In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) Read Free

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    All at once, the man turned and fixed Rygehil with a piercing stare. To his shame, Rygehil took a step back and laid his hand upon his sword hilt.
    “Your woman is very ill.” The stranger’s voice was soft and dry, but its tone was almost musical.
    Rygehil swallowed hard. “Who are you, Sir, that you know of her trouble?”
    The stranger smiled thinly. “I am called Euberacon Magus, and, as you see, I am master of this place.” He waved one long hand to indicate the room about him. “I know all that occurs within its confines. Thus, I know your woman, your lady wife, I believe you term her, is in danger for her life.”
    Rygehil realized his hand was still on his sword hilt. He left it where it was. “She needs shelter, and a fire. Sir, since you are provided of both, I beseech you to allow us to trespass upon your hospitality …”
    “She needs more than that.” Euberacon turned his gaze back toward the fire. “Death on his pale horse seeks her in the storm outside. He may yet find his way here, if nothing is done to prevent him.”
    Rygehil’s stomach knotted painfully at these words. At the same moment, Whitcomb touched his shoulder. “My lord, I do not like this. I do not like this man and his guesses and secrets. There is something unclean about this place.”
    “Your man is right to urge you to caution.” Euberacon turned to them again, again with his thin smile showing on his long, lined face. “All art, all science and all practitioners thereof should indeed be approached with caution.”
    Rygehil waved Whitcomb to silence. “Are you a philosopher, Sir? Have you some skill as a physician?”
    Euberacon inclined his head modestly. “I have, Sir. Bring the woman to me. I will see what may be done.”
    “My lord.” breathed Whitcomb again. Rygehil ignored him.
    “I thank you, Sir. We will bear her here directly.”
    He started up the stairway again. He felt Whitcomb at his back, bursting to say something more.
    “Here is hope for Jocosa, Whitcomb,” he said softly. “What more am I to care for?”
    “I fear here may be more peril than hope,” muttered Whitcomb. “If she dies now, at least her soul and yours are safe.”
    Despite the close quarters, Rygehil whirled around. “Speak so again, Cein Whitcomb and I will have your heart out of your body. Jocosa will not die. She
will not
die.”
    He hurried up the remaining stairs to the darkness of the upper chamber. His company received him without a word. They had doubtlessly heard his outburst, but he did not care.
    “We have met the master of this house. He is a philosopher and may be able to aid my lady. We shall take her to his chamber.”
    It was impossible to fit the litter down the narrow stairway, so Rygehil scooped Jocosa tenderly into his arms. Her maids had wrapped her in Una’s dry shift and found a cloak that was still dry inside. Despite this, her skin was damp from her own perspiration and far too cold for a living being. She made no sound as he lifted her. Her head fell back against his chest. He bent to press his lips to her brow and felt the heat of the fever like a fire beneath her skin. The only sign of life inside her was the all too infrequent rise and fall of her breast.
    He carried her down the stairs with Whitcomb and Una at his heels.
    Euberacon had moved from his place at the fire. Now he stood beside one of the trestle tables that had been cleared of its instruments and flotsam and covered with a clean, bleached cloth. Rygehil laid Jocosa down and stepped back.
    Euberacon looked first at him, then at Whitcomb, then at Una.
    “Send the dross away.”
    Rygehil faced them. “Return to the upper chamber. I will send for you if there is need.”
    “My lord …”
    “But my lord …”
    “Go!” Rygehil ordered sharply. “All will be well. I will attend to all that is needful.”
    They did not protest anymore, but Rygehil could tell they wanted to. When the sound of their footsteps had vanished, Euberacon