their daughters and son.”
“How soon?”
“Morning. Kyldentor hosts them tonight, and Uther is inspecting their fortifications. We will hold a court of fealty here tomorrow when the sun stands over the trees.”
Mórganthu’s eyes opened wide and then narrowed into tiny slits. He shot Connek such a glare that the thief stepped backward and tripped over the feet of some pesky villager, who snarled at him.
The High King was coming? Not Gorlas, the king of Kernow? Not the king of Difnonia or of Kembry? But the High King? Fear tightened like a noose around Connek’s throat. To get the three gold coins, he must kill Merlin before the Beltayne fires next evening. Yet to commit murder while the High King’s warriors were here? He’d have to choose his place and time very carefully.
Shock hummed through the crowd at the news, but Tregeagle’s daughter appeared calm. Vortigern also noticed the girl, and his gaze lingered long. “Is this your daughter, Natalenya, whom I have the pleasure to meet?”
As Trevenna nodded, he yelled, “Vortipor! Get your mud muckers down from your horse and meet Tregeagle’s daughter.” He turned back to Trevenna. “Excuse my son while he finds his feet.”
Soon a young man stepped through the ranks. He was tall and thinner than his father, with russet hair, a flat nose, and dark eyes. His beard was patchy and short, and he wore a reddish-brown cloak sewn with silver threads.
“Vortipor, this is the harpist we’ve heard about.”
The young man bowed, took up Natalenya’s hand, and kissed it.
Connek almost laughed when her face turned white.
Trevenna quickly stepped between them. “My family and I are honored to have you and the High King as guests.”
At that moment, Tregeagle, followed by Lictor Erbin, rode into the pasture on the family’s white horses. They cantered around the group of warriors, rode up to Vortigern and Vortipor, and dismounted.
Connek cased Tregeagle’s finely tailored saffron tunic, his white linen trousers, and his amazing belt made from Roman gold coins. Soon, Connek would have clothes like that. And if he wore Merlin’s torc, then some other village far away might make him chieftain, which would mean that he could collect the taxes — hah! — and rob everyone legally!
Tregeagle grabbed the hands of each man in turn and greeted them with a grand smile. “Welcome to Bosventor. Come, shake off the dust of the road and let us fill the welcome bowl together.”
“Villagers of Bosventor! Distinguished guests!” a voice called from behind. Along with the others, Connek turned toward the Druid Stone, where Mórganthu stood, feet planted, both hands on his staff. How had he slipped away without keen-eyed Connek noticing?
“You who know me as the arch druid,” Mórganthu said, “and you who do not, I call you to come and see the Druid Stone.”
He struck the Stone, and it glowed dimly blue.
Once Connek looked, he felt an invisible hand grab him by the scruff of his neck so that he couldn’t turn away. Inside the Stone, a vision appeared of him smirking and wearing a golden torc while he stood over the mangled body of Merlin.
At the same time, one of the druidow beat on a drum. It pulsed throom, throom in his ears, and Connek found his feet moving forward against his will. By some unspoken accord, the villagers formed a wide circle around the Stone.
Connek could hear Tregeagle, that mealymouthed magistork, screeching at the villagers. He heard Vortigern’s harrumphing laughter cut short.
Mórganthu, that benevolent leader of men, called out, “Tregeagle, Magister, we have not had the pleasure of your presence. Come forward and see what brings your people happiness.”
Trevenna drew close to Tregeagle, but he ignored her and turned to his lictor, Erbin, who Connek thought was dressed like a clown in his Roman breastplate and red cape. Tregeagle, a frown on his chicken-thin lips, whispered to him with creased brow. But Erbin’s eyes gazed at the Druid Stone. Tregeagle couldn’t get his mighty lictor’s attention though he waved and called.
It would have been a great time to steal from Erbin if not for the two Vorti-whoevers.
Connek laughed when Tregeagle snatched the gladius from his lictor’s scabbard and marched up to Mórganthu. Hah! Tregeagle’s in for it now. Connek had seen what Mórganthu had done to the druidow who opposed him. He’d seen their bodies in the woods.
Tregeagle shouted and swore at the druid. “Cease this enchantment!”
“Calm. Calm yourself, orphaned son of the Romans. In the Druid Stone you will fulfill your deepest desires.”
“Stop your babbling. How do you