Myrddin drifted in the void. If he had a body, he did not feel it. Could not control it. Was this death? He thought it must be. His grief, and his regret, overwhelmed him. He had been a prideful fool to think he could command the deep magic he’d cast to bring himself to this place. He believed he had lived long enough, had grown so great in magic and wisdom, that he could challenge the gods at their own doorstep and emerge the victor. Idiot. There had been a time, long ago, when he would not have dared to insult the gods so boldly. Perhaps, after all, his younger self was the wiser man. He thought of Breena, whom he had trapped. And Vivian, whom he had lost. He had failed them both. Dafyd’s dark magic accompanied the duchess’s party from the castle to the tournament field. Rhys had expected this, and prepared for it. The haze of evil meant Dafyd was not yet sure where his enemy lurked. With luck, he would not know until it was too late. “Ah, here come the fortune seekers!” Trent’s cheerful commentary greeted the column of knights taking the field.
