Chapter Eighteen
On a damp Tuesday morning, nigh on a week after he’d left the coast of Ellan Vannin, Turi rode up to the solid oak gates of Newstead Priory. Set deep in the royal forest of Sherwood, the priory was a relatively small Augustinian establishment.
Turi should have felt some enthusiasm. Some eagerness that he might, at last, learn the whereabouts of Cristen’s son. But, as he eyed the priory walls, he felt only a sense of foreboding. Surely, his father had not misled him. Why, then, did he feel as he did?
He dismounted and tugged on the bell rope. Moments later, a small hatch in the gate opened and the clean-shaven face of a man peered out.
“Good day to you,” Turi said. “My name is Turi, and I wish to speak to one of your brethren. Brother Cuthbert is his name.”
The friar appeared startled. “Are you a relative?” he asked, his voice wary.
“Nay,” Turi replied, puzzled by the cleric’s response. “In truth, I’ve never met the man. I’m seeking the whereabouts of a child, a young boy of three summers who was erroneously placed in a monastic establishment. I act on behalf of the boy’s mother and carry a signed statement from her. I’ve been told Brother Cuthbert might know where the child is.”
“I see,” the friar replied, although his expression seemed to imply otherwise. “Normally, there would not be a problem with your request but, at the moment, I’m not certain Brother Cuthbert would be able to speak to you, since he is unwell.”
Turi’s hackles twitched. “Unwell?”
“Yes.” The man appeared to ponder for a moment. “I’m afraid I must ask you to wait while I make some inquiries. I’ll return shortly.”
The little hatch closed before Turi could respond.
“There are times, my friend, when I wish my gut feelings were wrong.” Turi reached up and tugged on Samson’s ear. Samson shook his head and rolled a blue eye.
At that moment, from somewhere within, the sound of a melodic chant rose into the air, the notes pure and clear. They did little to ease Turi’s angst or quell his thinning patience as the moments passed. At last, he heard the sound of a heavy bolt being pulled and the gate swung open with a metallic groan.
“Good day to you. You are called Turi, I believe? I am Edwin, the prior here at Newstead. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Come in, please, and bring your horse, too.” The man, who barely rose to the height of Turi’s shoulder, stepped aside and pointed. “You may tether him over by yon trough and leave your weapons there also. Then I’ll take you to see Brother Cuthbert.”
Muttering his thanks, Turi did as bid, and then fell into step beside the prior as they strode through the cloisters. The sour smell of unwashed flesh surrounded him like an invisible blanket.
“You are seeking the whereabouts of a child, I understand,” Edwin said. “I’m curious to know how this child came to be lost.”
“He was taken from his mother by his stepfather, who recently died without disclosing where the child is,” Turi replied. “With respect, Prior, I will say little else, except that the child’s mother, understandably, would like her son returned. I recently learned that Friar Cuthbert may have information about the boy.”
Edwin grunted. “It sounds like a sad affair. I would ask, though, that you do not tax the man too much. He has been quite ill. In truth, I’m not certain how responsive he might be to questioning.”
“May I know the nature of his illness?” Turi asked.
“’Tis a bad case of the flux,” Edwin replied. “Also, at times, he seems to be…hmm, distracted, shall we say? He looks at you, but it’s as if he does not see you. He became ill on his way back from Bristol. He was visiting a sick friend at Austin Friary. Cuthbert was a resident there some years ago.”
“My thanks,” Turi said, committing the name of the Friary to memory. “That may be helpful to me.”
Edwin smiled, halted by a small, arched door, and pushed it open. “He has twice evacuated his bowels and stomach this morning and is, consequently, in a weakened state. Please do not expect too much from him.”
Had Turi not been told of Cuthbert’s bodily evacuations, the thick stench in the small room would have announced them. His throat closed as he entered the windowless cell, the only light coming from a thin taper that flickered on a bedside table. The table and the bed were the only items of furniture, the latter occupied by the man Turi sought.
Facial features unclear in the gloom, the gray edges of Cuthbert’s tonsured haircut suggested a man of middling years. His eyes were closed, lips parted, chest rising and falling with successive, rasping breaths. Turi touched the man’s forehead. There was no sign of fever, but Turi knew the pestilence had several modes of attack. Not all victims suffered from a noticeable fever, even though they exhibited signs of delirium.
“Brother Cuthbert.” Turi leaned down. “Can you hear me?”
The man’s eyelids twitched and opened. Glazed, dark eyes darted about before finally settling on Turi’s face. Then, like a blind man, Cuthbert reached out, groping the air around him.
Turi grasped his hand.
“Who are you?” Cuthbert said. “Do I know you?”
“Nay.” Still holding the man’s hand, Turi crouched at his bedside. “You don’t know me, but I’m hoping you can help me. I was told you might.”
Cuthbert swallowed and licked his lips. “Help you?”
“I’m seeking the whereabouts of a child. A young boy. His name is Jacob. Jacob Walter de Lussan. He came from Frehampton Manor, in Dorset.”
Confusion crept across Cuthbert’s face. “There are no children here.”
“I know.” Turi squeezed the man’s hand. “Where were you before you came to Newstead, Friar Cuthbert?”
“I was in Bristol,” Cuthbert replied. “Austin Friary.”
“And was there a small boy there named Jacob? Two or three summers old, with dark hair and blue eyes?”
“Jacob? Nay. My friend’s name is…” Cuthbert frowned. “I forget. He is sick. By my soul, there are many there who are sick. May God help them.”
Turi took a breath. “Were there any children there, Friar? Do you recall a child named Jacob? He would likely have been placed by a nobleman named St. Clair. Cedric St. Clair.”
Cuthbert’s lip curled. “That man is no saint.”
“You know him?” Turi’s heart raced as he leaned closer. “You know Cedric?”
A sudden look of alarm flashed across Cuthbert’s face. His jaw trembled as he gripped Turi’s hand with surprising force and tried to raise himself from the pillow. “Oh, God… help me,” he said, the feeble plea followed a moment later by a choking gush of bloodstained vomit.
“Cuthbert has been tended and is resting.”
Turi, slumped in a chair in the prior’s private chamber, raised his head as Edwin entered.
“Good,” he said, attempting to slough off his dark mood. “Did you examine him as I suggested?”
“We did.” Face grim, Edwin sank onto an adjacent seat. “It seems your suspicions were not without foundation. There are swellings beneath both Cuthbert’s arms and he cried out in pain when they were touched. He is also bleeding from his rectum. It would appear the pestilence has reached our gates, and may God have mercy. I confess I find it difficult to fathom His holy wisdom in visiting this punishment upon us.”
Turi had no suitable rejoinder. He glanced out of the window, the thick glass turning the outline of the nearby church into a blur. The bell would be ringing for Cuthbert soon, he thought.
“I should be on my way,” he said, heart heavy as he rose. The visit to Newstead had served little purpose. He had learned next to nothing, in fact. He could only hope that someone at Austin Friary knew of Jacob’s whereabouts.
Edwin folded his hands atop his lap. “You’re welcome to stay the night if you wish, Turi.”
Turi shook his head. “My thanks, but nay.”
“Your choice, of course. But I doubt you’ll make Thurgarton before dark. ’Tis at least twelve miles.”
“Thurgarton?” Puzzled, Turi shook his head. “Why would I go there?”
Edwin raised a brow. “You told me you were going to Cuthbert’s previous house. Is that not so?”
“Aye.” An odd little chill brushed across Turi’s neck. “But he told me he was at Austin Friary.”
“He was, but only for the past month to visit a friend. You must have misunderstood. Cuthbert came to us from Thurgarton Priory last Christmastide.”
Turi left Newstead before dawn the next day with a full belly and a smattering of hope in his heart. As usual, though, he had slept little. His thoughts had taken him north to the wild borderlands and kept him there with Cristen for most of the night. When at last he had slept, to his surprise and delight, she had remained in his head and kept his nightmares at bay.
He urged Samson into a gentle trot, but had not gone far when the toll of Newstead’s bell caught up to him. It was not, he knew, a summons to worship. Turi reined in beneath the spread of an ancient oak and spared a thought for Cuthbert.
Then they continued on, the canopy of oak and birch offering shelter from a gentle rain that tumbled from above. At one time, the great forest had been home to the Corieltauvi, a peaceful tribe who preferred agriculture to warmongering.
In the more recent past, it had been a refuge for outlaws, which made it a risky passage for unprotected, wealthy travelers. Turi felt no fear. To the contrary, he felt at home. He had been born and raised in a forest. He met and passed several folks on his way, exchanging greetings. Nothing gave him cause for concern.
It was about an hour after leaving Newstead that Turi first noticed the sound. It was separate and apart from the natural noise of the forest. Rain still fell, a gentle whisper on the leaves, and the occasional bird announced its presence. Not a breath of wind stirred.
But there was something else. A sound difficult to identify. A low hum, not unlike a swarm of bees. Turi tilted his head, trying to catch its direction, but it seemed to come from all sides. Samson heard it, too, judging by the nervous twitching of his ears. Then a violent shudder ran through the horse and he startled, dancing sideways.
“Easy,” Turi murmured, struggling to settle the animal. The noise continued, becoming louder and moving closer. Samson tossed his head, planted his hooves in the earth and stopped dead.
Turi’s hand settled on his sword hilt, every hair on his scalp lifting as the hum increased. He turned Samson in a circle, trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. It surrounded them. Encompassed them. Samson reared up, nearly throwing Turi to the ground. Heart pounding, he fought to keep the terrified horse calm. Was it an approaching storm? He had once witnessed a mighty, twisting wind on the plains of Andalusia. It had moved across the earth, destroying everything in its path. But such things were rare in England.
Turi looked up, seeing only the slow drift of pale clouds across the sky. No sign of any storm.
Then, all at once, a short, violent gust of wind rattled the trees around them. Samson reared again. Turi cursed.
And the sound ceased.
Breathless – and bewildered – Turi sat back in the saddle.
“What, by the Devil’s cursed dominion, was that?” he muttered, aware of Samson shuddering beneath him. “Easy lad. I think it’s over.”
Perplexed, Turi glanced up again, blinking into the persistent and gentle fall of rain. The sky was miserable but not threatening. Around him, the forest seemed unscathed. Unafraid. From a nearby tree, a thrush shared its song, and the piercing cry of a hawk echoed across the treetops.
Turi gave his head a shake, telling himself it must have been some kind of weather oddity. Such things were not unknown.
“Naught to fear,” he muttered, patting Samson’s neck as he urged him on. The horse, ears pricked, obeyed without hesitation. Turi’s nerves, however, still crackled. A mild sense of dread knotted his stomach. He wondered if the event had been some kind of portent, and he remained vigilant as he continued on.
Before long, they left the shelter of the forest and emerged into rolling meadowlands. The rain had all but stopped, but a slight breeze stirred the damp air.
A chill ran across Turi’s body. He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter. Frowning, he rolled some tightness from his shoulders and became aware of a sudden, dull ache stretching across his forehead. It was a sensation both foreign and familiar. Physical pain, for Turi, had never been long-lasting.
Another chill wracked him, sinking deep into his bones. “By the gods,” he muttered, reining Samson to a halt. “What is this?”
He rubbed at his temple, trying to ease the tight band of pain around his head. His skin felt warm to the touch. Nay, not warm. Hot. Was he imagining things? He pressed his hand to his forehead. How could he be shivering when his skin felt so hot?
And why, all at once, did he feel so incredibly tired?
Even as the questions skidded through his mind, the answer rose up like a ghost from a grave. But Turi sloughed it off, finding alternative explanations. He was overwrought. Weary. Missing Cristen with an intensity that sickened him. No wonder, then, he felt like shite. Besides, fate would not be so cruel. For such a thing to occur now would make a mockery of all he had done and all he had yet to do. Another shiver wracked his body and he doubled over as nausea gripped his stomach.
He groaned. There could be no denying it. He was sick. Ailing. And that could only mean one thing.
“Nay,” he murmured, groping for the dagger in his belt. “God, nay. It can’t be. Not now. Not yet.”
Turi dropped the reins and turned his hand palm up. Teeth gritted, he dug the blade into his flesh and drew it across the heel of his thumb. Then he waited for the cut to heal, for his flesh to knit together and leave nothing but a faded red line. Tears blurred his vision as he wiped away the blood that spilled from the wound. He was seeing things. He had to be. Yet it continued to bleed, a dark red rivulet that puddled into his palm.
Still unable to accept what his eyes told him, Turi clenched his fist and watched the blood leach out between his fingers. The devastation of what it meant swept over him in a mind-numbing tide. He laughed out loud – a harsh, humorless sound that rang through the trees.
“Could you not have waited?” he yelled to the sky, to the gods, to his father. To the world. “You whoresons. Have you no mercy at all?”
A sudden and vicious stomach cramp doubled him over. Clinging on to Samson’s mane, Turi leaned forward and vomited till he gasped for breath. “No mercy at all,” he muttered, shivering as another fierce chill rattled his bones. He closed his eyes and pushed his fingers beneath his arms, first one side, then the other. No pain. No swelling. Nothing. He released a tentative sigh of relief. Maybe he merely had a chill. An ague of some kind.
Then he shifted in his seat and prodded the area around his groin. Some slight tenderness, perhaps. But nothing of concern, he told himself, refusing to believe the terrible suspicion that gnawed at his brain. It was likely a simple strain from being in the saddle for so long. Aye, that’s likely what it was. He threw a leg over the pommel and slid to the ground, knees buckling at impact. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed the stirrup leather and hauled himself upright.
“Cristen,” he murmured, “Cristen.”
“Would you die for her?”
Turi gasped and raised his head at the sound of Pendaran’s voice.
“Father?” He blinked, trying to shift the haze from his eyes. “Where are you?”
“Would you die for her?”
“A thousand times over,” he said. “You know that already. But not yet. Please. Not yet. Let me find the child first. I have to take him to her. I made a vow. I have to bring her some peace like she brought to me. After that, take my life if you must.”
“A father should never have to kill his only son.”
Sick and dizzy, Turi rested his forehead against Samson’s flank. “Then I pledge my life in sacrifice. Let the gods have it. But first, let me find the child. Let me take him home.”
“Your home no longer exists, Setantii.”
“Aye, it does.” Turi felt the ground opening beneath his feet as the world around him spun faster and faster. “My home is wherever she is. Have mercy, Father. Please.”
“Men are meant to die. ’Tis their mortal rite of passage.”
“Have mercy,” he said again, and descended into darkness.
Turi’s pleas had gone unheard. The gods had thrown him into the fires of Annwn. He couldn’t see the flames, but he felt the scorching heat of them, burning his flesh.
And the voices. They tormented him ceaselessly. Like the hiss of a thousand snakes, they whispered from the shadows of his mind, making no sense and giving him no peace. He tried to speak, tried to beg for mercy, but could make no sound.
He was not the only one in that dark place. Others suffered with him. At times, a scream would pierce his nightmare, a cry of torment so loud it rattled his skull. And the demon hosts kept touching him with icy fingers that flayed his naked flesh. Sometimes they touched him intimately, turning pleasure inside out. It was torture. Agony beyond any Turi could have imagined, like a thousand red-hot knives ripping into his groin. He tried to scream, but could only imagine the sound that might justify his pain.
Then a darkness, yet more profound, beckoned him, promising peace. He went to it, willingly, and his pain eased. He curled up in a ball, thought of a Saxon girl he would never see again, and wept.
Thyme. The faint scent of it teased his senses and drew him from his dark world. Could it be true? His heart sped up as he filled his lungs and waited, in vain, for Cristen’s light to fill his mind. He tried to speak her name, but couldn’t.
“Setantii.”
He frowned at the sound of the man’s voice.
“Open your eyes.”
He did as bid, but saw nothing. No sunlight. No candlelight. No faces, either. Were the gods mocking him?
A hand slid into his and the voice, familiar to him, spoke again.
“Do you hear me? Open your eyes.” The dialect being spoken was ancient, the words created long before the birth of Christ. A dialect that no longer existed.
But Turi’s eyes were open. Weren’t they? The hand squeezed his. “Do you feel that, Turi?”
“Aye,” Turi said, irritated that he’d been tricked. Cristen wasn’t there after all. He closed his eyes and crawled back into his dark space.
“Setantii.”
The voice – his father’s voice – sounded louder this time, and the hand, resting on his brow, felt cool. Turi breathed in the familiar scent.
“I know you can hear me,” his father said. “Open your eyes.”
Turi tried to obey, flinching as a painful pinprick of light pierced his brain.
“That’s right.” The hand moved away, and Turi frowned. “Open them and look at me, Turi.”
His eyelids felt as though they had stones on them, but he forced them open, squinting at the blurred image of a person before him. He felt rather than heard the groan that scraped from his throat.
The hand brushed his forehead again. “Be at ease. And welcome back. You have just returned from a long and arduous journey.”
Turi blinked and the image of his father, seated on a chair beside the bed, sharpened. Beyond him, a shaft of bright sunlight slanted through a half-open shutter.
Pendaran smiled. “It’s been a while since you last opened your eyes, my son,” he said. “Can you see me?”
“Aye.” The word rasped from Turi’s throat. “How long?”
“Three weeks.”
“Three…?” Turi gasped and tried to sit up, glancing around the room – a small, but richly furnished, chamber. Not that of a poor man. “Where am I?”
“Do not overtax yourself.” Pendaran rose, went to a nearby table, and filled a cup. “You’re in a manor house near the village of Oxton. Not far from Nottingham.”
“Whose?” He blinked. “Yours?”
“It belongs to an old friend.” Pendaran perched on the side of the bed, slid an arm beneath Turi’s shoulders, and lifted him. “You’d be none the wiser if I told you his name. Drink this.”
Turi took a sip, shivering as the cool liquid slid over his dry throat. “What is it?” he asked.
“Honeyed ale, infused with nettle juice. A restorative, I’m told. A little more, if you can. That’s it. Good. Lie back now and rest.”
Turi did not even attempt to argue. His entire body felt as limp as a damp rag. Still savoring the coolness in his throat, he watched as his father set the cup back on the table. Clad in a belted tunic of rich, green velvet over gray, woolen hose, Pendaran looked almost foreign to him.
“I am not used to seeing you in such garb, my lord,” Turi muttered.
Pendaran grunted and glanced down at himself. “I adapt to my surroundings as necessary. Floating around in my usual attire would attract unwanted attention. Tell me, do you remember what happened to you?”
“In the forest? Aye. I was on my way to Thurgarton and fell ill.” Turi held up his hand and examined the recent scar. “I didn’t understand what was happening at first. Then I cut myself, saw the blood, and realized I was no longer immortal.”
“I felt it the moment it happened,” his father said. “As did you.”
Turi gave him a puzzled look. “Nay, my lord. I felt nothing.”
Pendaran grunted again, reached beneath his tunic, and pulled out the small, jeweled dagger. “The strange noise you heard? The sudden gust of wind?”
Turi drew breath. “Ah. That’s what it was.”
“Indeed,” his father replied. “Gwaed Tragwyddol does not surrender its magic quietly.” A frown settled on his brow. “A wool merchant found you, unconscious beside your horse. You were fortunate he was a kindly man. He took you and your horse back to Newstead. I arrived there soon after.”
“From Ellan Vannin?” Turi gave his father a dubious look. “Did you sprout wings?”
“I watched you for thirteen centuries in your immortal state, Setantii. I was not about to let you loose among the sick and dying knowing your mortality was imminent. When you succumbed, I was not far from Newstead.” His mouth twitched. “So, my wings, on this occasion, were not necessary.”
Turi pondered a moment. “Would I have died without your intervention?”
“Possibly,” he answered, and then grimaced. “Probably.”
Turi managed a weary smile. “My immortal father, the great Pendaran, has a conscience.”
“It would seem so.” He rose and tucked the dagger away. “You must be thirsty. Hungry, too, I trust. You’ve lost a lot of weight, Turi. We need to fatten you up.”
“Thirsty, aye, but I’m not very –” Shock dissolved the rest of his words as he looked down at the body beneath the blanket. Squinting, he held up an arm robbed of muscle, scarcely able to fathom what damage had been done by his illness.
A flicker of pity showed in his father’s eyes. “Do you remember anything of the past three weeks?”
“Very little.” Turi frowned. “I remember the heat. And the pain. I thought I’d died and been cast into Annwn’s flames, despite what you said. I heard voices, too, but I’m not certain they were real.”
“You fought hard, as I might have expected,” his father said, “but your fight is not yet over. It’ll take several weeks to get you back on your feet.”
“I don’t have several weeks.” Turi grimaced. “I need to get my strength back as soon as possible. I have to go to Thurgarton. I have a feeling Jacob might be there.”
“You couldn’t climb out of bed right now, never mind onto a horse,” his father replied. “You won’t be going to Thurgarton or anywhere else for a while. Don’t push yourself, Turi. It would not be wise. I’ll arrange to have some food brought to you in a little while. In the meantime, get some rest.”
“Nay, wait, please. I need to know if Jacob is there. If he’s still alive. Will you inquire for me, Father?” Fighting for breath, Turi tried to sit up again, but collapsed back onto his pillow, uttering a curse. “I have asked little of you thus far. Please, then, grant me this. The vision I had must have meant something. If you could just ask –”
“Enough!” Pendaran’s jaw stiffened. “Visions are always at the mercy of destiny, which is fickle. The child’s fate is none of my concern. Just be thankful you are alive. Now get some rest.”
Turi clenched his teeth and his fists as the door closed. Hope, what little of it remained, buckled beneath the weight of despair. The thought of returning to Cristen carrying only bad news twisted his shriveled stomach.
Damn the pestilence. Damn my father’s stubborn creed. The latter curse gave rise to an immediate thrust of guilt. Turi knew he owed much to his father.
That’s when it occurred to him. Not once, since he’d opened his eyes, had he given a single thought to the events that took place thirteen centuries before.
He searched for the memories and found them, oddly satisfied that they remained clear in his mind. Nareen. The attack on his village. Pendaran’s justice.
But, unlike before, the centuries now rose up and formed a protective barrier of time. His mind was not without anguish, but the fetters that had previously imprisoned him no longer existed.
Capitulating to a rush of fatigue, Turi closed his eyes seeking sleep, hoping to find Cristen in his dreams. A faint scent of thyme tickled his nostrils. He breathed deep and reached out in his mind.
She was there, sitting on a rock by the river, dangling her bare toes in the water. Her kirtle, the color of ripe wheat, matched her braided hair. She laughed. A muffled sound. Distant. Turi strained to hear it. Then, in a gesture of obvious delight, she clapped her hands, and laughed again.
“Cristen.” Turi spoke her name and she turned to him, love shining in her eyes. Smiling, she held out her hand. Turi took it and moved closer. Close enough to smell the subtle hint of thyme that never failed to ease his mind.
“I am dreaming this,” she said, her voice still faint, as if an invisible curtain hung between them. “This day. This moment. I am dreaming it, Turi. Every detail.”
A splash and a squeal of laughter startled him. Not Cristen’s laughter, but that of a child. Turi turned, seeking the source. There. Ankle deep in a clear pool beside the river, a small boy, hair like polished ebony and eyes as blue as the sky, stared at him. Loki stood beside him, tail wagging.
Jacob?
“We’re fishing,” the boy said, waving a stick with a small net tied to it. “See?”
Before Turi could answer, a shadow crossed the sun. Instinctively, he looked to the south and an icy finger trailed down his spine. The horizon, an undulating ridge of mountains and valleys, was edged with a thick, black line. As he watched, the line thickened further, spreading out across the land like a dark fog.
Turi knew what it was.
“We have to leave,” he muttered. “We have to leave now.”
A moment later, Cristen’s hand slid into his. “I’m frightened, Turi,” she said. “So frightened for us.”
“You needn’t be,” he replied. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
Turi awoke with a start and gazed into eyes as blue as the sky. An illusion, no doubt. A remnant of his dreams. His heart took off and clattered against his ribs, for it was like looking into Cristen’s eyes. But these belonged to a small boy, with a solemn face, and black hair tumbling to his shoulders.
“Hello, Jacob,” Turi whispered. “Did you catch any fish?”
“Not today,” he replied, after a moment.
Turi smiled. “I’ve been looking for you.”
The blue eyes blinked. “Why?”
“Because I promised your mother I would find you and take you back to her.”
“When?”
“As soon as I’m feeling stronger. I’ve been ill.”
“Me, too.” The boy shoved a thumb in his mouth and blinked again.
Frowning, Turi closed his eyes. The illusion of the boy seemed all too real. Uncanny. Perhaps the illness had damaged his mind.
“Ish he shleeping again, Shaner?” the child mumbled.
“I don’t think so, little one,” a familiar voice replied, “and remember what I told you. When you speak, take your thumb out of your mouth.”
There came a sound like lips smacking. “Sorry.”
An immortal druid priest, speaking the Saxon tongue? This was no illusion. Realization hit Turi with the force of punch. He gasped as his eyes flew open. “Father?”
Pendaran, one hand resting on the child’s head, smiled down at Turi, answering this time in the language of his people. “Are you with us now, Setantii?”
“He’s real?” Turi grimaced as he pushed himself upright. Resting on a wobbly elbow, he stared at the child. Wide-eyed, the boy stared back. “By the blessed sons of Albion, you found Jacob?”
“He’s been here almost as long as you,” his father said. “He’s a brave little soul. Sickly, when he first arrived. Not the pestilence, though. A mild ague, perhaps. In any case, he rallied quickly.”
Turi struggled to swallow over the tightness in his throat. “He was at Thurgarton?”
“Aye. I gave them Cristen’s letter. Not that it made much difference. They were happy to let the child go, under the circumstances.”
Turi tore his gaze away from Jacob and glared at his father. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“One thing at a time, Turi. I did not wish to overburden you. It was enough that you were awake and speaking.”
“Shaner?” Turi raised a brow. “The Manx tongue?”
“He had to call me something.” He shrugged. “Shaner is easy for him to say.”
Fatigued, Turi released a sigh and lay back. “You have mellowed, my lord,” he said. “When I was his age, I was afraid of you. You were fierce. A warlock. Casting your spells and placing your curses. I was told you could kill a man with a single glance.”
Pendaran’s mouth quirked as he ruffled the boy’s hair. “When called upon, I can still be that warlock. Cast those spells. The old magic remains strong, you know that. But the world has changed. Men have changed. They seek different solutions, follow different creeds. But you know that, too. What was, no longer is. Man is fickle, though. Maybe some day, in the future, he will discard what is then and seek to resurrect what has passed.”
“And if he does,” Turi said, “you will still be here.”
“If I am needed.” This last was spoken in English as Pendaran straightened. “But for now, we must work on getting you up and out of bed. Then we can take this little one home to his mother.”
Turi raised a brow. “We? You’ll be coming with us?”
“Of course,” his father replied, a gleam in his eye. “I want to meet this girl. This sentinel of your soul. I want to see if the gods chose wisely.”