eduard’s chin dropped at her words, but again he seemed taken by her odd calmness.

“’Tis you I want.” Ysbet rubbed her palm against the light stubble on Eduard’s face. “’Tis you I have
wanted since I understood desire, and the time for teasing has passed. If you share my longing, take what
I would give you this night. The only night left to us.”

Eduard’s smoldering eyes blazed, and he pulled Ysbet to him to give his answer. She yielded to his kiss,
his fire-warmed lips pressed full and hard against her own. She opened her mouth slightly, inviting him,
and thrilled to the feel of his tongue thrusting inside.

He kissed her again and again, until their breath came ragged in their throats. When he pulled back to
take measure of her reaction, his eyes were livid and keen with desire.

Ysbet felt unabashed before him. Her gaping dress barely covered her breasts, and her skin burned as
Eduard’s eyes traced her cleavage. She wanted him to see her naked, to study each inch of her flesh with

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such possessive scrutiny.

She picked up one of the six leather ties she had stretched on the mat beside her and held it in her left
hand.

Eduard gazed at the tie, then at her. “What do you mean to do with that?”

Ysbet extended her right hand, palm up. Mustering the last of her courage, she whispered, “I offer you
my heart, and my hand.”

Her heart smashed against her chest as she waited for his response.

Once more, Eduard looked stunned—but he did not refuse or deny her request to marry in the oldest
and most private way. Handfasting. The only way left to those whose king or queen refused them
permission.

After what seemed an endless hour, in truth no more than a minute, Eduard extended his right hand and
covered hers. Then he leaned forward and covered her mouth with his.

This kiss was longer and deeper. His chest brushed her barely-clad breasts, and the ache in her nipples
doubled.

When at last he pulled back, he said, “I give you my heart and my hand.”

Ysbet draped the first tie over their hands and helped Eduard secure it.

With his free hand, Eduard traced the outline of her chest, down into the unlaced cloth. He cupped the
soft flesh of one breast and massaged it gently, sending tingles to Ysbet’s toes.

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, there was nothing in the world but Eduard’s hand fastened to
hers, nothing but his fingers rubbing her hard nipple. He was so close she could smell his leathery scent,
and then his lips brushed hers again.

“Five more cords,” he said, continuing to stroke the red-hot nub of her breast. “Are we to make
traditional promises?”

“N-No. Our own.” Ysbet picked up another tie.

Eduard pinched her nipple gently.

She moaned and opened her eyes. “Will you break my heart, Eduard?”

He let go her breast and helped her drape the second tie. “I may cause you pain by error, but I will not
break your heart.”

“Nor I yours.”

Together, they fastened the second cord.

Eduard leaned over and picked up the third. His face brushed Ysbet’s neck as he straightened, and he
paused long enough to nibble the tender skin.

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Once more, chills of pleasure claimed Ysbet’s flesh. Eduard’s lips moved to her ear, and he asked,
“Since I first noticed you as a girl grown to womanhood, no other woman has been of interest to me. No
other woman could possess my heart. Will you have no man save for me?”

“I will have no man save for you,” she whispered.

The third cord was fastened, and Eduard chose the fourth. “Will you always care for yourself and your
safety as I would care for it?”

At this, Ysbet’s eyes widened. “That is a strange request.”

“But an honest one.” Eduard kissed her forehead. “I have watched you long enough to fear your
brashness.”

Ysbet smiled. She was feeling so aroused her concentration kept failing her, but she managed a quiet
concession. “I will care for myself and my safety as you would.”

Eduard took the lead in tying the fourth cord. “As will I.”

As they gazed at each other, Eduard eased her dress over her shoulders until both of her breasts were
exposed. Air rushed over her bare nipples, and Eduard’s appreciative stare caused the ends to draw up
as hard as jewels.

Feeling emboldened, Ysbet reached out with her unbound hand and rubbed Eduard’s hard cock through
the fabric of his damp breeches.

He picked up the fifth cord as she ran her palm up and down his stiff shaft, pausing only to work loose
the laces holding him captive.

“I will not go to bed bearing anger for you,” he said in a voice hoarse with arousal.

“Nor will I fall to sleep carrying grudge against you.”

Ysbet managed to pull the laces open and push Eduard’s breeches down. His cock sprang free and she
relished the feel of his hot flesh in her palm. For a moment, all she could do was touch him, stroke him,
even as he took hold of her breast, then forced their bound hands against her other taut nipple.

The musky smell of arousal blended with the pine smoke, making Ysbet dizzy.

Eduard eased the pressure on her breasts and took hold of her roving hand. “The fifth cord. We must tie
it.”

Reluctantly, Ysbet released his cock and bound the cord with him. The wet ache between her legs
screamed for relief as she reached to the side and picked up the sixth and final cord. She raised it before
them, draping it across her lips, and kissed Eduard.

Their lips mingled on the soft cord until Ysbet spoke her last vow. “I will show you love in each of my
dealings with you, for all the days we might share.”

“I will show you the same,” Eduard answered.

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They tied the sixth cord, and for a moment, neither spoke.

The druid texts and scrolls spilled through Ysbet’s mind, and she finished the ceremony with a traditional
blessing. “May the gifts of the East, South, West, and North favor our joining. As we hold this marriage
in our hands, so do we hold the power to break or preserve it. May it be preserved.”

Eduard’s tied hand pressed harder against hers. “May it be. You are my love. My wife.”

“My husband.” The words came easily to Ysbet, and she wanted nothing more than to please and be
pleased by Eduard.

With one finger, he drew the circle of her face, stopping at her lips.

She let the finger slip within her mouth. Her tongue traveled along his skin, moving the finger gently back
and forth, but she never took her eyes from his.

A passionate growl escaped him. His unbound hand moved lower, lower still, coming to rest once more
upon her breast. Her rock-hard nipple scrubbed against his palm, as Ysbet sighed. Her unlaced shirt fell
around her waist, and Eduard laid her down on the mat.

With gentle skill, he slid the shirt down over her hips, ignoring the pop and crackle of tearing threads. It
was the only way, with their hands tied so tightly. Next, he removed her skirt, underskirt, and
undergarments—until Ysbet had her wish.

She lay before Eduard, her husband, naked in the cottage’s flickering firelight. His gaze made love to her
from head to toe, and back again. Their bound hands rested between them like an erotic link, tying them
for eternity.

Eduard leaned down and kissed her like a man claiming his life’s mate, and she kissed him back just as
hard. Their tongues mingled, and his hand roved over her breasts, down her belly, into the curls between
her legs.

“You are beautiful, Ysbet. Clear, and perfect, like the sky with no clouds.”

“I have wanted you for so long.” Her hand traveled his chest and back, exploring, rubbing, dragging her
palm across his male form, his firmness, lingering on the lines of his muscles. Each time she touched him,
his throbbing cock seemed to grow in proportion against the top of her leg.

Ysbet rubbed it with one leg. “I want you inside me. I want to feel all of you, joined with me.”

Eduard paused only long enough to remove his breeches.

And then he stretched his body against Ysbet’s and kissed her fully and slowly. His cock pressed
against her wet folds, and she parted her knees. A bit at first. More, and still more. Eduard slipped his
fingers into her soaking lips and teased her burning quim, as he had in the meadow.

She cried out, bucking against his touch. Wanting it, yet wanting more.

Sensing her raging excitement, Eduard increased his speed until Ysbet came with a shout. Her head was
really spinning by then, and she fell to begging. “Please. Now. Please!”

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Eduard heeded her wishes and eased himself over her, continuing to rub her quim until his position
forced him to cease.

Out of necessity, he lifted Ysbet’s arms over her head, pinning her beneath him. Their bound hands
chafed against each other in a wonderful way, and his weight felt welcome and protective atop her.

“This may cause you pain our first time,” he said in low tones. “’Tis the last thing I would choose.”

Ysbet gasped with wonder, with excitement when his hardness brushed against her quim. She opened
her legs further and thrust her hips against him. Her heart hammered, and her blood roared. Another
minute… Another inch…

“Please,” she moaned, wanting to grab his cock and guide him inside her. “Now. Now! I cannot bear it
another moment!”

Eduard eased himself in, but only a bit. His face was a study in desire, but Ysbet knew he was
controlling himself to protect her.

She lost all sense of reason and arched her hips up. Hard.

With a cry of surprise, he plunged deep into her aching quim.

Pain blazed through her and she screamed—but then the pain stopped.

Sweet gods. We are joined.

He filled her so fully, so completely. She imagined she could feel him everywhere within her, and still, she
wanted more.

Eduard’s worried eyes filled her vision.

Ysbet groaned and moved against him. “The pain has passed. Now fuck me until I forget it.”

With a rumble of joy, Eduard pulled Ysbet to him and thrust himself inside her. Farther and farther.

Ysbet strained against his grip on her arms, yet loved the sensation of being at his mercy. She closed her
legs around him and lifted herself high, and higher to meet him. Urging him on. Deeper, and up. And
deeper, and up. Again and again.

Sweat broke across Eduard in a fine sheen, and they slid together in front of the fire.

“You are perfect,” he kept whispering as he took her.

She felt possessed and cherished at once. Her still-hard nipples raked his own, over and over, driving
her to new heights.

Ysbet moaned and squeezed the hands that held hers above her head. The cords tying them together
dug into her skin, but not too hard.

A perfect pressure, like Eduard’s cock, rocking into her again and again.

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“Yes,” Ysbet cried. “Eduard. Yes, yes!”

The world exploded in a haze of sensation.

Ysbet bucked and writhed as her soul soared.

At the same moment, Eduard gave his own loud moan when he spent himself. His warm seed washed
into her, and Ysbet wished the feeling would never end. Or that they might begin again immediately,
recreating the moment again and again.

Eduard seemed happy to oblige, but Ysbet kept her knees’ grip on his waist. She didn’t want him to
move.

Ever.

“Forever, I love you.” She kissed his salty lips.

He kissed her back and murmured, “Forever.”

Chapter 10

For a moment, they lay with no sound but their breathing and the crackle of the fire. The salt of sweat
had replaced the salt of the sea, and Eduard sat, pulling Ysbet up with him without removing himself from
the possessive grasp of her thighs. He couldn’t take his eyes from hers, now misty and peaceful. The
slightest motion brought new trembles, racking her body, and gasps—until she begged his mercy with a
half-smile that melted what was left of his heart.

When he kissed her, she sighed. He fancied he could feel her heart beating against his chest.
Bird-flutters.

She reminded him of a falcon, or maybe a heron. Graceful, predatory, sharp-sensed—but soft as flower
petals.

“You fill my senses,” he murmured, drinking in her woman’s musk, sliding his lips over her cheek and
neck.

“You fill my heart, my soul, my body,” she responded, moving her hips and clenching his cock in her wet
quim.

He felt himself harden anew.

Ysbet’s free fingers toyed with his nipples, and he groaned, supporting her shoulders with his unbound

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arm as she leaned back and pushed her hips down, grinding against him.

“Good. So good.” Her head fell back, and her lips parted.

Eduard thrust her down on his cock. Again, and again.

“Lay back,” she whispered.

Smiling, he did as she requested. The burn between her breasts had calmed some, and in the low light of
the fire, Eduard fancied he could see drawings beneath it. Of what, he could not say—nor could he
concentrate overlong to debate it.

They remained fasted, hand to hand, and Ysbet used Eduard’s extended arm to balance. To hold herself
upright, and finally to push up and down his now pulsing cock. Her fingers moved from his nipples to her
own. Pinching, pulling.

Once more, her lids drifted shut. She was lost in the feel of him, and Eduard felt dizzy with power even
though she was taking the lead.

Ysbet brought herself down with force, using his arm to steady her. Up, and down. Up, and down. Her
nipples grew to dark berry in her own fingers, and the sight of her hand on her breast drove molten heat
through his loins.

He arched up, plumbing her depths.

She cried out and worked harder, bouncing against him. The wet sound of movement competed with the
fire’s crackle.

“Yes!” She slammed against him. “Sweet gods. Harder!”

Eduard growled and gripped her with his free hand, near to explosion. Her quim felt like a silken glove
on his cock, working it from tip to sac until his thoughts ran together in a single chant.

Ysbet, Ysbet, Ysbet!

Some part of his brain realized he was shouting her name aloud, and she his. Ysbet came with a rising,
body-rattling moan. The walls of her channel throbbed against his shaft, squeezing and releasing until he
exploded with a guttural roar.

And still she rode him. Until she drained him dry. Until she could barely lift and lower herself. Until he
could scarce move to meet her.

Gasping, she lay forward, keeping his spent cock inside her.

Eduard cradled his princess against his chest and fought to stay awake. He felt so warm, so
protective—and somewhere in his sex-drenched brain, he knew time was beginning to work against
them. Soon, they needed to rise, be away. Before morning. Before…

* * * * *

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Eduard roused slowly. The smell of cinnamon and clove drifted through the cabin air.

Ysbet was no longer atop him, and the place she so recently occupied felt strangely empty and cold. He
lifted his right hand, which had been bound to her, and found a bracelet of three cords, intertwined like a
braid.

“’Tis no wedding band, but mayhap it will do.” Ysbet’s dulcet tones came from beside him, and Eduard
rolled over.

She sat by the fire, naked but for her own matching bracelet, tending a small cooking pot. A purple cloth
bag was open by her hip, and beside her other hip, their clothes had been stretched to dry. The tin cups
Eduard had cleared to light the blaze had been rinsed, and now they awaited whatever his princess was
boiling.

For a moment, Eduard felt overwhelmed by the sight of Ysbet acting as a wife. Tending the hearth,
preparing something for his pleasure. Would that he could return her kindness, and cook her a meal.
Share it with her at a table of their own, in some small hut, in some distant land. His throat closed from
the pain of knowing this would not likely be their fate.

Oblivious to Eduard’s internal grief, Ysbet ladled out the sweet smelling liquid. She brought the cups to
Eduard, easing to her knees and setting them on the floor, spilling nary a drop.

He grinned and stroked her satin shoulder. “What have you brewed, witch?”

For a moment, Ysbet seemed taken aback. Some cloud passed over her perfect features—but then it
cleared, and the sun once more twinkled from her green eyes. “A potion to make you my slave.” Her
warm fingers closed over his cock. “And to keep your manhood hard and ready.”

“I need no potion for that.” Eduard felt himself stiffen in her grasp.

Ysbet picked up a cup without stopping her massage. “Tea,” she said in low, husky tones. “For energy.
Refreshment.”

As Eduard watched, she took a sip.

Instead of swallowing, she leaned forward and kissed him, letting the spicy liquid slip into his mouth.
Eduard swallowed hard as Ysbet’s strokes intensified.

“I love you,” she said. “You will always be my king, no matter our stations. No matter what happens.”

Eduard wanted to respond, but she had taken another sip of tea, and once more fed it to him. All the
while, her hand pumped his cock. His fists clenched. It was taking some effort not to come right away.

Ysbet’s breasts brushed his chin as she sat back to take another drink. Eduard caught one nipple briefly,
sucking hard, drawing a satisfying gasp from his princess. He reached between her legs, toying with her
damp curls. She smiled, then leaned forward again, filling his mouth with the delicious spiced tea.

Eduard accepted the drink, but slid three fingers into her heated quim. The wet welcome and her low
moan drove him closer to orgasm.

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As she stroked his cock, Eduard pumped her hot well, pushing until his knuckles were near inside her.

Another mouthful of tea, and another.

Eduard’s head started to spin, from desire, from excitement, from the sheer sensuality of the moment.

Or so he thought.

He was nearly pummeling Ysbet’s quim now, and she spread her knees wide to let him in. With her free
hand, she worked her own clit, and then leaned over and suckled Eduard’s nipple with her tea-hot lips.

Eduard bucked and came like a beast rutting in the night. He thrust his hand yet deeper into Ysbet, and
she came with him, shuddering.

Before he had a chance to react, Ysbet let go his spent cock, slipped off his fingers, and straddled his
face. The sweet, pungent flesh surrounded him, and he gripped her ass with both hands.

Thrilled by her wriggling, driven by her throaty groans, Eduard fucked Ysbet with his tongue, lashing her
clit and forcing her full into his mouth.

“Please,” she begged, just as he always dreamed she would.

When he opened his eyes, he could see her breasts and swollen nipples, bouncing even as she reached
to grip them.

Eduard sucked and licked, forcing screams of delight from Ysbet until she came again, trembling and
gripping his face with her thighs.

His cock was already hard again, and he felt insanely dizzy. Incredibly aroused.

Had she brewed some ever-hard potion and drugged him for endless fucking?

Part of him tried to worry about the passing time, but lust overwhelmed him.

Barely giving her a chance to move from his face, he sat up, grabbed her, and kissed her fiercely. Her
eyes blazed evergreen in the firelight, and her cheeks were flushed.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Fuck me hard. As hard as you want, as long as you want. Now, Eduard.
Fuck me now!”

As Eduard pushed her down to mount her, she cupped his cheek with her left palm. He kissed it, and
then she passed her palm over his eye before gripping his shoulder.

Did he dream it, the sight of those odd marks and indentations—still glowing red like some sorcery had
pressed the molten hilt of a sword deep into Ysbet’s tender flesh?

Eduard hadn’t the self-control to stop long enough to ask.

Her body drew him like a vortex, sucking him in and swirling him down.

He plunged his cock into her, bellowing, and his last conscious thought was of Ysbet’s cry of passion as

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she rose to meet him.

Chapter 11

Ysbet threw her legs wide to welcome Eduard’s frenzied thrusts. Sweet gods, but he was wild with the
draught she made from Morgain’s gifts. Ysbet’s own sips had given her just enough to render her heady
and relaxed.

Eduard’s cock felt like heaven, pounding into her. His chest rubbed hers as he rammed forward again
and again.

So deep. So satisfying.

“Yes. Sweet gods!” She dug her nails into his back, clinging for her life. Clinging for the last true pleasure
she might ever know. “Fuck me, Eduard. Harder. Harder!”

Eduard rocked her like her quim was his home, like he wanted to meld with her backbone. His
salt-and-leather scent filled Ysbet’s senses. She could taste herself on his lips, taste him on the fingers she
drug across her swollen lips.

“Take it,” he demanded in a hoarse, drunken voice. “Ysbet. Ysbet!”

Sweat washed her every crease and fold, and Eduard became a lathered stallion.

The room spun as Ysbet’s exhausted body offered up a final Earth-splitting orgasm. She felt the spasms
in every muscle. Fire from her toes to her head.

Burning. She was burning!

Eduard’s seed pumped into her, filling her like a worshipped vessel.

And then, with a long, spent groan, he collapsed against her, so still and limp that only his heavy
breathing told Ysbet he lived.

Air squeezed from Ysbet’s lungs, and she had to work to free herself—though in truth, she did not want
to move. Ever. Tears brimmed as she slipped his cock from her sweetly bruised quim, extricated herself
from his heavy-armed embrace, and rolled him gently to his back.

Holding back sobs, Ysbet kissed Eduard’s forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth. She stroked his
firm chest, his muscled hips. His flaccid cock felt soft and vulnerable to her tear-moistened lips.

“I must do this,” she told him as she stood on shaky legs. “You will never understand or forgive me, but
mayhap some part of your mind will remember what I tell you now.”

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Ysbet’s fingers felt stiff as she drew a cover over Eduard, then began to dress. “Three beings of old
magik have come to me—or I to them. I know not who means me help and who means me harm. Any of
them could crush me with a thought.”

Eduard stirred and snored softly, making Ysbet’s heart ache more deeply. Her husband. Her love. How
she wanted to drop to the floor, to lie by his side and spell away any who might take them from this
simple cottage!

If only she knew magik so powerful…

Ysbet finished lacing her peasant dress, then pushed her silver-streaked hair behind her ears. “Merlyn,
Morgain, Nimue—each have spoken to me, each have marked me. But only one drew an oath from me,
and your life will be forfeit if I break my bond.”

Eduard’s drugged face remained impassive as Ysbet fastened her belt, bag, and dagger to her waist.

It was time to go.

She knew she had to leave, but she felt her heart might shatter the moment she turned away from the
man she loved.

As if to keep her in the cabin, Eduard sighed.

The sound of his whispered breath mingled with the dying crackle of the fire, and Ysbet bit the inside of
her mouth so hard she tasted the sweet-copper of her own blood.

One last kiss. She had to have one last touch of her beloved.

Kneeling carefully, Ysbet leaned down and pressed her lips against Eduard’s.

“I love you forever. My husband. My life.”

As she drew back, a trickle of her blood remained, turning Eduard’s mouth the color of her searing pain.

This image Ysbet carried with her as she fled the cottage, mounted Iol, and rode like mad for the gates
of Prator.

* * * * *

Nallad asked no questions as she bathed and dressed her exhausted mistress. Not even when she
washed clean the wound between Ysbet’s breasts to find an interlinked sun, moon, and star. Or when
she turned up Ysbet’s palm and saw the mark of the sword hilt engraved in the tender flesh.

For that respectful silence, Ysbet was grateful. Her words deserted her the moment she re-entered the
castle that had once been her home. Her muscles ached and burned, and she scarce had the strength to
lift her own limbs.

The tender throb of her nipples and clit, the sense of Eduard’s essence washing deep through her

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quim—these things she tried to hold on to even as Nallad’s gentle scrubbing tore his scent from her skin.

My husband. My love.

He would likely wake by evening. Far too late to attempt foolish heroics and get himself killed.

Ysbet chewed the sore place in her mouth as Nallad began to towel her dry.

Only the dawn guard had seen Ysbet when she rode Iol through the main gates, but none had the
courage to challenge her. Rumors had been flying around, about Ysbet consorting with the Other World.
The silver streaks in her hair confirmed suppositions, and Prator’s staff fell away from her as if she were
diseased.

All but Nallad, who gathered her and began the preparations.

Even now, as the noon sun rose over Chapel Down, the harbor horns were blowing. The Saxons were
coming. Perhaps already at hand, waiting in the waves.

Soon after, Ysbet stole a glance out of her window.

King Roland and Queen Twyllian waited below, dressed in finest silks. An honor guard of Arthur’s men
had been assembled outside the keep, and they were waiting for Ysbet.

Her “parents” hadn’t so much as spoken to her about the events at hand. They had left Nallad to tell her
what she already knew, but perhaps that, too, was for the best.

I have nothing to say to them.Ysbet straightened herself. Or to the druids. Or to any who have
deepened my pain. One day, I will find my place in this world. Though without Eduard, it will be a
cold and empty place.

“You can do dis,” Nallad said in quiet, measured tones. She pulled the under-dress over Ysbet’s head.
“Stronger than ten horses, my girl. Stronger than twenty men in de mind.”

Ysbet nodded as Nallad finished dressing her, complete with belt, bag, and dagger in the folds of her
dress, but her heart had withered even more in the last few minutes. Her oddly heightened instincts had
just delivered another blow, derived from her servant’s anxious words.

Nallad would not be coming with her. Roland must have forbidden it.

“I am to go alone,” Ysbet said aloud, surprised her dry voice didn’t slice her throat.

Nallad flinched. For a moment, silence gripped the air between them, and then Ysbet’s
mother-of-the-heart released a bleak sigh. “Even Davyd, he be ordered to de training barn and told take
Eduard wit’ him. They don’ even get to see you off.”

Ysbet trembled at the mention of Eduard. Who, of course, would not be with Krell, though she doubted
Krell or Nallad would reveal this secret.

Wordless once more, the princess slipped her arms around Nallad’s waist and hugged the woman. Truth
passed between them in those loaded moments. Of wishes not granted, and wonderful things that might
have been—if fate had been kinder and given children to the mothers who truly loved them.

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Then Nallad pulled back and combed Ysbet’s silver-streaked hair with tender fingers. “You ready now.
You be fine, yeah? For me.”

“I will.”

Nallad pressed a hand between Ysbet’s breasts, where the new-made sun, moon, and star marked her.
“Help will come if you call.”

Ysbet’s throat tightened. She couldn’t fall apart, not now. No matter how much she wanted to. Instead,
she hugged Nallad once more, letting the familiar scent of spice grace her nose one last time.

Both women had trouble ending the embrace. It was Ysbet who broke the contact and turned away,
determined not to look back.

She had a duty to do. An oath to keep. A birthright to live up to, come what may.

Cursed.

As the chamber door closed behind her, as her footsteps echoed in the deserted hall, her mind formed
the same word time and again.

Cursed.

Bereaved, alone, still aching from the passionate love of a husband she would likely never see again,
Ysbet left the keep, mounted Iol without a glance to either of her parents, and rode off to meet her
destiny.

* * * * *

As Prator’s welcome party crested the beach, Ysbet drew a sharp breath.

The Saxon force waited in the harbor directly between Cruther’s Point and the far woods.

There were six boats in all. Massive, hewn ships of course workmanship and dark design, flying banners
bearing some dark and fearsome likeness Ysbet could not yet discern. Fifty or more men stood at the
ready on the rocky shore, hands on swords. Scores more waited on decks, and no doubt countless more
crammed the holds unseen.

“A show of force,” one guard muttered, jarring Ysbet from her fog of dread and despair.

Iol whinnied, and Ysbet steadied him with a pat.

The guard contingent fell back, leaving Roland and Twyllian as Ysbet’s only companions.

Roland cleared his throat. “You are very brave—“

“Please.” Ysbet cut him off. “Do not speak to me.”

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“My dear,” her mother began in wavering tones. Ysbet glanced at the woman she had scarcely seen
these last few years, silencing her with a drastic frown.

Twyllian’s wispy blond hair was pulled back in braid. She was clad in a blue riding gown, setting off her
pallor in a most unattractive way.

“I am not your dear,” Ysbet said. “Though I hold no wish to hurt you. In all of this, perhaps you are the
only true innocent.”

The queen blinked, clearly confused.

Ysbet nodded back toward Prator. “Go home and find a way to live with yourself. Find a way to be
your own woman, if you can.”

Twyllian offered no response beyond lowering her head.

Roland, clad in the Pendragon coat of arms, lowered his head as well.

Ysbet turned away from them both and rode forward alone.

Her heart beat faster with each step Iol took on the rocky shore. As they came into better view, the
Saxons were—well, large. Hairy and ruddy. They had Krell’s muscles without Krell’s fairer looks, most
of them.

Another few steps, and Ysbet realized another disturbing fact.

The Saxons stank.

It might be days aboard ship. It might also be that they didn’t have bathhouses or knowledge of spice
and scent.

That will have to change, Ysbet resolved.

She was less than a full five strides from the standard bearers now, and she could see that the flags bore
winged ravens, black as a moonless night.

“Neither dragon nor raven will possess you,” Ysbet murmured, echoing what Nimue told her before
scarring her chest and hand.

As if in response, a sharp glint rose from the sea, forcing her to shield her eyes.

The glint came from a polished suit of mail, and the mail was attached to the largest and no doubt
smelliest Saxon of the lot. A man now striding forward from the ranks, red cheeks blazing like the hair on
his head. Just behind him walked a smaller copy, almost a duplicate—only the smaller man’s cheeks
were death-pale.

The big man reached Ysbet and grasped Iol’s reins beneath the gelding’s chin.

“Greetings,” he said. “I am Onri of Dore. Your betrothed. And this,” he urged the smaller man forward,
“is Grakor. My son, born of my first union, before my wife died.”

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Ysbet fingered the bracelet that bound her to her true husband. She managed a smile, not unfriendly or
too false, she hoped. “I am Ysbet of Prator. Your, ah…intended.”

To the smaller man, she said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The red-maned Saxon nodded and grinned. His son glared. Around them, the troops remained wary.
Clearly they expected some treachery.

Would a father truly allow his only daughter to be taken with no fight?

“We should go.” Ysbet glanced over her shoulder. “I wish to leave these shores before sundown.”

Onri’s eyebrow lifted. “So eager?”

“Practical.” Ysbet shifted in her saddle.

Several of the Saxons gave her a surprised but appreciative stare. Grakor wasn’t among them. His smile
looked more like a wolfish snarl, and Ysbet disliked him more by the moment.

Onri chuckled. “A practical woman. Practical. So be it, then. If you’ll dismount, Lady, my men will see
to boarding your horse.”

Ysbet’s heart lifted for the first time since she left Eduard. “Iol can journey with me?”

“Of course.” Onri laughed again. Were it not for circumstance, Ysbet realized she might find the big
brute likable, after his own fashion. “Good horseflesh is hard to find.”

As gracefully and chastely as she could, Ysbet slipped from Iol’s back.

Two Saxons took charge of the gelding, and Onri offered Ysbet his arm.

Steeling herself—and her nose—for the unpleasantness ahead, Ysbet allowed the Saxon lord to lead her
aboard the largest, darkest ship of all.

Chapter 12

Eduard’s head weighed more than Prator’s heartstone, or so it seemed when he woke cold and alone in
the shack on Cruther’s Point. His mouth tasted of metal, salts, and spice, and his muscles felt too loose.
Too relaxed.

Were it not for the lingering scent of woman-sex on his face and fingers, he might have believed he
dreamed his marriage to Ysbet—and its consummation.

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“That was no fantasy.” The dry rasp of his words further hollowed his gut. He knew without looking
about that Ysbet was gone.

And not gone back to Prator.

Gone. Over the sea. To share another man’s bed.

This he knew as surely as the heaviness of his heart.

Secrets. The woman is naught but made of them!

Eduard mustered a fair amount of rage for one so spent. Ysbet had tricked him. Played upon his feelings
for her. His man’s sympathy. She wed him in the old ways, fucked him senseless, then drugged him with
some magik potion so he could not fight her choice to go with the Saxons.

“But why?” God’s teeth, his head ached.

Eduard struggled to his feet, fell, and fought his way back to standing again. The fire in the hearth had
gone out. Only a few embers remained, glowing like eyes, witnessing his foolishness.

Grinding his teeth, Eduard pulled on his salt-stiffened clothes. The slant of light through the cabin
windows told him sunset was near, and when he stumbled out to find Caen, pink light poured across the
oddly calm sea.

As if driven by some cruel magik force, Eduard forced himself to gaze across the waves.

On the horizon, six dark boats moved toward the mainland under full sail.

Reality. Harsher than any imagination.

“Ysbet!” The bracelet on Eduard’s arm seemed to burn into his skin, blaze into his very heart. He
lurched forward, toward the cliff’s edge. “No!”

Part of his mind insisted that he throw himself into the sea and swim for the ships, though they were
leagues away—and he’d never survive the plunge.

Another part of him planned to steal one of the two ships Prator boasted. Mere slips compared to the
Saxon battle vessels—but they would float.

Andrus. What of Andrus?

Sweet gods! Did every choice have to render him asunder? Could no path leave him whole?

“Andrus will have assistance.” Eduard assured himself. “Krell will see to him. Yes.”

Caen nickered from behind him, and Eduard wheeled about to race his stallion for the harbor.

Davyd Krell and Ysbet’s Nallad stood beside the horse like silent wraiths, startling Eduard motionless.

“No foolishness,” Nallad said. “You need strength for what you be aimin’. And not a little bit of magik.”

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Krell nodded. “Listen to her, lad. She’ll help you. We’ll help you.”

Eduard fought a mix of rage and disbelief. Somehow, everyone connected to Ysbet wounded him, if
only by their caring presence. “Hounds of hell take your magik. And Ysbet’s, too.”

He straightened himself and tried to focus on Caen. Krell had the black stallion’s reins, and the horse
made no effort to fight the training master.

“Fine.” Eduard seethed. “I will walk back to Prator, and be about my own business.”

He took a single step, but Nallad threw up a hand.

Eduard found he couldn’t move. His legs simply wouldn’t work. If anger could split rocks, Cruther’s
Point would have been cleaved in two.

“Release me,” Eduard demanded.

Krell shook his head. “Give it up, boy. This woman, I know well. You won’t be winnin’ this battle.”

Feeling the strongest of urges to kill something—anything—Eduard glanced back over his shoulder.

The Saxon ships were disappearing into evening mists, one after the other.

* * * * *

“Are you sure this will work?” Eduard glanced around his father’s cabin and shifted in the light mail
Nallad had spelled. He touched the unusual metal once more. It felt thick and strange, almost like
seasoned wood.

“Trust me.” Nallad kept at her work, enchanting bolts and screws and plates. “You got to believe.”

Outside, Prator Castle lay still as a tomb. Roland and Twyllian had sequestered themselves in the keep,
and the night guard sat on the battlements with heads bowed. Arthur’s Men had gone into mourning, as if
the Saxon raiders had stolen their souls.

Stolen without the chance to fight and die to save them.

This turn of events struck Andrus deeply, and Eduard saw a side of his father he scarce remembered.
The strong side. The angry visage. The warrior who would rip out an enemy’s heart—or a faithless
king’s.

Andrus leaned in Krell’s strong arms, just in front of the hearth. “Magik only works if you trust it, son.”

“I never took you for a believer,” Eduard grumbled.

Nallad thumped the back of his mail. “People’s beliefs be private tings. Speak kind to your fadder,
boy.”

At that admonition, Eduard’s heart gave a twinge. If Nallad’s powers were as strong as they seemed, if

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he succeeded in this insane undertaking—many ifs—it would be months before Eduard saw his father
again.

Ifever.

Krell eased Andrus into a chair and fixed him into place with a cloth binding. “Nallad and I, we’ll see to
yer horse and boat now,” the training master said to Eduard. “Meet us at the beach when ye be ready.
And make it soon. Outward tide’s our only chance to get ye off in the dark.”

Before Eduard could react, his “helpers” were out the door and gone, leaving him alone with his father.

Even though the last hours had been surprising, Eduard found he didn’t want to look at Andrus.

What was there to say?

Father, I fucked the princess. God’s teeth, she was sweet. My cock stays hard from the thought of her,
even if I wish to kill her for her treachery.

I love her, even after all your warnings. I love her and I couldn’t save her. Am I better than Lancelot
because I married her first?

Or worse? Much worse…

“Enough.” Eduard drew himself to his full height and looked Andrus straight in the face. “Father, if I have
disappointed you, I am sorry. For my actions, however, I offer no apology. I may be master of naught
but my own mind and heart, but those, at least, I rule.”

At first, Andrus offered no expression. Then an odd light sprang to his slack cheeks, and he smiled.
“Indeed. And you owe me no sorrow. I am proud of the man you have become.”

To this, Eduard had no response but to stride forward and gently embrace his frail sire.

“If I could give you a firm pat, I would.” Andrus’s voice wavered. “As it is, I send you on your way with
my blessing. Do this thing, boy. Bring Arthur’s heir back to us, then love her like a proper husband
should.”

Eduard felt a new warmth and strength at his father’s words. He squeezed Andrus one last time, then
stood. “I will. And I will bring her back unscathed, unless it be by my own hand.”

Andrus nodded, and smiled again.

With that image foremost in his mind, Eduard took his leave. In the quiet darkness, the beach—and his
doom—waited.

Nallad and Krell had one of Prator’s single-sailed sloops ready when Eduard arrived at the island’s
smaller harbor. Two torches burned from long staffs rammed into the rocky shore, illuminating a ship was
the size of a small cabin, with a shallow under-deck and a narrow prow. Caen was on board near the
helm, lashed, hobbled, and hooded in the bright moonlight—and unnaturally calm. Spells and potions, no
doubt.

“She’ll get ye to Land’s End.” Krell announced, patting the wood. “Be on yer own getting back, I’m

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afraid.”

“The boat and beast be protected, best I can.” Nallad’s eyes cut left, then right, rendered eerie white by
the flickering torches. “This be de Lady’s world. De sea. Water. And Nimue, her loyalties be cloudy. My
mistress, Morgain, she never trust her cousin, even though we all serve de Goddess in de end.”

Morgain.Eduard drew a slow breath.

So, Nallad was in league with the queen of the faeries. This left him less than easy. Morgain was a
trickster and a schemer, like most fair folke. And he had the distinct impression that Morgain had some
hand in Ysbet sailing with the Saxons.

Apparently oblivious to Eduard’s doubts, Nallad pressed a small bag into his hands. “There be herbs in
here, in case of wounds. Drink de small bottle tonight, give you back your strength—and mayhap other
things you need. De larger bottle be like food, until you be findin’ what you need.”

Eduard fastened the bag to his sword belt with little intention of opening it. Magik made him nervous.
Increasingly so, since his own bride used it to drug him.

After handshakes and wishes for good fortune, he climbed aboard the readied sloop. Krell unfastened
the moorings and muscled the ship away from the harbor dock.

Just before he released the boat, Eduard grabbed the older man’s arm. “What is she? Ysbet, I mean.
Who is she?”

Krell’s face was inscrutable in the torch-cut darkness, and for a moment, Eduard could have sworn he
heard whispering. A man’s voice, low and urgent, and infused with some ancient feel.

“Ysbet is yer wife and Prator’s future.” Krell at last responded. “Beyond that, does it matter?”

My wife. Our future.

Eduard released Krell, and the training master gave the boat a mighty shove. Almost immediately, Nallad
began whispering incantations, and the wind picked up, blowing toward the mainland.

The sail snapped as it filled with enchanted breezes, dragging Eduard into the main of the outgoing tide.

“Drink yer little bottle,” Krell shouted over the waves. “Ye won’t be regrettin’ it!”

* * * * *

Night closed around Eduard like a cold glove.

The twin torches on the beach faded to pinpoints and winked out, leaving him alone with the whistle of
the breeze, the lap of the ink-black waves—and his snoring stallion.

Fatigue ate at Eduard’s bones, and the bracelet from his handfasting niggled at his wrist.

Sleep. He needed sleep more than anything. A few hours would make no difference. After all, he could

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scarce navigate the channel in darkness. Either Nallad’s magik and the tide would carry him true, or he
would smash on some treacherous rock or bar.

He would not, however, drink from the bottle Nallad gave him.

Not unless he had no other means of resting.

As he settled on the deck near Caen, his thoughts immediately turned to Ysbet. To the feel of her flesh
beneath him. The taste of her nipples, her sweet quim. How she moaned with joy when he fucked
her—then betrayed him without the slightest quiver.

Eduard’s cock stiffened despite the cold and his thoughts of treachery.

The second eve of their marriage, and they were apart.

Even now, Ysbet might be giving herself to some Saxon brute—or being taken by one, willing or no.

Why had she chosen to go?

He slammed his hand into the deck boards. The same hand that had been tied to Ysbet. Caen struggled
briefly and stomped, then returned to snoring.

Eduard sighed.

The night ahead might be long, indeed.

Chapter 13

Ysbet faced Onri of Dore across the massive captain’s chamber, her dagger drawn. The reek of sweat
and ale made her stomach churn, and somehow, despite the cold of the sea, the room seemed hot and
oppressive. It was furnished sparsely, only a large table, a few chairs, and a bed. A war ship, not a
pleasure craft.

As the big Saxon stared at her drawn blade, he seemed caught between shock and laughter. “Are ye
serious, wench?”

“I am a princess, not a wench. And you will not bed me until I am properly and publicly wed.”

“Daft bitch.” Onri strode toward her, knocking two chairs aside. “As if my own muscle wouldn’t take
ye, the guards—”

He broke off as Ysbet lunged forward, barely missing his family jewels as she sheered a sliver of cloth
and flesh from his thigh.

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Onri howled and dropped to the cabin floor, but no guards burst in to save him. It was, after all, the
night he was supposed to claim his bride-to-be. Such noises were expected.

“I’m killed!” he cried, and Ysbet rolled her eyes.

“Barely hobbled, you great oaf.” She backed up a step, feeling her wedding bracelet like a stone weight
on her dagger-arm. “I do not wish to hurt you, but one of us will die this night if you persist.”

Onri sat up and pressed the bloody streak on his pants.

Ysbet felt no true sense of danger from the big bear of a soldier, but she didn’t fool herself. If Onri chose
to fuck her, he likely would—dagger, potions, magik, or no.

Thankfully, this did not seem to be his intent. At least not at the moment.

“Fine, then.” He struggled to his feet, keeping one hand over his crotch and the other outstretched, to
ward off another rush by his bride. “This gift, I’ll give ye. Once and only once. For tonight, I’ll bunk with
Grakor. Almi and Ilse will be tendin’ yer needs until our bonding tomorrow.”

Ysbet nodded.

Onri eyed the dagger and shook his head. “Practical.”

“Very.” Ysbet tightened her grip on the hilt.

Onri limped toward the door, opened it, and slammed it behind him.

Ysbet collapsed in a heap, sobbing and cursing Morgain for eternity. She would have enjoyed swearing
for another few minutes, but exhaustion rode her so heavily that sleep claimed her the moment her eyes
closed.

* * * * *

When Ysbet woke, she was naked. Soft sheets cushioned her, and soft hands plied her skin with
fragrant oils. Exotic scents. Myrrh and eucalyptus.

Ysbet’s entire body tingled.

Fingers massage her tender nipples, and her eyes flew open.

She was still in Onri’s foul chamber, in Onri’s foul bed—only the room and linens had been cleaned.
Two attractive women clad in white robes stood on either side of the bed, tending every inch of her flesh.
They were blond and full-figured, and their crystal blue eyes were wide and intense. A golden glow
issued around them, and Ysbet felt dizzy. Hardly able to move or speak.

One of the women slipped her hand between Ysbet’s legs, into the curly folds of her quim, and
massaged her clit as thoroughly as the other woman kneaded her nipples.

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“S-Stop,” Ysbet whispered.

Both women hesitated, clearly puzzled. “You have not achieved release,” they murmured as one.
“Without kiri , release is the only way to enter the Gray World.”

“I don’t want to enter the world of dreams.” Ysbet wished she could move. The women were still
touching her, cupping her most sensitive areas. She was close to orgasm despite her mind’s resistance.

Almi and Ilse? Are they fair folke?

“Yes,” said the woman on the left. She moved her fingers off Ysbet’s nipples and pressed the tattoo
now visible between Ysbet’s breasts. On the woman’s wrist were the same marks—sun, moon, and star,
intertwined. “I am Almi, and this is my cousin Ilse. We are servants of Avalon and the Goddess.”

Ysbet managed to shift beneath Ilse’s hand, which was still pressing her clit. “To whom are you loyal?”

Why did I ask that?

The women looked surprised.

“To all children of the old ways,” Almi replied.

“Nimue. Morgain. Merlyn. Who sent you?” Ysbet tried again to move, and could not.

Ilse gave her a wicked grin, and began slow strokes once more. “Morgain.”

“Hush.” Almi tapped the side of her cousin’ head. “Say no more.”

“Let me go from your spells!” Ysbet wriggled, which only brought her closer to explosion. The exotic,
forbidden feel of Ilse’s nimble fingers in her quim was almost too much.

Almi returned to her nipples, pulling and pinching ever so gently. Ilse rubbed Ysbet’s clit harder and
faster.

“Your husband is waiting,” Almi said. “You must relax. Come, and be joined with him. It is important
that you speak.”

“And fuck.” Ilse giggled.

“My husband? You mean Onri?” Ysbet groaned as she finished her question. The heat of pleasure had
captured her loins and crept up her belly. She thought about screaming, so badly did she want to arch
into Ilse’s soft touch.

“Of course not.” Almi squeezed Ysbet’s stone-hard nipple between thumb and forefinger. “Your true
husband. Claimed in the old ways, in the sight of the Goddess.”

“Eduard!” Ysbet’s heart flooded with joy.

“Come,” Ilse encouraged, working Ysbet’s clit with a fury. “Come and you will join him. Come!”

Ysbet cried out with her orgasm, and the golden light around the women flared.

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Suddenly, they were gone.

The bed, the sheets, her clothes, the chamber, the ship, the rocking of the sea—everything had vanished.
Ysbet was no longer aboard the Saxon vessel. At least not all of her.

Warm bits of fluff and cloud tickled her bare feet and legs, and she found herself walking on a flat gray
plain. The air smelled of clean rain and fresh mist, and a feeling of dizzy well-being overcame her. She
had never felt so splendid and relaxed in her nakedness. The very air seemed to touch her with
whisper-fingers, piquing her flesh and curiosity.

The Gray World. Where dreams and reality meet. The spirit-kingdom of the fair folke…

“Eduard?” Ysbet stopped and turned—and saw a light a few strides in front of her.

She hurried toward the soft yellow glow. No, not a glow. A door. To a room.

Ysbet entered, and realized she had stepped into a likeness of the guard shack on Cruther’s Point. Only
in this shack, a luxurious bed waited—and in that bed lay Eduard.

He was propped on his elbow, with every splendid inch of his muscled body available for her inspection.
Ysbet’s soul expanded at the sight, and she wanted to run forward and throw herself atop him.

Only the stern look on his face held her back.

Hurt. Anger.

Disgust? Rejection? Sweet gods…

“Are you real?” she murmured, edging closer.

Eduard sat up on the edge of the bed. “Are you?”

“Yes.” Ysbet touched her own breasts, her belly, her hips. “I think I am. Servants of Morgain met me on
Onri’s ship. They—ah—helped me get here.”

Then, following the thought, Ysbet’s cheeks grew warm. “How did you get here?”

“Nallad gave me a potion and bade me drink it to sleep and restore myself.”

Ysbet approached until she stood less than a finger’s reach from Eduard. His expression remained
hard—but his cock was responding to her presence. “Where is your body? In the physical world, I
mean.”

“On a sloop, following you.” Eduard leaned back, giving Ysbet full view of his rigid cock. “Why did you
betray me? I loved you. Trusted you. And I would have saved you from the Saxons.”

Ysbet’s heart clenched. The pain in Eduard’s voice stabbed her as surely as she had stabbed Onri of
Dore. “I—I know you would have. But I had to do this.”

“You had to marry me, fuck me, drug me—and abandon me?” Eduard’s tone was wry and furious.

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Tears clouded Ysbet’s view of her husband’s splendid body and pained expression. “I married you
because I loved you. I fucked you because I wanted you. The rest—I had no choice. I made an oath to
Morgain, that day in the woods. When we were almost caught together.”

Eduard studied her in silence.

Her nipples puckered under his gaze, and her quim ached to take his hard length inside her. Her want
grew so intense she feared it would swallow her, but Eduard seemed in no mood for touching.

“Oaths to the fair folke cannot be broken,” he muttered.

“Not without the lives of your loved ones being forfeit.” Ysbet wiped her eyes. “I didn’t tell you because
I knew you’d be stubborn, try to find some way around what had to be.”

Eduard’s gaze continued to blaze against her dream-swathed skin. She could almost feel his hands on
her breasts. In the slick folds between her legs. “Why did Morgain demand this price?”

“I do not know.” Ysbet bit back a groan and fought the urge to touch herself, to bring at least some
measure of relief. “The motives of the fair folke are often beyond us.”

With a frown, Eduard asked, “Do you have more oaths set upon you?”

“No! Well…I do not know.” Ysbet clenched and unclenched her marked hand. “Nimue, the Lady of
the Lake, bade me find a lost treasure for her, but I swore no oath to do so. She said we would not have
peace if I failed the task.”

“Not an oath, but no less binding.” Eduard sighed. “If I had a cord, I would bind you to me again and
demand a new promise.”

Ysbet’s pulse quickened. “And that promise would be?”

Eduard fixed her with his dark, brooding eyes. “No more secrets.”

“No more secrets, I promise.” Ysbet held out the hand she had tied to her husband in the original
cottage, only a night before.

Eduard reached up from the bed and grasped her fingers. With a sudden fierceness, he jerked her down
to him and held her firmly, squeezing her ass and pressing his face into her breasts.

Ysbet touched his thick hair, then cradled his head against her. The tip of his cock pushed against her
thigh, and she could stand being separate from him no longer.

Throwing a leg around him, she lowered herself on his cock.

They groaned together.

Eduard took a beaded nipple in his mouth and sucked as Ysbet moved up and down. Once. Twice.
Three times.

Ysbet savored the heat in her quim, the wet slip of his flesh against hers. Without leaving the warmth of

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her body, he stood, turned her around, and laid her beneath him on the dream-bed.

Mist rose around them as Eduard began fucking her with slow, deep strokes. “Never trick me again.
Ever.”

“No tricks.” Ysbet moaned and forced her hips up, higher, meeting him with legs spread. She wanted all
of him, stem to stern, and she loved the feel and sound of his sac slapping her ass.

Eduard pinched one of her nipples as he thrust into her time and again. His lips fastened on hers, and his
tongue filled her mouth.

Writhing and bucking, Ysbet urged him to pick up speed. “Fuck me harder. Please.”

“Never leave me again,” he demanded, pulling himself back until he nearly slipped out.

“I will not leave you!” She pounded his back, and he rammed his cock into her throbbing quim. “Sweet
gods. Yes. Yes!”

Eduard growled as he pounded her harder and faster, pulling her to him, taking her completely. So filling.
So satisfying.

She came in a fiery rush, with Eduard buried full inside her. Her orgasm rolled in waves, stretching out
and out as he continued his sweet, relentless thrusts.

“I love you.” Ysbet ground against him. “I love you!”

With a guttural groan, Eduard exploded. Ysbet felt the warm splash of his seed and squeezed him hard,
until he stopped moving and lay still atop her.

“I love you, too,” he murmured in her ear.

Tears coursed down Ysbet’s face. Sleep tried to claim her, but she fought her drowsiness. If she didn’t
sleep, she wouldn’t have to wake and leave the Gray World. She wouldn’t have to turn loose of
Eduard’s warm body.

He seemed to be thinking similarly, as he rolled away from her and sat up. “How long can we stay here.
Ysbet?”

“As long as I allow it,” answered a rich, female voice from outside the dream-room’s door.

Chapter 14

Eduard jumped up from the bed and stepped between Ysbet and the dream-door.

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A woman entered—tall, full-bodied—clad in naught but a thin blue gown that hid nothing from even a
casual glance. Her hair was blacker than black, pulled aside in a braid, revealing slanted eyes and
delicately pointed ears.

Before Eduard could demand her identity, Ysbet solved the mystery.

“Morgain. What are you doing here?”

“Helping you, my dear.” Morgain’s lush lips pulled into a smile. “What else would I be doing?”

“Only the gods know.” Ysbet’s voice had a razor-edge.

Eduard turned and started to retreat to the bed, but Morgain waved her slender hand in much the same
fashion Nallad had done before, near the real shack, on the real Cruther’s Point. His limbs froze in place,
despite his best will to the contrary.

Morgain slipped between him and the bed, settling on the edge where she could reach Ysbet—and him.

And reach him she did.

Her fingers caressed Eduard’s cock, and to his horror, he started to get hard. His eyes darted from the
fey woman to his wife, and sweat instantly covered his brow.

Thankfully, Ysbet did not seem angry, at least not with him. “Don’t resist, Eduard. She is fey. There is
nothing you can do.”

To Morgain, Ysbet said, “Leave him alone.”

Morgain ignored her. Instead of releasing Eduard’s cock, Morgain took Ysbet’s breast in her other bold
hand.

Eduard felt something like a bolt of fire through his shoulder—and in seconds, he was feeling the
faerie’s touch on his nipple, as if he were Ysbet.

Ysbet showed great surprise as well, dropping her gaze to the patch of curls between her legs and
groaning. “I can feel it. I can feel you touching his cock—as if it were my own!”

Morgain’s preternatural laughter rippled through the Gray World. Her grip on Eduard’s cock doubled in
strength, and as he watched, helpless, she slid her hand down from Ysbet’s breast, down and down
further.

Her fingers disappeared between Ysbet’s legs.

Eduard’s sensations suddenly doubled.

The stroking of his own cock. The stroking of Ysbet’s clit.

Jealousy rose in to him, then dissipated. All he could do was grunt and stare at what the faerie queen
was doing.

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“To fuck and be fucked.” Morgain’s sweet voice laced the air between them. “Bliss, is it not? Do not
fear your pleasures.”

Senses muddled, Eduard shook as exquisite release overtook him. Did he come? Did Ysbet?

“I bind you,” Morgain declared, wrapping sparkling blue light around them. “In the heart of the
Goddess. In the womb of the Goddess.”

Eduard felt himself moving, floating, but he was too confused to understand what was happening.

“Forever, in this world, and your world, and in the Other.”

He was in the bed, nursing Ysbet’s nipples as she toyed with his. He couldn’t tell her joy from his own.
Someone was sucking his clit—no—his cock—and Ysbet screamed each time he wanted to bellow his
own pleasure.

“What one feels, the other will share.”

Beneath him, Ysbet became Morgain, green-gold eyes flashing, and suddenly, Eduard was fucking the
faerie queen—all the while feeling himself fucked as if he had a woman’s slit. Ysbet was behind him,
driving her hips against his ass, groaning like a man rutting with a tavern wench.

“Where one goes, will the other follow. Always will you seek each other, and find each other, so long as
you both draw mortal breath.”

Ysbet lay beneath Eduard now, accepting his crazed pounding. Screaming for more. Deeper. Harder.
Her scarred hand was buried deep in Morgain’s quim, and Morgain was rubbing Ysbet’s clit with golden
fingers.

Eduard’s orgasm slammed through him like a charging stallion. He felt everything double—and then
nothing at all but the joining of his soul with Ysbet’s very essence.

Colors rose and fell around them like a burning rainbow, and he kissed her welcoming lips again and
again.

“You are everything to me,” he said against her mouth.

She took a breath as if to answer him—then screamed.

Her body twisted beneath him, and to his horror, she began to sink through the bed.

Disappearing. Ysbet was disappearing!

“Morgain!” he shouted, but the faerie queen was already beside him, grasping for Ysbet’s flailing hand.

It was no use.

“My cousin,” Morgain hissed as Ysbet vanished. “Curse her to a thousand fires. Nimue, you
biiiiiii-iiiiiitch…”

The fey voice faded from Eduard’s ears as he fell through the bed after Ysbet. Cold air lashed his face,

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and mist choked him.

No. Not mist. Salt water.

Eduard sat up on his sailboat. He was fully dressed again, in the spelled armor.

Caen’s desperate screams filled his ears, along with crack and bellow of an unseasonable storm.

An unnatural storm.

Waves rose around them like black monsters, pitching the small craft side to side.

Wind howled like voices—and indeed, Eduard heard two women and a man, arguing. And steady
chanting. Familiar. Nallad, maybe?

Somewhere, Ysbet called his name over and over.

Fighting the pitch and yaw, Eduard heaved himself up. Quick as he could, he drew his blade from his
sword belt and hacked through Caen’s hobbles. Then the ties holding the great stallion to the railings.
Finally, he ripped the hood from Caen’s head.

The horse trumpeted and stomped, and Eduard did the only thing that made sense to him. He grabbed
Caen’s mane and mounted in a single swing.

The boat creaked and lurched as another wave hit it. Wood cracked and split. Eduard realized the ship
had broken apart. Naught but Nallad’s magik held it fast—and that, only long enough for him to react.

Banking his life on Caen’s trust and obedience, Eduard backed the horse as far as he could, then
punched the stallion’s sides with his knees.

As if there were no storm, as if they were on dry grass, Caen leaped forward, thundered the length of
the failing sloop, and sailed over the far railing.

With a tooth-snapping jolt, they landed in the cold, furious sea.

And floated easily.

Caen’s spelled tack and Eduard’s spelled armor seemed as buoyant as aged wood.

The horse began a forceful swim in the direction of the mainland. Waves crested and broke, choking
Eduard and nearly foundering his mount. His fingers and toes quickly went numb in the icy breaks.

Overhead, the storm screeched, as if enraged by his temporary escape.

“Help me!” he called, in case Morgain could hear him. In case she might be inclined to assist.

Caen thrashed and struggled, bearing him on. Eduard knew the great stallion would labor until his heart
burst. Or until they both drowned.

Hopeless. But we must try. Ysbet—the storm. Ysbet!

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No doubt Nimue had little interest in a king’s captain with no mystic blood, no heritage to speak of.

The Lady of the Lake was set on different quarry.

Somehow, Eduard had to reach his wife. Save her.

Even as the thought formed, a huge wave bore down upon rider and horse.

Eduard turned, tried to take the force sideways—to no avail.

Water slammed him with brutal force, and Eduard and Caen rolled under the magik-maddened sea.

Chapter 15

Ysbet was near to drowning before she understood she was no longer with Eduard or Morgain.

Sweet gods, but she could still feel their hands on her. The heat, the fire—what it was like to fuck as well
as be fucked. Sharing Eduard’s mind and sensations, Morgain’s words of binding—the effect had been
dizzying.

Yet now, Ysbet found herself in the ocean, flailing against the icy sea. All around her, drowning men
shouted. Some grabbed for her and barely missed. Wind wailed. The waves—so high!

This was no storm born of the Earth.

Lightning flashed.

Ysbet saw the Saxon ships, broken and sinking. The sea threw her about like a rag toy while overhead,
the ancients thundered and fought.

Merlyn’s voice was the loudest, though Ysbet could not discern his words.

Morgain and Nimue were but shrieks between blasts of thunder.

Eduard. His boat will never weather this nightmare!

Ysbet’s limbs grew heavy and stiff in the chilled waters, and bits of wood and debris battered her as the
waves continued.

Twice she went under, and on the third time, she swallowed a great mouthful of brine. Her lungs cried
out for relief. She barely began coughing when another swell shoved her down.

Fighting to surface, she pressed one hand against the tattoo between her breasts.

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Help me, Nallad. Anyone who might take pity. Please. Help!

Thunder and shouted curses were her only answer.

Ysbet swam as hard as she could, but her strength failed quickly. Towering waves bruised her time and
again. Dead men floated past. Some naked, some clothed. One was Onri of Dore, blue and bloated from
his watery demise.

Panicked, Ysbet pushed away from him. She clawed at the waves, wishing for fins, and then—

“Mistress!”

Hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her head above the water. Almi and Ilse—and Ilse was astride her
gelding!

“Iol!”

“Come with us,” Almi shouted above the din.

Ysbet used her last bit of energy to haul herself aboard the horse—who seemed oddly calm in the
overpowering waters. Almi climbed on behind, and the three women clung to the horse as if he were a
welcoming god.

A chant wove through the waves, a voice familiar to Ysbet, and yet too distant to understand.

“Nallad!” Ysbet’s teeth chattered too hard to say anything further.

What’s happening? Who is doing this to me—to all of us?

There was no answering change in the chant, but Almi and Ilse took up the rhythmic incantation. Ysbet
instinctively knew they were calling on the water, calling on the Goddess and the source of all life through
the great connecting force.

Perhaps her imagination fooled her, but the waves seemed to hold them more gently. As if a cradle were
forming in the sea.

A sensation like hundreds of tiny warm hands tickled Ysbet’s near frozen legs, and Iol began to
move—not of his own volition. Like water down a steep rock, they rushed ahead. Too fast to think. Too
fast to understand.

They flew through the stormy ocean, straight out of the debris and dangerous waves. Away. Toward
Land’s End.

No.

North, but west. And then east, swirling around the mainland’s tip.

Ysbet felt her body warming. Ilse and Almi pressed her between them like a bit of jam—and those
magik hands in the sea. Rubbing her legs and feet. Her hips. Her sides and arms. The smell of roses
welled from the salt and seaweed, and Iol’s powerful legs pumped as if he ran on solid ground.

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When Ysbet looked down in the waning lightning, she thought she could see glimmering forms beneath
the dark swells.

“Wh-What’s happening?” She finally managed to yell. “Who are they?”

“Sprites.” Almi spoke in her ear, sounding confident. “Water nymphs, too. Morgain’s kin. Do not fear.
They will see us safely out of Nimue’s sight and range. For now, at least.”

“Nimue,” Ysbet muttered. The voices of the ancients grew distant as they left the storm.

Is Nimue trying to help? To harm?

And where do Morgain’s loyalties lie? She forced me onto this trip…

Never mind Merlyn. The bastard.

The water became warmer, and warmer still as they moved faster. North, then east. Ysbet had the sense
they were leaving the ocean, crossing into lochs, rivers, streams—but she couldn’t tell. The rush of heat
over her body distracted her. For a moment, she felt unclothed, and the heady memory of Eduard in the
Gray World rushed over her.

His cock had felt splendid, delving her hottest depths. And for a moment, to know what it was like to
have a cock, to feel it buried in her wet quim…the dual sensation made her dizzy even now.

Iol began to slow, and Ysbet shook herself from her fantasy. How could she be aroused? Death was but
a wave away—and yet all she could think of was her husband. Her clit ached, and her breasts wanted
nothing but Eduard’s mouth, suckling.

He was alive. Of that, she was certain—thanks to Morgain’s bonding.

Friend or foe, that woman? It is so hard to tell with the fair folke!

A great slosh told her Iol’s hooves had found ground, and the gelding was now toting them out of the
water. Up, onto a grassy shore. The shadows of a thick forest and a great hill loomed nearby, but Ysbet
scarcely cared.

She slid from Iol’s back along with Ilse and Almi, and they collapsed on the soft, fragrant ground. For a
moment, Ysbet did not have the strength to wonder where they were. And then some part of her mind
seemed to know.

The fertile, fresh scent was familiar. And the energy of the place—strong—almost palpable, like feather
touches on her neck and back.

She had been here in the past, on this hilly, wooded island. Perhaps before the age of memory, when
only smells and feelings left imprints on the mind. When she was a babe, or a very young child. Or maybe
in dreams?

Yes! That was it!

She had been to this place in her dreams.

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Ysbet sat up and rubbed her palms against her wet clothes.

Mist wove through nearby trees, and the moonlight seemed greater here. Almost day-bright. It cast
silvery shadows on the swells and trees. Ysbet squinted at the closest branches, and sure enough, the
eerie owl she had dreamed only a few nights ago occupied a cedar not ten strides from where she lay.

Morgain’s two servants struggled to their feet and helped Ysbet stand. Iol, apparently no worse for his
wild ride, nibbled at the dew-soaked grass nearby.

Ilse followed Ysbet’s gaze to the phantom-like owl and shivered. “ Heis here. Nearby.”

“Merlyn.” Ysbet sighed.

“Do not fear the Myrddin, Mistress.” Almi straightened her waterlogged robes. “He is yet trapped by
Nimue’s old spell, growing younger all the while. His body remains confined in the crystal caves.”

“Not for long,” Ilse muttered, but a wicked glare from Almi silenced her.

Ysbet frowned at this exchange, more confused than ever about which ancients—if any—could be
trusted. “Where are we?”

“Ynys-witrin.” Almi glanced toward the moonlit hill. “The Glass Island.”

At this, Ysbet’s heart went nearly still. “Avalon. We have come to the very gates of the Other World.”

“Not any more.” Ilse shook her wet head. “After Arthur’s death, and the mists—Avalon has moved on,
away from humanity. The entrance is—”

“Hush, sister.” Almi punched Ilse’s arm. “The entrance to Avalon is no one’s concern.”

Ilse pursed her lips and grabbed Ysbet’s arm. Jerking Ysbet forward, she said, “But this one bears the
mark between her tits. I saw it!”

Almi didn’t answer. Instead, she gazed over the placid waters and shook her head. “Marks do not mean
what they once did. Even the marks of the Goddess. Caution, sister.”

Ysbet grew exceedingly frustrated, and her scarred palm itched with ferocity. Eduard—her sense of him
was increasing, which did nothing to reduce her agitation. “Why have I come here? Do you know?”

Almi shrugged. “This is a safe place. A haven of great energy, despite the fact Avalon departed.”

“I think we should tell her more,” Ilse said. “Morgain—”

“Bade us care for her, not tutor her.” Almi sounded peeved.

As they argued, bells rang softly in the distance.

The hairs on Ysbet’s arms prickled. The Abbey. Of course. She remembered talk of an Abbey, and a
tower on a hill—and Arthur, coming here for burial after Camlann.

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This was too much.

Feeling defeated, Ysbet sank back into the grass and fell into a hard sleep.

* * * * *

Cool gray light pierced Ysbet’s consciousness. She opened her eyes and squinted, seeing Almi and Ilse
cuddled together and snoring against a nearby pine. The dense forest rose behind them like sentinels, and
Ysbet caught the barest glimpse of Iol, head down, picking at grass and clover.

She realized she had slept until dawn, though it felt like only minutes since she closed her eyes. Her
muscles ached, but the itch in her scarred palm overpowered her senses.

Ysbet had a sudden urge to plunge it into the lake for relief.

A stupid thought, but one she couldn’t discard. She had to do something before the itch robbed her of
her sanity.

Morgain’s faithful didn’t stir as she slipped to the water’s edge and thrust her hand below the surface.
The itch abated. Ysbet let out a long breath—followed by a scream as the water sucked her in like some
swirling human-trap.

Bubbles coursed past her face as she plummeted down, and water filled her lungs. Ysbet felt like she
had fallen off a mountain, only the water didn’t buoy her. It weighted her. Down, and down, like an iron
arrow fired toward the lake’s fathomless bottom. Her chest burned, and she kept screaming even though
she knew her voice echoed only to her own ears.

Raging and pounding the current before her, Ysbet tried to reverse direction—and her elbow struck
something solid and unnaturally warm. She twisted immediately and wrapped her good hand around it. It
was metal. Yes. And hot.

Her abrupt descent stopped, and her feet touched the murky, muddy bottom. Visions of lake snakes
and buried sea monsters danced in her brain, but she focused on the object she had grabbed. Not
natural. Not a part of the lake—but it seemed to be stuck.

Her palm itched more than her lungs ached. Biting her lip, she reached out with her scarred hand, shifted
the heated item into the pitted flesh, and tugged.

It came loose with a single pull—and Ysbet sailed toward the air again. In seconds, she broke the
water’s surface. The lake spat her out, and she landed with a thump at Ilse and Almi’s feet.

“By the Goddess!” Almi clutched her chest. “We took you for drowned!”

“Sorry.” Ysbet coughed. “My hand itched. I was just trying to sooth it.”

Ilse and Almi didn’t answer. When Ysbet chanced a glance at them, they were gaping at her—or rather
at her scarred hand and the thing she had pulled from the lake.

Ysbet turned her gaze to the object.

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Her toes went numb.

It was a sword and scabbard. Red jewels glittered in the golden hilt, and an odd silver light played along
the burnished silver blade. Ysbet quickly noticed that the design on the hilt fit into the scarred flesh on her
hand.

Nimue’s treasure. The item I am bound to return.

And Ysbet knew what the sword was, and whose it had been.

“Excalibur,” Ilse whispered, making the odd vision all too real.

Ysbet clambered to her feet, but the sword kept fast in her hand.

Excalibur.

Sweet Gods.

The curse is upon me.

Early morning light broke over the mist-laden hills. The blade gleamed, and Ysbet wanted to scream.

Instead, she startled when someone called her name.

“Ysbet! Are you here? Ysbet!”

A horse’s clopping echoed from somewhere atop the rolling hills.

“Eduard!” Ysbet tried to run forward, tripped over the sword, and fell.

Ilse and Almi didn’t assist her this time, because they had vanished into the woods at the sound of the
strange voice.

Not knowing what else to do, Ysbet forced the scabbard around her waist, buckled it, and sheathed the
sword.

Please, let it be true. Let it be Eduard and not some foul magik trick.

Mouth set with grim determination, she collected Iol, mounted with great care, and headed up the
hills—straight toward the sound of horse and rider.

Chapter 16

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Eduard forced Caen forward in the dawn’s growing light. “Ysbet!”

He could feel her nearby. Closer, and closer still. Was he desperate? Imagining?

The path in front of him wound ever higher, and at times, Eduard sensed it changing. Brambles and trees
blocked his way, but seemed to part as he charged forward.

This is familiar.

A strange panic seized his gut. “Ysbet. Beloved! Where are you?”

Eerie silence answered him. Caen blundered forward, turned left, then straight, and right, and right again.
A frozen blanket of reality settled on Eduard.

He was riding in a maze carved into the sides of a great hill.

And he had been here before.

No. It cannot be.

And yet, as he crested the knobby hill and saw the tower in the stone circle—the old Temple of the
Goddess—he knew.

God’s Teeth. This is Ynys-witrin—Glastonbury. The Tor. After all this time!

Eduard took a slow breath. Childhood memories niggled at his mind. King Arthur and the Knights of the
Round Table riding for council on this very hill… Harvest moon rising like a round torch above the
tower’s battlement… Beltane fires… Arthur slipping into the mists beyond the Temple to commune with
his fey relatives…

But, only the initiated could wend through the Tor’s maze and come to the Temple of the Goddess
safely. Adepts, priests, and of course, the fey.

How had he made it to the top?

Eduard squeezed Caen with his knees and guided the stallion forward. “How did I even come to this
place?”

The horse offered no answers.

In truth, Eduard barely remembered his wild flight through the sea. It was as if he had been borne by
thousands of hot, tickling fish.

And giggles.Yes, some of those fish had giggled and played with his cock until he slapped them away.

“Eduard!” Ysbet’s voice rang from the south side of the Tor.

Eduard dismounted. “Here! On the hilltop. By the Temple!”

The barest rustle of footfalls caught his attention, and as he watched in the direction of the sound, Ysbet

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appeared on Iol. She slipped to the ground immediately, her lovely face a study in relief and joy.

Eduard’s heart gave a leap, and he ran toward her.

Her wet hair spilled wild down her arms and chest, and her gown was drenched. Dozens of cuts marked
her pale skin—and she had some sort of sword belt bound about her waist.

Odd.

And yet, bruised, unkempt, well-armed—Ysbet was still the most beautiful thing Eduard had ever seen.

He met her just outside the Temple’s stone ring, catching her up as she flung herself at him. Her damp
body warmed him like the rising sun, and even through the salt-and-brine sea smell, he caught a trace of
her ginger-lemon scent.

As Ysbet’s tongue blended with his, Eduard’s cock hardened. He wanted to hold her, talk to her, and
fuck her all at once, damn the ancients and whoever else might be watching.

She seemed just as eager, rubbing his chest and shoulders, pressing her breasts against him. “I was
worried beyond reason.”

Eduard kissed her again, holding her tight against his chest. He kissed her until he could barely breathe,
until she groaned and tugged his hair with trembling fingers, and then he told her, “If I lost you, I would
lose my soul.”

“Our souls are twined.” Ysbet let go of his hair and cupped his cheek. Her thigh moved against his
crotch, drawing a growl of desire from the depths of his passion. “Even so far away, I sensed you—out
on the waves.”

“Beloved.” Eduard gripped her hips, holding tight to the sword belt and pressing her against his cock.
Her hands plunged into his pants, and she sighed as she slid her fingers up and down his rigid shaft.

Eduard closed his eyes, lost in the silken tease of her touch.

And then she was on her knees, sword out to the side, lifting his wet shirt, kissing his belly—unlacing his
breeches and pushing them down. He felt the warm morning air on his sensitive skin, and Ysbet’s lips
closed around the tip of his cock.

He groaned.

Her tongue made slow circles. Tasting. Drawing him into her hot mouth a bit at a time.

“Yes. Yes…” Eduard stroked her hair. It took all of his self-restraint not to ram himself down her throat.

Her hands cupped his sac as she sucked. Deeper and deeper. Sweet gods, she had his entire length.

“Mmm.” Ysbet’s rumbled purr shook Eduard’s control, and he moved his hips. She encouraged him
with more purring, and before he knew it, she was fucking him with her mouth.

Ysbet’s head plunged up and down, and she fondled his bollocks. So gentle it was maddening—but
perfect.

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Eduard’s gut tensed. He tried to move Ysbet’s head, to let her know he was near to orgasm, but she
refused to back away.

Instead, she sucked harder.

Eduard came with a shout, emptying himself in Ysbet’s welcoming throat. His thrusts slowed, but she
kept fondling and sucking until he grew still, fighting to keep his knees locked into place.

Then, Ysbet trailed her lips up his stomach and chest, to his neck, his cheek, his mouth. He wrapped his
arms around her, and after a brief kiss, she said, “My turn.”

“And my pleasure.” Eduard turned her loose to step out of his breeches.

Ysbet backed away and motioned for him to follow, to the Temple’s nearest flat stone.

As Eduard removed his shirt, Ysbet climbed on the knee-high stone. Keeping her eyes locked with his,
she stripped off her sword belt and wet gown, laid them on the rock, and stood before him, naked.
Gooseflesh covered her skin, and her nipples beaded under his hungry gaze.

Eduard pressed his face into her breasts. For a moment, she cradled his head before lifting her arms
above her head and thrusting her nipples forward. He pinched them both between his thumb and
forefinger, and Ysbet groaned. She tried to maneuver herself toward his mouth, but he held her in place
and kept up the pressure on her nipples until she whimpered.

When he was certain she couldn’t take another second of teasing, he leaned forward, slid his arm behind
her back, and suckled one hard nub.

Ysbet’s response was instant. She twisted in his grasp, moving as close as she could get. “Ah, so good.
Do not stop.”

Stopping was not Eduard’s plan. Exactly the opposite, in fact.

He toyed with one nipple and then the other, switching back and forth until Ysbet pounded his
shoulders. The heat from her moist quim pressed against his belly, and she moved against him, pleading
for relief.

Eduard knelt and spread her legs just enough to kiss her gorged lower lips. Carefully, he eased his hand
into her soaked curls, and Ysbet widened her stance.

Groaning from her musky, sweet scent, Eduard flicked his tongue against her swollen clit. Her shiver and
sigh rewarded him. Filled with loving heat, Eduard pushed one finger, then two, then three into her wet
slit.

She clenched against his knuckles and pulled his face forward.

Eagerly, Eduard moved his fingers inside Ysbet, licking her clit faster, then slower. Faster, then slower.
She tightened on his knuckles. Her rapid gasps and low moans told him she was close to climax. Easing
back, he prolonged the moment.

“Eduard.” She pulled at his hair. “Please!”

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The urgency in her words gave him deep satisfaction. His cock hardened once more, and he pushed his
fingers deep inside her. Doubling the speed of his tongue against her clit, he drank her warm juices.

“Yes!” Ysbet lurched as she climaxed, pressing her hands against his shoulders to keep her balance.
Eduard enjoyed the feel of her inner walls, contracting and releasing, and worked his fingers in a gentle
swirl.

Ysbet groaned and came again. This time she pushed away from him, laughing. “Mercy, Captain. Leave
a woman some dignity.”

At that, Eduard climbed on the rock with her. “No mercy for the wicked—or the wonderful.”

He shoved at her clothes with his foot, but the sword refused to move. Puzzled, Eduard tore his eyes
from Ysbet long enough to bend down and try to pick it up. He could not. The damnable blade seemed
to weigh more than a horse.

Ysbet’s laughter drifted through his surprise. “Did I wear you out so easily?”

“The sword—“ he began, but she nudged him aside with her hip, picked up the clothing and the sword,
and dropped them over the stone’s edge.

Eduard stood behind her and stared at the blade as it lay in the grass. It was no more than a dull steel
contrivance, yet when he tried to look away, it gleamed like gold, with jewels and halos of light.

“Always the warrior.” Ysbet turned and stroked his cock. “Am I doomed to share your attention with
weapons?”

Heat spread through Eduard’s groin. He forced his attention from the strange blade and focused on the
woman bringing him such immediate pleasure. “Of certain, not. I would lay down arms and armor for
you, Ysbet.”

Chapter 17

Ysbet’s body still sang from Eduard’s sensual touches. His cock felt rigid in her hand, and his salty male
scent filled her senses. She wanted him inside her, pounding, bringing her the ecstasy only he could
deliver. Fear of losing him had only increased her hunger, driven her to new appetites.

“Fuck me,” she whispered, tugging at his firm cock.

Eduard’s eyes widened, as if to swallow her. His cheeks flushed, and he pulled her forward. His kiss
was rough yet sweet, and his tongue thrust hard against hers. Ysbet’s nipples ached as they rubbed
against his chest. Her quim pulsed, wet and waiting as his masterful hands kneaded her ass.

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He was so large, so sturdy. And yet he harnessed his brute strength to pleasure her. She felt like she
held a noble dragon by the tail, and the power intoxicated her like some faerie elixir.

“Now,” she whispered in his ear.

With a rumble of approval, Eduard lifted her high, then impaled her on his throbbing cock.

Ysbet threw her head back and screamed from the perfect sensation. Sweet gods, but he filled her!
Deep and hot.

She squeezed him hard with her hips and held on for the ride as he moved her at his whim. Up, down.
Harder, then faster. Her back arched, and she gripped his shoulders, grinding her hips each time he
plunged to his full depth.

Sweat sheathed her as she bucked.

“Fuck me,” she murmured, unable to check herself. “Fuck me. Fuck me!”

Eduard roared, thrusting harder. He forced her down, then lifted her so high she nearly slipped off the tip
of his cock—and down again. She slammed against him as she came with a violent rush of fire and joy.

On the next thrust, Eduard blasted his seed like a cannon, gripping Ysbet and shaking with the strength
of his orgasm.

She rocked forward, hugging him around the neck, kissing his ears, his face—and incredibly, she felt him
harden again.

Eduard’s eyes were hooded as he laid her gently on the smooth, sun-warmed rock. Just the movement
of his cock as he positioned himself over her nearly brought her to the edge again.

The fire of his body, the hot kiss of the air—Ysbet was bathed in sweat.

He kissed her as he began a slow, stroking pump. Ysbet felt dizzy from his tenderness, from the
exquisite warmth of his body against hers.

“I love you,” he said as he fucked her, slipping in and out, cherishing her lips and quim until she nearly
lost her mind from the bliss.

Ysbet rose to meet his thrusts, to be as close to him as she could get. Her mind emptied of all thoughts
except Eduard. “I love you, too. So much.”

As Eduard’s delicious movement claimed her every nerve and muscle, Ysbet felt their thoughts mingle.
The sensation of hard stone beneath her was lost. For a moment, she was Eduard, pushing his rock-hard
cock into her wet quim. For a moment, she was Ysbet, legs wide to receive him.

Eduard groaned with her as their perceptions swapped and joined, winding their emotions like a
tenacious vine.

Ysbet knew how important she was to her husband, how he saw and felt her. She knew to the depths of
her core how much he loved her, and that Eduard had drawn these same things from her mind and body.

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This was better than her childhood fancies. Better, even, than her woman’s dreams.

She wrapped her legs around Eduard and moaned as he pumped. The sound of his flesh rubbing and
sliding against her own deepened her excitement, and her climax came in growing breaks, swelling and
capping through her very soul.

Eduard came at the same moment, this time spending himself to the last drop and trickle. He sagged
against Ysbet, and she held him tightly. Tears of total release slipped from her eyes, and she smiled even
as she drifted into exhausted sleep.

* * * * *

Ysbet woke with a start to find Eduard sitting beside her on the stone, pulling on his breeches. She ran
her nails down his muscled back and smiled. “Must we leave so soon?”

“I think it best, yes.” Eduard paused and caressed her cheek. “We may be vulnerable here.”

“To whom?” Ysbet closed her eyes, enjoying the scent of their sex on his fingers. “This place seems
deserted. I sense no human presence nearby—only animals and remnants of old magik.”

“The old magik concerns me.”

Ysbet forced her lids upward and gazed at Eduard. He was looking down, in the direction of her sword.
“This is a powerful place, Ysbet. I have been here before, in better times. From beside this very stone, I
watched Arthur walk into the mists, to Avalon.”

“Avalon has moved on.” Ysbet sat up and snuggled into Eduard. “Servants of Morgain told me so, after
the storm. They are down on the beach somewhere, Almi and Ilse.”

“And do you trust them?” Eduard stood and picked up his tunic. “I know not which ancient means us
good fortune or treacherous death. I am of a mind to walk away from here. And continue walking, north,
until we find the very edge of Briton. Mayhap there, we will be left in peace.”

Ysbet’s heart swelled at the thought, but a fierce itch in her scarred palm quelled her optimism. She
glanced at the markings in her flesh, and then at Excalibur, half-covered by her clothes but no less
splendid. “Our path may not be so smooth.”

Eduard retrieved her clothes from the ground and handed them to her. A frown creased his face, making
her heart ache. “Tell me what you know—and remember well our promise about secrets.”

Ysbet sighed.

Nimue’s words came back to her in a rush, though she didn’t wish to remember them.

Know your heart will not rest until you find the treasure to fill the flesh I emptied. Until you bring that
treasure back to the Tor, and beyond. To Avalon. To me. Only then can you possess what you desire.

Tongue weighted as if by stone, she shared her encounter with Nimue in great detail as they finished
dressing. “I believe that means I must return to the Scillies. To Chapel Down and Prator—at least until I

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locate the new entrance to Avalon and return the treasure Nimue desires.”

For a moment, Eduard made no comment. He eyed the sword she strapped about her waist, and his
frown deepened. “You speak as if I will not accompany you.”

Ysbet’s eyes widened. She dared to approach him, to lay her hands on his firm chest. “You cannot. The
moment you set foot on Father’s lands—he would have you executed.”

“I am bright enough to avoid the guard. After all, I helped train them.” Eduard’s tone was hard. He
covered her hands with his, and his dark eyes burned with determination. “We will not be separated
again.”

New tears blurred Ysbet’s vision. “I cannot bear such a risk!”

Eduard’s grim countenance brooked no argument. “Then we move north from here, and contend with
Nimue’s curse for our failure.”

Ysbet pulled away from him in a fit of despair, grabbing her sword belt—and her heart stilled with
shock. “Someone is coming. Fey. No, human. Both! Many!”

“What?” Eduard wheeled about, drawing his own blade. He lunged and grabbed Ysbet, hauling her
toward the trees ringing the Tor.

Ysbet stumbled, but quickly righted herself and followed. The jolt of knowing from Excalibur had
disoriented her, but not so much that she forgot her treasured gelding. With a whistle, she called Iol.

Well-trained and loyal, both Iol and Caen trotted after them.

No sooner had they reached the cover of bramble and bush than Ilse and Almi rushed into the Tor’s
wide circle.

“Mistress!” Almi called. “The Saxon survivors are here. The survivors from the wrecks who managed to
make it into landing boats. Flee!”

Ilse opened her mouth to speak, but fell forward instead. A wicked arrow protruded from her back, and
a red stain fouled her robes.

Ysbet choked back a horrified scream. She tried to run into the clearing, but Eduard’s iron grip
restrained her.

“How are the Saxons navigating the maze?” he whispered. “Not possible. Simply not possible!”

And yet Ilse lay dead. Blood spilled through the outer ring of the Temple of the Goddess.

Almi dropped to the ground and cradled her cousin. “You will die for this!” she shouted. “When the
ancients know what you have done—“

Another arrow flew into the circle. Almi fell sideways to avoid it, and the harsh missile nicked the stone
beside her head. She struck her fair brow on the ground and went limp.

“God’s teeth!” Eduard wheeled on Ysbet. “Stay here. Do not show yourself, or I will never forgive you,

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in this life or the next.”

Ysbet swallowed hard. Before she could answer or grab his arm, Eduard plunged out of the thicket and
ran toward Almi.

His presence drew a new hale of arrows, some long-distance shafts and a few of the horrible, thick
short-distance shafts that felled Ilse. They fell around him like thrown knives, barely missing their target.
Getting closer with each step he took.

Ysbet gripped the hilt of Excalibur, and the sword hummed in her palm. Her brain buzzed with the
power of the sword. Her feet wanted to move, but Eduard’s words held her fast under the cover of the
trees.

Spare him. Spare him. Spare my love!

Eduard reached the cowering servant of Morgain and scooped her from the ground with only a slight
break in his stride. He pivoted and rushed back toward tree cover. Two large arrows plunged into the
earth only inches from his legs. The shooters were pacing him, gauging his speed.

Panic rose like an ugly wave in Ysbet’s chest. Not knowing what else to do, she drew Excalibur and
held it high above her head. Willed it to let loose whatever power it could or would.

“Save him!” she cried.

Light blazed from the sword.

In an eerie, slowed motion, Eduard ran the last strides to the trees, bearing Almi. Arrows flew toward
him in tight spirals, but burst into flames before striking their target.

As he leaped through the brambles, Eduard shouted to Ysbet to mount Iol. Urged her to ride. And yet
his voice sounded like strange music through dense water.

Ysbet could not move. She could do nothing but stand and hold the sword as Eduard threw Almi across
Caen’s back.

Saxons charged onto the Tor. Great, furious men wielding swords and bows. Barbarians. A dozen. Two
dozen.

Grakor, face and chest slashed, leading them all. Hatred burned on the new Saxon leader’s face.

“Where is the witch who murdered my father?” he bellowed. “Bring her to me!”

Ysbet’s heart and will stuttered in the face of the man’s raw fury. Onri’s death—no doubt Grakor
intended to defile the Temple with more woman’s blood in retribution.

Where is Morgain to avenge her slain servant? And why would Nimue tolerate such insult to the
Temple? Have all the fey taken leave of these struggles?

As her hand fisted on the sword hilt, Ysbet felt the presence of Arthur. Of every great soul who had ever
borne the burden of Excalibur. She did not feel worthy to commune with such spirits. And she did not
feel comfortable with the death that blade could bring.

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In her mind, she saw legions falling before her, dropping and bursting into flames.

It was horrible.

Her sword arm shook. She heard Eduard’s frantic yelling as if from afar, asking what she was doing,
demanding to know what was happening.

Trembling from brow to toe, she lowered the blade and forced it down, back into its sheath.

Never. I will never draw this damnable weapon again!

“I have come for you, bitch!” Grakor of Dore stormed toward the trees and brambles where Ysbet hid.
“No treachery or magik storms will help you now!”

Eduard snatched Ysbet from the ground and fairly shoved her aboard Iol.

“Ride, damn you!” His eyes were wild with rage and fear for her. “Ride for your life. The Abbey is our
only hope!”

Chapter 18

Caen’s hooves thundered on the carved path down the Tor. Eduard rode behind Ysbet, but she didn’t
look back. She kept her hand on her sword hilt and her eyes on the ground ahead.

Saxon shouts and the rush and crack of running feet through underbrush let Eduard know the barbarians
were giving chase. The Tor’s magik maze wasn’t helping.

But, why?

Eduard gripped Almi’s arm to keep her from slipping to the ground as they galloped. What had
happened on the hilltop? Why did the adept’s ancients desert her? Why had the ancients deserted
Ysbet?

They set her on this mission, after all.

That sword. Can it be…? But, no. Excalibur died with Arthur. He flung it back into the lake—to the
lake around the Tor.

An arrow whistled past his ear, missed Ysbet by a breath, and buried itself in a nearby tree.

Ysbet and Iol flew past the shaft without so much as a notice.

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Eduard urged Caen forward, faster and faster. The stallion ran with his head near to Iol’s flank. Eduard
leaned, attempting to shield Ysbet—and pain ripped his left shoulder. Reaching back, he tore the small
flight arrow from his flesh and threw it aside. His arm throbbed from neck to fingertip, but he didn’t care.
All that mattered was getting to the foot of the Tor and through the gates of the Abbey.

Surely the Christian nuns would shelter them. Rumor has it they took in Gwenhwyfar before spiriting her
to distant lands.

Sanctuary. The oldest tradition.

Though the Goddess offered us none at the Temple. All of her guardians appear to be asleep!

Another arrow whistled past his head, and to his horror, it struck Ysbet in the back. Low. Just above
her hip. Blood spread in an arc from the wound, immediately drenching her gown.

“No!” Eduard howled like a snared wolf, knowing she would fall—but she didn’t. She kept riding.

Fire burned in Eduard’s belly. He wanted to reach her, hold her, protect her. Damn the Saxons. Damn
the ancients. Damn everything!

Just as Eduard had done, Ysbet reached behind her and jerked the arrow free. Iol’s hooves churned it
to bits when she dropped it.

They closed on the foot of the hill, and the sounds of running and shouts grew muffled behind
them—then seemed to double.

The Abbey came into view. It was a massive stone building, almost the size of a castle with no keep. A
powerful rock fence surrounded the compound, gated with carved wooden slabs.

“Sanctuary!” Ysbet cried, her clear voice rising above the din of hooves and curses.

The wooden gates remained in place.

Caen drew even with Iol as both riders reined only a stride’s length from the Abbey’s sealed entrance.
Eduard’s jaws locked as he offered silent prayers to the Goddess.

Wake. Help us. Open the gates. Open them!

Screeches split the air beside him, and a Saxon rear guard came rushing from the bushes. Ten, perhaps
fifteen men.

Eduard cursed himself. He should have known!

He wheeled Caen around to block the assault, keeping Ysbet between his stallion and the wooden
doors. Drawing his sword, he hacked at the nearest barbarian, who fell headless to the earth.

“Ysbet!” He backed Caen nearly into Iol, slicing at the Saxons attempting to drag Almi’s unconscious
form from the stallion. “When I push them from the gates, ride for the beach!”

“Impossible.” Her voice was calm, cutting under the shouts of battle.

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When Eduard glanced at her, she was pale—and looking at another rushing host of Saxons, this one
thirty of forty strong, skirting the Tor. They were still some distance off, but moving fast. From the top of
the Tor came the men they recently escaped, led by Grakor. The maze was slowing them by the sound of
things, but the barbarians were no doubt hacking their way through vines and brambles.

The Abbey doors remained motionless.

Despair and rage gripped Eduard. He beat off the last three Saxons near him, grabbed Almi, and threw
her over Iol’s flanks. “Take her and flee to the back of the Abbey. Try for entrance there. I will hold off
what I can. Go!”

“No! I will not leave you again, or be left helpless.” Ysbet rocked forward in her stirrups. Her hand was
on her sword hilt.

She seemed reluctant to make use of it, but she eyed first the onrushing army from the shore and then the
path down the Tor where Grakor’s forces would soon appear. With a resolute frown, she drew her steel
blade.

Eduard winced against the glare—then realized the sword was indeed made of silver, or gold—or
something twice as blinding. Jewels crusted its handle and sheath, and a white power rose from it like a
haloed cloud.

“Excalibur,” he murmured, lowering his own bloody weapon.

Ysbet nodded.

Eduard didn’t know whether to cheer or curse.

The Saxons from the beach closed on them with relentless speed, and from the Tor’s maze, the roars
and curses grew louder.

Grakor was nearly upon them.

“It is only one sword.” Eduard reached for Ysbet’s free hand.

She clasped his fingers in hers, showing the courage of a warrior. Of ten warriors. “It is our only hope.
Believe in it. Believe in me.”

Eduard nodded.

He would have offered to wield the sword, but he knew he would not be able to budge its tip. Excalibur
responded only to its rightful bearer. Instead, he kissed Ysbet’s hand, let it go, gripped Caen’s reins
firmly, raised his own blade, and once more wheeled to defend their forward flank.

As if he could.

Their situation seemed hopeless. Two riders, two swords—backed against wooden gates and stone
walls. No escape.

But light from Excalibur outshone the sun, shooting out in great flashes. Arrows whistled toward them
and burst into flames. Saxon battle-cries became screams of terror, and Eduard saw swords melting in

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the hands of their bearers.

Brambles and bushes parted on the Tor, and down the hill came Grakor, oblivious to it all. The
flame-haired Saxon showed no fear, though his men were sorely distressed.

“Kill the witch!” he bellowed. “Bring me her head!”

The first of the beach hoard reached Eduard and Ysbet, and she smote them with a single blazing stroke.
Magik broke from Excalibur like giant arrows. Bodies flew like dolls, bowling down onrushing warriors.

Caen reared at the light from the fabled sword. Eduard leaned down to strike one Saxon, then two, then
five more.

Some of the barbarians broke ranks.

The rest shouted and charged all the harder.

Grakor and his men were still distant, but rushing fast.

Again, Ysbet swung Excalibur. This time, the awesome force of its magik took the form of a dozen
longswords. The front line of charging Saxons split into pieces. Blood spattered her and mingled with that
of her arrow wound.

When Eduard chanced a full glance at her, her arm was raised above her head, holding her terrible but
splendid sword. Her gown revealed each curve and angle of the body he found so soft and yielding only
hours ago. Her black hair was loose and wild about her face, but her expression was distant.
Otherwordly. She seemed a warrior of mythic proportion, drenched in red.

Fey herself, yet not. Human, but charged with the fearsome power Excalibur brought to bear.

Despite Ysbet’s fierce fighting and Eduard’s master bladesmanship, they were charged again and again.
Their legs scraped against the Abbey doors.

Iol stomped and snorted. Caen pawed as he squared for Eduard’s repeated sword-thrusts. He cut
down a vicious barbarian on direct course with Ysbet.

Grakor was no more than fifty strides away, charging across the base of the Tor.

Ysbet turned in her saddle and hammered the Abbey doors with Excalibur’s hilt. “Open, please!
Sanctuary. Sanctuary in the name of Pendragon!”

The wood gave a mighty creak, and indeed began to open.

One last time, Ysbet swung the mighty Excalibur. Blue-white light flared, and the newest line of the
Saxon host caught fire and fell to the ground, screaming.

Behind her the gap widened. Enough for a human. Enough for a horse!

“Go!” pleaded Eduard, and this time, Ysbet did as he wished. Yanking Iol’s rein, she backed into the
Abbey’s enclosure.

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Swiping at three burning soldiers too close for his comfort, Eduard turned his stallion and followed. Caen
was barely through the gates when they swung shut, pulling out a few hairs of the horse’s tail.

The thunk of arrows hitting hard wood echoed through the Abbey’s courtyard.

Ysbet sheathed Excalibur, then sagged from her saddle to the cobbled ground. Her face had gone
death-pale, and her eyes were closed. Only the slight motion of her chest told Eduard she was breathing.

His heart seized with fear and despair as he dismounted.

Black-clad nuns rushed from all directions. Three picked up Almi. Four tried to assist Ysbet, but Eduard
drove them back with a possessive roar.

He ran to her and gathered her bloody body to his chest, holding her like a treasure only just discovered.

Behind him, the Abbey gates rattled.

The nuns dropped a massive bar into place, reinforcing the enclosure’s defenses.

The walls,Eduard thought madly, turning in circles. Not high enough. The bastards will breach them
within the hour.

“Not if they know what is good for them,” murmured the nun closest to him.

Eduard cut the hooded woman a glance—and recognized the green-gold glint of her eyes. The curve of
her lips. Even her heady, earthy scent.

“Morgain!” He held tight to Ysbet, suppressing an urge to throttle the fey woman, nun’s garb or no.
“Where in twelve hells have you been?”

“Occupied,” she said with a definite frown. “Take her inside, and quickly. Time grows short.”

“But the battlements—“

Morgain cut him off with an exasperated growl. She raised her long fingers and flicked them toward the
Abbey’s curtain. Smoke exploded from the stones, and a concussion nearly bowed Eduard’s knees.
When his vision cleared, he saw dragons. Four of them, huge, green, and breathing blue fire, guarding the
top of the wall’s four corners.

From outside, screams and the sound of crackling flames told him the dragons were more than illusion.
No one would be scaling the Abbey’s defenses this day.

“Inside,” Morgain hissed again.

Not daring to refuse another fey command, Eduard complied.

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Chapter 19

Ysbet woke to the soothing feel of warm water on her foot and ankle.

Her hair, face, and arms were damp, and she was naked, lying on some sort of pallet. Thin, but oh, so
soft. The smell of mint and sage, light but definite, rose around her.

When she opened her eyes, she saw first the high, pitched dome of an Abbey room, buttressed by
carved stone. The walls were slung with tapestries and banners, and on the far wall, a fire roared in an
ornate hearth.

It had to be sunset, given the pink splashes of light through the few windows positioned near the ceiling.

Next, Ysbet saw Eduard’s handsome face looming over her. His hair was damp and swept back as if he
had freshly come from a bath, and his dark eyes flickered with concern and affection. A few cuts marred
his cheek.

Ysbet tried to lift her hand to touch them.

“Lie still,” he whispered, stroking her leg. “The Saxons are at bay. Driven back, at least. Your most
grievous injury has been healed, but the rest of you requires tending.”

Many muscles in Ysbet’s body ached, but the arrow wound she knew she took in her back—the wound
she thought might be fatal in the end—that did not hurt at all. Nor did the damp places, or the foot and
ankle Eduard was bathing.

“I already rinsed your hair and washed your face and arms,” he explained. “Healing soaps from
Morgain.”

A burst of bitter laughter escaped Ysbet’s dry throat. “When did she decide to assist us?”

Eduard frowned. “Before you died, at least.” He eased his cloth up Ysbet’s leg to her knees.

Sweet gods, but that felt good. Whether it was his touch, the faerie magik, or both—Ysbet did not
know. She scarcely cared. The sensation drew her mind away from the blood and gore of the day behind
them.

“Morgain told me that the ancients are occupied.” Eduard moved his cloth to Ysbet’s thigh and gently
massaged. “Some sort of trouble in the Other World. She would not be specific, but she did apologize
for her absence before leaving again.”

“How kind of her.” Ysbet’s eyes drifted shut as Eduard worked on her other leg. Foot…then
ankle…calf…thigh.

Chills of excitement broke over Ysbet. His hands felt like heated granite. So strong, yet smooth and
gentle.

The sound of their breathing echoed in the rock room. Ysbet relished Eduard’s loving fingers on her

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flesh, caressing her with such care. She was wet between her legs, and he hadn’t bathed her quim yet.

She smiled.

The man could arouse her, no matter the circumstances.

“The nuns here—an odd lot,” Eduard continued. “Loyal to their Christ, but respectful of the old ways.
Some of them, I swear are fey. Half-bloods, at least. They were able to move Excalibur to this room,
though it took six of them—and many bear the mark.”

With that, he touched the tattoo between Ysbet’s breasts with one damp finger, and she shuddered. She
wanted his hands on her everywhere. Needed them. And his lips, his cock…

Eduard went back to the bath, washing her hips, first one, then the other. Next, he stroked her belly and
chest, trickling the warm suds down her sides. The droplets coursed over her, soothing and bringing her
to life all at once. Eduard followed the rivulets with his tongue, licking the hot fluid away while Ysbet
struggled not to cry out from the erotic charge.

As he nursed the healing liquids away, Ysbet’s aches and pains continued to disappear. She burned
wherever he touched her, wherever his cloth or mouth moved.

Eduard slipped the rag across her chest, around her breasts, closer and closer to her waiting
nipples—and then slid it low and away.

Ysbet groaned. “You are teasing me.”

“Am I?” His voice was tender. As warm as the water he now rinsed across the throbbing nubs of her
breasts.

The faerie soaps made Ysbet’s nipples tingle, and she reached up and touched them herself.

“Yes,” Eduard said in a low, husky tone.

Ysbet smiled and pinched her nipples, rubbing them back and forth. The tingling doubled, as did the heat
in her belly and the moisture between her legs. She glanced at Eduard, taking in his heavy-lidded eyes,
his bare chest and muscled thighs—and the length of his erection.

Even bruised from battle, he looked perfect to her. She could see how much he wanted to watch her
please herself, and the thought made her tremble.

When he moved the cloth to her belly, washing just above the patch of hair between her legs, she
thought she might scream.

Wordless, Eduard moved the cloth between her legs and stroked her slit with the warm, fragrant water.

It was as if he poured molten pleasure on her clit.

Moaning, Ysbet moved her hand down to relieve the pressure. She slipped two fingers into her wet
folds and stroked, once more observing Eduard’s excitement as he watched.

Pinching her own nipple again, Ysbet wriggled and sighed. Her clit was huge, and her fingers slid around

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it easily. She rubbed herself faster, and couldn’t hold back gasps as the faerie soaps doubled and tripled
sensation.

“You are so beautiful,” Eduard murmured. “Come for me, beloved. Please. Come for me.”

“Aaahh.” Ysbet fondled herself and shuddered as she granted his wish. Her knees drew up from the
ecstasy, and she wanted Eduard’s hard cock inside her more than ever.

As she eased her strokes, Eduard bent and claimed her mouth with warm, deep kisses. One strong hand
covered hers on her breast and squeezed, making her pinch her nipple again. With the other, he grasped
her fingers above her clit and pushed them lower, into her aching hole.

Ysbet drew a sharp breath at the sensation of his fingers joined with hers, moving in and out of her quim,
up to her clit and back down. He kept up the pressure, slowly leaning over her, taking her other nipple in
his mouth.

Her moans increased, and Eduard flicked her nub with his tongue and grinned up at her. He helped her
squeeze her nipple again and whispered, “We are in a convent, beloved. Ssshhhh.”

Before Ysbet could respond, he plunged his fingers—and hers—into her hole once more, leaned down,
and sucked her clit into his molten mouth.

She screamed, reaching orgasm almost immediately. The sensation of her own spasm nearly drove her
to the summit again.

Eduard released her hands and clucked. “Shame. You will make the nuns regret their vows.”

“Evil thing.” Ysbet sat up and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Stop teasing. I need you. I want you!”

Eduard rolled atop her and settled himself between her legs. He eased his cock up and down her quim
without entering her, keeping his gaze locked on hers. “I never imagined a woman like you. My equal.
Perhaps my better.”

Ysbet spread her legs wide and held her knees.

This welcome was too much for Eduard, and he plunged into her quim, hard and hot, just as she wanted.

“Not…your…better,” she gasped. “Your…wife. Ah, sweet gods! You fuck me so good.”

Eduard growled and fucked her harder. Deeper. She felt so close to him. Consumed by him. And she
wanted to be.

“More,” she urged. “I will never have enough of you.”

Balanced on his strong arms, he pushed against her. Each time, he seemed to be more a part of her.

“Ysbet.” His hoarse whisper sounded as sweet as a fey voice. He was holding back. She could tell.
Letting the rapture build.

Ysbet crushed herself against him with each thrust, joining him in drawing out the joy.

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Mingled minds, mingled bodies.

Sweat and faerie soaps helped them glide together until they came as one, shouting until they no doubt
woke every nun at Glastonbury Tor.

* * * * *

Almost a week later, Ysbet stood with Eduard on the deck of a small sloop, gazing out at the sea. The
waves were small today. Tiny caps on the deep blue brine. The smell of the water was almost a balm to
her fears—but not quite.

Almi, recovered from her injuries at the hands of the Saxons, labored to set a meal for them below deck;
however, even the rising scent of baking bread was not enough to set Ysbet’s nerves at calm.

Excalibur hung by her side, but she kept her scarred hand away from the hilt. Often, the sword gave her
more prescience than she wished.

Now was not the time for seeing the future, even though a large part of her wanted to do nothing else.

She and Eduard were sailing for the Scillies. Back to Chapel Down, Prator, and a future too uncertain to
consider.

“You are doubting again.” Eduard wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck from behind. “We
must do this. The messages, the signs…”

“I know.” She gripped his arms. “Nallad and Krell would not knowingly lead us to doom.”

Eduard murmured agreement. His erection pressed against her backside, and for a moment, Ysbet
smiled.

She wanted to lose herself in the sensation and fuck him there on the deck. She wanted to touch herself
and suck his cock and make them both scream like they had at the Abbey—but the strange darkness
hanging over Chapel Down reached her even days away from shore.

Come home if you can. Great troubles here.That from Nallad.

Need all breathing bodies.That from Krell.

Each message had been tied to a falcon sent to Glastonbury Abbey.

And from the north, more foul tidings. Grakor had gathered the Saxon survivors, and he was recruiting
an army for two purposes: razing Prator and bringing Ysbet’s head back to Briton on a pole.

Ysbet could not simply ride into the Glastonbury woods and leave her former home to take Grakor’s
punishment.

To suffer my curse.

At the very least, she would die with her kin and childhood people, and in that way, finally be one with

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those who had so long rejected her.

“Have hope.” Eduard nibbled at her neck again. “Whatever happens, whatever comes, we will triumph
together. Of that, I am certain.”

The strength of his conviction helped Ysbet push away her worries for a moment. “One way or another.
Yes. We will.”

She smiled and leaned into her husband and savored the feel of his hands kneading her breasts. Maybe
she would fuck him on the deck. Almi would not mind. To hell with her if she did.

Eduard’s fiery lips. His hard, throbbing cock.

What better way for Ysbet to warm her heart and stoke her hopes?

“I love you,” she said as she turned, letting her hand slip into his breeches.

“My princess.” Eduard kissed her as she took hold of his rigid shaft. “Now and always.”

GLOSSARY

The legend of King Arthur has been retold across many generations, in many languages, and through the
eyes of many cultures, beginning as far back in time as the 5thCentury. Literature, legend, myth,
history—“Arthuriana,” or the study of Arthurian lore, comprises all of those things.

Understandably, the characters and locations vary in spelling and personality, based on the teller of the
tale, time period, and purpose for retelling. Writers take liberties. Recorders of myth and legend take
notes and notice of almost-forgotten tidbits. Historians take great pains to be accurate, though little of
Arthuriana can be “proven,” excavated, or examined.

As society’s viewpoints shifted, so, too, did Arthurian legend. Once benevolent magical deities became
wicked and evil, or simply unconcerned. Women were often disregarded, or portrayed in less than
flattering light. Sexuality became almost absent, until Marion Zimmer Bradley took up the challenge of
reawakening the ancient elements of Athuriana in The Mists of Avalon.

The Legacy of Prator draws upon these more ancient elements, including Celtic and Welch
viewpoints—and mixes in a liberal dose of little-known but fun side myths. The following glossary is
intended to help readers less familiar with Arthuriana learn the basics—both of the timeless tale itself, and
of Prator’s cast and setting. Items marked with an asterisk are actual pieces of Arthuriana, which the

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reader can easily research in the many online references, and in numerous sources such as the New
Arthurian Encyclopedia , edited by Norris Lacy.

Alla

Serving wench at Castle Dore, brief paramour of Davyd Krell.

Andrus

Father of Eduard, former Captain of King Roland’s guard before a dreadful injury.

Arthur*

Also spelled Artur and Arthour. Legendary King of Briton. In this tale, cousin to Roland, possible father
of Ysbet.

Arthur’s Men*

A group of soldiers or “war-band” who continued Arthurian ideals after King Arthur died.

Camelot*

Legendary home of Arthur and the Round table, more a feudal city than a castle. Thought to be located
near Cadbury-Camelot, close to Glastonbury (Ynnis-Witrin).

Camlann*

Also spelled Camlan. The battlefield where Arthur and Mordred died. Probable location is around
Camel in Cornwall, or Somerset Cam near Cadbury-Camelot.

Castle Dore*

Located in Cornwall, near Camelford on the southwest tip of Britain, and the site of possible 5thand
6thcentury ruins. In this tale, the home of Mordred, the Dark Prince. Possible birthplace of Ysbet.

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Corse

One of many medieval undergarments worn by females. Tight, laced, and full-bodied, it differs from the
corset, which doesn’t come into play until around the 1300s.

Eduard

Son of Andrus, current Captain of King Roland’s guard.

False Gwenhwyfar*

In legends, the half-sister and double for Gwenhwyfar, Arthur’s wife. Apparently born the same night, to
her father’s mistress. The False Gwenhwyfar eventually tricks Arthur into believing she is the woman he
married, at least for a time (see Lygnel).

Gwenhwyfar*

Also spelled Guinevere, Guineivre, Ginerva, and many other variations. Wife of Arthur, focus of
Mordred’s obsession. In some tellings, lover of Lancelot. Gwen begins in the legends as a noble, strong
female character, but degenerates to “fallen woman” in later versions. She is mentioned in this tale, but
mostly in relation to Lygnel.

Host

Medieval term for army or group of soldiers.

Krell, Davyd

Scarred but handsome Saxon training master to Arthur’s Men, who defected from Mordred’s camp just
before the flight of Arthur’s Men to the Scillies. Most of his men consider him mad, because he hears
voices.

The Lady of the Lake* (See Nimue)

Lygnel

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In this tale, the wife of Mordred, the False Gwenhwyfar, and true love of Davyd Krell.

Mordred*

Also spelled Modred and Medraut. Originally, Arthur’s nephew, and not necessarily his enemy. In later
tellings, Mordred evolves into the child of Arthur’s sister, who is jealous of and challenging for the throne
and the hand of Arthur’s wife. Eventually, legends hold that Mordred is the product of unknowing incest
between Arthur and his sister Morgain (or Morgause), and that he is a villain and a traitor. Most accounts
hold that Mordred died on the battlefield of Camlann, along with Arthur, and many tellings hold that
Arthur killed Mordred, but in doing so, received his own fatal wounds.

In this tale, Mordred is a villain and the son of Arthur, though by unknowning incest with Morgause (a
separate entity from Morgain). His lust for Arthur’s wife drove him to marry a woman who looks just like
Gwenhwyfar. He ruled his subjects and his wife with a cruel hand, and forced his wife into a deceit where
she pretended to be Arthur’s wife while the real Gwen had been kidnapped (see False Gwenhwyfar,
under legends). He may be Ysbet’s father. As in most cycles, Mordred died at Camlann, by his father’s
hand, even as he attempted to take Arthur’s kingdom. His men pursued Arthur’s Men (see entry for
Arthur’s men) as they fled, but a great flood washed them into the sea at Land’s End.

Morgain le Fay*

Also spelled Morgan, and in later cycles, blended with Morgause (Arthur’s half-sister, also spelled
Morgawse, Margawse). Essentially a representation of the Celtic goddesses Morrigan, Macha, and
Modron. Early tellings have Morgain the most beautiful of a set of sisters living on Avalon. She’s a healer
who can fly and shapechange, and despite her mischief, she’s known for her kind heart. Because of the
blending with Morgause in some earlier tales, some writers consider her Arthur’s sister, or at least related
to him. In later tellings, she’s powerful but her character begins to deteriorate. Some writers portray her
as a vapid mortal. Others maintain her as a disinterested diety. In later tellings, she becomes Arthur’s
lover instead of his sister (or in addition to being his sister), and the mother of Mordred. In this tale, I
remain true to Morgain’s original characterization and powers.

Myrddin*

Also known as Merlin, Merlinus, Merlyn, Lailoken. Legendary wizard/magician, guardian and counsel to
King Arthur. In this tale, Myrddin is more in his ancient form, a godlike and powerful Pagan deity. He is
immortal in most tales, Prator included, though in some modern stories he lives backward in time,
knowing the future but failing to recall accurately the past—thanks to the treachery of Nimue. This
element is also used in Prator.

Nallad

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Ysbet’s African handmaiden and best friend, occasional paramour of Davyd Krell.

Nimue*

In this tale and many versions of Arthuriana, the Lady of the Lake. She is known by many names,
including Vivian, Niviene, and Éviene. In most tellings, the Lady of the Lake gives Excalibur to Arthur,
then later takes it back as he’s dying. Her origins are unclear, but in most versions, she is a deity of sorts.
In this tale, she is sister to Morgain and former lover of Myrddin, who betrayed him and sealed him in the
Crystal Cave so that he could not prevent the death of Arthur. Nimue’s motives are at best cloudy, at
worst, treacherous. However, she might surprise you.

Onri of Dore

Saxon leader who attempts to take Ysbet in marriage by force of threat.

Prator

Camelot-in-Exile, located on the Scilly Isles.

Roland

Cousin to Arthur, leader of Arthur’s Men, possible father of Ysbet. King Arthur’s successor in exile.

Scilly Isles*

Also known as the Isles of Scilly, or the Sun Isles. Approximately 200 small rocky islands off the far
southwestern coast of Britain, known for mild weather and beautiful scenery. In this tale, the Scillies are
the final hiding place for Arthur’s Men, and they are hidden from/unknown to the mainlands because of
perpetual fog.

Standard

Flags or colors of medieval armies.

Twyllian

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Wife of Roland, possible mother of Ysbet.

Ynys -Witrin*

“The Glass Island.” Glastonbury. Location of the legendary and mystical Tor, and possible burial site of
King Arthur in some legends. Other legends consider this the true location of Avalon, dating back to a
time when the land around the Tor was swampy and mostly under water. Still other legends note
Glastonbury to be the place where Arthur’s wife and, eventually, Lancelot retreated and retired,
remaining solitary ever after. Claimed by Pagans, Celts, and Christians as a holy site, it does hold the
ruins of an abbey so old that no record exists of its founding.

Ysbet Woman of mysterious parentage, fair but not of the Fair Folke, heir to both Prator and King
Arthur’s legacy, and the focus of this trilogy.

Primary Source:

Lacy, Norris J. (1996): The New Arthurian Encyclopedia. New York: Garland Publishing.

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