Chapter 20
The blare of trumpeting horns woke Trystan just before dawn. It was a warning sound. He grabbed his bow and rushed out of the tent.
The cool air hummed with a nervous energy as the muted orange glow of the rising sun lit the sky from beyond the horizon. Soldiers rushed around, preparing last minute defenses. Archers, nearly half of whom were women, lined the top edges of the hill with large clusters of arrows at their sides as Locryn gave orders to his commanders. They acknowledged and headed out to their troops.
Trystan spotted Marc and Emrys, already clad in armor—Emrys in leather and Marc in chain mail—looking out in to the distance all around them, and closed the space between them. Half way toward them, Trystan halted in his tracks and stared toward the horizon. From every direction, a solid, almost black mass moved steadily toward the plateau. The haunting images from his recent vision returned in full force, and dread unfurled in his gut.
Unable to move, Trystan’s lungs seized. The walls of his chest constricted. His mind offered him no reprieve from the grim predictions. Many would die this day. Death for most would not be swift or painless, but tortured and slow, and Trystan feared the very real possibility that one if not both of the men he loved would be among them.
His gaze shifted between Emrys and Marc.The men he loved.
Trystan ducked back into the tent, his heart racing. He paced in a circle, his throat threatening to close up. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. He’d already bonded with Marc. He’d already chosen.
He pushed the thought away and forced himself to focus on something else. Armor. He needed armor.
Teleri appeared next to him, materializing in the center of the tent. Trystan jumped.
“By the heavens, Teleri,” Trystan panted.
“Here,” Teleri said, holding in her hands a tunic made from leather and chain mail. “Elvish armor. It will give you added protection from magic.”
“Thank you,” Trystan said.
Protection from magic. An army of undead and possibly soulless demons. Visions of war and blood and death. Myrddin and prophecies. All of it unimaginable just weeks ago.
Trystan let out a breath.
The fate of the world was about to be decided by the choices he made and would make. He looked at Teleri.
Her gold eyes steady and focused, Teleri gave him a solemn smile.
“Your future remains clouded, my king. Your heart is still torn. But do not despair. The answers you seek will come.” She handed him the armor. “I am here to serve you, Your Grace. May the Guardians protect us.” Teleri disappeared, leaving Trystan once again alone.
Still torn.
Teleri’s words mirrored his own broken thoughts. In his mind, he’d clearly made his choice. He thought his heart had as well. What if he’d chosen wrong?
The flaps of the tent slapped, and Emrys burst into the tent. Trystan’s face confirmed what Emrys had sensed. He yanked the flaps closed behind him, muffling the noises outside. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just, getting some armor. I needed something. Teleri—”
“Not that.” Emrys quickly closed the space between them. His voice softened when he saw the distress in his eyes. “I heard your thoughts just now.”
“Gods blood.” Trystan scrubbed his hand over his face.
“We can’t afford for you to doubt your decisions right now, Trystan. You need to trust that the choices you’ve made—and will make—are the right ones.”
“I did. I do.” He let out a heavy sigh and turned away. “I don’t know what to think right now. I can’t shake the images of the realities I saw.” Trystan spun around, his eyes questioning.
Emrys searched his face, moving closer. Uncertainty filled Trystan’s eyes. He truly was torn, and Emrys wondered if taking those memories and emotions from him had been the right thing. Emrys hesitated. “I want to show you something.”
Trystan nodded. Emrys lifted his hand and touched two fingers to Trystan’s temple, closing his eyes. Images of him with Marc flooded Trystan’s head. Moments in time that had yet to occur but that filled his heart with longing and love. Moments he already treasured. Moments that he wanted to become memories.
Emrys pulled his hand away.
“Marc…”
“Yes.”
