Free The Hallowed Isle Book Three by Diana L. Paxson Page A

“. . . To renew the world,” he echoed. “Do you know how I have dreamed of it? I have been High King of Britannia since I was fifteen years old, and spent most of that time defending her. Do you understand what that means, Mother? All I have been able to do is react, to try and maintain the status quo. How I have longed to move forward, to make things better, to heal this land! If there is ever, as you say, a season of peace, I will beg you to invoke the Cauldron’s power!”
    Igierne reached out, and Artor took her hand. Her heartbeat was shaking her chest. For so long she had loved her son, yearned for him, and never known him at all. And now it seemed to her that she touched his soul through their clasped hands.
    â€œI will be ready, my beloved. Together we will do it. This is what I too have been waiting for, all my life long!”
    But even as her heart soared in triumph, Igierne wondered how Morgause was likely to react when she learned that Artor had been given yet one more thing that she herself had been denied.
    Medraut was telling a story. Morgause heard his voice as she came around the side of the women’s sun house, clear as a bard’s, rising and falling as he spun out the tale.
    â€œIt was old Nessa’s spirit I saw . . . hunched beside the fire just as when she lived. And anyone who takes that seat is her prey—first you’ll feel a cold touch on your neck, and then—”
    From the corner of his eye he saw his mother coming and fell silent. The younger children to whom he had been talking got to their feet, wide-eyed at the sight of the queen.
    â€œMedraut, you will follow me—”
    â€œAs you wish, Mama,” he answered politely. She had taught him not to talk back to her before he was three years old.
    But as they neared the door she heard a stifled giggle from one of the children, and turning, surprised her son completing a swish of his hips that was obviously an imitation of her own walk. Her hand shot out and she gripped his ear and hauled him after her through the door.
    â€œAnd what was that?” she asked, releasing him.
    â€œNothing—it was just to make them laugh,” he added as she reached for him again, “so they’ll like me.”
    Her fingers clenched in his hair, jerking it for emphasis. “You are a prince , Medraut. It is they who should be courting you! But if you must ridicule, attack those who are lower than yourself. It does not contribute to your standing to make them laugh at me! Do you understand?”
    â€œI understand, Mama . . .” he whispered, and she let him go. His eyes glittered with tears, but weeping was another thing she had trained him out of long ago.
    â€œYou are a prince, my beloved,” Morgause added, more gently. She set down the bag she was carrying, and bent, turning him to face her and gently stroking his hair. “Your blood is the highest in the land. And you are the brightest and best of my children. Remember that, Medraut. I will teach you things that none of the others could understand. You must not disappoint me, my little one.. . .” She took his face between her hands and kissed him on the brow.
    As she straightened, she saw his gaze shift to the bag, which was twitching and bulging of its own accord.
    â€œIs it alive?” he whispered.
    â€œThat is a surprise for you,” she answered gaily, picking up the bag with one hand and offering the other to her son. As always, her heart lifted as his small fingers tightened on hers. You are mine! she thought, looking down at him, the child of my heart and the son of my soul!
    â€œAre we going to do a ritual?” he asked as the turned down the path to the spring. “Is it something that you have been learning from Tulach and her friends?”
    â€œHush, child, we must not speak of that here,” said Morgause. “What we will do is not one of their rites, though they have