Chapter 2 Rhys
Rhys
Rhys Sherwood, the Earl of Liron’s eldest son and heir, loved labyrinths, but he loved his family’s labyrinth the most. Few in England were as legendary as Hereford Manor’s.
At the labyrinth’s center was an ancient stone circle with three towering standing stones and nine smaller ones that, legend said, had been built by Merlin himself.
Rhys’s ancestor, the first Earl of Liron, had built a circular labyrinth like a fortress to surround the stone circle, and then he had made the maze near impossible to penetrate. Perhaps it was the hardest labyrinth ever built, if Rhys had to place a wager.
Wickedly designed, it was full of puzzling false starts, twists and turns, narrowed passageways, sharp curves, and dead ends.
In the summer, during the month of June, the infamous Hereford Labyrinth opened to the public, and travelers came from miles around on foot or in their carriages to challenge themselves to find the center.
Few ever did. Hereford Manor’s groundsmen were given carefully drawn maps and sent in every afternoon to fish anyone out.
Rhys had spent his whole life learning those pathways.
He knew every hedge wall and square meter by heart.
In his childhood, the labyrinth had been a mythical place.
The one place he could be alone with his imagination.
He had slayed dragons, been knighted, saved princesses, and gone on long voyages all within its walls.
Years later, his childhood stomping ground had turned into a place of solace.
The labyrinth’s center had a rose garden surrounding the stone circle with a fountain and benches where he often spent hours alone reading.
Today he was sneaking off to do just that with a book in hand.
Decoding the Rosetta Stone had been on his reading list for some time.
Three years ago, Thomas Young, an English physicist, and Jean-Francois Champollion, a French scholar, discovered the stone was the doorway to translating Egypt’s ancient hieroglyphs.
Although Rhys had reservations about the Europeans’ arrival to Egypt, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at the groundbreaking semantic discovery.
He had devoted his life to linguistic pursuits and learning as many languages as possible, firmly embracing the Czech proverb Learn a new language and get a new soul.
Over the years he had become fluent in six languages and semifluent in countless others.
He especially loved words that could not be translated into another language.
Solitary words full of beauty and power that defied any other word to match its meaning.
Words like saudade, the Portuguese name for the feeling of longing for someone you love who might never return.
Or mangata, the Swedish term for the reflection of a silvery road the moon makes on the ocean when casting its light.
Or yuanfen, a Mandarin word for the fate between two people.
His father, Godwin Sherwood, had encouraged such pursuits. Rhys rounded the labyrinth’s last corner to find the man in question hard at work—doing what, God only knew. His father was busy stringing up musical instruments on ropes across the entire stone circle like a bizarre decoration.
Rhys let out a sigh. His private reading time with the Rosetta Stone would have to wait. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”
His father ignored his question. “You cannot marry someone named Flora. Your mother told me of your plan.” He spoke over the chimes and bells as he tugged on the line. “I forbid it. She is a plant.”
Rhys bristled. “Flora also means flower, from the Latin word flos, as you well know.”
“Given to us by the Romans who conquered these islands. Will you allow Flora to conquer you?”
“Oh, good grief. Yes!” The words tumbled out of him in a rush of frustration.
“At some point, yes. I have to marry and continue the line. She has a dowry, which the estate desperately needs. The Winslows have invited me to their house party, and I have accepted. If all goes well, she and I will be engaged by the end of the month.”
His father harumphed at that. “To a weed with a dowry.”
“To a flower. She is a flower.” Not a very beautiful flower if Rhys’s memory was correct, but he could not let that deter him.
“She is a peer’s daughter with a large dowry whose family wants the prestige of my title in exchange for their fortune.
” He ignored his father’s snort. “It will be a fair trade to help alleviate the estate’s problems.”
“What problems?” His father truly sounded bewildered.
“You do know the roof is leaking all along the second story of the east wing?”
“Near the library?” he gasped in horror.
“No,” Rhys assured him, though maybe he should have lied, because his father turned away in relief and resumed his work.
“As long as it’s not near the books or conservatory.” He pulled a complex brass protractor from a bag of supplies. “We have a roof, and that’s all that matters. No need to marry just yet to fix a few shingles.”
Rhys sighed again. It was impossible to talk to his father when he was caught up in one of his experiments. “What on earth are you making?”
“A time machine.”
A bellow of laughter escaped Rhys. “Of course. How could I not have guessed?”
“You may laugh now, but did you know the King’s Chamber in the Great Pyramid is a sound chamber?”
“What does the pyramid in Egypt have to do with all this?” He signaled to the stones.
“Everything, my boy! Everything.” His father waved his protractor in the air with excitement, and Rhys resisted the urge to duck. “The world and all its dimensions is connected by sound. Some of these stones can be played like instruments. Who knows what worlds are waiting beyond the barrier.”
Rhys pinched his nose, praying for patience.
He so loved his father, but the man had grown up reading the world’s canon of fantastical fiction about traveling into space and the existence of other realms. He had stuffed his head full of notions written by eccentric authors with ink-stained fingers.
The library even had a special section devoted to such works, arranged by century, starting with the second-century Syrian author Lucian of Samosata’s A True Story, which claimed life was an illusion, all the way to The Voyages of Lord Seton to the Seven Planets, published in 1765 by a female French author who gained popularity when Rhys’s father was a teenager.
Currently his father was looking like an earnest adolescent as he said, “Never forget these standing stones were put here by Merlin. Our family, the Lirons, were tasked to protect them. And these symbols here—” He pointed to the symbols engraved across the largest standing stone.
“Are Atlantean. Yes, you’ve told me many times.” Rhys checked his pocket watch. As much as he had loved hearing those tales growing up, right now he had more pressing matters, and the urge to read about Egyptian hieroglyphics had left him. “Well, I suppose I should be going. I need to pack.”
“Wait!” His father stopped what he was doing and suddenly seemed sincerely afraid. “You really are going to this house party? You can’t. I need you to read a book.” He pointed to Rhys’s book. “And not that one. Though it’s good. I’ve read it—”
“Father, please—”
“A very important book.” He dropped his rope of instruments with a clang. “Come along to the library and I’ll show you, dear boy. Stop dillydallying.”
Rhys could only shake his head. His father was being impossible on purpose.
Still, Rhys followed him out of the labyrinth, through the gardens to the library in the east wing where his father kept his desk in the back alcove.
Rhys was the only other person to know the desk contained a hidden puzzle drawer.
He had never seen his father open it until now.
“Watch carefully and remember.” His father showed him the mechanism to make the hidden drawer pop open, and he pulled out a tray holding a small leather-bound book. An exquisite triskelion, an ancient Celtic symbol, was engraved on the cover.
“What is it?” Rhys asked him, his curiosity now piqued. His father gently laid the book on the desktop and showed him the text. Rhys whistled softly at the beautiful Old English script. “What century?”
His father smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Sixth.”
Inside the little book was a folded letter not written in Old English, though the parchment appeared old.
“Read this.” His father handed it to him. “Then you’ll understand.”
October 31, 1468
Dear Thomas,
In your quest for historical materials to aid in your research for Merlin, I have unearthed this memoir purportedly written by his sister.
Although records for the renowned Bard from the sixth century are rare, I was able to confirm Merlin did in fact have a sister, a twin named Gwynedd, and her diary appears to be authentic.
You relayed in your letters however Merlin is to be a supporting figure in your tale, a sorcerer to the king, and your story will center around Arthur and his noble knights, along with many battles and romantic overtures.
Therefore, I am uncertain whether this memoir will be of any use.
The text is written in Old English and given its age, the pages are frayed with a few torn leaflets, which is not unusual for a manuscript this old.
I am afraid that is as far as I have delved. I intentionally withheld reading the diary so I may have deniability if I am questioned by the authorities. Given Gwynedd is the twin sibling of history’s most renowned wizard and Druid, there must indeed be mention of magic within the pages.
Hence, I feel I should caution you before deciding to read its contents. Just this year magic has been declared to be “crimen exceptum,” with people suspected of practicing it getting hanged, drowned, and burned. Women are faring the worst in a brute show of submission.