The Hallowed Isle Book Four Read Online Free PDF Page A

age I could not feel it. Is this a natural talent, Medraut, or her teaching?”
    The boy felt himself flushing. No need to ask whom he meant. What had his mother done to Artor to make him fear her? He took another step towards the middle trilithon. Everything beyond the circle appeared to waver, as if he were looking at it through glass.
    â€œWait—” Artor set his hand on Medraut’s shoulder. He twitched, but the touch steadied him, and he did not pull away. Together, they moved between the huge capped uprights of the inner circle into the level space within. As they neared the altar stone Medraut sensed a subliminal hum, as if he were standing next to a hive of bees.
    Artor’s gaze had gone inward. “Power flows beneath the soil as water flows through riverbeds, from circle to circle, and from stone to stone. Here, two great currents cross. It is a place of mighty magic.”
    â€œHave you brought my brothers here?” Medraut asked softly after a time, still anchored by the king’s hand.
    Artor shook his head.
    â€œYou know, don’t you . . .” Medraut said then, “about me. . . .”
    For the first time, he allowed himself to stare at the man who had fathered him. The high king, if not quite so tall as Medraut’s older brothers, was still bigger than most men, his torso heavy with muscle. His features were too rugged for beauty, weathered by years of responsibility into a mask of power. But there were laughter lines around the grey eyes that watched him from beneath level brows. Except, perhaps, in those eyes, he could see nothing of himself in this man at all.
    The king let go of his shoulder, looking away. “She did not tell me you existed until you were ten years old.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you take me away from her?”
    â€œI had no proof . . .” Artor whispered.
    At ten, Medraut had still believed that his mother was good, and that he himself would grow up to be a hero one day. If the king had taken him then, his son might have been able to love him.
    â€œYou were newly married and expected to get a legitimate child,” he said flatly. “But you have none. Will you make me your heir?”
    â€œYou have a son’s claim on me, Medraut. But I am more a Roman than a Briton when it comes to the Imperium. They did not make me king because I was my father’s son, or not wholly, but because of the Sword.”
    Artor’s hand settled over the pommel of the blade at his side, and Medraut shivered as a new note pierced the circle’s hum, so high and clear that it hurt to hear. He knew about the Sword, of course, but it was always the Cauldron that his mother had coveted. This was man’s magic, and this too, he thought with a tremor of excitement, was his heritage.
    The sound faded as the high king’s hand moved once more to his side, and he sighed. “When the time comes, if there is a man fit to hold it, he will become the Defender of Britannia. I will do what I can for you, but I can make no promises.”
    Medraut frowned. If you had raised me, Father, I might believe that. But in the North we know that bloodright binds the king to his land. Britannia belongs to me. . . . But he did not voice those thoughts aloud.
    * * *
    The road from Mamucium to Bremetennacum led through low hills. The king and his escort had spent the night in the abandoned fort above the river. The timber barracks buildings had long ago collapsed, but the gatehouse and parts of the praetorium, where once the commander of the garrison had ruled, still provided some shelter. But it was a cheerless camp, for the town outside the walls had fallen into ruin a generation before.
    It was fear that had killed the town, thought Artor, not the Saxons, for there was no sign of burning. The people who had once inhabited those mute, overgrown heaps of rubble had simply moved away. But they will return . . . he told himself. The