Merlin's Blade by Robert Treskillard

Merlin's Blade by Robert Treskillard

Author:Robert Treskillard
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780310735106
Publisher: Zondervan
Published: 2013-04-16T04:00:00+00:00


CHAPTER 22

THE MOST CHERISHED GIFT

Owain ground his teeth and offered up an awkward prayer. How could he do this? He must be stupid to think Uther would forgive him for his desertion. He had spit on their friendship the day he’d run after Gwevian. Couldn’t he have trusted God to save her and obey Uther? Had a right decision even existed?

But Owain had chosen her, and God in his grace had given them a few sweet years and a son of high character. And then she had died, leaving a rift in his heart that might never heal.

Uther had just taken his seat again, and Pennar stepped away with a timid smile.

Now was Owain’s chance.

As he lifted his foot to take the first step toward the High King, Owain’s heart quailed. If he didn’t step forward, then Uther would never know his adversary stood in the crowd. Owain could slip into obscurity. Take his sin to his deathbed. Who would know?

Merlin would. And God would. Owain had been hiding for eighteen years, and the time had come to stand in freedom, whether Uther condemned or forgave him. Merlin had stood before Tregeagle and received punishment unjustly, with grace and strength. Shouldn’t I be willing to receive my own rightful judgment?

He strode forward, and it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

Before the inattentive Uther, Owain fell prostrate with his face to the horse-scented grass, saying, “Great Lord Uther. Your humble servant comes for your judgment.”

“And what complaint do you bring?” Uther said casually. “Has someone stolen your cattle?”

The villagers laughed.

“No, my lord. Rather, someone has a complaint against me.”

“A complaint against you? Where is your accuser? Maybe I scared him off.” This time it was Uther who laughed, and his wife tried to stifle her own mirth.

“My accuser is present, my lord, and he will soon make himself known.”

“Then accuse yourself,” Uther teased. “Ha-ha. Never did a man do that — except maybe Colvarth here!”

“My crime is that I forsook my friend and let him face death. And I did nothing to help.”

Uther stopped laughing.

“This is a serious thing before God,” the High King declared as he rose and limped slowly across the shelf of rock. “How do you plead?”

“Guilty, my lord.”

“Do you have anything to say for yourself? Why would you do such an ignoble thing?”

Owain’s legs shook. “Great lord, if I may be so bold as to beg a question … Have you … have you ever had a friend forsake you?”

Uther stopped. And paced again. Faster.

Owain saw through his fingers the king limping back and forth and his gaze darting. His lips curled in one silent word: Owain. He mouthed the word again. Soon the High King scanned the heavens and closed his eyes in a scowl.

Owain stood before Uther. “It is I … Owain … and I beg your forgiveness and mercy.”

Uther turned and pointed at him. “You,” he roared. “Deserter! You dare come before me?”

He jumped down, grabbed Owain by the tunic, and pulled him within inches of his face.



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