Page 232 of The Daughters of Avalon
“It was forged from blooms of steel mined from those Ancient Hills before Avalon’s doom.”
Maelgwn blinked, his heart suddenly thumping with lust unlike any that might be inspired by a woman.
The blade was, indeed, a fine, fine work of art, expertly crafted, and glowing like a piece of the moon.
Every carving on the hilt seemed to shiver and come alive under the play of light and shadow; the serpents themselves appeared to writhe before his eyes.
Astounding.
Shining like tourmalines, Maelgwn’s eyes fixed drunkenly on the sword, wanting it with a fervor not only born of greed. It was as though its essence called to him, beguiled him…
“’Tis a gift,” repeated Uther, with a smile in his voice. “For you. We are asked to sue for peace.”
Taliesin added, “It bears a druid blessing. He who wields the sword will not bleed, and he who possesses it will e’er reign as Dragon Lord of Wales.”
Behind him, Nesta hissed like a cat. “Old man! Begone with your gift and your forked tongue!”
She stayed Mael’s hand as he reached for the glittering prize, whispering for his ears alone. “The gifts of your enemies are not gifts, my love. Have you learned naught from our past? Better to send them away.”
“Nay,” said Maelgwn, silencing her with a lift of his hand. “I shall not forswear a victory gift.” And then, ignoring his wife’s counsel, he reached for the sword, utterly enchanted by its essence and form.
Try though he might, he could see no reason to turn his head from such a beautiful concession—and it was clearly a concession, delivered by the hands of a well-respected druid and a prelate of the Empire.
It was the mage who placed the gleaming sword in Maelgwn’s hands, lifting it carefully from his master’s palm and placing it into Mael’s hands with the care and love of a father handing over a firstborn child.
He who wields the sword will not bleed, and he who possesses it will e’er reign as Dragon Lord of Wales…
Desire coursed through Maelgwn’s veins with such vigor that he shivered. He accepted the gift, and for a moment, simply tested its weight… fine, fine, cold steel, precisely calibrated by the hand of a master. It was his now, and he could already envision himself wielding it, unsheathing it from his scabbard…
The hiss of metal was like a song to his ears.
It was only belatedly that he realized the mage still had possession of the blade, and when Mael tried to turn it to inspect it a little better, the druid turned it and slid it back, nicking Maelgwn’s flesh, drawing his blood…
“It’s only a scratch,” he said to his wife when she gasped.
In truth, Maelgwn was too entranced to care. Enjoying the feel of the sword in his hand, he sent the druid and his master away without so much as a rebuke, and then sat back in his throne, admiring the fine cut steel.
He who wields the sword will not bleed, and he who possesses it will e’er reign as Dragon Lord of Wales…
And yet, he did bleed…
Studying his prize, he was hardly aware that Nesta abandoned his side, or that the dancers continued long into the night, performing without his regard.
Wine flowed generously. Laughter rang loudly, abundantly. And all the while, Uther kept his grin.
Unfortunately, Maelgwn was well into his cups before he realized that something was dreadfully wrong.
Sweat formed upon his brow, then trickled down his burnsides. His vision swam like a drunken otter, and still, forso long, he blamed it on the wine. Only once he took the sword and draped his hand over the arm of his chair, then dropped the sword with a clang, did he realize…
Nesta was right: The gift of an enemy was no gift at all.
The sword was cursed.
That was his last conscious thought as the room swam, then faded to black. He awoke in his bed many, many bells later, shivering to his bones. His wife was kneeling by his side, and the chamber was filled with all her ladies, weeping and praying…
“Mael,” she whispered softly, her throat thick with spent tears.
“Shhh,” he said, because he already knew what it was she would say, and he didn’t have the heart to hear of betrayal on his death bed. “How… long?” he rasped.
