hand from Harold‘s shoulder and placed it on the coverlets of the bed, over my belly.
―Swanne…‖ Harold began, but I shook my head—she could surely do no harm—and he
subsided.
―Is that truly so?‖ Swanne repeated, and her frown increased. Something shadowy and
unknowable darkened her eyes and the pressure of her hand increased slightly, although not
uncomfortably so.
―My lady?‖ I said, glancing at Harold who was watching Swanne‘s face.
―Your womb is empty,‖ Swanne said, and her voice was slightly puzzled. She leaned
back, raising her hand away from me, and looked at me, the frown still marking her lovely face.
―Do you believe, too, that I have a lover, and lost his child?‖ I said, bitterly. ―I am a
virgin still, Swanne.‖
My eyes briefly, meaningfully, locked with Harold‘s.
She nodded, and made a small smile with her mouth, but I could see that her mind was
consumed with something other than our conversation.
―So,‖ she said softly. ―He has made his first move. I wonder why this was so important to
him…‖ Her voice drifted off.
By now both Harold and myself were staring at her. ―Swanne?‖ Harold said. ―Of whom
do you speak?‖
She blinked, and her face set into hard, cold lines. ―Of no one who concerns you, my
dear.‖
And with that she turned and left us.
THIRTEEN
Swanne walked from the queen‘s apartments, her gait smooth and elegant, her shoulders
back, her beautiful face held high. She walked until she reached the head of the staircase where
windows overlooked the Thames, and there she stopped, folded her hands before her, and stared
out the window.
She had felt nothing in Caela‘s womb. Nothing, and yet, for all the time she had known
Caela in this life, the woman‘s womb had always held a faint trace of Mag.
Swanne sighed, ignoring the stares of servants and officials who hurried by, and once
more a small frown wrinkled the otherwise smooth skin of her forehead. Swanne had been
reborn into this life with her powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth intact, but with her two other
sources of power strangely muted. In her former life as Genvissa, Swanne had been the powerful
MagaLlan, high priestess to the goddess Mag, commanding powerful magic which she drew
from the goddess herself. In this life her powers as MagaLlan were virtually non-existent. This
had not surprised Swanne. Mag was all but dead, clinging to life only in the dim recesses of
Caela‘s womb (and, as a virgin, Caela would have provided the goddess of fertility and
motherhood with no power at all) and the ancient power of the land that Swanne had known as
Genvissa was hidden under a heavy cloak of time and forgetfulness. There was no source of
power for a MagaLlan, and Swanne spent no time weeping over what she had lost.
What did frighten Swanne was that the dark power of the heart of the Labyrinth which
she‘d inherited from her foremothers, and which Ariadne had won from Asterion, was all but gone as well. Why? Was that Asterion‘s malicious hand? Or because her mother in this life had
been but an ordinary woman, and Swanne had needed the direct blood link from a mother who
wielded the darkcraft in order to wield it herself? She didn‘t know, and that frustrated her.
Her power as Mistress of the Labyrinth should be all that she needed, but Swanne had
wanted the darkcraft as well. Badly.
If she had it now, then perhaps she‘d have more idea of what was happening about her.
She‘d certainly have more hope of influencing and directing it.
Whatever power she did or did not command, Swanne had managed enough of it to be
able to recognise the faint trace of Mag within Caela‘s womb.
Today, even that faint trace was gone.
Its absence could have been attributable to a number of causes. Mag had simply faded
away completely. Swanne had perhaps lost touch with enough of her own remaining power to
lose contact with Mag. Something, or someone, else had destroyed Mag within Caela‘s womb.
Swanne knew it was the latter. Caela had been attacked yesterday; the remaining faint
trace of Mag had been deliberately murdered.
And there was only one person who had the power to accomplish that and had possible
reason to want to accomplish Mag‘s death.
Asterion.
Swanne stared out at the grey waters of the Thames. It was a cold, blustery day with
sheets of rain driving in from the north-east at periodic intervals. Winter was not far away.
―Why?‖ Swanne whispered. ―Why?‖
Why would Asterion want that final, helpless remnant of Mag dead? Swanne well knew
of the old alliance between Mag and Asterion, using Cornelia to destroy Genvissa and stop the
completion of the Game. Swanne could also understand why Asterion might want to tidy up
loose ends; if nothing else the Minotaur was a methodical creature, and he most certainly needed
neither Mag nor Caela‘s all but useless hand.
So why not kill Caela and dispose of both of them at the same time? Why leave Caela
alive?
Why go to all the trouble of removing Mag in such spectacular fashion when he could
just as easily have murdered Caela and left no loose ends at all?
What are you up to, Asterion? Swanne thought. To be honest, Swanne had no idea why
even she was alive. Asterion wanted to destroy the Game. If that was all he wanted, then that was easily accomplished.
Kill her. Kill the Mistress of the Labyrinth. If there was no Mistress of the Labyrinth then
there was no Game. As simple as that.
Or kill William, Brutus-reborn. If there was no Kingman, then there was no Game.
What was happening that she couldn‘t understand? Swanne‘s frown deepened, and she
chewed her lower lip as her thoughts tumbled over and over. The Game had changed, she could
feel that herself. Even incomplete, was it a danger to Asterion? Did he fear to be trapped by it
even though she and Brutus-reborn hadn‘t managed the final dance? Was the only way Asterion
could destroy the Game to use either her or William?
―The bands,‖ she muttered, keeping her face turned full to the window so that none of the
passers-by could see her mumbling to herself. ―It must be Brutus‘ kingship bands. Asterion
needs those, either to destroy them, or to use them to destroy the Game. Damn it, Brutus, where
did you hide them? Where? ‖
Suddenly irritated beyond measure by her inaction, Swanne abruptly turned away from
the window and walked as fast as possible, without attracting undue attention, down the stairs,
through the Great Hall and back to the quarters she shared with Harold.
She could put to good use the free time she now had by Harold spending the morning
mooning over his sister‘s sickbed.
Harold listened to the sound of his wife‘s footsteps fading away. Gods, had she seen what
was going on? Another moment or two and Harold had been sure he would have thrown all
caution to the wind and taken his sister there and then.
What a fine sight that would have been for Swanne, had she been a few moments later.
Her husband, squirming frantically atop his own sister‘s body. It would have cost him
everything.
It would have cost Caela more.
For the first time in his life Harold cursed the high birth of himself and his sister. If they
had been lowly peasants, they could have simply moved to a far distant village and lived as man
and wife.
But the Earl of Wessex could not just abscond with the queen…
―Harold? What did Swanne mean? ‗He has made his first move.‘‖ Caela was looking at
him with a puzzled expression.
Harold pulled his thoughts back into order. Where had his self-control gone? ―Do not ask
me to interpret what she means, Caela, for I cannot.‖
―Sometimes she makes me feel as though she carries about with her such a great secret
that it could destroy all our lives,‖ Caela said. ―Sometimes when she looks at me…ah!‖ She gave
a small smile. ―I do not know what to make of your wife, Harold.‖
―Nor I, indeed,‖ he said, then paused…―She envies you, I think. She thinks she would do
better wearing the crown herself.‖
Caela studied him silently for a moment. ―And will she wear it, Harold?‖
Harold took Caela‘s hand between both of his, using the excuse to drop his eyes away
from her scrutiny. By all the gods, what did she mean with that question? He rubbed at the back of her hand with his thumbs, gently, caressingly, deciding to take Caela‘s question at face value,
and using the time it bought him to think over all the issues it raised.
Ah, the throne. Edward was an old man, likely to die within the next few years, and still
he had to name a successor. In theory, the members of the witan elected a new king, but in