long as he could harvest coins from the people, he seemed happy enough to let those above him have their way. Sure, he had sought advancement but never through disloyalty.
And Vortigern? He was brother-in-law to Uther. Surely she had heard him wrong.
Even so, she would keep her eyes and ears open just in case.
One thing she did understand, though, was that if Vortipor was like his father, she would loathe him.
A great sob knotted up in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and envisioned stuffing her fears into a bag and carrying it down a long hallway lined with closed doors. Soon she found an empty room, threw the bag in, and locked it away. Like all the other emotions not allowed in her father’s house.
But then, while standing in the imagined hallway of her heart, she heard a voice call from the distant end of the corridor.
Who was this? She stood on her toes, looked through the bars, and took in a sharp breath. It was a ghostlike image of Merlin. He stood there, tall and nearly as strong as his blacksmith father, his golden torc shining in the torchlight below his shoulder-length, curly black hair. He smiled at her, his fine teeth showing, and her heart was drawn to him.
But it was hard to look at his injuries. The pupils of Merlin’s eyes were scarred, and the eyelids disfigured. From there, long gouges emanated across his cheeks, temples, and forehead. Even though the scars were no longer red, their depth set Natalenya’s teeth on edge.
Whatever happened, it must have been excruciating. Despite these wounds, he was noble, faithful, and strong in spirit.
He reached out to her, calling her name.
In a fluster, she opened her eyes. Why was he there, locked up in her heart? She’d always pitied him, one of the many disabled people who lived on the woodland moor. But had she ever really known him or considered him? Certainly not until the events of the past week demonstrated his amazing strength to stand for what was right. Despite his blindness.
And that was the real issue. Could she marry someone blind? Truly love someone so deeply scarred? Yes, she realized now that she could. Oh, but how could he provide for her and a family? For the present he could work for his father, but after Owain died, what then? Merlin could never be a tradesman on his own. And her father would never approve. Never.
She wanted to run away and not come back. If she stayed, she’d be forced to marry Vortipor. Either way she’d lose her mother — her helper, teacher, and friend. Her whole life seemed to be crashing down around her, and these thoughts swirled in her head until she felt dizzy.
Finally gathering her wits again, she wiped her eyes and straightened her skirt before marching out of the room. There in the great hall, the men loudly gathered around the hearth, where Trevenna handed out wheat-coriander cakes brushed with honey.
But Vortipor was talking with his father, and his glance met hers before she was able to avert her eyes. He whispered to his father, whose smile quickly faded. His mouth became a hard line beneath his thick mustache as he clenched his fists, drew a long knife, and stabbed the wheat cake in front of him, slicing it in two.
Natalenya did her best not to notice, but her heart beat wildly.
Her father marched into the room dressed in his leather cloak. “Vortigern, are you ready? Mórganthu said after sunset. Come, let us see this Druid Stone again.”
“Men of Britain.” Vortigern’s voice thundered through the hall. “We go to water our horses before sleep and to look upon this Stone once more. Gather!”
Before they left, Vortipor rushed over and seized three honey cakes. He stuffed them into his broad mouth, and many precious pieces fell to the floor to be trampled by the men.
The last one out the door, oddly enough, was Vortigern, who as the battle chieftan normally would have led the men from the room. Before closing the timbers, he faced her. And she trembled, for his gloomy eyes bored into her and seemed to say, Beware, Natalenya … beware!
Owain used a poker to push the bright coals away from the sword, and then he clamped the tongs onto the blade. “We’re ready for another time at the anvil.”
The leather-wrapped handles felt familiar in Merlin’s hands, and the heat of the sizzling sword warmed the air.