Free The Hallowed Isle Book Four by Diana L. Paxson Page B

the three days of Artor’s visit she had managed to avoid him, but there was no evading a confrontation now.
    â€œVerica, I must go—make sure that any bags that have gotten moths in them over the winter are taken to the other shed. If we wash the fleeces thoroughly, we may be able to save some of the wool.”
    The younger priestess nodded, and Morgause made her way past the women to the door.
    â€œAh—” Artor essayed a smile. “I am glad you came out to me. I would rather charge a Saxon army than intrude on all those chattering girls.”
    â€œTruly? I thought there was nothing you would not dare—” Morgause fought to keep her tone even.
    Artor shook his head. “Will you walk with me? We need to speak about Medraut.” Together, they moved down the path.
    â€œWhat has he done?”
    â€œWhy should you ask that? Was he so difficult a child to raise?” Artor asked quickly.
    Not at all. Not until the last. . . . Morgause pulled her shawl more tightly around her, for clouds were gathering, pushed by a chilly wind. “Your tone suggested he was in trouble . . .” she said aloud.
    â€œOn the way north there were . . . accidents. I sent Medraut to the Saxons—to Cynric at Venta Belgarum, who for the sake of his own cub’s life will guard him as the apple of his eye. It would seem that the secret of Medraut’s parentage has become known, and perhaps there are some who think they would be doing me a favor to get rid of him.”
    â€œPerhaps they are right,” Morgause answered bitterly. “Why should you trust him, when he is what I made him? You have good reason to distrust me.”
    â€œFor the Lady’s sake, Morgause! It may be that he should never have been born, but he is here, and he deserves a chance. I have not come here to blame you, but you knowhim better than anyone else. Like it or not, he is my son. I need to understand. . . .”
    Morgause stared up at the brother she had hated so long and so intimately betrayed. He was still strong, but there was silver in the brown hair, and his face was carved by lines of responsibility and power. He seemed so sure of himself, as if he had never doubted his own integrity, that she almost began to hate him once more.
    Should I tell him that Medraut is brilliant and seductive and dangerous? How much am 1 willing to admit? How much do I dare? Looking back, the woman who had manipulated and schemed seemed like a stranger, but the reverberations of that woman’s past actions still troubled the present, like the ripples from a cast stone.
    â€œMedraut is very intelligent,” she said slowly, shame moderating her words. “But his brothers were too much older—he has been very much alone. He does not have much experience of friendship.” She paused. “I raised him to think he had a right to your throne.”
    â€œThat is the one thing I cannot give him,” Artor replied, his gaze troubled. “Even if his birth were acceptable, what I have to leave will go to the man best fitted to hold it. To the man, if there is one, who is chosen by the spirit of this Sword. I told him that. I do not know if he believed me—” he said then, gripping the hilt of the weapon that hung at his side.
    â€œThen you must somehow teach him to be worthy of it,” said Morgause, “for that is what he will desire.”
    Perhaps , she thought, in rejecting me, Medraut will reject what I taught him. But she found that hard to believe.
    Artor was staring out across the lake, his gaze as grey as the troubled surface of the water.
    â€œOne thing I would ask of you—” she said aloud. “To take Gualchmai’s daughter with you when you go. She is a wild creature of the moors, not suited by nature for the quiet life we have here. Perhaps Guendivar will be able to tame her.”
    â€œVery well. What is her name?”
    â€œShe is called