orchard at midslope, and the roofs of several long, squat buildings just below it. One boasted a square tower.
She blinked. There were no long, squat buildings on Avalon. No tower. Only Celt roundhouses, nestled among rowans and yews. They would not even be visible from this distance.
And the swamp…When she examined it more closely, she realized the marsh was not as it should be. It was as if some giant hand had opened a drain and allowed some of the water to seep out. A wide swath of lowland forest hugged the base of the mountain, where there should have been nothing but a strip of muddy shore. What should have been a glassy expanse of water was broken by shoals and a network of shallow, grassy islands.
“This…this cannot be real. It must be an illusion. Or a dream you’ve cast into my mind.”
“No. No dream, no illusion. This is reality.” He paused. “The woman in your silver vision exists in this time. Lady Igraine is very real, indeed.”
“She is here? On Avalon?”
“No. The duchess dwells some miles to the west, at Tintagel.”
“Duchess? What is a duchess?”
Myrddin grimaced. “I forget how little you know. ‘Duchess’ is the Lady Igraine’s title. Her husband is Gerlois of Cornwall. His title is ‘duke.’”
“Duke? Do you mean dux? An army general? And where is Cornwall? I have never heard of the place.”
“A British duke is somewhat like a Roman dux. Especially in a military sense. But Gerlois is a landholder as well. His dukedom is called Cornwall. It is part of the kingdom of Dumnonia.”
“You mean Isca Dumnoniorum?” Breena asked.
“King Erbin’s seat was once called Dumnoniorum. The king is very old, and his mind has gone weak. Duke Gerlois is Erbin’s heir, and king in all but name. He controls Dumnonia’s army, and administers all its laws.”
Breena struggled to make sense of it all. “There is no longer a fortress, or a dux, in Isca Dumnoniorum. The Second Legion’s home is Isca Silurum now. And there are no kings in Britain. The province is administered by a governor.”
“Breena, I am trying to tell you—there are no legions in Britain. Nor any governor. The Roman army sailed from the island almost fifty years ago.”
“What a preposterous notion—Rome would never abandon Britain! Though I know there are many Celts who yet consider that a pleasant dream.”
For a long moment, Myrddin did not answer. Then his shoulders sagged. “No pleasant dream. Far from it. In truth, Rome’s abandonment of Britain was a nightmare. One that has yet to end.”
A nightmare. Like the vision Rhys’s grandfather had seen of a brutal, hopeless future?
Breena’s heart began to beat an uneven tattoo as her resistance to Myrddin’s preposterous assertions cracked. Could it be true? Had Myrddin’s deep magic brought her through time?
“There was a Seer in my time,” she began. “He…he prophesized two possible futures for Britain. One dark, one light. Is this…” She swallowed. “Is this his dark vision come to pass?”
“I know of Cyric,” Myrddin said. “His Sight was true. His dark prophecy has not yet come to pass, but Britain is careening toward that fate with sickening rapidity. Rome is gone. Druid magic is fading. Barbarians rape the shoreline while petty kings squabble among themselves. And yet, there is still hope. That is why I need your help, Breena.”
She hardly understood what the old Druid was saying. All she could think of was her home, long gone in this time. “If we are truly in the future, then…are they all dead? My parents? My brother and his family?”
Owein and Clara. Penn. And oh, gods— Rhys. She squeezed her eyes shut against a crushing tide of grief.
Myrddin rested a hand on her shoulder. Reflexively, she gripped it. “In this reality,” he said quietly, “yes, they are gone. But time, I have found, is not quite the logical concept I once thought it to be. I have discovered that all time happens at once. So in one sense,
She blinked. There were no long, squat buildings on Avalon. No tower. Only Celt roundhouses, nestled among rowans and yews. They would not even be visible from this distance.
And the swamp…When she examined it more closely, she realized the marsh was not as it should be. It was as if some giant hand had opened a drain and allowed some of the water to seep out. A wide swath of lowland forest hugged the base of the mountain, where there should have been nothing but a strip of muddy shore. What should have been a glassy expanse of water was broken by shoals and a network of shallow, grassy islands.
“This…this cannot be real. It must be an illusion. Or a dream you’ve cast into my mind.”
“No. No dream, no illusion. This is reality.” He paused. “The woman in your silver vision exists in this time. Lady Igraine is very real, indeed.”
“She is here? On Avalon?”
“No. The duchess dwells some miles to the west, at Tintagel.”
“Duchess? What is a duchess?”
Myrddin grimaced. “I forget how little you know. ‘Duchess’ is the Lady Igraine’s title. Her husband is Gerlois of Cornwall. His title is ‘duke.’”
“Duke? Do you mean dux? An army general? And where is Cornwall? I have never heard of the place.”
“A British duke is somewhat like a Roman dux. Especially in a military sense. But Gerlois is a landholder as well. His dukedom is called Cornwall. It is part of the kingdom of Dumnonia.”
“You mean Isca Dumnoniorum?” Breena asked.
“King Erbin’s seat was once called Dumnoniorum. The king is very old, and his mind has gone weak. Duke Gerlois is Erbin’s heir, and king in all but name. He controls Dumnonia’s army, and administers all its laws.”
Breena struggled to make sense of it all. “There is no longer a fortress, or a dux, in Isca Dumnoniorum. The Second Legion’s home is Isca Silurum now. And there are no kings in Britain. The province is administered by a governor.”
“Breena, I am trying to tell you—there are no legions in Britain. Nor any governor. The Roman army sailed from the island almost fifty years ago.”
“What a preposterous notion—Rome would never abandon Britain! Though I know there are many Celts who yet consider that a pleasant dream.”
For a long moment, Myrddin did not answer. Then his shoulders sagged. “No pleasant dream. Far from it. In truth, Rome’s abandonment of Britain was a nightmare. One that has yet to end.”
A nightmare. Like the vision Rhys’s grandfather had seen of a brutal, hopeless future?
Breena’s heart began to beat an uneven tattoo as her resistance to Myrddin’s preposterous assertions cracked. Could it be true? Had Myrddin’s deep magic brought her through time?
“There was a Seer in my time,” she began. “He…he prophesized two possible futures for Britain. One dark, one light. Is this…” She swallowed. “Is this his dark vision come to pass?”
“I know of Cyric,” Myrddin said. “His Sight was true. His dark prophecy has not yet come to pass, but Britain is careening toward that fate with sickening rapidity. Rome is gone. Druid magic is fading. Barbarians rape the shoreline while petty kings squabble among themselves. And yet, there is still hope. That is why I need your help, Breena.”
She hardly understood what the old Druid was saying. All she could think of was her home, long gone in this time. “If we are truly in the future, then…are they all dead? My parents? My brother and his family?”
Owein and Clara. Penn. And oh, gods— Rhys. She squeezed her eyes shut against a crushing tide of grief.
Myrddin rested a hand on her shoulder. Reflexively, she gripped it. “In this reality,” he said quietly, “yes, they are gone. But time, I have found, is not quite the logical concept I once thought it to be. I have discovered that all time happens at once. So in one sense,
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