The Hallowed Isle Book Four by Diana L. Paxson Read Free Book Online

to hold onto. His falling body hit one outcrop and then another, and slid to the base of the wall.
    When he came to himself, it was full dark. He hurt all over, and he was cold. Head throbbing, he tried to remember what had happened. If someone had pushed him, why had they not taken advantage of his unconsciousness to toss him into the sea? And if not, why was he still lying here? But if no one had seen him fall, surely someone should be wondering where he had gone. . . .
    At least he could feel all his limbs. Very carefully, he tried to move. Everything ached, but it was only in his right leg that he felt real pain. Still, it was only going to get colder. He had to get up somehow.
    Medraut had made it to the steps when he heard voices from above. Torches flared wildly as the wind caught them. Someone was calling his name.
    â€œLook, there at the foot of the stair,” someone cried.
    â€œHere—” He let his dark mantle fall back so that the paler tunic could be seen. “I’m here. . . .”
    He tensed as someone hurried towards him, torch held toohigh for features to be seen. Then the man was kneeling, and Medraut looked up into the anxious eyes of Artor the king.
    The storm had passed, but the high king of Britannia remained at Dun Breatann. The boy, Medraut, had broken his leg, and was not yet fit to ride. That Artor should stay for the sake of a nephew was a matter of wonder, but presently men began to speak of a greater wonder, that the nephew was also a son. Artor knew they said it, though he did not know from whom the rumor first had come. It was inevitable, he thought, that the truth would eventually be known. That did not disturb him so much as the whisper he had heard as he lifted his son in his arms.
    â€œ Still living? A pity — if the bastard broke his neck it would be better for the king and for us all! ”
    Artor had not recognized the voice, and the situation could only be made worse by questioning, but in the dark hours of the night he lay wakeful, remembering the moment of thought, instantly suppressed, in which he had hoped it might be true.
    He was still there a week later, when horns proclaimed the arrival of another party and the Saxon lords rode in. When Artor had spoken with them he went to the terrace where Medraut, his leg splinted and bound, sat looking out at the sea.
    â€œWho has come?” asked the boy, looking up at him.
    Artor continued to gaze at the bright glitter of sun on water. “The brother of Cynric, who rules the south Saxons now,” he said without turning. “I had sent to them before we left Londinium, requesting his son as hostage, to guarantee the peace while I am in Gallia.”
    â€œAnd he has refused?”
    Artor shook his head, turning to face his son. “They have brought me the boy. Ceawlin is his name.”
    â€œThen why are you troubled? And why are you telling this to me?” Medraut swung his splinted leg down from the bench and sat up, the sunlight sparking on his hair in glints of fire.
    Artor stared at him, striving to see past the coloring andthe fine bones that reminded him so painfully of Morgause. Who are you really, boy? What is going on behind those eyes?
    â€œHe desires me to send a man of my own kindreds in exchange— ‘to increase understanding between our peoples. . . .’”
    â€œAnd Goriat doesn’t want to go, so you are thinking of sending me?” Medraut asked mockingly, and Artor felt his face grow red.
    â€œWere you pushed down those stairs?” He held the boy’s gaze and saw a glimmer of some emotion, swiftly shut away.
    Artor had been king since he was the same age as this boy and he thought he knew how to judge men, but Medraut’s personality offered no point of attachment on which to build a relationship.
    Is that really true? he asked himself suddenly. Or is it that you have been afraid to try? He had kept the boy with him for almost a