The dark water at her feet moved, then churned as if gathering power. A shadowy form broke the surface at Tala’s feet, throwing silvery drops onto her bare legs and breaking up the reflection of her golden torque. Her eyes followed the dark wake that bisected the still waters and her heart hammered in her throat. This was what she sought—a sign.

The fluid tension of the surface erupted in a blinding, foamy arc of silvery water beads. Tala threw her golden torque at the breaking wave. The ring of gold spun far, far out over the black water.

A pale limb shot up from a bank of waterweeds. It snatched the gold torque in midair and splashed below the surface.

Ripples washed quickly back to the pier where Tala stood. The lake undulated softly, then stilled once more. And Tala ap Griffin burst into tears.

The precious golden torque that had declared her a princess to all of her people—that she was willing to sacrifice for the life of her brother—had been snapped out of the air not by the Lady of the Lake, but by a fish.

Chapter Five

The granary was first on Edon’s scheduled tour with Embla Silver Throat the next morning. He found the dusty building well stocked and dry. All provisions stored in barrels and well-constructed crates were in good shape. Ample seed was put aside for next year’s planting. Edon was a stickler for such details and always insisted upon holding back more than necessary.

Best of all, the granary was clean and rat free. Varmints were kept at bay by having numerous good mousers where they were most needed.

The deep well sunk in the center of the stockade and the one inside the keep were rank and fetid. Water for all purposes had to be carried from the Avon River, outside the gates of the fortress. The river itself had dropped five feet below the lip of the gate built to flood the moat surrounding the fortress on the deliberately raised motte of Warwick.

The absence of water in the deep moat to put out an assaulting enemy’s fire made Embla Silver Throat’s wooden stockade even more ridiculous, especially with so much ready stone about. Edon couldn’t see how she could be so dense. And in her greed to acquire more and more land, she allowed her freemen to continue to slash and burn the woods, when the land was dry tinder!

His second order of business that morning was to stop the felling of the woods. Edon had already outlawed all fires save the cooking fires in the fortress kitchen, the hearth fires in each Viking’s longhouse and the forge in the ironmaster’s shed.

The stillroom wasn’t as cool as it should be. Cool meant icy to a Viking, and Edon was typical in that regard. The room was located at the bottom of a declivity cut into the hill. The spring beneath had also run dry because of the drought.

The groove cut in the stone floor of the stillroom, where normally chilly water from the spring should flow freely, was covered with a layer of moss. Edon used his knife to dislodge it. His reward for that effort was a few beads of water.

He squinted in the dim light of the underground stillroom. Was it smaller than he remembered? Ten years was a long time to recall details.

“This is unusual. Springs of this sort rarely dry up,” he remarked casually.

“Aye,” Embla agreed testily. “Warwick’s wells churn out nothing but poison or dust, thanks to the witch.”

Here we go again, Edon thought. He remained on one knee, studying the chamber carved into the bedrock. The stillroom retained some but not much dampness, a quality necessary for the preservation of meats and vegetables. The trench in the floor had no pools in it, though it should. “Did you enlarge this chamber, niece?”

Embla started, surprised by his question. “No, it is as it was. I saw no need to improve it,” she said gruffly.

“Thank you,” Edon said.

He’d built the stillroom himself ten years ago, when he’d chosen Warwick as his home. It was curious. Rivers might alter their course, but in his experience, waters in the bedrock rarely did.

He rose to his feet, brushing off his hands. “I’d like to see the quarry next.”

On their way to the granite quarry, they encountered Embla’s soldiers riding out for their daily patrol. Edon spoke to the captain of his nephew Harald’s disappearance. When Asgart replied, he talked of Harald in the past tense. Edon noted that.

Of course, Guthrum had told him what he believed had happened to their nephew. Edon did not want to accuse Lady Embla of murdering her husband without proof. That proof might only show up in the form of his nephew’s body. Edon intended to investigate the matter thoroughly.

The truth would out eventually.

He spent the morning at the quarry, making careful notations on the drawings Maynard the Black prepared for him. Embla disdained to discuss anything with Maynard, even though he was obviously trusted by the jarl. She thought all Mercians fit only to be thralls and therefore unworthy of conversing with her. Edon was glad when the woman walked off to another part of the quarry.

“Do you see any indication of the work here at the quarry having any effect on the springs under the cliffs?”

“None, my lord,” Maynard said somberly. He was always somber. Maynard dwelt in concrete reality and predictable certainties.

“And what do you make of three wells and two springs on Warwick Hill gone dry as yesterday’s cake?”

Maynard shook his head. “It defies explanation, but proof of the drought is abundant There has been no rain since the first of May, I am told. Each of the rivers we crossed in coming from Anglia were low. Low, but not empty, lord.”

“And what do you make of the Leam?” Edon leaned on a rock and gazed over the forest In the distant wood, the sun glistened and sparkled on the canopy of trees, lighting them with silver. The riverbed that meandered east toward Willoughby could be traced by the march of brown, dying trees lining its dry bank.

“Were I a gambling man,” Maynard said cautiously, “I would wager someone has damned the Leam or diverted it. A river that size does not dry up in a year of no rain. Perhaps when the rains come, the springs will flow.”

“You believe there must be rain above the earth for water to flow over it? How do you account for the vast quantity of water in the seas? Rock and soil are porous. Wouldn’t you assume the sea presses against its shores and seeps underneath? It does not rain in Syria, yet we have both drunk from springs as sweet and as pure as fresh rain. Remember how good the water in Petra tasted to us?”

“I remember.” Maynard nodded. His prominent forehead furrowed in deep ridges. “What we need is a water diviner. There were many such among the druids in years past.”

“A good idea. I shall make inquiries of the Mercians. Now, let us walk to the top of the cliff and have a good look over the valley. Perhaps we can trace the water-courses from the highest mount.”

“An eagle would be the best mount,” Maynard suggested dryly. It was the closest he’d ever come to making a joke.

When they finished viewing Warwick valley from the highest pinnacle, Edon left Maynard to his work of plotting and mapping. The jarl strolled down into the quarry and stood beside Embla, watching her laborers toil in the pit.

Huge slabs of granite were cleanly split from the rim of the crater using the time-honored tools of fire and water. The slabs were then chiseled into quarter-ton blocks, suitable for the walls of Edon’s fortress and keep.

“I don’t believe I saw buildings enough at your compound to house this many stonecutters.” Edon made a casual observation. It seemed ludicrous to him to consider the woman his niece when she was at least five years older than he. “Are there barracks nearby?”