Morgana well understood Garrick’s frustration. “The vision I have of Logan is unclear. As I said, he is being held prisoner.”
“I know that. Where? By whom?”
Closing her eyes, Morgana called on her memory. “The chamber is dark and damp. Fog enshrouds him. He is tied and oftimes alone. This scares him more than being with his captors.” Her forehead wrinkled as she pulled hard on her memory. “There is the smell of salt — brine — and the dull roar of the sea echoes through the chamber. He must be near the ocean, and he’s cold, though his captors have given him a fur coverlet … of rabbit and trimmed with ermine. He calls for you, Garrick.” Opening her eyes, she found Garrick’s face as pale as a new moon.
“How did you know the blanket was missing?” he demanded, his muscles rigid. “’Twas Logan’s favorite.”
“I knew not.”
“You think Strahan took my boy.” He shook his head. “Then why has he not held Logan for ransom?” He shoved his hair from his eyes, and his strong hand trembled. “What else do you see — about the castle and our brothers?”
She closed her eyes again and wound her fingers in the dirty folds of her tunic. She called up Ware’s face from memory, but had no clear picture of him. The castle, too, eluded her, though she smelled smoke, and upon thinking of Cadell, her heart nearly stopped. His face was there before her, but he was wearing the mask of death.
“God help him,” she whispered, opening her eyes. “Cadell faces death,” she said, her throat thick, her eyes brimming with tears. “’Tis my fault.”
“Nay, Morgana.” Garrick was suddenly beside her, holding her and kissing her temple. “Cadell is at Abergwynn because I came for you and your father bargained with his children’s upbringing. Do not blame yourself.”
“But we must save him. And Logan.”
“Is there naught you can do? he asked. “Can you not chant a spell for their protection?”
“You believe in my spells?” she asked in wonder.
He shook his head. “No, but I believe in trying anything.” He motioned to the ground. “Do whatever you must to keep my boy and your brother safe.”
“First we pray.” Morgana knelt and prayed for the safety of her family and Garrick’s. From the corner of her eye, she saw Garrick lay down his sword and bow his head, and she silently asked God to forgive him his arrogance. Once the prayer was finished, she used a stick to draw a circle in the earth, then sketched four crescents that overlapped in the middle of the full circle as they pointed outward, for the protection of Logan, Cadell, Clare, Glyn, and Ware.
“This is it?” Garrick asked, staring down at her rune. “Looks like a horse trampled the earth here.”
“’Tis the best I can do,” she said, her shoulders stiffening in pride.
His jaw worked. “Then it will have to do.”
She stood, dusting her hands, and he was taken again with her beauty. Despite all the fear he faced, the desperation to find his son, he still noted the soft angles of her face, the black waves of her hair, the pride in the small point of her chin. Though he doubted her powers, she did give him hope, not only for Logan’s safety but for his own future as well, for he knew now as he stared down at her that he could not go on living without her.
“Come, Morgana,” he said, drawing her into the circle of his arms. He kissed her lightly on the forehead and ignored the hardness growing in his loins. He had no time for lying with her. Not yet. Not until Logan was found. “’Tis time we went to Abergwynn. If, as you say, Strahan has taken my boy as well as my lands, then he must answer for his deeds.”
Heavy footsteps lumbered down the stairway, and the guard, a thickset man with foul breath and a pockmarked face, opened the door. His name was Brodie, and he was known for his love of bawdy stories and gossip. Along with a burning torch, he carried a pitcher of water, an empty pail, and a trencher of old bread.
“Drink from the pitcher and piss in the pail,” Brodie ordered, after unlocking the door and entering the dungeon. He was a huge man, twice the size of Cadell, and he stank of stale mead and garlic as he glowered down at the two boys. “So ye got yerself in a pile of trouble, didn’t ye, Lord Ware? Ha, that brother of yours is a fool. If ye had a brain in that head of yers, ye would’ve taken up with Strahan. Ye’d be in a far better place than this.” He set the torch into a rusted bracket on the wall.
“Would I?” Ware threw back at the man. He affected a thoughtful pose. “Suppose I told Strahan that I’d changed my mind?”
“He wouldn’t believe you. Just as I don’t.” Brodie dropped the empty pail, and it rolled and clanged against the wall. “You’d never plot against your own brother.”
“I wouldn’t want to, but I’m a practical man.”
The guard snorted. “Man?” He let out a loud belly laugh. “Ye call yerself a man? Ye be but a boy yet. Ye probably haven’t even had yer first maid.”
Ware’s eyes glimmered. “You’d be surprised, Sir Brodie. Many a maids has lifted her skirts for me.”
“Bah! The devil you say! Y’re but a lad.”
“The women think not,” Ware lied, seeing the older man lean forward with skeptical interest. “Not only serving wenches but maids in the village and ladies as well.”
“Yer talkin’ too big for yer age,” Brodie scoffed, but his eyes reflected curiosity in the torchlight, and he gr
inned, exposing yellowed and broken teeth.