Chapter 4
The threat of drizzle did not deter Trystan from enjoying the gloomy morning in the Caerwynt castle gardens. He strolled into the courtyard and found an unoccupied and partially secluded stone bench tucked in a corner against a cascading wall of ivy. Sweeping his overcoat aside, he sat and leaned against the soft green leaves. He opened the book he’d brought with him, gifted to him by Queen Endelyn, and read.
An hour or more passed.
“Not in the stables this time.”
Marc’s teasing voice caused a spike in Trystan’s heart rate, and he looked up at the Regent Prince with a cautious smile. “I thought I might read this time.”
Warmth and affection unfurled inside Trystan as Marc sat beside him. His thigh pressed to his, Marc leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Reading and animals. Is there anything else you enjoy I should know about?”
Marc crooked his head and looked back at Trystan over his shoulder, waiting for his answer.
“Myths and magic.” Trystan held up his book. “And stories of King Arthur.”
“Do you believe?”
Trystan hesitated. With most anyone, he’d answer that inquiry with a firm “no.” As a child, he’d been teased by other kids for believing magic and mythological beings were real, but Trystan trusted Marc as much as he did Emrys. He couldn’t explain why—he’d spent little time with Marc—unless Emrys had been correct about Marc being his cymara. Even so, Trystan considered his words carefully.
“Hope is likely the more appropriate word. I long for much of it to be real.”
“Why?” Marc’s question was sincere, and his eyes matched his tone, neither of which carried any underlying ridicule. Trystan relaxed a little.
“Fleeting dreams, I suppose. I can imagine, so vividly, a world where dragons soar beyond the clouds and mermaids sing beneath the waves. A world in which alchemy and sorcery are part of the natural existence of all things.”
“A Myrddinae?”
“A believer, yes. Worshipper, no. Arthur and Guinevere were real. Myrddin and all his deeds must be as well, but he is no god.”
Marc turned sideways to face Trystan, his blue eyes dark and gray, reflecting the storm clouds above. “My mother is the same. My father not so much.”
“And you?”
“I tend to trust in my mother’s beliefs. Excalibur is one such artifact I truly hope to discover one day.”
Trystan couldn’t help the quirk of his lips. “I think I may have found a kindred spirit.”
“I think you’ll find us more than that.” Standing, Marc extended his hand toward him. “Walk with me?”
Trystan closed his book and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. He took Marc’s hand, inhaling sharply at the sudden zing pulsing through him, and rose from his seat. The word cymara rolled around in his head.
“So, this passion you have for Arthurian lore—”
“History.”
“You believe in it that much?” Marc’s grip on Trystan’s hand tightened as he led them both down a partially hidden path beneath a canopy of linden trees.
“I do.”
“Even though the only proof we have are the entombed bodies of Arthur and Guinevere, the original round table, and the word of three knights penned on fading parchment?”
“There is more evidence to be found. It’s out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered.”
“You speak of it with such conviction, as if it is a part of you.”
The image of the woman and child from his dreams flickered in Trystan’s mind. “As a child, I often imagined that somewhere in the stories—somewhere between Avalon and Camelot—lay the key to my past. To this day, they even follow me in my dreams.”
“What is it about your past that eludes you?”
