cervesia. ”
That was true. Even bad wine was preferable to barley beer. She forced herself to drink a few mouthfuls. Then she frowned. Another aspect of the Druid’s comment hadn’t made sense at all.
She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Good Gaulish wine may be expensive, true, but it’s imported by the shipload. It is plentiful enough.”
Myrddin corked the wine and stowed it in a leather pack before answering. “It once was,” he said. “No longer.”
That was absurd, but she did not wish to argue. At least not about something so trivial. “The mists,” she said, her voice rising. “How did you destroy them? What manner of spell did you cast? You must undo it, at once.”
He sent her an assessing glance as he fastened the buckle on his pack. Straightening to his full height, he picked up the pack and slung it easily over one shoulder. For an old man, Breena thought, Myrddin was certainly agile.
And tall. She did not like the way he loomed so far above her. Drawing a deep breath, she stood.
“It was not I who destroyed the mists,” he said. “That was done long ago.”
“You make no sense.”
A wry smile touched his lips. “Indeed. My life ceased making sense quite some time ago.”
Breena scowled. “Do not jest with me, old man.”
Immediately, he sobered. “In truth, I do not jest. Though I am certain my words do sound like nonsense to you.” He rubbed a hand down his face, ending with a tug on his beard.
“There is no gentle way to present it, so I suppose a measure of bluntness is in order.” He looked at her intently. “Though we stand in precisely the same place you remember, we have traveled an incredible distance. More than three hundred years.”
Three hundred years? Gods. Breena hadn’t considered the possibility that the old Druid might be mad. Mad, and possessed of deep magic. A deadly combination.
“Please,” she whispered. “Restore the mists. Avalon is no threat to anyone. But if the Roman army should discover us…we will be destroyed.”
He shook his head, his eyes infinitely weary. “Believe me when I say, child, that I would never do anything to harm your home. But in this time, that is not even possible. The Avalon you know was destroyed long ago.” He paused. “Do you remember nothing of your passage?”
“No, I—” She frowned. “Yes. I do recall…something. A land of shadows. You spoke a Word—no, many Words. I remember thinking I had never heard the language of the Old Ones used in quite that way.”
“It took me many years to discover the pattern and cadence of that spell, I assure you.” He planted his staff on the ground. “You know of the Lost Lands, of course.”
“What Druid does not? They are the vestibule to Annwyn.”
“Then you know the Lost Lands show a different face to each soul that enters.”
“Is that where we are now? In the Lost Lands?”
“No,” Myrddin replied. “We existed in that realm but a short time. You see, the Lost Lands are more than the vestibule to the Otherworld. They are a vestibule to time itself.”
Breena’s head had begun to throb. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I. Not completely. Deep magic, after all, is a complex power. That island lying across the lowlands? I assure you, it is Avalon. But it is not the Avalon you know. It is Avalon as it exists more than three hundred years into your future.”
She studied Myrddin’s face. His expression was grave. He appeared to believe the preposterous tale. “You cannot expect me to accept that.”
“You are too intelligent to disbelieve it,” Myrddin countered. “Look at the sacred isle, Breena. Really look. What do you see?”
She shaded her eyes and peered across the swamp. She had never seen Avalon from this vantage; the mistshad always obscured it. But she had no trouble recognizing her home. The island rose steeply from the water, forming a mound that was roughly the shape of a lopsided egg. She could just make out the apple
That was true. Even bad wine was preferable to barley beer. She forced herself to drink a few mouthfuls. Then she frowned. Another aspect of the Druid’s comment hadn’t made sense at all.
She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Good Gaulish wine may be expensive, true, but it’s imported by the shipload. It is plentiful enough.”
Myrddin corked the wine and stowed it in a leather pack before answering. “It once was,” he said. “No longer.”
That was absurd, but she did not wish to argue. At least not about something so trivial. “The mists,” she said, her voice rising. “How did you destroy them? What manner of spell did you cast? You must undo it, at once.”
He sent her an assessing glance as he fastened the buckle on his pack. Straightening to his full height, he picked up the pack and slung it easily over one shoulder. For an old man, Breena thought, Myrddin was certainly agile.
And tall. She did not like the way he loomed so far above her. Drawing a deep breath, she stood.
“It was not I who destroyed the mists,” he said. “That was done long ago.”
“You make no sense.”
A wry smile touched his lips. “Indeed. My life ceased making sense quite some time ago.”
Breena scowled. “Do not jest with me, old man.”
Immediately, he sobered. “In truth, I do not jest. Though I am certain my words do sound like nonsense to you.” He rubbed a hand down his face, ending with a tug on his beard.
“There is no gentle way to present it, so I suppose a measure of bluntness is in order.” He looked at her intently. “Though we stand in precisely the same place you remember, we have traveled an incredible distance. More than three hundred years.”
Three hundred years? Gods. Breena hadn’t considered the possibility that the old Druid might be mad. Mad, and possessed of deep magic. A deadly combination.
“Please,” she whispered. “Restore the mists. Avalon is no threat to anyone. But if the Roman army should discover us…we will be destroyed.”
He shook his head, his eyes infinitely weary. “Believe me when I say, child, that I would never do anything to harm your home. But in this time, that is not even possible. The Avalon you know was destroyed long ago.” He paused. “Do you remember nothing of your passage?”
“No, I—” She frowned. “Yes. I do recall…something. A land of shadows. You spoke a Word—no, many Words. I remember thinking I had never heard the language of the Old Ones used in quite that way.”
“It took me many years to discover the pattern and cadence of that spell, I assure you.” He planted his staff on the ground. “You know of the Lost Lands, of course.”
“What Druid does not? They are the vestibule to Annwyn.”
“Then you know the Lost Lands show a different face to each soul that enters.”
“Is that where we are now? In the Lost Lands?”
“No,” Myrddin replied. “We existed in that realm but a short time. You see, the Lost Lands are more than the vestibule to the Otherworld. They are a vestibule to time itself.”
Breena’s head had begun to throb. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I. Not completely. Deep magic, after all, is a complex power. That island lying across the lowlands? I assure you, it is Avalon. But it is not the Avalon you know. It is Avalon as it exists more than three hundred years into your future.”
She studied Myrddin’s face. His expression was grave. He appeared to believe the preposterous tale. “You cannot expect me to accept that.”
“You are too intelligent to disbelieve it,” Myrddin countered. “Look at the sacred isle, Breena. Really look. What do you see?”
She shaded her eyes and peered across the swamp. She had never seen Avalon from this vantage; the mistshad always obscured it. But she had no trouble recognizing her home. The island rose steeply from the water, forming a mound that was roughly the shape of a lopsided egg. She could just make out the apple
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