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  Bending low to gain entry, Gwyneth stepped into the cave. Once inside, she tore a strip from the hem of her skirts and carefully wrapped the sword within it. Reaching high, Gwyneth placed the cloth-bound sword on a ledge and left the cave.

  She covered the remaining distance to the castle quickly, ignoring the startled glances of peasants, serfs, and men-at- arms, which were caused by her disheveled appearance. Once inside the castle, Gwyneth held her head high and ran quickly to her mother’s chambers to quietly tell Ariel what had happened at the pool. When she was finished, she sat with her head pressed against her mother’s breasts, and it was then that Sir Hughes entered the chamber.

  He stood in the archway, staring at the close tableau. His raven hair, lightly veined with gray, fell to his shoulders. His tunic of burgundy was embroidered with the coat of arms of Kildrake. A long dagger hung at his waist, and leather boots of the finest quality covered his feet, encasing burgundy leggings that disappeared under the tunic’s bottom.

  “What has happened?” Sir Hughes roared, his face dark and accusatory. His eyes, the same sapphire-blue as his daughter’s, flashed from woman to woman.

  “It has come to pass,” replied Ariel in a soft, clear voice, her arm drawing Gwyneth tighter to her breasts.

  “What are you saying? What riddles do you speak today?” He was well used to his wife’s strange ways and did not like her less for them.

  “Last night, Husband, I told you of the old woman. I spoke the words she spoke to Gwyneth. She spoke truthfully. Our daughter has been ravaged.”

  “The old one? That toothless pagan hag you have been feeding at our tables?” bellowed Hughes, unable to contain his rage. He had heard of his daughter’s trek through the inner ward and had become both worried and angry.

  She was a maiden, and had been kept as such, never allowed in the company of men without at least three handmaidens to attend her. Her marriage was but a short time away, and he was not prepared for any change in plans. The marriage would make an alliance of two families who had feuded for a hundred years.

  “What has that nameless woman done to you?” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as he pointed a stocky finger at Gwyneth.

  “Do you not remember what I told you last night? Were you, Sir Hughes, so deep in your cups that you heard not?” challenged Ariel.

  “Am I expected to believe that foolish prattle about a giant among men?” he asked defiantly.

  “That foolish prattle has come true.” Ariel flung the words back at him.

  “Tell me!” Hughes, Duke of Devonshire, demanded of his daughter. A blend of love, fear, and total command emanated from him. Although his renown as a savage fighter had traveled the breadth of England, Sir Hughes had always been gentle to his only surviving child. He was a good father, kinder than most.

  When Gwyneth spoke, her voice took on an ethereal quality that drew Hughes into the tale. She related everything that happened factually, omitting only the final gift of the sword. When she was done, she opened her tunic and bared her nakedness. Her thighs, caked with her own dried blood, bore testimony to her words. But what she had not seen before, and that which held her parents’ gaze captive upon her unclad belly, proved every word she had spoken. Upon the soft skin of her abdomen was a shadow in the shape of the silver sword’s hilt.

  Slowly, Gwyneth lowered her eyes, following the gaze of her mother and father, and saw the shape emblazed there. She smiled when she lifted her eyes to theirs.

  “I am with his child,” she told them. Neither disputed her word. Not after what they had just witnessed.

  And so it came to pass, that Gwyneth, daughter of Hughes, betrothed to Sir Malcolm, entered into marriage not with Malcolm, but rather with Sir Guy of Halsbred, a man twice the age of Gwyneth’s father. The change had been accomplished diplomatically, with no loss of face on either side. And Sir Guy of Halsbred gained much more than a wife. He gained the pledge that his lands would be looked after and protected by the powerful Duke of Devonshire. Upon his death, Sir Guy’s lands would go to the son of his brother, a monk, and be turned over to the church. Sir Hughes would then take back into his home his daughter Gwyneth and her child.

  Seven months following the marriage came the winter solstice.

  It was just as the sun dropped from the sky that Gwyneth was taken to the birthing bed. The day outside was angry, and the winter wind whistled through the cracks of the castle walls, which were poorly kept up by Sir Guy, who cared for little, not even the young wife he had married. Already in residence were Ariel and her servants.

  Gwyneth’s bedchamber had been made warmer by the women, who had hung large tapestries upon the walls to stop the cold winds from stealing through. A fire roared in the fireplace, and a large pot boiled above the flames. Almost to the minute of the setting sun, Gwyneth’s first pains came.

  When the head of the infant emerged, a sudden hush filled the chamber and all movement stopped. Then the door flew open to reveal an old woman in flowing black robes. She was a frail figure, stooped with age. Gwyneth did not see her through the haze of pain, but everyone else did. The woman moved slowly upon entering the chamber, and it seemed to all who watched her that she grew taller with each step.

  When she reached the side of the bed she stood perfectly straight, her toothless mouth smiled, and her small black eyes danced with delight.

  She raised old, gnarled hands into the air, and spoke guttural, unintelligible words. Suddenly the baby was free, and Ariel held it aloft.

  There was a sudden intake of breath when Ariel stared at the child. A full head of blonde wispy hair, shimmering from the wetness of its mother’s womb, glowed as if lit by the sun.

  “The cord!” cried one of the servants. Another quickly grasped the cord and began to tie it.

  Gwyneth gazed at the child for a moment, feeling a sudden ache within her swollen breasts. Then she saw her mother’s face. Ariel’s features were pinched, her skin the color of newly fallen snow as she looked at the baby. Gwyneth turned her head slightly and saw the old woman. She smiled, and the Druid smiled back.

  “The legend begins. The golden-haired giant has been born! The knight who wields the silver sword has entered the world,” she proclaimed in a barely audible whisper.

  “No!” Ariel screamed, holding the blonde-haired baby high for all to see. “It cannot be as you have foreseen. Look you! Look old witch! Look Gwyneth! Look!” she cried, lowering the child.

  “It will be,” replied the old priestess who smiled and took the infant into her own arms. Slowly, gently, she transferred the child, the golden-haired one destined for greatness, into the arms of its mother, to suckle at the swollen breast which already held its life fluids.

  “We know, Gwyneth and I, that it shall come to pass. It has been ordained,” she said to everyone. Then, lowering her voice, she spoke only to Gwyneth. “When the child reaches the age of ten, you will tell the story, and give the sword to its rightful owner.”

  Gwyneth gazed languidly at the old woman, before she looked down to the child at her breast. Slowly, she raised her head to see her son, and when she did, the shock could not be hidden.

  “But...,” she began, her eyes filling with tears as she looked from her mother to the old Druid priestess.

  “It is as it should be. It has been foretold,” repeated the seer, who walked to the door. Framed within the stone opening, she turned back to the people within the chamber. “The child’s mate has already been born, eight years ago, on this very day. In seventeen years the child will marry, and from that time, destiny will flow, and the legend will continue.”

  Again, slowly, the Druid priestess changed into the stooped old woman, and by the time she was through the doorway and into the halls, she once again looked gnarled and small.

  No ear heard the low sea of laughter that issued from her mouth. No eyes saw the merriment that filled the old one, making her face look for the briefest moment as it had seventy years before, when she was but ten and sev
en.

  No one would believe the words she had spoken tonight, no one except Gwyneth, who would remember and would tell the child about its father. It was foretold that no one but its mother would. And when the girl child grew older, the world would be changed.

  Book I

  Of Gwendolyn and Miles,

  the Awakening of Power, and the Joining of Destiny

  Chapter One

  Rays of sunlight filtered through the branches of the large trees, creating shafts of light that formed bars of yellow sunshine. A lone rider astride a horse of jet black wove through the bars of light, following the pathway they illuminated through the forest.

  The horse, a finely muscled mare, moved with the sure-footedness of youthful confidence that had to be shared to be understood. The rider, bending low against the horse’s flowing mane, seemed to blend into the animal as a single entity. A long dark cape fell from the rider’s shoulders, its hem flowing behind, evidence of the mare’s speed. As the horse’s thundering hooves rushed onward to the heart of the forest, a loud call sounded from high above.

  Two hundred feet over the tree tops, a golden eagle raced the wind. It dived, skimming along the tops of the trees until it caught the current it searched for, and suddenly it rose, wings expanded, spiraling upward. On the ground, the rider looked up, smiling at the sight.

  Far behind the lone rider was a group of riders trying in vain to find their leader. Eventually they slowed their mounts, but did not cease to call a name. Their voices, becoming more distant with each powerful stride of the mare, echoed through the forest. With another smile, one of satisfaction, the rider turned between two bars of sunlight and entered still deeper into the thickening woods.

  Now only one voice, heavy with male coarseness, reached the rider’s ears. The rider reined the horse and waited to see if the man would follow his voice.

  Shaking off the hood, the rider loosened a full head of blonde waves.

  “Gwendolyn,” came the faint echo, no closer than the last. “Not today! Today is mine,” she said with a smile to the eagle soaring above her. Gwendolyn, daughter of Gwyneth, Lady of Halsbred, granddaughter of Sir Hughes Kildrake, Duke of Devonshire, filled her lungs with the purity and clean scents of the unsullied Devon Forest.

  Her eyes, the color of an early morning sky, danced happily as she patted the neck of the mare. Today was her day of freedom. It was early summer and she would have no restrictions placed upon her. Her friends – so they thought themselves – and her servants would spend the day looking for her. But today they would not find her. Today she would bathe in the Pool of Pendragon.

  Ever since the tenth anniversary of her birth, she had visited the pool on this day. She had come the first time with her mother and had listened to the tale of her conception and been told of her father. For three more years, she and her mother had traveled here, but when she was in her fourteenth year, her mother had died.

  Gwyneth had died with a smile on her lips, and Gwendolyn had not shed a tear. She knew her mother wanted to be free to join her father, to spend eternity within his arms. Gwendolyn felt the loss, but she also knew happiness, because her mother would finally be joined with her un- named husband.

  Dismounting, Gwendolyn led the mare through the last edge of the trees that surrounded the pool. When she entered the open glade, she dropped the reins, knowing her mount would not stray. Before letting her eyes drink in the surrounding beauty, she looked skyward until she spotted the dark shape circling high above, lazing on an upward draft of air.

  Valkyrie, the giant eagle whom she had found in the fall season five years before, with an arrow shaft embedded in the joint of his wing. He had been lying in the grass, bravely defying one of the castle dogs.

  She had chased the dog away and walked up to the eagle. She had not feared it as she knelt beside it. The eagle’s yellow eyes had riveted her, unblinking as its long, curved beak opened. She had stretched out her hand and waited. The eagle had pressed its beak to her palm and slowly rubbed upward. Gwendolyn had known the bird would not hurt her. No animal feared her, just as she feared no animal. She had picked up the eagle and carried it back to her chambers. For all the long, cold months of winter, she had nursed the large bird, tending it faithfully, helping it to survive.

  When the first warm breezes of spring arrived, Gwendolyn had grown to know the proud bird well, and had known also that he must be free. Without regret, but not without sadness, she had taken him to a large open field near the forest’s edge. She had held him high, his large claws securely fastened on her well-covered wrist as it looked around.

  Gwendolyn had thrown her arm upward, unaffected by the weight of so large a bird, and had watched as the eagle freed itself from its perch and tested its wounded wing. The eagle had dropped toward the ground and skimmed it, coasting above the grass as it worked its wide wings. Then the eagle’s shattering scream had pierced the air and, before her eyes, the bird rose. Gwendolyn had smiled when it flew higher. She felt justified in saving it, even more so in freeing it.

  With a wave of her hand to bid the proud eagle farewell, Gwendolyn had turned her horse toward the castle. Before she was halfway home, a swirling breeze had rushed across her head and she looked up as the eagle passed by. She had reined in her horse, puzzled, while she had watched the bird circle her and dive.

  Then she knew.

  She had held out her arm and watched. Her heart had raced when the eagle had descended from the sky and had come to rest on her wrist. From that day forward, the eagle had never flown without returning to Gwendolyn.

  Gwendolyn drew her eyes from the swiftly flying bird and gazed about the pool. It was always the same as she remembered it—the calm, still surface, the slate-colored rocks that surrounded two sides, forming steps that led upward yet nowhere, and the lush carpet of green, grassy moss, so comforting to her back.

  The area surrounding the pool was heated by the sun and caressed by gentle breezes. Sighing, Gwendolyn walked to the pool’s edge. There, she took off the light cape and loosened the leather girdle that held her tunic closed, and, when that was done, opened and removed the soft burgundy cloth emblazoned with the crest of Kildrake, freeing her body to drink in the sun.

  As she did every year, Gwendolyn looked down into the mirror-bright surface of Pendragon’s pool and saw herself looking back. She could almost imagine it was her father that gazed upward; the vivid descriptions her mother had given her still lived strongly in her mind. His long golden hair was like hers, the color of wheat and moonlight. Gwendolyn ran her hands through her hair, lifting it and shaking it free. Her father’s hair had reached to mid-back. Hers dipped below her waist.

  She stood taller as she looked in the pool. Until three years ago she had been like all the other children. Then the sign of her womanhood had come, and the flow of blood had signaled a change. But unlike the others of her age, Gwendolyn grew until she was taller than any boy or girl she knew. It hadn’t ended there; she continued to grow, as her mother had told her she would. And now, in her seventeenth year, she was the tallest person she had ever seen. She stood two inches above Morgan Dublaise, Sir Morgan of Guildswood, her betrothed. And Morgan was rumored to be taller than any knight except Miles of Radstock, whom she had only heard of, but had never met.

  Gwendolyn looked at her reflection—tall, well-muscled— and was proud of her body. There was no feat she was afraid to attempt. Her hips were narrow, her waist small. Her breasts were full, firm, and rode high. Her shoulders were powerful, but well-proportioned to the rest of her body, complementing the smooth, rolling muscles of her arms, thighs, and abdomen.

  Her neck was graceful, and held up a face that drew admiring glances. High cheekbones accented a straight, smooth nose. Her soft lips were shaped like a man-at-arms’ bow. Her eyes were large, almond-shaped, and blue, and her skin was the same fair porcelain as her mother’s.

  At last, bathed in sunlight, Gwendolyn stepped into the pool, fighting off the urge to turn and walk naked th
rough the forest to her cave, which had been her mother’s secret place. Her hands and fingers itched to hold the silver handle of her father’s sword. She wanted to feel the way her blood sang through her body, as it always did when she held the sword. She wanted to swing it, to use it, as she bad for the past seven years while she secretly trained herself.

  But not yet, she told herself; she must complete her own ritual: First the bath in the pool, and then to lie on the mossy carpet and dry in the sun. When that was done, and only then, would she go to the cave and unwrap the sword to daylight.

  Lowering herself into the pool, Gwendolyn floated on her back. She enjoyed the cool, almost cold feel of water against her naked skin. The fresh water relaxed her, made her feel clean and whole. She swam for a few minutes, dipping her head beneath the water’s surface, diving down to touch the rocky bottom, turning underwater to let her feet find purchase on the rock bottom before propelling herself upward with a powerful thrust. Her graceful body broke the water’s surface as she reached high into the air.

  Slowly, Gwendolyn turned on her back again, floating with the sun full on her face. She played for several more minutes before swimming to the pool’s edge. Drawing herself onto dry land, she stood letting the water cascade from her body. Then she lay face down on the soft carpet of mossy grass, her head resting on one arm, to let the sun dry her completely.

  Gwendolyn felt as one with the forest that surrounded her, and, although drowsy, she was fully aware of the sounds emanating from it. With a suddenness known to those who live with and love nature, Gwendolyn sensed something wrong. The forest had grown still. No birds called, no insects chirped, and the silence was deafening. An icy chill ran along her spine, ending with a tickling sensation of warning at the base of her neck. Slowly, Gwendolyn turned and sat.

  Valkyrie, the golden eagle, saw them first, and his fierce cry rang to the heavens. Gwendolyn saw them next. Three men, dirty and evil-looking, emerged from the trees across the pool. Standing, she ran to her clothing, not to dress or cover herself, but to take her jeweled dagger from its sheath on the leather girdle. While she ran, her eyes took in every aspect of the men. Their mismatched clothing proclaimed them mercenary men-at-arms, their unshaven faces, filthy hair, and unfriendly eyes told of their desertion, or worse. Gwendolyn, who had never known fear before, trembled as she watched their menacing expressions.