Page 59 of The Road to Avalon
I took a greedy step closer as though the sight of my son fascinated me, as though, perhaps, I was searching for some little, last-remaining shred of the boy I’d loved.
His pale, still face resembled Llacheu’s, only younger, softer, more boyish. Bloodless lips, parchment-pale skin, thick dark lashes brushing cold cheeks, the shadow of downy stubble– like pieces of a person cobbled together by some Dark Age Frankenstein. Someone had swept his hair back from his face to reveal a touch of acne on his forehead. A boy’s skin. Not a line or wrinkle marred it. Wiped clean of who he was by death.
I couldn’t bring myself to kiss him. Not knowing how he’d died, how I’d seen him lying on this table in two pieces when Archfedd opened the door. I couldn’t kiss ahead. I couldn’t.
My son. My beautiful son. Why couldn’t I cry? I felt arid, like a desert, parched and dry. I longed to cry, to wail and sob like my daughter, but I couldn’t.
Instead, I turned my head and looked down the table at my husband.
For a long minute, he kept his eyes on Amhar and didn’t return my gaze. I kept on staring, waiting for him to give in. I had patience.
At last, he met my eyes.
“You killed my son,” I said, my voice as icy as my heart.
He didn’t speak. Just kept on looking at me, his face shadowy and distant.
“You killed him.” Once again, the words shot out of me like bullets.
He pressed his lips together. “He was my son, too.”
I shook my head. “Not now. He’s not yours now. He’smine.Myson. You murdered him. You took my son away from me.”
“He killed Llacheu.” Was that despair in his voice? For whom?
“No,” I said. “He didn’t.”
Silence. I waited, not taking my eyes from his face, daring him to look away.
He shook his head like a horse bothered by a swarm of flies. “You’re his mother. I forgive you. You don’t want to believe what our son did. You don’t want to believe him capable of murder.”
I heard the anguish in his voice but didn’t care. “Youforgiveme?”
How dare he? How bloody dare he?
He nodded. “I forgive you for refusing to believe he did this. Iunderstandwhy you feel like that.” He heaved a sigh. “I didn’t want to believe it, either. They were both my sons. They’re both dead. I’ve lost them both.”
Inside me, a silent scream rose, and my hands covered my ears as though the sound of the scream were real. All I wanted to do was shut out Arthur’s words. How could I not scream, when my husband, whom I’d loved more than life itself for nearly twenty years, had done this to our child? That he’d believed our son could commit so terrible a crime?
He fell back a step from the table as though he, too, heard the scream.
I lowered my hands and they turned to fists. “Fuck you.” I spat the words at him. “I don’t need yourforgiveness. I need my son, andyou’vestolen him from me.”
Why wasn’t I getting through to him?
He came around the table, holding out his hands. “I need you, Gwen. We need each other.” His voice cracked. “I need to mourn with you. We need to mourn together.”
My turn to take a step back. “Well, I don’t need you. Keep away from me. Don’t eventryto touch me.”
He halted, six feet off, staring. His hands dropped to his sides.
The words came tumbling out of me. “You killed him for nothing. Nothing. He didn’t do it. Merlin told me. You killed him for misguided revenge. He ran because he was afraid of you, because he knew you always loved Llacheu better.” I was getting into my stride, my anger, hot like molten lava, spewing out of my mouth in a fountain of invective. “You talk of forgiveness? I canneverforgive you for this. Never. You should have waited. You should have given him a chance to explain why he ran.”
I didn’t care about the pain and self-loathing in his eyes, nor how much he would have had to wrestle with his conscience before condemning his heir. I didn’t care that tears streaked his cheeks for his lost sons. I didn’t care that he was my husband and king and I’d given up everything for him. I didn’t ask myself how hard it had been for him to do this. All I knew was that he’d killed my son.
He swiped away tears with his sleeve. “He committed the most terrible crime, Gwen. The original crime from the Bible– a brother killing a brother. The law demanded his death, even though he was my son and heir. I had to do it. I had no choice. I am the High King and can never be above the law.”
How could he say this? How could he? I wanted to hit him again. Not just hammer on his chest but punch his face, tear his hair, kick him, bite him if I had to. I wanted him to know how I felt, how I hated him, how I could never love him again.
