tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-97991132024-02-08T03:13:40.194-08:00The Promised KingKelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-60431521557423280452009-04-05T07:31:00.000-07:002009-04-05T07:31:00.496-07:00The Finest Deed, Chapter Four<i>Snow. Ice. Blood.<br /><br />Blood everywhere. Men screaming as their bodies were ripped apart by blades, by beasts, by things unseen from the ground. He fought on, but he could no longer see her before him. She was on horseback now, riding away from him and the war, at the side of another.<br /><br />He tried to fight, but they were too many. He tried to run but they were too thick. He tried to die but they would not let him. She was gone.<br /><br />Snow. Ice. Blood.<br /><br />And then the crows came. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands of crows, beckoned by the promise of warmly slain meat and blood to slake their thirst. A crow landed before him and fixed its eye upon him, and he felt its breath upon his face. It was cold breath, icy breath. He didn't know what crow's breath was supposed to be like, but that wasn't it.<br /><br />Why had she left him?<br /><br />The crow lifted from the ground and came straight at him, its beak sharper than the sharpest blade, angling for his eye.</i><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br />"Sir Baigent! A rider!"<br /><br />And with that, Sir Baigent ap Pelegaunt snapped back from the dream he'd had while dozing on the back of his horse.<br /><br />"I am sorry," said the soldier next to him. "You looked to be asleep."<br /><br />"I was." Sir Baigent patted his horse's neck. Arradwen had borne him through many trials, and though she was older than most horses, she still had strength in her bones and she had come to know his manner in the saddle. This war would not be a good time to break in a new steed. "No matter, though. You were right to stir me."<br /><br />A light snow fell from a gray sky as he awaited the signal. He held his helmet under his left arm, and scratched at his scalp with his right hand, suddenly realizing how long it had been since he had trimmed his hair, which had now grown to a length to which he was totally unaccustomed, although it was now barely shoulder-length and would take a very long time to equal the length of Sir Jules’s. Here he stood, along with two hundred other men, under the eaves of a wood overlooking a grassy valley that was bisected by a small river whose name he had forgotten. Off to his left he heard an approaching rider, whom he turned to greet.<br /><br />“The King will be in position very soon,” said Estren of the Nine Bards, who had come with the company on this act of engagement. “If he is not already.”<br /><br />“Good,” said Sir Baigent. He looked over the snow-dusted valley, and over the small army that was now setting forth from its encampment for a day of marching. A week before, Sir Jules’s scouts had spotted this force, sworn to a local lord named Duke Balder, clearly moving toward joining King Cwerith. More than four hundred men, with two hundred horse – this was a large force indeed, and denying its strength to the Traitor Kings would be a distinct blow to Cwerith’s ambitions. King Arthur had pushed his force hard from Badon Hill to intercept this army at this place, and Sir Baigent felt the tension of proximity to the enemy. They were a mere three days’ march from where Cwerith’s main army waited, and the same three days away from the hill that King Arthur had renamed Badon, where their own army lay. Here, halfway between the great armies, a fairly minor skirmish would take place. Minor, of course, would be the scholar’s way of describing it: years from now, if they all survived and there was still of realm of Prydein with a history to be chronicled, the clerics and bards would spare little time for the battle that was about to unfold in this unnamed, unremarkable vale. Sir Baigent, though, knew otherwise. No skirmish was ever minor to the men who fought in it, especially for those who would not walk from this field to fight another.<br /><br />And as usual, the thought of scholars and clerics brought Sir Baigent’s mind to Lady Gwynwhyfar. He rubbed the sore spot in his side, where he had suffered a bad wound in her name. It had healed fairly well, although like all such wounds he would carry the scar and the ache for the rest of his days. He wondered now how she was enjoying being dressed up each day and paraded in front of hundreds of people who had come to see her like so many gulls on a discarded hunk of bread. He chuckled at the thought, knowing that she would hate it. Her tongue, especially, would not be able to stand the pressure of remaining still for so long a time.<br /><br />Sir Baigent took a long sip of water from his flask as he studied the vale’s gentle downward slope, which the force below was following. They were in a pretty good position now for an attack – they would have the river, narrow and shallow as it was, barring them on one side, not preventing an escape but not making escape easy, either. But still the signal did not come. What was King Arthur waiting for?<br /><br />Estren, it turned out, was of similar mind. “I wonder why we are not yet hearing the horns,” he said. “The time seems right for us to strike.”<br /><br />Sir Baigent nodded. In these last two months he had found little to understand in King Arthur’s strategies, save for the building of the hill-fort on Badon. The King had led attacks against opponents that Sir Baigent would have ignored; and his approach to battle was utterly uncompromising. In some battles the King gave no quarter, while in others he proved merciful beyond that which anyone else thought warranted by the conduct of the enemies. Sir Baigent tried to understand King Arthur, but the man was a riddle made human, in addition to already being a legend made flesh. There was something disquieting about the King that made him hard to approach off the battlefield. And on it? It was as if that sword of his, the blade called Caliburn whose steel gleamed as if reflecting the light of the noon sun even on the days of darkest cloud, brought something forth from deep in King Arthur’s soul each time he pulled it from its scabbard. The King’s eyes always looked <i>haunted</i>, Sir Baigent felt, and that haunted look only gave way to something else when the King rode into battle. And that thing looked for all the world to Sir Baigent like rage. <i>How terribly his first reign must have ended,</i> Sir Baigent thought, for more than the first time.<br /><br />Now the enemy army below was fording the river. It was indeed shallow, but Sir Baigent found it strange that whoever was leading these men would make his footsoldiers walk though an icy stream like this, no matter how small it was. Did he not realize how cold it was, and the effect that would have—<br /><br />And a slow smile spread across Sir Baigent’s face. So <i>that</i> was King Arthur’s plan! Duke Balder’s footsoldiers would have wet and cold feet as they squared to fight. “Be ready, men,” he said. “The call will come very soon now, I think.”<br /><br />He was right. Just as the final portion of the enemy army finished crossing the river, King Arthur’s horns sounded from the wood on the other side of the vale. Sir Baigent watched, fascinated as always, as one hundred horsemen came riding down out of the bordering hills, led by one large and particularly intimidating figure astride a white war horse and whose sword was blinding even from this far away. Behind the King, Sir Baigent could make out Lord Matholyn, close at his side; the former lord of Camyrdin had fought in every major battle since this war had begun. Sir Baigent wished that Sir Jules were here; the sardonic seneschal to Duke Cunaddyr was a passing good warrior himself, but he was a finer scout and was off somewhere putting those talents to good use with his charge, the young Sir Regidan. With the ranks of the Promised King’s army growing with each day, Sir Baigent found it harder and harder to remember all the names of men with whom he fought and whom he led. There were few now that he recognized by name, only by sight alone or by the way they rode. But recognize some of them, he did, and as it had the last time they had fought, six days before, it thrilled him to the core to see those men riding into combat as the horns sounded their approach.<br /><br />Sir Baigent had seen companies of horsemen who, after years of riding together, had not achieved the level of cohesion that the company King Arthur displayed now. His company moved as one, surging down the shallow hillside, and smashed like a wave into the rear flank of Duke Balder’s army.<br /><br />The very first men trapped there never had a chance. They barely had time to square and raise their weapons before King Arthur’s cavalry was upon them, and the first lines of men were trampled beneath the hooves of a hundred horse. Then the pace of the King’s assault was slowed, as expected, when Duke Balder’s men ahead of him finally recovered their discipline and squared to receive the attack.<br /><br />Nevertheless, King Arthur’s cavalry put on a frightening display, led by the King himself, his sword flashing in a lethal dance of light and death. In seconds, the King’s cavalry had cut a swath through the footsoldiers and now reached almost the middle of Balder’s force. A melange of sound echoed up the vale to where Sir Baigent stood, the shouts and screams of men mingled with the ringing of steel and the shrieking of horses and, finally, the blaring of Balder’s horns as the Duke took command of his response to this sudden attack.<br /><br />Still, even as their progress was stymied, King Arthur’s cavalry refused to be brought to a halt. They continued moving, slower and slower but always moving, now coming parallel to the line of horse that Duke Balder was now arraying to receive them. The King’s purpose was plain – to avoid coming into direct conflict with those horsemen for as long as possible – and it was working. Even from his far-off vantage point, Sir Baigent could see frustration in the way the enemy horsemen carried themselves in their saddles as they waited to be unleashed on these foolish attackers who had thought to take on a clearly superior force. Sir Baigent chuckled, and Estren glanced at him.<br /><br />“Duke Balder can’t really believe he is being attacked by this small bunch of cavalry and no one else, can he?” Estren said.<br /><br />“I think he can, and I think he does.” Sir Baigent shifted in his saddle and massaged Arradwen’s neck. “His men have not hazarded a single glance in our direction.”<br /><br />He picked out Lord Matholyn fairly easily in the midst of the combat. He had served so long at Matholyn’s side, and seen him now in enough battles, that his style was easily identified. <i>Never stop moving for a single second</i> had always been Matholyn’s credo of battle, and even now after so many years of knowing him Sir Baigent was still a bit surprised that Matholyn, a former cleric who had come to his realm by accident of death, could be so fine a fighter. And never indeed did he stop moving, his sword now dark with blood, constantly sweeping from one side to the other. But as strong as Matholyn was, King Arthur was even stronger.<br /><br />It had begun, of course, on a very cold morning outside the Giants’ Dance, when the King had emerged from the stones and taken on one of the most fearsome opponents Sir Baigent had ever seen. And then it had continued, when they had traveled through the Dance itself to come out onto the fields of Bedwyn. But even then, Sir Baigent had had no idea of this man’s skill with the blade. As the battles had mounted, King Arthur’s skill had only grown, and if Lord Matholyn was a skilled man of motion on the field, King Arthur was a whirlwind. Caliburn’s motion not only never ceased, it never even slowed, and no amount of blood spilled on its blade could ever darken the radiant steel.<br /><br />Of course, there was only so much that even a warrior of King Arthur’s skill could do against a force that outnumbered his, and Sir Baigent waited for the moment when Duke Balder finally retook control and started pushing his attacker back. That moment was almost at hand. Doubtless Balder was now smiling as he watched his men take on this demon warrior who dared attack men going to Cwerith’s side; doubtless he thrilled to the killing of another enemy. Equally doubtless was that he had little idea of just who the warrior in the silver armor and wielding the shining sword happened to be, and equally doubtless was that he had no idea at all that this was, in fact, a trap – for Sir Baigent was about to sound his own call and lead the rest of King Arthur’s force here into the fight.<br /><br />“Ready, men!” he said, pitching his voice higher now so his lieutenants would pass it down the line. One hundred more horse, who would be followed by one hundred footsoldiers…this would be a rout. He adjusted his chain-and-boiled-leather armor, slid his helmet over his head, and then drew his own sword, whose blade was not so radiant and no longer shone with the same light as it had when it had been newly forged but was still honed to a keen edge that had tasted a great deal of blood in this war. It was almost time. Duke Balder’s men were starting to respond effectively now, belatedly to be sure, and were moving forward to close around their attackers. King Arthur’s cavalry wheeled about once more, astonishingly quickly and precisely for a unit so surrounded by hostile fighting men, and rode to meet the onrushing counterattack head on. Now, at last, they were completely surrounded; now, at last, it was time.<br /><br /><i>“To battle!”</i> Sir Baigent shouted. <i>“To battle! Sound the charge!”</i><br /><br />Three young boys who stood nearby, and having accompanied this army for exactly this purpose, lifted their great horns to their lips and with a burst of wind from their lungs that belied their stature blew forth in unison the second of King Arthur’s calls to battle that day. Sir Baigent kicked his heels into Arradwen’s flanks, and she sprang forward along with the hundred other horsemen with him. Together they surged down the side of the slope and crashed directly into the exposed right flank of Duke Balder’s force, catching them completely by surprise. The first man to fall under Sir Baigent’s sword never even had a chance to turn his horse and lift his club to face his attacker; he fell with the gaping expression on his face that Sir Baigent had seen on a great many faces lately as on the edge of a blade they had come to regret their choice of sides in this war.<br /><br />A club-wielding man came swinging at him, and Sir Baigent easily turned Arradwen so that her lashing hooves struck the man down before he could even bring his club around for the blow he intended to deliver. At the same moment Sir Baigent brought his sword back in a savage, forceful motion on his right side, skewering a man behind him. Then, recovering his sword, he squared to face a cavalryman who was now charging him.<br /><br />Sir Baigent easily maneuvered himself to easily take the main force of the man’s attack with the small buckler shield he wore on his left wrist, and then he brought his own blade around from the right in a countermove that he knew would be parried. The purpose was not now to strike, but to simply draw the man off balance, if he was inexperienced as Sir Baigent assumed he must be, from the awkward way he carried himself in his saddle. It worked to perfection, as the cavalryman tilted too far forward, allowing Sir Baigent to deliver a ringing strike to the back of the man’s head with the flat of his blade, and then swinging around for the killing stroke.<br /><br /><i>“Come, Baigent! You ride too slow!”</i> someone shouted, and Sir Baigent immediately recognized the voice of Lord Matholyn as he thundered by on his left, leading his charger into the thick of a group of Balder’s men who broke and run as the imposing onetime Lord of Camyrdin smashed into their midst. Sir Baigent grinned and followed him.<br /><br />From that moment the outcome of this fight was in little doubt. The discipline of Balder’s men, easily broken at first and then slowly restored, was broken anew by the arrival of the second wave of horsemen. Then, when the hundred footsoldiers came streaming down from the hill to make King Arthur’s attack complete, their cohesion and discipline completely fell apart. They had not expected this kind of attack; they had not truly been prepared for any battle at all, expecting instead to become part of a much larger army; and they were weary from their march and cold from the fording of the river. Men began to break for the wood or back up the valley, to be rounded up by the King’s horsemen or picked off by the handful of archers the King had stationed on either side of the vale for just that purpose. Finally, Balder’s men simply began to drop their weapons and lift their arms above their heads in surrender. The entire battle, from first charge to last surrender, had taken less than a single hour.<br /><br />As Duke Balder’s men were rounded up and as pages and other attendants came down from the safety of the wood to tend to all the horses, Sir Baigent dismounted and came to Lord Matholyn’s side, where he stood with King Arthur and a few other knights whose names Sir Baigent could not just now recall. The King turned and led them on a walk through the battlefield.<br /><br />“You could have waited a bit longer, you know,” Lord Matholyn said, scowling.. “I’m sure that one of these clods would have eventually found a way to smash one of my knees with a club, or stick a spear through my horse’s gullet. And then you’d be rid of me.”<br /><br />Sir Baigent shook his head. “And miss the pleasure of attending to your temper, My Lord?”<br /><br />“Yes, well, you know the silence would gnaw at you in the end.”<br /><br />Behind them, Estren laughed. Before them, King Arthur held up a hand, silencing them. He was not a man given to this kind of post-battle banter, even after the easiest of battles as this one had been. Their own dead numbered less than thirty out of their original three hundred who had actually come into the fighting, while fewer than two hundred of Duke Balder’s original six hundred still drew breath. They had won many of these small skirmishes since Bedwyn, but this one had been the most successful rout yet. The King participated in the feasts – such as they were, in these lean times – after battles, but he did not allow celebrations to begin while the blood was still oozing from the dead. In this, Sir Baigent thought he was quite wise.<br /><br />“You did well, Sir Baigent,” King Arthur said, turning to face the knight. “Very well indeed. The tactic worked as I hoped.”<br /><br />“Thank you, My Liege,” Sir Baigent replied, lowering his head. King Arthur’s praise was not precisely rare, but it was still precious to a fighting man.<br /><br />The King nodded once, and then turned forward again. He led them to where a young enemy knight sat on the ground, cradling an older man in his lap as tears rolled down his cheeks. The young knight, who was clearly barely old enough to be called anything other than a “boy”, lifted his head and met the King’s gaze.<br /><br />“This was Duke Balder?” King Arthur asked. The young knight nodded, and King Arthur sighed. “I have seen this same look on the face of too many a young man in my time. You are his son?”<br /><br />Again the youth nodded as he looked back down at the former Duke’s face.<br /><br />“Then that makes you the new Duke,” King Arthur said. “Why did this man go to fight under the banner of the Traitor Kings?”<br /><br />At this the youth looked up sharply. “Better to serve the King who made his own realm than the one who expects to have it given to him,” he snapped through grated teeth. His eyes held their anger for a second, and then the sadness returned. “That’s what my father said,” he added.<br /><br />Sir Baigent expected King Arthur to rise to anger at that, but he did nothing of the sort. Instead, he sighed. “That is a sentiment I have heard many a time, from many a lord who did not think an anointed King worthy of what another King had taken by force,” he said. His voice was surprisingly soft, devoid of any anger at all. He had indeed heard this claim, each time from the lips of Cwerith’s defenders; and he had heard it in the time before, when he had built his first realm in the time before the Ancients. Many things remained the same, even as the years went by until they could no longer be numbered. “Do you truly think that I do not earn my realm in battle?”<br /><br />The boy looked up at King Arthur again, and now there was something new in his gaze; it was a look that Sir Baigent had seen in a great many faces since King Arthur’s return, including at first, his own. “You are he,” the young man finally said. “<i>You</i> are King Arthur.”<br /><br />“I am,” Arthur replied. “And I have seen many men die on either side of the battlefield, some standing for me when they fell and some standing against. What is your name, young sir?”<br /><br />“Brinan,” the youth replied. “Sir Brinan ap Balder.”<br /><br />“Not so,” said King Arthur. “Now you are Duke Brinan. Your father the Duke is dead, and the authority that was his now resides in you.”<br /><br />The boy suddenly looked even younger as he considered that. Sir Baigent glanced sidelong at Lord Matholyn, who knew something of young men coming too early to their thrones. So, he thought, did Cwerith, although he would not react in quite the same way.<br /><br />“And as Duke," King Arthur went on, "the decision that I came now to offer to your father is now yours to make. Will you and your men go free from this field, or in irons?”<br /><br />Duke Brinan’s eyes narrowed. “How much fealty would we have to swear before you will let us go free?”<br /><br />“No more than you would willingly swear,” King Arthur said. “I do not ask you to put aside any loyalties formerly sworn. When my scouts spotted your father leading this company, they also learned that it was his intention to swear allegiance with King Cwerith of Caer Mastagg.”<br /><br />“He is the High King,” Brinan said quickly.<br /><br />“Is he?” King Arthur said, even more softly. “Since your father meant to bend the knee to Cwerith, that means that he did not bend the knee to anyone else; and that means that his realm, small as it is, right now lies beyond any bounds of sworn loyalty. I cannot allow you to go on from this place if your aim is still to go to Cwerith’s side, but even if you would refuse to swear to me, I will allow you to go if you will refuse to swear to him.”<br /><br />There was silence as Brinan grappled with what was being said to him. This was not what he had expected. “You do not demand that I swear to you?”<br /><br />“I believe that you will, in time,” King Arthur said. “Cwerith is not High King, I am. I was chosen by the Goddess once before, and at the moment of my death she interceded and brought me to a place where I would rest until I was needed again. That time is now, and once more I fight for the throne of Prydein against those who believe that I have no claim to it. But what claim could be greater than the choice of Dona herself, no matter how much blood is spilt in the laying of that claim? No, my young Duke. I will fight for my throne, as I fought here today, but I will not kill without need.”<br /><br />Brinan looked down at the face of his dead father. “Was there need for my father to die?” he asked.<br /><br />“As much need as there ever would be in war,” King Arthur said. “So, young Duke, what will you do?”<br /><br />“I will take my father home and bury him beside his father,” said Duke Brinan. “And then, I shall wait for war to come to my lands again before I choose a side.”<br /><br />Now Matholyn spoke. “You know, from what you have heard here, that when that happens, it will be Cwerith that brings the war to you, and that you will end fighting against him.”<br /><br />“It may be so, my lord,” Brinan replied. “But I cannot so easily bend the knee to the man who has killed my father in the last hour, either.”<br /><br />“Then go,” King Arthur said. “Go, and see to your lands and bury your father. And trouble yourself with things other than allegiances and Kings and wars.”<br /><br />Later, when Duke Brinan had left with what remained of his men – less than half of what his father had set out with – King Arthur gathered his own men and set out for the return march to Badon Hill. Sir Baigent’s thoughts kept returning to the young man who had been so quickly elevated to a Lordship. He was not certain if King Arthur had made the right decision in allowing this boy to go free, just after killing his father. But perhaps it was the right choice indeed, he thought; perhaps that boy would recall in the future the deeds of the King who had refused to take a single life more than was necessary to win the day. And perhaps the boy would compare that knowledge with the tidings he had received of the deeds of the other King who now vied for the loyalty of lordlings such as he, and perhaps he would judge Cwerith – the King who burned entire cities to the ground and slew every one of their citizens he could find – in a harsher light than Duke Balder had been prepared to do. Perhaps the King had allowed an enemy to live this day, but perhaps he had instead planted the seeds of an ally.<br /><br />As they rode away from the battlefield, the crows could be heard behind them, already gathering to feast at the dead. It seemed to Sir Baigent that the crows or Prydein were becoming fatter and fatter, with such constant meat to feed them as was littered on fields all across the land. And for some reason he could not guess, the thought of crows feasting upon the fallen bodies made him think of Lady Gwynwhyfar. He shuddered, and suddenly reined Arradwen to a stop.<br /><br />“Does something vex you, Baigent?” It was Lord Matholyn, who had likewise stopped and looked back at his friend.<br /><br />“I do not know,” Sir Baigent replied truthfully. He did not know why he should feel suddenly fearful, nor could he fathom why thinking of the Welcomer should make him feel so.<br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><i>“NO!”</i><br /><br />Brother Llyad’s shout as he awoke from his Dreamslumber somehow disturbed none of the Druids around him, each of them still deep in their own states of reverie. He used a corner of his robe to wipe the sweat from his brow, sweat that should not have been there given how cold it was. Looking around at the ten meditating Druids who sat in a circle near him, he wondered what it was that they were seeing just now, and why it was that he had been given a vision that was so disturbing as to throw him out of Dreamslumber entirely. He glanced at the ceremonial fire in the middle of the ring, and saw that it had burned down almost to embers. He had been here for quite a long time indeed. <i>Thank the Goddess</i>, he thought as he decided that he had not disturbed any of the other Druids, for his presence here had not been requested or sanctioned. He had crept down here quietly, just after they had begun, meaning to attempt his own Dreamslumber. It had not been the wisest course of action, but Llyad was a man whose ability to resist curiosity and temptation had never been strong. And now he had indeed seen something. Something dark, something fell.<br /><br /><i>Come to me when the Goddess’s gift of vision has wended its way to completeness</i>, Horius had said before he had left the Druids here alone. Horius was the Chieftain of the Druids, and was thus a man of special reverence to the Oak Brothers. But Brother Llyad felt an additional love for Horius, born of his deep friendship with Horius’s son. Llawann had been Llyad’s companion on the journey from Mona, when they had braved stormy seas to come to Tintagel in search of the Welcomer, but Llawann had been terribly injured when their tiny boat crashed against the rocks and he had later died under the crushing weight of the wolves in that grove where the Fairy had come. But they had found her. They had found the Welcomer.<br /><br />And now Llyad had seen her again – in a vision marked by darkness and despair.<br /><br />He rose from his place beneath a tree and beside the circle, and made his way for the path back to the Druid encampment, wondering at the magic of the Dreamslumber as he did so. Many centuries before, so many they could not possibly be counted since they numbered all the way back to almost the beginning of measured history itself, the Druids had crafted lore that allowed them to penetrate into the very mind and heart of the Goddess, if she willed it. In such moments, often the Druids were granted visions – glimpses of things that had once been, things that were now, or perhaps things that might yet come to pass. But the visions were dangerous things, and often given to incorrect interpretation or, as dreams sometimes are, forgotten entirely. The lore of the Dreamslumber had been lost, though, before the rise of the Ancients, and had only been rediscovered in the days after the Cataclysm had wiped the world clean of all that the Ancients had built, when the old lore of the Emrys had at last been found again. It had partially been through the Dreamslumber that the Druids on Mona had begun to suspect that the time for their return to Prydein had come. And now Llyad of Tintagel was the first person who was not sworn to the Druidic tradition to attempt a Dreamslumber, albeit a forbidden one, in many centuries. <i>Perhaps that is why my vision was so disquieting</i>, he thought as he left the tiny grove where the slumber had taken place. Perhaps. But perhaps not.<br /><br />Llyad came to a stream and followed its course until he came to the larger grove where Horius and some of the others waited. There were several thousand Druids, actually, scattered throughout these forests. But all were within miles of this place, which was in turn just a few hours’ ride from the hill-fort that the Promised King had built and named Badon after the hill were, in the time before, he had won his greatest victory and secured the throne of the land he called Britain. The time would come when the Druids would again scatter across the entire land, but that time had not yet come. Not with the Druids still not trusted by the people, and not with the fell clerics – sometimes called the “Dark Druids” – in the service of King Cwerith. Here, in this spot where the stream spilled over a short waterfall into a wide pool, Horius led the Druids in a hymn to the Goddess and the woods themselves. Brother Llyad waited for the hymn to end, but instead, Horius left the ring of singing Druids and came to join him, with Hugydd – the big man who had once been a knight of Camyrdin but had been taken by the Druids and made one of their own a year before – coming slightly behind him. The others went on singing, the chorus of Druids shifting their tone to accommodate the sudden absence of two voices. Brother Llyad bowed before the Druid chieftain.<br /><br />“I come to you in peace, Horius,” he said.<br /><br />“And I accept you in same, Llyad of Tintagel,” Horius replied. “What has brought you hence?”<br /><br />“I was in the grove,” Llyad said. He knew well of Horius’s disdain for evasion or circumlocution. Still, he fixed his eyes penitently on the ground, unwilling to meet what he was certain would be Horius’s stare of anger.<br /><br />“You were attempting the Dreamslumber,” Horius said. “Brother Llyad, you are known to me as a man of impulse. Nevertheless, that was particularly unwise.” He sighed. “Come with me, Brother.”<br /><br />He led Llyad away then, down a different path up a short rise to where three large boulders sat on the ground beside an immense and gnarled oak. The three boulders and the oak’s trunk formed the boundaries of Horius’s home, a tent-like structure that was made of sticks, logs, patches of moss, vines, and brambles tightly woven together to form the walls of the structure. The Druids had seemingly always known of this type of building, and Llyad had become so accustomed to sleeping in such quarters in his days on Mona that he now found the stone buildings of cities uncomfortable. These buildings, crafted from the living materials of Prydein’s ancient forests themselves and allowed to be eventually reclaimed by those same forests, were warm but airy, open and yet comfortable. Nevertheless, Llyad felt some trepidation as he entered Horius’s own hut. It was the same kind of trepidation as he had felt on Tintagel when summoned alone to the Lord Priest’s chambers, he realized, but this was not so much fear for the consequences of a transgression committed as it was anxiety that what he had seen in his ritual dreams might mean what he already feared it would mean.<br /><br />“Please wait here, Hugydd,” Horius said, and Hugydd obeyed, remaining outside.<br /><br />The inside of Horius’s home bore little decoration, for the Druids had little use for such things. Living as they did in the wood, and devoted as they were to the service and protection of those woods, they eschewed traditional kinds of adornments for their homes, preferring instead to seek beauty in the natural order of things. Thus, to Llyad, coming into one of Horius’s hut made him feel as if he were entering the very heart of the wood itself. Horius knelt upon the floor, the dirt of which would have been covered over with soft heather in a proper summer but now was bare, and gestured for Llyad to do the same. Then Horius made a gesture and whispered an incantation over a small pile of twigs and small logs in the exact middle of the floor, between the two of them, and on cue a wisp of smoke appeared above them, swirling down from the smoke-hole in the ceiling to the top of the woodpile where the smoke incorporated into flame.<br /><br />“We thank the Goddess and the wood for allowing the presence of the flame,” Horius said, “for the flame is both the giver and taker of life.”<br /><br />He and Llyad both bowed before the tiny fire, whose warmth was still welcome to Llyad’s bones.<br /><br />“Now, Llyad,” Horius said as he laid his hands on his lap, “you would not have come to quickly to confess your transgression had your attempt to join the Dreamslumber not brought something to command your attention. Is that the way of it?”<br /><br />“It is.” Brother Llyad drew a deep breath, gathering his thoughts for he did not know where to begin, strangely enough for a man who was so often accused of being unable to stop speaking for any length of time. “I don’t know what I saw, Horius. It was so…it was like looking through a dirty and old bit of glass onto a gray and windy day. Like a day when the seas toss and heave, and you cannot tell where the water ends and where the sky begins. I cannot…I do not know what I saw.”<br /><br />Horius smiled. “And yet, you remember enough that you have come to interrupt my singing of the Veneration,” he said. “Tell me what little you can recall, what little you can describe, no matter how small it may seem. And know that it is often thus for those who descend into the Dreamslumber. That is why our course of action is so often hard to find.”<br /><br />Brother Llyad nodded. “There was a great deal that even now is disappearing from my memory,” he began. “Images and feelings that I cannot begin to describe. I remember that I felt great fear through much of it…not the fear of confronting the unknown, but the fear of confronting death and the loss of all things. I saw…the dead. And I saw blood.”<br /><br />Horius bowed his head. “To see blood in the Dreamslumber is never a good omen,” he said. “That you have dreamed of death is troubling. But there is something, somewhere, that you are not telling me.” He raised his eyes and fixed his piercing gaze on Brother Llyad. “You cannot hold it back, Llyad. I must know what it is that you have seen.”<br /><br />Brother Llyad could not turn his eyes away from Horius’s. His heart began to pound, and the blood rushed in his ears. There was one image, one image only, that he remembered with perfect clarity from the Dreamslumber, and he <i>still</i> saw it each time he closed his eyes. “I saw the Welcomer. I saw Gwynwhyfar. She was…she…” His voice cracked, but he swallowed and forced himself to continue. “I saw her, tied to the stump of a freshly-hewn oak. She was dead, and her blood ran down onto the stump and onto the ground. The Goddess was there, crying over her body, and somewhere else, there was laughter. I saw the Welcomer’s death.”<br /><br />Horius paled visibly, and he seemed to shudder as if struck. He braced himself on the ground, and gazed up at the ceiling. “Why would you visit this upon us, O Goddess….” He pushed himself back upright, and rubbed his forehead. “I had prayed that this would not come to pass, but it appears that my hopes – as has been so often the case recently – are to be denied.”<br /><br />“I do not understand,” Brother Llyad said. “What has happened? Do you understand this?”<br /><br />Horius shook his head. “Not in all of the particulars, my friend,” he said. “This is but one of a thousand ways in which this could have transpired. But it appears that it has done so. In the days after the return of the Promised King and the completion of the Welcomer’s task, I spent a great deal of time in private meditation and communion with the Goddess. I wished to know what role Lady Gwynwhyfar would play once the King had come back, and the deed at the Giants’ Dance was finished. Dona would not simply anoint one to be the Welcomer, and then dispose of that person once the Welcoming was finished…or so I believed.”<br /><br />“The Finders believe that she may be Arthur’s Queen,” Llyad said.<br /><br />Horius nodded. “That could indeed be the way of it. She bears the same name, roughly, as his first Queen did; but though the story is lost to us in its entirety, we know it for a tale of surpassing sadness. It may be that the King is unwilling to take a Queen, although the time will come when he will have little choice. Much of the suffering of this day might well have been evaded had King Irlaris’s wife survived the fever and lived to bear him an heir. Alas…it was not the Goddess’s will.”<br /><br />“Or perhaps it was another power’s,” Llyad suggested. Horius looked at him, and then nodded.<br /><br />“Yes...but that has little to do with what we now discuss. Lady Gwynwhyfar’s place has vexed me, as it has anyone sworn in direct service to the Goddess. She must have some further role to play, but there is still so much lore that is lost to us, and we have not found any new knowledge even as we complete the tasks laid out for us by the Goddess and outlined by Merlyn Emrys. I had no way of learning what she was to do, or where she was to go. So I waited, alone in my trepidation, saying nothing of my fears to anyone.”<br /><br />Brother Llyad cocked his eyebrow at something Horius had said. “Your fears?”<br /><br />Horius nodded. Outside, a breeze freshened, setting a group of wood-chimes Horius had carved from fallen sticks and hung from a nearby tree to knocking. The tiny fire between them flickered, and yet Brother Llyad felt no breeze. Instead, he held Horius’s gaze.<br /><br />“I have not entered the Dreamslumber in more than two full moons,” he said. Llyad gasped. As Chieftain, Horius was to spend more time in the Dreamslumber than anyone else...but now he had not, in quite some time. “I have not done so because I have feared what I would see.”<br /><br />“You saw it too!” Llyad exclaimed. “You saw her. You saw the same thing that I saw.”<br /><br />Horius shook her head. “Not quite,” he said. “And even if I did, we would have no way of knowing that. The Dreamslumber yields a different vision for every person who enters it, and even if it did offer the same vision, there would be the matter of how it is seen – for two people may witness the same event, and still come away with two entirely different senses of what has transpired. Nevertheless, I did see her. She was being taken someplace by force, by whom I know not. She was being brought into the hands of the Dark Druids.”<br /><br />Brother Llyad shuddered. The Dark Druids were the onetime Priests of Dona who had deserted her and begun to serve her Dark Brother. It had been the Dark Druids, centuries before, whose dark rituals in the forest groves all over Prydein had prompted High King Prystyl to go to war to drive them all away, a war in which no one judged any difference between the truly evil Dark Druids and the benign Oak Brothers. At least the Oak Brothers, though, had been able to flee to Mona; the Dark Druids had been completely wiped out. Until now, that is, for it was said that King Cwerith’s Lord Priest was one of these Dark Druids, and that Cwerith himself actually gave blood at their rituals – rituals where that Lord Priest received visitations from a God in the shape of a great silver wolf.<br /><br />Horius cleared his throat. “And if the Dark Druids had interest in the Welcomer, then she must indeed still have a great part to play in this war. There is something left for her to do, something crucial, if they desire her death. They would not risk such actions if there were not great reason behind them. And that means that the Welcomer may be in more grave danger than we have ever thought. Curse me for a fool! I waited too long…too great was my insecurity, and too powerful was my indecision. I nursed my fears, and kept them hidden; I waited for more clarity in a time when the only clarity we ever receive is murky indeed. And now, if you have had a Dreamslumber similar to mine, it may be too late. Dona forgive me!” And, with tears flowing from his eyes, he lowered his head into his hands.<br /><br />“Is there nothing we might do?”<br /><br />“We are too far away from her,” Horius said. “Her fate will have to rest in the hands of the Goddess. Would that Dona still had the strength to protect her…and now, I fear that other things may be stirring. Dark things that must be avoided.” He lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. “We must make preparations, Llyad of Tintagel. I fear that if the Dark Druids are willing to strike at the Welcomer, they will soon desire to strike at others as well.”<br /><br />“I do not understand,” Llyad said.<br /><br />“I am speaking of war,” Horius replied. “I fear that war may be coming to the Druids, in the form of those who dip their hands in blood and so doing seek to shape the fates of men for ill purposes. War, Brother Llyad. Once the Oak Brothers were at war with the Dark Druids, a war in which King Prystyl made no distinctions when he came to it, but a war nonetheless. We must be ready. Come.”<br /><br />He made a gesture at the fire, and the flames instantly vanished, chilled and extinguished by a puff of very cold air that burst in from the smoke-hole and smothered them. Then he grabbed his cloak and staff and led Brother Llyad outside, where he suddenly stopped and looked around.<br /><br />“Where is Hugydd?” he asked.<br /><br />Llyad looked around. The big man, a knight-turned-Druid, was nowhere to be seen.<br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br />Daylight was fading fast when King Arthur at least signaled the stop and ordered the setting of camp. They had made fairly good time after leaving the valley from where they had sent the new Duke home with his men, albeit disarmed. With luck, they would make Badon by sundown, the day after tomorrow. As it was, the army made camp beside a wide and swift-moving river that flowed down from the hills and dense forests farther to the north. The discipline that had impressed Sir Baigent in battle was also evident in the making of camp as the tents were very quickly pitched, the fires built, the trenches dug and the sentries posted. Though they had marched later than Sir Baigent would have liked, they still had camp made while there was still a bit of light. Horses were fed and rubbed down, food was prepared, and at last there was a meal of dried meat and thick, heavy bread; and then the soldiers settled in to sleep. Estren wandered through the company, performing songs for the benefit of the men, but mostly everyone was tired and wanted to sleep. Battle was exhausting, even in the wake of victory.<br /><br />“How do you think Cwerith will receive the news of what we have denied him this day?” Lord Matholyn asked.<br /><br />“No more than a day or two,” King Arthur replied. “Bad tidings, even those which we consider good, have a way of traveling faster than can the tongues that carry them.”<br /><br />“He <i>will</i> attack soon,” Matholyn said. “We have pushed him too far, and we have denied him and harassed him too much.”<br /><br />King Arthur nodded. “That is the way of it,” he said. “That is why we have been building the fort at Badon. King Cwerith will very soon seek to bring the war to me. It was this way before.”<br /><br />“<i>How</i> was it?” Sir Baigent asked, suddenly. King Arthur looked at him, and immediately Sir Baigent regretted having asked the question. But it was something he had wanted to know, something he had wanted so much to hear. King Arthur was such a sad and noble man, but there was still something…something like a wall around him, which sometimes made it seem as though he was merely moving through Prydein, and not really being touched or involved in what happened here. How must it be, for a King torn from his own Kingdom once before, and then brought back to reforge it from remnants so long tattered that not even the smallest memory remained of what had gone before?<br /><br />“It was very like this, Sir Baigent.” King Arthur shrugged and stirred at the coals of his fire with a stick. “It was very like this indeed, except that I was very young when I became King. The fates are not so different, for a King returned from Avalon or for an unknown boy, barely old enough to serve as squire to the man he has always taken for an older brother, to take an old and fractured land and make it his own.<br /><br />“There were many battles. Even though the Goddess had given me the sword, and thus had anointed me as King, there were many lords who had spent their entire lives fighting and warring for one king or another, hoping to position themselves with the eventual winner. That was the way things were done, in those times: Kings were made in battle, not chosen by the Goddess. It scared them, to think that a boy should be given what they had not been able to take – and that much of it had been shaped by the hand of a wizard they all feared. Ah, Merlyn…you never told me of <i>this</i>…” He cleared his throat, and went on.<br /><br />“Some lords swore to me from the first, and those first allies were the most loyal I would ever see. Allegiances given freely are often more solid than allegiances forced in war, although that is not always true, either. But we were strong, and gradually we forced more and more of those lords to bend the knee. Even King Lot, the strongest of them all, finally lowered his banner to mine after the Battle of Badon Hill. And he married my sister, Morgause…but she turned out to be wickeder, by far, than even Merlyn could have imagined. Poor Lot! How it must have hurt, to see his proud and strong sons so easily turned from the path of the Goddess by the machinations of my own bastard son…and how much might have been different, had I not succumbed to darkness for a time and attempted to…” At this point something very dark indeed passed through his eyes. Sir Baigent exchanged glances with Lord Matholyn, who shook his head lightly. King Arthur’s story was such a sad one, it seemed, and now he was here, bound for yet more sadness and pain. And he had said nothing at all of the story of his Queen, whose name was Gwynwhyfar.<br /><br />Estren finally returned from his tour of the camp a short while later, and he performed for the King and his party <i>The Song of Pastures and Honey</i> by Taryn of Land’s End, a song which was usually sung by mothers to sleepless children but in the Bard’s voice became a loving serenade to more peaceful days. Then, at least, they slept. All of their dreams were touched with the thoughts of the larger battles certain to come, all of theirs except for the King’s.<br /><br />No one could touch the dreams that passed before the King’s sleeping eye.<br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><i>Baigent leaned back against the thwart of the wooden boat and drove his arms backward and forward, up and down, backward and forward, up and down, underneath the light of a cold, white sun. The salt spray stung his face, but he did not care. The air was bracing, but made him feel strong. He was free: free of war, free of vengeance, free of the cares that had haunted him for months.<br /><br />The wave he'd been watching finally arrived, taking hold of the boat and propelling it forward. He dug in with the oars, grabbing as much speed as he could. Any second now he would feel the crunch on the hull and the sudden slowing as the boat ran aground on the shores of the beach outside Caer Camyrdin. He grinned in anticipation. He was nearly home.<br /><br />But the boat didn't run aground, and it should have by now. The waves slowed, and then stopped entirely. The salt spray was gone, and now Baigent realized that he no longer heard the cry of gulls, either. Shipping his oars, he turned to look behind him, to see where the shore actually was. And nothing was there. He was alone in the boat, out in the middle of the sea, or so it appeared: in every direction he saw nothing at all but glass-smooth water. The land was gone, the gulls who always haunted the beaches of Camyrdin were gone, everything was gone.<br /><br />Baigent rowed for a while, aimlessly, with no clear notion of which direction he should go or even what direction he was going at all. He rowed for a few minutes at first, and then he rowed some more, this time for a few hours. And still he came nowhere, as he moved across a featureless and blank sea. He rowed until his muscles could row no more, and then at last he gave up, shipping his oars and slumping to the bottom of his boat. He allowed himself a single sip from his water flask, and then as night fell around him and as the stars began to shine through the deepening sky, he felt himself falling asleep.<br /><br />And that was when his boat thumped against the shore.<br /><br />But the shore of where? That, he did not know. In the darkness, he could not recognize the land that rose before him. It was an island, he supposed, and in the fading light he could see a line of forest that began less than fifty paces from the white-sand beach. He wasn't sure how, since the darkness was shrouding everything in the distance, but Baigent felt strongly that somewhere before him rose mountains, high ones. This was no small island, unknown on an unexplored sea. This was...someplace else.<br /><br />Baigent waited there, fearing to leave his boat, for a long while. Gradually the moon rose behind him, bright and full, casting its silver light across first the sea and then the beach and then what he could make of the island before him. He could now see the forest before him, and he now realized that it was no forest at all, but an empty city, devoid of all life. The buildings were wrecked, tumbled, fallen. A city that came so near down to the sea, but stopped short of wharf or quay: what manner of strange place was this? Baigent's curiosity allowed him to find his courage once again, and he jumped out of the boat onto the white sand.<br /><br />"HALT!"<br /><br />The voice came from somewhere before him. Baigent strained his eyes to make it out, but soon he saw a tall figure moving toward him with a shuddering gait. Whoever this was, he walked with painful effort, dragging one foot behind him and leaning with each step on a stick of some sort. Baigent could not yet make out the person's features, but somehow the voice sounded in his ears familiar.<br /><br />"You cannot be here! This place is not for you! This place is for no one, until the dark times end and those who left can at last return!"<br /><br />Yes, the voice was very familiar, but who could it possibly be? Baigent waited by his boat, wishing he had a weapon with him. A fishhook, perhaps – but he had none. Why had he set to sea without so much as a fishhook?<br /><br />"Go! Go, Baigent! You must leave this place!"<br /><br />The shadowy figure had used Baigent's name. How could that be-<br /><br />"Go, boy! You cannot be here!"<br /><br />And Baigent suddenly felt his entire body go to ice. Only one man had ever called him 'Boy'. But how could this be? How could Baigent's father be here? Where was he, that Pelegaunt was marching toward him?<br /><br />"Do you totally lack the wits I tried to pass onto you, boy? Away from here! Back to the sea, and back to Prydein! This is no land for you!"<br /><br />Baigent felt tears on his cheeks. His father, coming toward him, shouting for him to leave this place he didn't know he'd come to: what was this?<br /><br />And now Pelegaunt stood before him. His features were familiar, although cast in shadow and somehow blurred, as though Baigent were seeing him through a fog, even though he stood just a few paces away. He looked, Baigent suddenly realized, the way he had looked at the moment he had breathed his last.<br /><br />"Father?"<br /><br />"This place is not for you, Baigent. This place is for no one, now. The Goddess's dark brother saw to that. This place is not for you."<br /><br />Baigent felt himself backing up already, toward the boat, in spite of himself. "You speak like a cleric," he said. "In death and in dreams you are as full of riddles as anyone."<br /><br />"This is no riddle, boy," his father said. "In life I never held with riddling talk, and neither do I do so now. If I speak not clearly, it is because I cannot speak of that which I do not know. But these things are given me, here in this place that awaits the return of those who once dwelt here: You must go back, and you must find her. The Finest Deed awaits you, boy! You do not realize that you have been chosen? That it has fallen to you, after all the ages of the world? You do not see?"<br /><br />"I do not understand," Baigent said.<br /><br />"Of course you do not," his father replied. "Go now, Baigent. You cannot remain here, and you know that you cannot. I am dead, and the living need you more than I. Go now! Return from whence you came!"<br /><br />And with that, Pelegaunt turned and began to walk away, back toward the shattered city whose citizens had gone somewhere that Sir Baigent did not know. Baigent climbed back into his boat and pushed back out to sea, where the ebbing tide began pulling him away. In the moonlight he could now barely make out his father's shadowy form, but nevertheless, one last time he called out: "Father! What am I to do?"<br /><br />On the shore, Pelegaunt turned back toward his son, and when he replied, he pitched his voice to carry: "You must find your way, boy, and know this: it does not lie with the one you call King, nor at the side of he whom you once called Lord before your lands were stripped from you."<br /><br />Baigent sat silent in his boat for a moment, thinking on the awful implication of these words. Then, once more, he lifted his voice to his father: "You command me to leave King Arthur? To walk from the side of Lord Matholyn? Why would I do this? With whom will I go?"<br /><br />Pelegaunt was already turning away from him. "It is not for the dead to command the living, Baigent," came the voice, ever softer until it was little more than a whisper above the lapping of the waters. "With whom will you go? Whom, indeed?"<br /><br />And then he was gone, and Baigent was again alone on the sea. Again he rowed, away from the island and through the night, until dawn was approaching and again his boat ran ashore, this time on the blood-soaked ruins of the city he had once called home--</i><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br />Sir Baigent snapped awake to discover that he was being shaken.<br /><br />“Come,” Estren said. “Someone has come whom you will wish to see.”<br /><br />Sir Baigent looked around the tent and the other sleeping knights and cavalrymen. It was still late, still dark. There were no sounds outside of a stirring camp, although when he had pulled on his cloak and followed the Bard outside, he saw that there soon would be. The eastern sky was beginning to turn the purple of the hour before dawn, and there were men already coming awake to prepare the morning meal and get the horses ready for the day’s ride. But most of the men were still asleep, which should have included Sir Baigent; it was still to early for him to be aroused. Something had happened, clearly enough. “Is it Sir Jules?” he asked as Estren led him through the tents to the King’s. “Have he and Sir Regidan brought scouting news?”<br /><br />“No,” Estren said. “It is a Druid."<br /><br />Sir Baigent stopped short, for just a second, before continuing to move. Druids…they were a strange lot, and little ever happened around them that was normal or expected. Estren led Sir Baigent across the camp to a low area, toward the rear, where the horses were kept. All around them were the sounds of grunting beasts and their snoring masters. They came to the very edge of the camp, below which the side of Badon Hill dropped away sharply. Here, waiting for him, holding his steed by the rein, was Hugydd, who had once been Sir Baigent's man but was now one of the Oak Brothers.<br /><br />"Hugydd! Why have you come here?"<br /><br />"Tidings of ill, Sir Baigent," Hugydd replied. "The Welcomer may be in peril."<br /><br />Sir Baigent felt his flesh go cold, very cold, as he braced himself to hear whatever Hugydd had come to say.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-48582236182108119642009-03-01T17:10:00.001-08:002009-03-01T17:34:50.424-08:00The Finest Deed, Chapter ThreeUpon her return to the Temple, Gwyn bid farewell to Gareth, who had decided to return to the Finders in their encampment in hill country north of Bedwyn. Gwyn tried to conceal the envy in her voice as she did so. How she wished she could don riding clothes and go out into the hills and woods again, and perhaps bring her bow and find a rabbit or even a deer for the pot, and go into the woods where the Druids now held their rites. She wondered what Brother Llyad was up to, now that he was spending almost all of his time with the Oak Brothers. He had not spent a night in the company of his fellow Priests of Dona in several weeks now, and Gwyn rather suspected that he was planning to do as Hugydd, once Sir Hugydd of Caer Camyrdin, had done and actually join the Druids.<br /><br />Gwyn took her evening meal with the other clerics of the Temple, a quiet affair that was much less exuberant than the meals at Tintagel had ever been – even under the stern eye of Father Reynold, when Father Damogan’s predecessor had tried for a time to institute a regimen of silence at mealtimes, based on something he had read and very likely misinterpreted from the Oracles. She listened to Father Terryn’s Blessing, she ate her small bowl of soup and one hunk of bread, she sang with the other clerics in the Hymn of Thankfulness, and then she went to the Temple library to read. She had found that by far the finest pleasure of being the Welcomer was that no one tried to restrict or direct her reading choices, and thus she was able to read from any book in the Temple library, including some that Brother Malcolm had ruled out until she had passed the Trials. Of course, there were the select books that no one could read except the Lord Priest, so dangerous were their contents, but even so Gwyn had not lacked at all for reading material. She gravitated toward the histories of the savage days just after the Cataclysm, when it sometimes seemed that the entire land had been one great and constant battlefield.<br /><br />“May I ask what you are reading, My Lady?”<br /><br />Gwyn looked up from her table. It was Brother Colla, one of the three newly-arrived Priests from the north. He and his companions had been at the evening meal as well, where three additional places had been set at one of the tables. Now he stood beside her in the library, two books under his arm.<br /><br />“<i>The Dialogs of the Fiery Age</i> by Deryvach Deddyl,” Gwyn replied. “History appeals to me.”<br /><br />“I’m sure you were a fine student,” Brother Colla said. “But they do not call you ‘Sister’.”<br /><br />“No,” Gwyn said, shaking her head. “I was a month away from the Trials when…other events transpired.”<br /><br />“Ah.” Brother Colla nodded. “I suppost that right now you are unsure as to whether you will ever complete the Trials? I think the Welcomer will always have something of a place. Good evening, My Lady.” He wandered off to a table of his own, and Gwyn returned to her book.<br /><br />What surprised her so much was the way the written histories bore little, if any, resemblance to the events she had heard about from the Bards Estren and Drudwas, and from the Druids who had kept their own oral tradition alive. The histories told of bloody battles with the Druids themselves committing the foulest of acts, and there were inumerable stories of the dozens of petty Kings who ruled tiny kingdoms, and their constant forming of alliances and the subsequent betrayals of those alliances. She had loved these stories once, but now she saw them for something else – a long and horrible tale of death and war and suffering. Now that she was seeing the same kind of story being written for the histories again, she found the old tales far less appealing, even if they now had more lessons to offer than mere romance. She read for another hour, and then she left with all the other Priests and Priestesses for the evening Vespers. It was quite late when, at long last, she returned to her chamber.<br /><br />Over the last few weeks the routine had begun to wear upon her, and she had found it difficult to drop off to sleep; but on this night, sleep came surprisingly easy, just minutes after she extinguished her candle and pulled her thick blankets up around her. She could hear clerics milling about in the Temple courtyard that her chamber window overlooked, but even their voices were not enough to keep her awake.<br /><br />On that night came the first dream-vision she had seen since the night after the Promised King’s return.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><i>Gwynwhyfar led a familiar white horse by the rein down a path that wound through a wood that was unlike any other she had walked in her dreams. This was no verdant, living wood, but a wood that had once been a wood but was now a desolate wasteland. The withered husks of trees rose about her, and the bushes had all turned to dried scrub and thickets of bramble. Some of the dead trees looked like they had burned, others looked like they had perished of disease, and the air was thick with the musty scent of death and decay. The horse made no sound at all as it obediently followed Gwynwhyfar, but even so she could sense its fear, and when she stopped to massage the animal’s neck she saw that its fur had become damp and its ankles and forelegs had darkened with soot and dirt. The same had happened to her samite gown, and tears welled in her eyes for the dead land all around her.<br /><br />At length the path came down out of the hills and to the side of a gray motionless sea. Here Gwynwhyfar stopped and waited as the moon rose from the horizon before her – but it was not any moon she had seen before. This moon was much larger, and its color was not brilliant silver but a dull mix of red and pewter, and in the half-light of twilight the moon cast little light of its own. The horse whinnied nervously, and Gwynwhyfar laid a hand on its neck to calm it. When the moon had risen completely, Gwynwhyfar heard the voice from the waters.<br /><br />“Gwynwhyfar!”<br /><br />“Lady Nimue?”<br /><br />“No, child. I am not the Lady of the Lake. I am much older than she, and I think you know to whom you now speak.”<br /><br />The woman whose voice this was now appeared, walking down from the sky to stand upon the water. Her features were shadowy, as if her body were shrouded by a patch of mist or fog, and Gwynwhyfar could not tell if she was a maiden or a crone, or perhaps both or neither. The lady seemed made of the same stuff as the red moon that hung low in the sky above them, and Gwynwhyfar supposed that she was – for she was Dona herself.<br /><br />“My Goddess,” Gwynwhyfar said, her voice even less than a bare whisper. She felt like she should bow, or kneel; and yet she only stood still.<br /><br />“You must stop him, Gwynwhyfar. You must complete the Finest Deed.”<br /><br />“I do not understand,” Gwynwhyfar said.<br /><br />“She speaks of me, My Lady.”<br /><br />Gwynwhyfar turned in the direction from which the deep, male voice had come. Approaching her, along the side of the sea, was a man. He was naked, and his body seemed sculpted like a statue. His golden hair fell in loose curls about his shoulders. In his hands he carried a sword from whose blade dripped a constant stream of blood that darkened the ground on which it spilled. “An interesting weapon, is it not?” he said. “The blood is that of Prydein, and it will continue to flow until the land has no more blood to give. But perhaps just now you wish to gaze upon my other weapon, and perhaps you would like to feels its stab.”<br /><br />Revulsed, Gwynwhyfar looked away. The man laughed.<br /><br />“Is it the form that bothers you?” he asked. “I assure you, I can appear to you however you might desire. Is this more to your liking?” His body changed shape then, to that of a giant silver wolf that bared its teeth and gave a single, low snarl. The horse edged away, and Gwyn shuddered. The wolf’s form shifted back to the naked blond man, who laughed.<br /><br />“I know you, Dark Brother,” Gwynwhyfar finally said. “And I know you for the nameless evil that you are.”<br /><br />“Nameless?” Dona’s Dark Brother smiled. “I have had many names in all the ages since the beginning of all things. Some of those names are known, far more are forgotten. But you are correct, my lovely plaything: it is time for me to take a name again, and to allow that name to be spoken with fear as well as due reverence. I shall claim another name before all is done, but for now, you will call me, Evnissyen.”<br /><br />“That name was not yours,” the Goddess said.<br /><br />“And yet it suits me, does it not?” The Dark Brother laughed. “With him it all began: my first touching of the world.”<br /><br />“You have inspired many,” Dona said. “And yet, all those who have felt your inspiration have failed.”<br /><br />“All past events have led to what is now coming,” the man said. They were now speaking of things unknown to Gwyn, of angers and sadnesses inflicted upon the world and suffered by her people in days so long gone by that not even their histories had survived.<br /><br />“You wonder why you are here, child,” Dona suddenly said to Gwynwhyfar. “You wonder what purpose you are to serve, now that you have fulfilled your journey as the Welcomer. You long to know what place you will serve in the world. Know now, child, that you have walked but one road of the many that lie before you, and that the greatest of all roads still awaits you. The greatest road, and the most perilous. You will need strength, and you will have it.”<br /><br />“Have done, sister!” The Dark Brother who had taken the name Evnissyen laughed. “This is futile foolishness, and well you know it. This frail blossom will no more withstand the winds that are to come than any of the others whose seeds you scattered into the breeze to take root wherever they might land. Your power is fading with each dawn that rises over Prydein, and my own strength grows with each sunset. You can not even bar me from this place. This child will no more have the strength to restore you than any other of the hopeful saviors you have chosen. How many have walked that road in your name? How many have failed?"<br /><br />“This girl is different, brother,” Dona said. “And she has Culdarra’s favor. Why must you hate beauty so? Why is all that is good in the world so hateful in your eyes?”<br /><br />“Because all things that are good in the world fade in time. Only the darkness is permanent.” Evnissyen moved forward and stood so close to Gwynwhyfar that the drips of blood from his sword spattered on the folds of her gown. “Such a lovely creature, thus union of mortal and Fairy. How terrible that she will not live to see the end, when the Wyrm awakens for the third and final time and bears his judgment for all.”<br /><br />“You tried to kill me before,” Gwynwhyfar said.<br /><br />Evnissyen laughed. “There will be time for all things in the end,” he said. “For now, I would show you the forces in the face of which you think to make your stand.” He turned toward the sea and made a sweeping gesture with his left hand. Almost immediately the water began to boil.<br /><br />“Brother!” the Goddess shouted. “Do not do this!”<br /><br />If he heard her speak, he gave no sign at all. Instead he lifted his hands high and his eyes gleamed.. Gwynwhyfar looked on, helpless and rapt, as the sea roiled and heaved. A bolt of white-hot lightning ripped the air in half and touched down in the middle of the water before them. Gwynwhyfar felt the heat from the lightning on her face, and she blinked her eyes clear as the blast of thunder shook the entire world. The horse screamed, but Gwynwhyfar kept her grip on the rein and tried to calm the terrified beast. And then she, too, felt raw, numbing fear, for something was glowing beneath the waters, and that glow – a red that was redder than blood – became brighter and brighter, and larger and larger. More lightning flashed in the sky above them, and the red glow began to throb and pulsate like a great, beating heart. Gwynwhyfar realized that something was rising from the waters. Evnissyen the Dark Brother stepped out into the water and walked out until it was up past his knees. “COME!” he wailed. “COME!”<br /><br />And come it did, bringing fire and death with it. The Wyrm of the World rose from the depths of the deepest sea, and it focused its terrible eye directly upon her. Gwynwhyfar had never beheld anything so vast, so terrible before. It was as if all the dark things from all the dreams she had ever had were blended together into this one awful thing that towered before her. The Wyrm looked upon her, and then its mouth yawned wide…and from that mouth came fire, the fire of Cataclysm unleashed anew upon all that they had ever built. Gwynwhyfar’s screams echoed along with Evnissyen’s shouts of glory as the world ended….</i><br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwyn awoke then, gasping as she did so. It had been a long time since she had had one of these “visions” in place of her normal dreams – glimpses into the other world from which part of her came. They had begun on the night of Brother Llyad’s return from Tintagel, they had continued until after the Battle of Bedwyn, when she had said her last farewell to her father…and then, nothing aside from the usual, nearly impossible to remember dreams that came along every night and vanished with each opening of her eyes the next morning. Gwyn lay in the darkness for a long moment, wondering what the return of these visions could possibly mean. Like before, it had been so vivid and real. She could even still smell the smoke of the Wyrm’s fire…<br /><br /><i>Smoke.</i><br /><br />She sat bolt upright. It was not part of her dream at all; she really <i>was</i> smelling smoke. Distant smoke, to be sure, but smoke which should never have been here, in her chamber. Now she could also hear shouts in the distance, and glass breaking. She moved to her window, threw aside the sash, and saw outside the glow of flames. The Temple was on fire.<br /><br />In the half-light she threw on her breeches, shirt, boots and cloak – this was no time to worry about donning her clerical robes, after all – and moved to the door. Feeling it and finding it cool to the touch, she cracked it open, to discover the corridor beyond full of smoke and her two guards nowhere to be seen. She shut the door and ran back to her window, trying to see if she could get out that way…but the casement was frozen in place, the window was too small to allow her to climb through, the drop to the ground was too far, and in any case she would still have to make her way through the Temple if she got out that way. But why had she heard nothing until now?<br /><br />Looking further out the window, she saw that the fire was limited to only a handful of windows, all on her level of the Temple. Surely the clerics and City Guard were already fighting the flames. <i>Of course they’d be fighting the flames, girl!</i> she thought. <i>They won’t let the place burn to the ground!</i> But still, she easily imagined the flames moving in the direction of her chamber, as far as she could tell by looking out her tiny window, and smoke was already entering her chamber in a tiny stream from around her door. She looked again, down into the courtyard, with its gravel paths circling a standing stone…and the Priest standing there, unmoving. <i>How strange</i>, she thought – one of the Temple clerics was in meditation in the courtyard while fires burned in the upper parts of the building! Then the Priest lifted his head to meet her eyes, and Gwyn gasped. It was no Priest at all, but the white-haired beggar she had seen that morning, on the docks. Even in the half-light of the moon and the fires, she recognized him. She drew backward sharply, and jumped as there came a pounding at her door, accompanied by a shouting voice: <i>“My Lady! My Lady, come!”</i><br /><br />Gwyn ran to the door and threw it open. Standing there, with a scrap of cloth pressed over his nose and mouth, was Brother Colla.<br /><br />“My Lady! Come!”<br /><br />“There…there is someone in the courtyard—” Had <i>he</i> set the fire?<br /><br />The Brother ignored her and grabbed her arm. “Come, My Lady! We must flee!”<br /><br />Gwyn hesitated, blinked, and glanced around. “But—my guards—”<br /><br />“I don’t know where they are,” Colla said. “I only thought to look in on you because my own guest chamber is four doors down from yours. The Temple is on fire. We must go!”<br /><br />“Which way is safe?” Gwyn asked.<br /><br />“This way.” Colla pointed to the left, which made sense to Gwyn, for that was the way to the great stair and the main corridor to the Temple’s entrance. Pointing to the right, he said, “The flames began that way, but I do not know more than that.”<br /><br />In the distance Gwyn heard more shouts, probably from guards and clerics fighting the fire. She hesitated once more. “Where are your travel-mates?” she asked.<br /><br />“They are awaiting us in safety. My Lady, <i>please</i>!”<br /><br />Gwyn relented. She grabbed an old shirt from her cabinet and held it over her nose and mouth as Brother Colla led her by the hand directly into the smoke-filled corridor.<br /><br />After they had moved twenty steps or so down the hall, the smoke began to thin considerably, and they came to the first set of stairs down to the next level. Gwyn turned toward them, but Colla pulled on her arm to keep going in their original direction.<br /><br />“We can’t be sure of those stairs, My Lady,” he said. Gwyn looked askance at him, for there seemed to be no smoke at all rising from this particular set of stairs. Nevertheless, she followed him onward. They moved quickly, almost running, until they came to an iron door that Gwyn knew led into a smaller, lesser-used stair that spiraled downward all the way to the lowest level of the Temple. “This stair will be safe,” Brother Colla said as he pushed open the door. “It will bring us to the bottom level, below the fire. Come!”<br /><br /><i>Strange that this door isn’t barred like it usually is,</i> Gwyn thought. Brother Colla grabbed a torch from the wall-sconce outside the door, for that would be their only light in this stair. He allowed a slower pace now, and they walked carefully down the stairs. As Gwyn followed him, something stirred in her mind, some small patch of doubt about something she could not bring into sharp focus. She followed Brother Colla down the tightly winding stair, which did in fact lead all the way down to the Temple cellar, where they were met by the two men Colla had accompanied to Bedwyn. The clerics – Brothers Wil and Haddon, Gwyn remembered – had packs on their shoulders.<br /><br />“Come,” Brother Colla said. “We must get out of the Temple!”<br /><br />Now Gwyn stopped and stared at the men. There was no smoke down here, and there were no shouts; further, the way Colla was gesturing was down a corridor she knew did not lead to the main gate but to one of the tunnels out of the Temple.<br /><br />“No,” Gwyn said, backing away. “This is not right—”<br /><br />“My Lady, surely you already suspect what is the case,” Brother Colla said. “You know why the fire was set. Someone wishes to strike at the Welcomer – perhaps the very person you saw beneath your window. There are dark folk about in Prydein these days, folk who would do anything they could to earn favor with certain powers. I would count myself no servant of Dona if I did not pledge you my service. We are taking you to safety.”<br /><br />Gwyn shook her head. “Father Terryn would not allow harm to come to me,” she said.<br /><br />“He already has,” Colla said. “Think, Lady Welcomer. He only allowed two guards to be posted outside your door, guards who were easily overcome. He did not believe in you from the start. Terryn may not be as strong a man as you believe.”<br /><br />Gwyn shook her head again. This could not be true. Father Terryn had doubted her in the beginning, when they had met at Briston, but not since then. And certainly not now. His doubts in the beginning, when she had met him in that tavern in Briston, had been natural doubts, understandable ones…<br /><br />And how would this cleric from a tiny village far to the north know any of that?<br /><br />Gwyn spun and bolted for the stair. She might have made it, had the stair been lit by more than a single torch, but after the first few steps she could not see anything ahead of her, and the constant twisting of the stair combined with the lack of light made her stumble and fall. Seconds later she felt Brother Colla’s hand fasten around her ankle, in a grip that was deceptively strong.<br /><br />“No, My Lady,” he said. “I cannot allow you to go back up there and into danger. You must come with me. Would you perish in the blaze, burned until your hair was gone and your fair skin was blackened like a lamb left too long on the spit?” Reasonable words, but spoken in nothing resembling a reasonable tone. Colla shifted his grip to her arm and pulled her upright. He was much stronger than she had given him credit for, and in the torchlight his eyes took on a malevolence that she had not seen in any eyes since Maxen’s, that night in the Scarlet King’s fortress. When Sir Baigent had maimed him after he had decided to maim <i>her</i>… “Come now, My Lady. Your escort awaits.”<br /><br />He did not wait for a reply; he simply fastened his fingers around her wrist and pulled her down the stairs behind him, roughly now, with no pretense toward being gentle. His grip was frighteningly strong, and his fingers were chill. Gwyn’s mind flashed back to her last night on Tintagel, when another cleric had taken her against her will, but that had turned out to be a case of poor planning by Brother Llyad, not malice. Gwyn saw little reason to suspect that this abduction would be the same as that. She tried to resist, to pull away from Colla, but she could not loosen his grip in the slightest degree. He was too strong.<br /><br />“You are no Priest of Dona at all,” she said. He only laughed.<br /><br />Now she could hear shouts echoing from up above them, in the stair. They were being followed, which was confirmed when Brother Colla calmly picked up his pace, nearly pulling her off her feet entirely before they again reached the bottom. <br /><br /><i>“We are here!”</i> Gwyn screamed. <i>“Help me! Help—”</i> That was all she could get out before Colla stuffed a wad of cloth into her mouth, nearly choking her before she could gasp in a snatch of breath through her nose. The scrap tasted horribly unpleasant, but that was the least of Gwyn’s concerns now.<br /><br />“They come,” said Brother Wil as he bound Gwyn’s hands with a length of cord.<br /><br />“It won’t matter,” Colla replied. “Bring her.”<br /><br />Haddon and Wil closed in on either side of her, each dragging her along by an arm as Colla led the way to the entrance to the tunnels. Gwyn nearly wretched, and her eyes filled with tears, when she saw the two Adepts lying there on the cold stone floor, with their necks twisted into impossible angles. Two poor students, serving their duties to the Goddess, now cruelly murdered by these pretenders who had so easily worked their way into the trust of the Temple through subterfuge. How stupid they had been! How foolish, to take these men at their word as soon as they so much as entered the city!<br /><br />Colla strode past the dead students and shoved open the door to the tunnel beyond, and the two false priests to her either side brought Gwyn through and into the darkness. Colla shoved the door shut behind them, and the iron clang echoed terribly through the dark passage.<br /><br />“There is no way to bar the door from this side,” Wil remarked.<br /><br />“You worry too much,” Colla replied.<br /><br />They strode very quickly now, quickly and confidently, undaunted and undeterred in the slightest by Gwyn’s struggles. Their footsteps echoed on the cold stone, and the only light came from the torch in Colla’s hand. <i>Save your strength</i>, Gwyn told herself. <i>You will need it before long.</i> She wondered just who these men really were…but more than that, she wondered if she would get the opportunity to escape.<br /><br />They arrived at the junction of all six tunnels. Gwyn recognized the one they now turned and followed: the one that Gwyn knew led to the docks on the Test. This was also the longest of the tunnels, and Gwyn began to falter a bit as she found herself unable to quite keep the same pace as the two men who dragged her between them. She stumbled several times, and once she actually fell to the floor and was dragged back to her feet before she could push herself up on her own. <i>What do they want with me?</i> she wondered, over and over again until the tunnel finally sloped sharply upward again and they came to the end, a great metal gate that led into a dark alley amidst the Bedwyn docks. Here Colla stopped and threw dark cloaks over each of them – they had prepared, they had planned this well – and led them out, into the night.<br /><br />The outside air was slightly warmer than that of the tunnel, and redolent of water and earth. Somewhere behind them, within the city, Gwyn could hear the clanging of alarm bells, for the fire in the Temple – a distraction first for these men to abduct her from the Temple, and now for them to get her out of Bedwyn entirely.<br /><br />Her captors dragged her out of the alley, across the street that should have been choked with wagons both empty and laden but was now devoid of traffic entirely, and out onto one of the docks. Here Colla glanced once at the city walls that overlooked the docks, and seeing no one he turned back to the river. Then he lifted his torch and swung it high over his head, describing two great arcs before tossing it into the swirling eddies of the Test where it vanished with a splash and a <i>hiss</i>. As Gwyn watched, another light appeared from across the river – someone over there had struck another torch and waved it in similar fashion before also extinguishing it. Then they waited. And waited.<br /><br />“This is taking too long,” hissed Wil.<br /><br />“We have little choice,” Colla said.<br /><br />“It won’t take the City Guard long to figure out where we’ve gone! We should have set a bigger fire!”<br /><br />“It will take them long enough,” Colla replied. “They do not patrol the docks as much now, and in any event they will instead suspect that we fled to the entrance beyond the gates. It will take them quite long, indeed, before they think that we made our escape this way.”<br /><br />“And what of the men on the walls?”<br /><br />“They will think us starving wretches out to pluck dead fish from the water, if they see us at all,” Colla said. “Silence, now.”<br /><br />And they waited for a time, in agonizing silence on the docks of the river Test. Gwyn prayed for someone, anyone, to come along, but of course no one did aside from some detestable wretch who shuffled by without paying them any mind whatsoever. Gwyn tried to control her shivering. After what seemed like a terribly brief while, during which not one member of the City Guard came along the walls to see them, a wooden boat emerged from the darkness, angling straight toward them. The two men aboard, one rowing and one at the tiller, might have been twins, so similar was their look: they were both huge men with thick torsos, arms, legs and necks; both wore filthy clothes and cloaks, and both looked like hard, hard men. They pulled up alongside the dock where one of the men tossed a rope up and over one of the pilings.<br /><br />“Come, My Lady,” Colla said. “Our transport awaits.”<br /><br />They brought her forward to the end of the dock. Gwyn briefly considered attempting another break for freedom, but she rejected the idea just as quickly, for she would not be able to shout for help with this rag stuffed in her mouth, nor would she be able to reopen the door to the tunnels beneath the city with her wrists bound. Colla started to lower himself down into the boat.<br /><br />“Stop,” the man at the tiller said. “Payment first.”<br /><br />Colla stared at the man. “You are late,” he said.<br /><br />The man shrugged and spat into the water. “If you think you can get this boat across this water by yourself, with those weakling arms of yours, you’re welcome to make the attempt. The Test is a harder river than she looks.” The oarsman grunted in agreement.<br /><br />Colla sighed and tossed the man a bag of coins. Then he climbed down into the boat, where he stood and received Gwyn as Wil and Haddon handed her down to him as if she were no more than a sack of grain. She sat on the floor of the boat, just in front of the tillerman, leaning up against one of the thwarts. Then the two other false priests descended into the boat, and the oarsman grabbed the rope and thus cast them loose from the dock. At once Gwyn felt the boat bob with the current, and the two men took up the oars and tiller again, guiding the boat hard and fast out of the eddies of the Bedwyn harbor and toward the main channel of the Test. The lights and noises of the city receded behind her, and her heart filled with despair. Had her arms been free, she might well have thrown herself into the water and tried to swim for the shore, but she doubted she could survive the frigid water. Then she felt the sudden shift in the boat’s position as they entered the main current, and the oarsman now worked even harder to keep the prow angled upstream for the ferrying motion across the water. There was no sound except for their hard breaths as they rowed, and the occasional <i>thump</i> as a chunk of ice or wood bumped up against the side of the craft.<br /><br />Out here, in the middle of the river Test on a moonless night, it was very cold and became even colder when the breeze freshened from the north. Gwyn shivered and tried to shrug her cloak up about her shoulders higher, with limited success. The men surrounding her were obviously likewise cold, pulling their own cloaks on very tightly, but none of them spared a single thought for Gwyn’s comfort, which struck her as an ill omen. <i>As if you have any more need for ill omens,</i> she thought.<br /><br />Eventually Gwyn felt the current shift again, and she realized that they had arrived at the shallows on the opposite side. There was the grating noise of gravel rubbing against the hull, and the boat lurched a bit as the keel ran aground in the muddy bank. The oarsman in front jumped out and, taking up the rope, pulled the boat even further aground, and then Colla disembarked as well. Will and Haddon rose and pulled Gywn with them as they climbed out on to the bank. The ground here was both soft and hard, being comprised of mud that had been firmed by days of cold and nights of frost, and the only light came from the now-distant city that lay across the river. Gwyn saw that even with the men’s strong rowing, they had been pushed a fair distance downstream.<br /><br />“Where are the horses?” Colla asked.<br /><br />“There,” said the tillerman, pointing to a tree that could just barely be made out in the darkness where three horses stood tied to the trunk.<br /><br />Colla frowned. “Those are the boniest nags you could find, I see.”<br /><br />The man spat. “I told you that more gold might produce better horses.”<br /><br />“So you did.”<br /><br />The oarsman cleared his throat, and his friend shrugged. “Well, if there’s no more need for us, we should be on our way.”<br /><br />“Yes, you should,” said Colla, and with that he produced a knife from his belt and in one swift, sudden stroke plunged it into the man’s exposed neck. Gwyn gasped, choking as she did so for the rag was still stuffed deep in her mouth. The oarsman sputtered as dark blood fountained from his neck, and his hands reflexively groped at the wound. The sounds he made were wordless and horrible. The other oarsman stood in the boat and brandished a club, but as soon as he reached his feet something whistled past Gwyn’s ear. She did not need to look to know that it was a dart, much like one of the Druids’. The other oarsman’s hand shot to his neck, and he staggered forward before dropping to his knees. Beside Gwyn, Haddon put the blowtube back in his pouch.<br /><br />“Now, my fine boatmen, I hope you will enjoy your final voyage on the Test,” said Colla as he shoved the man he’d stabbed back into the boat, along with the man who was dying as the poison from the dart worked its way through his body. Colla bent to retake his bag of coins, and then with Wil’s help shoved the boat out into the water where the current took hold of it and pulled it away, down eventually to Bornmuth and the sea. Then Colla and Wil pulled Gwyn to the waiting horses.<br /><br />“You no longer need this,” Colla said as he pulled the rag from Gwyn’s mouth. She gasped and then took in a deep breath. “We have nothing to fear by you screaming. There is no one to hear you.”<br /><br />He stood back as Haddon and Wil shoved her up onto one of the horses while Colla tied this animal’s saddle to his own. They would lead her, then, for which Gwyn was somewhat thankful; that was better than being struck unconscious and carried like so much chattel slung on a horse’s back. But they also did not blindfold her, which told her that these men had little fear of her marking the way. Clearly this was meant to be a journey from which she would not be returning. Finally the three men mounted their horses, and then they rode away to the north.<br /><br />As the night went on, they followed the side of the Test fairly closely, until dawn neared and they came to the first town north of Bedwyn along the river. This, Gwyn remembered from the maps, was a small farming and fishing village called Caer Navvin. It was a small town, not only smaller than Bedwyn but smaller also than Briston had been, and it had avoided being sacked by Cwerith when the Traitor King had marched on Bedwyn by virtue of not having a bridge across the Test. Strangely, the men did not put the rag back into Gwyn’s mouth, even though it looked like they were riding straight into the middle of the town. Surely they would worry about her speaking to someone they saw, or screaming, or doing anything to raise a ruckus that might give her chance to escape, but they did nothing to forestall any such action – except for when Gwyn glanced over at Haddon and saw his eyes fixed on hers and the blowtube in his hand, dart at the ready. So that was to be the way of it.<br /><br />They approached the wooden wall that surrounded the town, at which point Colla went right up to the gate and pounded on it, twice. The small shutter in the middle of the gate popped open, and the man within peered through and then stuck out his hand, into which Colla put the same bag of coins from before. Gwyn shook her head as she wondered just how many passages would be bought with this same set of coins. With a terrific <i>creak</i> of iron hinges, the gate swung open, allowing them entry. In they rode, with Gwyn following Colla and Wil, and with Haddon directly behind her. The gatekeeper glanced at her, and laughed.<br /><br />“So this is your game, eh?” he said. “Nabbing the Welcomer herself? Now that I know what you’re up to, I am thinking of upping my price.”<br /><br />“And you might find that my knife on your throat is more cheaply bought that that,” Colla said.<br /><br />The gatekeeper grunted as he grabbed a hooded lamp, hooked it to the end of a pole, and gestured for them to follow him. He led them through deserted streets until they came to an equally deserted livery which was occupied by a single wagon hitched to a team of mules. Here the false priests dismounted and forced Gwyn to do the same. Gwyn numbly went along with them, obediently climbing into the back of the wagon while Haddon and Wil saw to the mule team and while Colla gave the gatekeeper more money, leaving him alive. Minutes later they were trundling north again, looking like poor farmers, with Caer Navvin behind them.<br /><br />Gwyn lay in the wagon, helpless and afraid and exhausted. She had at first expected them to kill the gatekeeper, but of course his presence would be missed far more in Caer Navvin than those two boatmen anywhere else, and obviously they did not mean to risk word of a murder in that small village reaching Bedwyn when the city was already frantic with the disappearance of the Welcomer. Colla was playing this part well. As the wagon bumped along the pitted and rutted roads, neither Haddon nor Wil gave Gwyn a second glance. Colla, though, turned toward her from his seat.<br /><br />“You should rest, My Lady Welcomer,” he said. “This journey will be long.”<br /><br />Gwyn stared at him, wondering if he really thought she would be able to sleep just now, given that she was the captive of a trio of murderers. It turned out that he believed no such thing, because he reached into his pocket, and drew forth a small pouch whose contents – some kind of powder – he emptied into his palm and then blew into her face. She coughed as she involuntarily breathed the powder in, and she recognized the smell: it was dried drowsingstem, a kind of mushroom used in healing for its ability to put a person into a very long sleep. She resisted, uselessly, and in seconds she had fallen into a long and dreamless slumber.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-67772082110093471562007-07-01T09:44:00.000-07:002007-07-01T10:07:46.852-07:00The Finest Deed, Chapter TwoIt was dawn at Bedwyn, and like so many dawns of late, it was marked not by the brilliance of the rising sun but by a mere slackening of darkness to gray. At a time when boats laden with goods and grain and cattle and meat should have been visible plying the River Test in both directions from where a young woman once from Lyonesse stood overlooking the waters, now only occasional chunks of ice floated by the battlements of Bedwyn, on their way to the sea.<br /><br />Lady Gwynwhyfar the Welcomer, as she was called by those who did not know her – she was “Gwyn” to those who did – shivered, despite her thick cloak and furs. Even though it was colder each day, these walls were the only place where Gwyn could truly enjoy the clean air and the distance from the city's noise. Even if the scents of the city were not particularly pleasing these days, it was still a nice change from the constant burning of ritual incense in the Temple. As for the sounds of the city, Gwyn found that she needed them. The silence of the Temple was too unnatural to her ears – ears which had grown up with the ever-present sound of wind and the pounding waves.<br /><br />The first snow had fallen a week ago, and had taken three days to melt. The first snow…and yet, the summer that had just passed had not been summer at all, but really a snowless winter. Gwyn traced with her eye the lines of fields that should have been seeing harvest just now, and instead were dry and dead – and those fields to the immediate north of the city, which had been ruined in the great battle just two months ago. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized how much time she had spent standing walking the walls. Soon she would eat, which was something she could not say for the thousands who had come to Bedwyn seeking shelter in the face of war. Food had become a luxury, even here in Bedwyn – now Prydein's richest city, following the destruction of Londia by King Duncan of Caledonia.<br /><br />Gwyn thought back to the days before any of this had happened…before Brother Llyad had returned to Tintagel, before she had learned of her heritage, before she had met Lord Matholyn, Sir Baigent, Estren of the Nine Bards, and the Finders. She recalled the days when she had been deeply involved in studies she would now might never finish, and she remembered noticing that spring was colder than usual. She recalled how the wildflowers had been slow to bloom, how the mushrooms in the caves had suffered in the cold, how the storms had come more frequently and fiercely from the sea. But not a one of her fellow clerics of Tintagel – neither Priest nor Priestess nor mere Adept – had suspected that the slow spring had actually been the beginning of an unending winter. None had seen the signs of the darkness that was mustering its power, even as it did so. Of course, now she could look back and see the things she should have seen all along for what they were, but as Agonnar the Elder had written, “Memory’s light shines brightest, but the price that must be paid for such a brilliant beam is that it only shines on where one has already walked.”<br /><br />Gwyn heard footsteps behind her, and turned to see Davin ap Danach, Steward of Bedwyn, limping toward her. She had come to like this gruff man immensely in the short time she’d known him, not least because he stubbornly refused to allow his half-century old maiming to dissuade him from mounting the city walls or anything else. This was a man who would do well on Tintagel. “Are you well, My Lady?” he asked. “You should not be awake this early.”<br /><br />“Well enough,” Gwyn replied, smiling. “I am always up this early, especially here. You know this city is infernally quiet.”<br /><br />“Quiet?” Davin whistled. “This is a city! You could fit a hundred Tintagels within our walls!”<br /><br />Gwyn chuckled. “Yes, I suppose you could,” she agreed. “But you still wouldn’t have the sea.”<br /><br />“Bah!” Davin spat. He had never liked the sea, or water in general. Boats made him ill, and he preferred fighting on solid ground. “At least in Bedwyn it doesn’t smell like salt all the time, and we eat more than fish.”<br /><br />Gwyn smiled again. On Tintagel they <i>did</i> eat a lot of fish. Of course, they had eaten a great deal of fish in Bedwyn, too, since she had come here – the rivers had not lost their bounty yet, as had the fields – but Davin was right. The air hear smelled of earth, not salt. Gwyn had to remind herself what the sea smelled like, and suddenly she sighed, wanting to see her home once again. “Do you see anything interesting this morning? Anything unusual?”<br /><br />“Nothing unusual,” Gwyn said. The docks below were mostly abandoned, except for the beggars and derelicts who wandered about such places, looking for any scrap they could find, be it food or cloth or perhaps even a coin that someone had dropped. They all looked the same, man and woman alike: frames bent from so many years of stooping to pore over the dead and soon-to-be. One of these people was not quite so bent, but looked far more ancient than any of the others with his wispy white hair and long beard, and Gwyn’s eye followed this one as he made his way along the docks. Then he chanced to look up and meet her gaze, and something in his eyes – something other than the haunted and hungry look she saw so often these days – made her shudder. She turned away and faced Davin. “Is there any word?” she asked.<br /><br />“Nothing yet today,” Davin said. “Although it <i>is</i> early, and thus to be expected. I would be very surprised if we don’t have a rider before the sun goes down.”<br /><br />Gwyn nodded. A month had past since the King had taken the bulk of his army north and east, seeking a better place to establish a base from which he would confront King Cwerith and King Duncan – the “Traitor Kings”. In the wake of the Battle of Bedwyn, King Arthur had pursued Cwerith, diverting him even farther north and keeping him from moving to an easy rendezvous with Duncan, but then he had fallen back, not wishing to overextend his own force even as its ranks were swelled by people who had come from far across the land to fight for the Promised King. Even now, more and more came to Bedwyn, though the King himself had led his march northward. And they had come not just to see King Arthur, but to see the Welcomer who had brought him back.<br /><br />They had come, partly, to see <i>her</i>.<br /><br />“The presentation is in one hour,” Davin said. “You should get ready.”<br /><br />Gwyn nodded. In the days just after she had fulfilled her duty as the Welcomer, she had wondered what her role would be in the Prydein to follow. Would she return to Tintagel and complete her studies, or would she serve some other role. She had even wondered, although she would never say so out loud, if she was to have the same role as the Gwynwhyfar the King had known in the time before: if she was to be his Queen. Nothing had been said of that by the King or by anyone else, and she was not about to bring up the possibility herself.<br /><br />Davin escorted her back to the Gatehouse, where he led her down into the tunnels beneath the city. Brother Malcolm had told her how he had been taken through these very tunnels himself, when he had been escorted outside the walls to help the healers during the Battle, and for that reason she shuddered every time she walked through them – and also because the tunnels reminded her of the passages on Tintagel that led from the Sanctuary down to the Lord Priest’s chambers. These passages were much longer, though, and they seemed to delve much deeper.<br /><br />They came to a junction of five such passages, each coming from a different place in the city, and turned into the one that led up to the Temple. Finally they arrived at that heavy door, where Davin lit the candle that sat in a holder beside the portal. Then he rang the nearby bell, and almost immediately the door swung inward, to reveal the two Adepts who stood sentry within.<br /><br />“Greetings, Lord Davin,” said one of the Adepts. “Be welcome, Lady Welcomer.”<br /><br />“Greetings,” Davin replied.<br /><br />“Thank you, Davin,” she said.<br /><br />“I am at your service, My Lady,” Davin replied. “May you walk in Dona’s light.” He bowed, and then he turned to leave. Even as Steward of Bedwyn, Davin was not allowed into this particular door; it led to places meant only for members of Dona’s Priesthood. Gwyn stepped inside, and the Adepts pushed the door shut and barred it. Then one of them – a boy named Essym, if Gwyn remembered correctly – escorted her through the winding hallways of the circular Temple, tracing a path that Gwyn had only in the last few days begun to piece together, so convoluted was the interior of this particular building. Gwyn had always been gifted with maps and direction, but the spiraling about of these passages flummoxed her, and she was always glad for the guidance.<br /><br />Leading her up two sets of stairs, into the public level and then past it onto the private, Essym brought her to the comfortable chamber that had almost now become her home. This chamber was slightly larger than the one in which she had lived on Tintagel, and she did not have to share this one with another Adept, even one who was her best friend, as Dana was. <i>Ah, Dana</i>, Gwyn thought. <i>If you could see what has become of me, you would laugh…you alone, of everyone.</i> She would, too. Gwyn knew that much. Dana knew her too well to be overly impressed with her trappings as the Welcomer. She would especially laugh at the two Adepts who had been appointed as her personal attendants. “You have your own attendants?” she would say. “You, who just weeks ago were helping Sister Eylwen sweep out the stables!” Here she was met by Llara and Gerdeddwy, those very attendants, who helped her don her ceremonial robes for the presentation, even though the robes were not particularly complicated and by now Gwyn could put them on herself in half the time it took these two to help her.<br />Also awaiting her was the one person for whom Gwyn had been able to secure permission to enter this place. “You look tired,” said Gareth of the Finders.<br /><br />“I am,” Gwyn replied as she picked at the sleeves of her gown. This was the eleventh time she had attended one of these presentations since King Arthur had come to Bedwyn, and the third one this week and still she felt absurd doing this. It was the duty of...a Queen, a Princess, or even a Lord Priestess. Not a onetime Adept who had still not taken the Trials, and who had done nothing but play a ceremonial role since the completion of her mission to the Giants’ Dance. “I awoke too early this morning.”<br /><br />“You have awoken too early <i>every</i> morning,” Gareth said as she handed Gwyn a cup of wine mixed with water before settling into a chair. “This life does not suit you.”<br /><br />“Should it?” Gwyn said as she felt an old anger rising. Not so old an anger, actually – but one still sharp when she allowed it to show, which was not very often. It was the anger of inaction. She sipped from the cup, enjoying the cold liquid even though she didn’t normally care for diluted wine.<br /><br />“No,” said Gareth. “Being put on display for the people of Prydein would not suit me, either. I share your boredom. We have been here too long, I think.”<br /><br />Gwyn stopped what she was doing and looked at her friend. Gareth had been the ally she and her companions had so desperately needed on their journey to the Giants’ Dance, and she had been the one to remain a month ago when all the others had left with King Arthur to take the war north, including even Estren and Drudwas, since it was the duty of the Nine Bards – those few who were left – to be where the history of Prydein was bring shaped. The Druids too had gone north, for reasons of their own, taking Brother Llyad with them. Of Gwyn’s companions, only Gareth and the Finders had remained near Bedwyn.<br /><br />“Are you thinking of leaving?” Gwyn asked.<br /><br />“It is not in the nature of the Finders to remain still for so long,” Gareth said. “We will not find Seren Goleuad by sitting in one place. It is only by seeking that one finds, and we have done far too little seeking lately.” She sighed. “But then, I doubt very much if the Son is to be found while the land is being consumed by this war.”<br /><br />Gwyn nodded, but said nothing. As deeply as she had come to love Gareth and her people in the last two months, she still found their quest for the lost son of Dona and the Sun difficult to understand. Their beliefs were not reflected by any of the texts she had ever studied in her preparation to enter Dona’s Priesthood, and the idea of a union between the Sun and Moon was not one that had ever found favor amongst the learned clerics of Prydein. Even so, Gwyn had wondered occasionally when the Finders’ nature as a wandering people would win out over their current settlement in the hills just east of the city. Now it appeared that it might be coming to pass. “How soon would you be leaving?”<br /><br />Gareth shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “This isn’t a good time for the Finders, anymore than it is a good time for anyone else. We are skilled at living off the land, but even the skills we have honed over our years of seeking are being taxed now. And this <i>is</i> a time of war…” She trailed off for a moment, and then suddenly shook her head again. “This is idle talk, of course. I am simply growing uneasy after living for two months so near a city, and actually being in one. The Finders do not normally spend much time within city walls, but that is the way of it now. Our die is cast, and it cannot be unthrown. Forgive my ramblings.”<br /><br />Gwyn smiled mischievously. “Haven’t I done just that, too many times?”<br /><br />Gareth scowled, and changed the subject. “What news from the King?”<br /><br />“None,” Gwyn said. “Although Davin does expect a rider today, though. I suppose that is something.”<br /><br />“We are too much in the dark here,” Gareth said. “How can we help the King in his war if he will not tell us what is going on? We have waited too long to hear. For all we know, he could be marching into battle even as we speak.”<br /><br />Gwyn shuddered. She preferred not to consider that possibility. The thought of all those men she knew, riding directly into battle, filled her with fear and disquiet – especially as they would be riding to war against the combined forces of both Cwerith and Duncan, and this time they would not be able to surprise them with a sudden attack by riding through the Giants’ Dance and striking from behind. The next battles would be on single fields, for all to see.<br /><br />“Ach!” Gareth swallowed the rest of her wine in a single gulp. “I hate thinking of such matters. There is a reason we Finders go to war so rarely: we are bad at it.” She drained her own cup. “I thought I saw some anger there, a moment ago. You really <i>are</i> tired of this, aren’t you?”<br /><br />“Being put on display, almost as a thing?” Gwyn said. “To be held up for the people to stare at, without any ability to lead the rituals, or even to say anything at all? To have nothing at all to <i>do</i>, even if it is studying the Oracles until my eyes hurt and my back feels like it will never move again? No, I’m not tired of that at all.” She sat down on her bed and glowered at Gareth, who burst out laughing.<br /><br />“I’m sorry, My Lady,” Gareth said. “Scowling does not become you.”<br /><br />“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Gwyn replied. “And yet, I still have absolutely nothing to do. I rise in the morning, I walk the city walls just to get a breath of fresh air that isn’t scented with ritual perfumes, I attend ceremonies and sit in with the ladies and meditate and…that’s all. That’s what I have done for two months.”<br /><br />“You weren’t this confident, just two months ago,” Gareth said.<br /><br />Gwyn smiled. “There are many things that I wasn’t, two months ago.” She finished her own cup of wine. “I once asked you what place I would have, since I was no longer the Welcomer. You didn’t have an answer then. No one does, still.”<br /><br />“King Arthur may have an answer to that,” Gareth said. “Have you ever asked him?”<br /><br />Gwyn shook her head. King Arthur was…she could not say, really, what King Arthur was. She had no idea what she saw when she looked into his eyes. She had no idea what it was that he felt, what it was that he thought, what it was that moved him and stirred his soul. She had spent that first month at his side, always at his side, and yet he said as little to her as he did to anyone else. He was a total mystery, and she had actually felt some relief when he had led the armies north. In truth, she missed Sir Baigent and Brother Malcolm far more. Perhaps, though, the King <i>should</i> be a mystery. How could she claim understanding of a man who had spent centuries asleep on the magical isle of Avalon, awaiting his return to a land where all of the people he had once known would be long dead?<br /><br />And then there was the Book of the Finders.<br /><br />The book they had discovered at some point in their travels was the most complete version of the story of King Arthur’s earlier reign ever found. In the pages of that book, Arthur’s onetime Queen had been named: <i>Gwynwhyfar</i>. And the way he had recoiled when she had told him her name…it was as if he'd seen in her a connection to a memory and a sadness that he wanted so dearly to forget. All of that conspired to create a barrier between herself and King Arthur that she was not sure she could surmount.<br /><br />There came a knocking at the door then, and it swung open to admit two Adepts, followed by Father Terryn himself. Terryn was the Lord Priest of Bedwyn, and as such he presided over all of the ceremonies that took place in the great Sanctuary – like the one that was going to take place now. “It is time, My Lady,” Father Terryn said. “The people are gathered.”<br /><br />Gwyn sighed. “Then let us go,” she said, and she followed him out into the hallways. Gareth came along as well, and they walked down to the main floor. The halls now became much wider, and the walls were adorned with occasional tapestries and painted murals depicting legendary events from Dona’s lore. Gwyn found these paintings fascinating; they had nothing like them on Tintagel. One of them, in particular, always captivated her when she came to stand before it. It depicted the very first days following the Cataclysm, as three figures – a man, a woman, and a child, clothed in mere tatters and their flesh blackened by soot – emerged from a cavern onto a scorched wasteland, the trees reduced to blackened stumps, the water of a nearby stream gray with ash, and the skies dank and cloud-covered. What struck Gwyn most about this particular painting was two things: first, the features of the three figures in the picture, which were ever-so-slightly touched with the look of the Fair; and second, the orange coloring that tinged the painting’s outer regions, depicting a fire that had not yet gone out, far at sea. It was surely a trick of the light, but each time she came on the painting she thought she could see three spots of gold within the far-flung orange of the distant flames. Three spots of gold, perhaps for the three Golden Ships on which the Fair Folk had come to Prydein from their home which had been swallowed by a sea driven to anger by Dona’s Dark Brother. This painting was to Gwyn both a reminder of the danger they faced, and a powerful emblem of hope in the face of that danger – for even the fires of the Cataclysm had not been enough to scour the earth clean. Life continued, and the land had been rebuilt. Surely that meant for something.<br /><br />There was no time just now to look on these paintings, though. Father Terryn brought Gwyn into the Great Hall, which led in turn to the largest of the Temple’s four Sanctuaries. This great circular chamber seemed to Gwyn almost as large as all of Tintagel itself, and as was usual for these ceremonies, it was filled with several hundred citizens of Prydein who had newly come to Bedwyn. Even in the chill of winter, so many bodies in one place warmed the air, even before Gwyn felt the heat of the ceremonial fire that burned in the hearth at the exact center of the cavernous room; and even as much incense and scented oils as were being used right now could not totally cover the scent of so many unbathed bodies. As they drew near the entrance to the Sanctuary, a line of twenty Priests and Priestesses emerged from a side alcove to precede them inside. They took up a hymn of thanks to the Goddess as Gwyn and Father Terryn crossed the threshold and made their way along the aisle toward the granite altarstone before the fire in the center. Once Gwyn might have been impressed at the size of that altarstone – but she had been inside the Giants’ Dance. Beside the memory of those titanic megaliths, this stone seemed as a mere pebble.<br /><br />Upon their reaching the altarstone, the gathered worshipers all sank to their knees. There were no seats or benches in this place; all ceremonies were either held standing or kneeling. It had been thus in Tintagel’s Sanctuary as well, although Gwyn had to get used to the fact that rites were not held outside here. There was not enough room, and they could not require everyone to travel the mile or two beyond the gates to make it so. And that did not take into account the fact of war.<br /><br />Father Terryn held his staff aloft as the singing clerics reached the high point of their hymn, and then he slowly dipped its tip into the fire. Gwyn had seen this many times now, and she did not watch as the staff became enveloped in fire even though its wood did not actually burn; nor did she watch as the flame at the end of the staff turned from the familiar bright yellow of normal flame to the haunting silver of moonlight. She stood there, calmly, passively, gazing upon the downturned faces before her. All of them, ordinary people who had come from places torn by war or devastated by the winter that had never ended. All of them looking for hope, and who had come now to seek it in her.<br /><br />“Be welcome in this place, people of Prydein!” Father Terryn did not pitch his voice to carry; he didn’t need to. The Sanctuary was worked in such a shape, with its stone walls perfectly aligned, to magnify and reflect his voice around the great chamber so that even the person farthest away behind him could discern his words as if he spoke into their ears alone. The Sanctuary was, in many ways, a marvel. “Come now into the Goddess’s light, and witness what she has done for her followers. Come and bear witness to the fulfillment of prophecy set down centuries ago, passed first as songs sung by the night’s fire, and then written down a hundred years ago by Ryannon of Tintagel. Hear now her words:<br /><br /><i>“All things come and pass again, even the dark; but in the end there shall finally come a time of greatest Dark. And the Dark shall drive the Light from the land, the seas will fill with ice and fire, and the fruitful land shall stand in the midst of winter even as the longest days of summer dawn. The People in Hiding shall come forth, and many will be slain; the rivers will run with blood and the trees will suffer the tongues of fire. The finger of Darkness shall touch the earth itself, and death shall bloom like the flowers in spring.<br /><br />“ ‘Then there shall be a King, and he shall lead the people against the Dark. Before the last of all endings the place that saw battle before shall see battle again, the Wolf shall summon the Dragon, and all will hail the Coming of the King. And the King will rule over a Kingdom of Summer, and those long Kingless will have a standard once more.<br /><br />“ ‘And this King shall be welcomed by one mortal and Fairy-born, one who walks with the light of both worlds. As the King went into the West after his time before, look to the West for his Welcomer, and be glad of heart when she stands before you.”</i><br /><br />He fell silent for just the briefest moment, allowing the words to die away. Then he spoke again, now most definitely pitching his voice to carry: “Behold Lady Gwynwhyfar the Welcomer!”<br /><br />Now the eyes of all the people gathered in that Sanctuary lifted, and they all focused on <i>her</i>. Gwyn glanced from person to person, and yet their faces made little impression on her. By now they had all begun to look the same, whether man or woman, boy or girl, old and infirm or young and hale. And the expressions were all the same, too, with the same mixture of reverence and awe and disbelief and every other emotion Gwyn could think to name. Thankfully, she did not have to do anything, for the ceremony was not hers to lead. The other clerics began a new hymn, the Song of Thanks to Dona written by Varra of the Northern Forests, one of the oldest and most reverential of all the Goddess’s hymns. This song was known to everyone in Prydein, and one by one the assembled people lifted their voices to join the Priests and Priestesses. Finally Gwyn joined in as well for the final three verses, and at last she was escorted out of the great Sanctuary again by Father Terryn. The voices in the Sanctuary that were still raised in song still echoed through the corridors, giving Gwyn a haunting reminder of life on Tintagel. She had loved dearly to be in the library there, early in the morning, while the sworn Priests and Priestesses attended vespers in the Sanctuary below.<br /><br />“I’m glad that is over,” Father Terryn said when they were out of earshot of anyone except his and her personal attendants. “It would be easier if we simply paid some artisan to carve your likeness from oak or stone, and be done with it.” Gwyn glanced at him, surprised to hear him say such a thing, and he shrugged. “Forgive me, child, but this sort of thing is grating upon me. The Welcomer you may be, but you are also a person, not an idol. The way you are looked upon troubles me.”<br /><br />“I suppose it is mostly harmless,” Gwyn said.<br /><br />“Perhaps,” Terryn replied. “And perhaps I am not truly worthy to decide such things. I did, after all, doubt you as the Welcomer in the first place. This war of ours is making me doubt my own judgment.”<br /><br /><i>“Father Terryn! Hold!”</i><br /><br />They turned to see Amren, Captain of the City Guard, scrambling after them.<br /><br />“What is it, Captain?”<br /><br />“A rider,” Amren said. “News from the north!”<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />After changing from ceremonial robes into more useful garb, Gwyn and Gareth joined Father Terryn and Amren for the ride from the Temple to the Keep. Despite the bother of waiting for the guards to arrive to provide their official escort, and despite the way the crowds thronging the city streets mustered as they realized the Welcomer was passing among them, Gwyn was glad they weren’t merely using the tunnels to go to the Keep. “Sometimes,” Father Terryn had once said, “we have to appear where we can be seen. It gives the people pleasure to know that things are still the same, and that we are still here.” Gwyn enjoyed the air despite the cold, she had had enough of the cold and dank tunnels for this day, and the carriage in which they rode was mostly enclosed and private, enough so as to mostly shield her from the shouts and cheers of the crowds that ran to catch a glimpse of her. None could actually touch her, though – that much she knew. Amren’s City Guard was good, for which she was thankful. At one point, she thought she saw amongst the crowd the same white-haired beggar she had glimpsed upon the docks that morning, but the face was gone as quickly as she saw it, and all these hungry faces had long since begun to blend into one.<br /><br />When they arrived at the Keep, they were brought quickly into the Duke’s Hall. Even now, Gwyn felt a bit of surprise as she walked across the floor of the stark and chill hall, where the only decoration remaining in evidence were the tile patterns inlaid in the floor and two windows of stained glass by Annlaw, the great glasswright who had created wonderful illustrated windows for the greatest citadels in Prydein during the reign of High King Prystyl – of which these two, now that Caer Camyrdin and Londia had both been destroyed, were the only remaining examples. The tapestries and paintings here had been removed to storage for safekeeping, as had the Duke’s throne, which Gwyn was told the Duke never used, anyway. Now the Hall was basically a large chamber, dominated by four stone pillars and torch-sconces and nothing much else. The dais at the end was empty, and Davin had made his own workspace off to one side, against the left wall as one entered. Here was his table, piled high with maps and papers, and several chairs. There was also the walking stick which Davin only used when his knee was too sore to go without. This was where Davin stood near the Duke’s vacant seat with four other men, three of whom were clearly Priests, who bowed before Father Terryn.<br /><br />“May the Goddess bring us to your table under her shining light, Father,” one of them said. “My name is Colla. I come from the village of Caer Vaelle.” He looked at Father Terryn, who blinked and shook his head. “It lies in the mountains, very near the border of Caledonia,” Brother Colla went on. “These men – Brother Wil, and Brother Haddon – serve the Goddess is villages very near mine. We came south because we have heard of the Welcomer and the coming of the Promised King. Is this she?” He pointed to Gwyn, his eyes wide.<br /><br />“It is,” Father Terryn said. “Her name is Gwynwhyfar of Lyonesse. But just now, we would rather hear your tidings. We have received little word of the war in recent days, and our patience grows thin.”<br /><br />“Indeed,” said Davin, turning to the rider. “Have you men any particular news of the war?”<br /><br />Brother Colla shook his head. “None that would come as any news at all to My Lord Steward, unfortunately. Only to tell you that the people in the far settlements, the smallest villages, are now suffering horribly. Starvation is rampant. The bounty of the streams and rivers is beginning to fade, the animals in the woods cannot be found, and of course the ground has yielded nothing in almost a year. I have said the Rites of Passing too many times as of late, and I fear that when at last I travel north again, it will be to find a dead village.”<br /><br />Davin nodded slowly. “You are right, Brother,” he said. “That did not come as news. But, ill tidings are no easier to hear merely because they are expected.” He nodded to Father Terryn, who cleared his throat.<br /><br />“Brothers, if you would go with my Adepts, they will see you to the Temple and the lodging therein. I must remain here. Lord Steward Davin and I have matters to discuss, and this rider’s tidings may not be for your ears, I am afraid.”<br /><br />“We understand, Father,” said Brother Colla. He and the other two clerics bowed one final time, and then they exited the hall, following Terryn’s Adepts as he had indicated. When the doors had slammed shut again, they all turned to the rider.<br />“Very well then,” said Davin. “What word, Donaddan?”<br /><br />Donaddan, the rider, nodded. “Thank you, My Lord,” he said. “I encountered those clerics half a day’s ride from here, and they said they were making their way to Bedwyn to pay tribute to the Welcomer. Thus I gave them escort on the last part of my own ride.”<br /><br />“Understood,” Davin said. “Now, what of the King?”<br /><br />“He is near Oxishdown,” Donaddan said. Gwyn searched her memory of all the maps she had studied, and she recalled almost immediately that Oxishdown was a fairly large city located four or five days north and slightly east of Bedwyn, at the western end of the great Vale of Cul Calladan. It was the last city that far inland, before the Wilder Country – the mountains and deep forests north of Cul Calladan that dominated the center of Prydein – began. All of the other large cities and towns north of that region, the few there were, were located either on the sea or very near it. <br /><br />Davin’s eyebrows lifted, and he whistled. “He pushed Cwerith that far north?” Davin said.<br /><br />“Aye,” Donaddan confirmed with a nod. “He has taken to encampment on a high hill, the largest encampment I have ever seen. In truth, it is like to be the largest encampment since the days of High King Prystyl. It is a good hill, large and clear with good distance visible in each direction. The King has named it ‘Badon Hill’, for a battle he once fought…before. We also know that King Cwerith and King Duncan have at last joined together, at Cul Calladan's eastern end. A full day’s march now separates King Arthur from the Traitor Kings.”<br /><br />“Then there has been no battle?” Gwyn asked suddenly.<br /><br />“Naught but a few skirmishes,” Donaddan replied. “Some blood has been spilt – companies of men found trying to circumvent Badon on their way to join Cwerith, bandits on the loose seeking to prey on the roads during war, and the like. Nothing yet. Nothing large. Nothing like Bedwyn or Caer Camyrdin.”<br /><br />Gwyn let out a breath, unsure if she should find that news relieving or not. It meant, of course, that the men she knew up there were still alive…but to draw too much hope from that would be folly.<br /><br />“How soon does the King expect battle?”<br /><br />Donaddan waited a moment before replying. “I think,” he finally said, “that the King expects battle each day. He does not tell me.”<br /><br />“Very well,” Davin said. “Is there anything else?”<br /><br />“Yes, Lord Steward. I am bid by Sir Baigent ap Pelegaunt to give his personal greetings to the Lady Welcomer.”<br /><br />Gwyn felt her cheeks go red, and she smiled in spite of herself. In truth, it was Sir Baigent, her former Champion, whose fate most concerned her. She admitted this to no one, of course, although she suspected that Gareth was not at all surprised to hear it, given the low breathing noise the other woman made such that only Gwyn could hear.<br /><br />Davin turned to his table, the one he had placed against the wall after the Duke had left and which was now covered with maps and papers. He dug about for one map in particular. “Oxishdown,” he said. “Oxishdown…let me see…”<br /><br />Gwyn recalled the maps and the tales of the Bards and in the Oracles and the Histories of that region. War in that part of Prydein would be difficult, and it was amazing that King Arthur had pushed the Traitor Kings so far.<br /><br />“The King must be planning some kind of attack,” Davin said. “If he has pushed the Traitors back that far, he must be thinking to defeat them altogether in one great battle, and he is offering the same incentive as bait for Cwerith and Duncan.”<br /><br />“What makes you say that?” Father Terryn asked.<br /><br />“Because of the lay of the land up in that country, and because he has purposely pushed Cwerith as far from his home as possible. He is also offering himself. He knows that Cwerith views him as a pretender, and that Cwerith will want nothing more than to defeat him in battle and take the throne in a manner beyond questioning. The only vexing matter now is: Why is King Arthur waiting to attack?” He sighed. “Have you any other news, Donaddan?”<br /><br />“Not from the King,” Donaddan replied. “But there is word from Duke Cunaddyr. He wishes for you to gather able-bodied men and form a protection force to keep the peace. He wrote the orders himself.” He reached into his pouch and pulled out a folded and sealed sheaf of parchment. “He told me to deliver these dispatches directly into your hand.”<br /><br />“I’m sure he did.” Davin accepted the parchment, broke the seal, and scanned the contents. “Yes, I expected as much. I have already begun.” He dropped the parchment to his table, where it became just one more piece of parchment or paper among many. “The Duke is not so confident as is the King, apparently. He believes that there will be groups of bandits, common criminals trying to curry favor with Cwerith, by harassing Bedwyn and our commerce.” He scowled as he said that last word, and added, “Such as it is.” He glanced up at Amren. “A good thing that we have already started, eh?”<br /><br />Amren laughed, but without much humor behind it. They had indeed been selecting the strongest looking men amongst the refugees who had been flocking to Bedwyn, and employing them in a kind of militia. It was generally little better than the ragtag group that had fought off the attackers at the Giants’ Dance, since all the truly able-bodied men were sent in companies northward to join the King’s army if they hadn’t gone there already, but as in all things it would have to do.<br /><br />“Cunaddyr also authorizes me to restrict rationing further when that time comes,” Davin said with a sigh. “That may be sooner than he hopes.”<br /><br />“I suspect that he knows that,” Father Terryn said. “It is probably as close to a certainty as we can have in these dark times.”<br /><br />“Certainty is a luxury we have little enjoyed lately,” Davin agreed. He glanced at Amren, and Gwyn could not miss the foreboding in that look. “You may go now, Donaddan. Amren will see to your quarter for the night, and you shall have a fresh horse for your return ride in the morning.”<br /><br />“Thank you, Lord Steward,” Donaddan said, and Amren escorted him out of the hall. When the doors had again slammed shut, Davin let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his forehead.<br /><br />“What is it?” Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"When the Promised King arrived, we all thought that victory would come quickly, that the Goddess would be restored, that the land would blossom again. And yet it was not so. My old bones can still tell that something is amiss in the land, and I begin to wonder if it will still be more than a single King to set right – even one sent to us by the Goddess herself."<br /><br />Gwyn said nothing to this. There was nothing she could say, really. The same fear had been at work in her heart as well. Instead, she merely took her leave.<br /><br />The sun-cast shadows were growing long as they rode back to the Temple. The days were becoming shorter. Soon true winter would come, and there had not even been a summer. Even though it had been little more than an hour since she had seen these faces, these people of Bedwyn, somehow they looked hungrier, wearier. And there was nothing she, as the Welcomer, could do about that.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-52814795945063742252007-06-03T06:00:00.000-07:002007-06-03T04:51:52.669-07:00The Finest Deed, Chapter OneThe tiny cottage door opened for the first time in so many centuries that no single history could reckon the years that had passed since the last time, and the lone occupant emerged into sunlight for the first time in a span of equal measure. He stretched his bones again and then leaned on his walking stick as he took in the morning air. The grass covering the cottage’s earthen walls was still green, the only green grass which could be found anywhere in the land the men now called “Prydein”. The branches of the willow tree before him were bare, however, as were the branches of every tree in the forest before him. He sighed and brushed a lock of white hair from his eye. <i>Such a dark time,</i> he mused, <i>but then all times are dark. Darkness is ever ascendant, and now my power can only preserve a tiny patch of grass in the face of the entire realm. But perhaps I can do more than that after all....</i><br /><br />He stopped at the well just beside the willow, and filled his waterskin there. Then he slung the skin around his neck, tightened his cloak, and took the first step forward, away from his home where the lore of the ages had been his study matter. He stopped, though, when he heard the familiar screech of a familiar crow behind him.<br /><br /> “No, I had not forgotten,” said the man as he turned back toward his home. The crow stood on the roof of the cottage, eyeing him. It extended its wings and flew to the man's outstretched wrist, where it fixed him with an angled stare. “We must go now,” the man said. “The time has come.”<br /><br />With his other hand he reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of seed, which he fed to the ageless bird.<br /><br />“Ah, old friend,” he said as the crow began snapping up the seed, “you sense my fear, don’t you? You know how difficult it is, and what must be sacrificed by those who would take on the deed. And you know, don’t you, all the things that must end before the deed can be done.” He sighed. “How sorry I feel for you, to have naught to attend but the ramblings of an old man. But now you must feel the air through your feathers again. Go and find him!”<br /><br />And with that, the man released the crow into the air, where it vanished from sight into the gray sky above the forest, heading north. "And I shall find her," the man said, and struck out onto the path that led from his door and into the world of Men.<br /><br />Then he swung south.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />The window’s shutters rattled in deference to the unceasing wind that howled outside. The candle on Father Damogan’s table flickered suddenly and went out, extinguished by one of the particularly strong gusts that were not completely stopped by those shutters. Damogan, the Lord Priest of Tintagel, sighed as he straightened up from the book he’d been studying and glanced across the table at his assistant, who had fallen asleep on the table an hour before. Sister Dana, just two months past her Trials and induction into Dona’s Priestesshood, had been working with Father Damogan since Brother Malcolm had left just before those trials...along with Gwynwhyfar, who should have been a Sister now herself but was instead now enmeshed in the affairs of Prydein.<br /><br />Dana had been Gwynwhyfar’s best friend, and probably would still be if and when she ever returned to Tintagel. That, of course, was not likely. The girl who had turned out to be half-Fairy, who had fulfilled Ryannon's prophecy of the Welcomer and who had brought King Arthur back from Avalon and then made it possible for him to traverse the great distance from the Giants’ Dance to Bedwyn in time to win the battle there against King Cwerith, would surely never again be a student or become a Priestess. Damogan had seen something special in the orphan girl from Lyonesse when Malcolm had brought her here those many years ago, although never in the most free of his dreams had he imagined just how special she would be.<br /><br />Another powerful gust of wind actually caused the shutter to fly open with a loud bang, awakening Sister Dana with a start. “What is it?” she yelped, even as Father Damogan crossed the room to secure the shutter. Dana threw her arms across the table, to keep the papers and scraps of parchment from blowing away. Father Damogan returned to the table from the window, where he held his hand over the smoking candle and whispered a short incantation which sent a lick of flame down from his fingertips to the wick, relighting it. Glancing at Dana and noting her expression, he shrugged.<br /><br />“That spell is an easy one,” he said.<br /><br />“The storm is still raging,” she said. “I wonder if it will ever stop.”<br /><br />“All things end, in time,” Damogan replied. “The only question is, whether they end for good or for ill.” He sighed. “Long may it be before this storm is spent, but I think that for tonight, we are. We have been working too hard on this, and you need rest if you are to lead the morning Vespers.”<br /><br />Dana sighed, not wanting to be reminded of that. She’d been nervous enough about her first turn leading Vespers without Damogan speaking of it at every opportunity. She pushed herself up from the table. “Sleep well, Father,” she said. “It will be--”<br /><br />She was interrupted by a furious pounding at the doors of Father Damogan’s chambers.<br /><br />“Odd,” Damogan said. “No one should be bothering me this late. See to it, will you?”<br /><br />Dana was already striding for the door, and when she opened it she found a young Adept standing there. He was terribly wet, he was shivering, and he was somewhat out of breath.<br /><br />“Grufydd!” Dana exclaimed. “What is it?”<br /><br />Father Damogan joined them, alarm in his eyes. Grufydd was Sister Moyra’s assistant, in the Chambers of Healing. He would only disturb the Lord Priest in his private chambers for a small set of reasons, none of them pleasant. “What is it, Gruffyd?” Damogam asked. “Is someone hurt?”<br /><br />“Yes, Father,” Gruffydd replied.<br /><br />“Can Brother Denys not handle it, in Brother Malcolm’s absence?”<br /><br />“Father, it is Brother Malcolm.”<br /><br />Dana felt suddenly ill, and she could see the color drain from Father Damogan’s face even in the dim candlelight of the anteroom. “Father, did you know--”<br /><br />“No,” Damogan said. “I have received no word of his coming. That is unlike him; he would have sent a message of some kind. How could I not have foreseen it?”<br /><br />Brother Malcolm had been gone from Tintagel for months -- since the very night Gwyn herself had been abducted by Brother Llyad (even though a letter in her own hand that had come afterward had absolved Llyad of guilt on that score). Malcolm had gone with Lord Matholyn and his men, and though he had sent word on his own several times, he had sent none at all that he was coming back.<br /><br />“You must come quickly,” Gruffyd said. “Sister Moyra is unsure that Brother Malcolm will survive the night.”<br /><br />Father Damogan grabbed his cloak and staff as Dana pulled on her own cloak and extinguished the candles. Then they followed Gruffyd out into the corridor and up the passage to the Sanctuary.<br /><br />The Chamber of Healing had always filled Dana with a sense of mystery. Strange and powerful lore was at work here, but she had never been able to truly fathom it. Though Dana was at least familiar enough with the healing arts that she would not be utterly hopeless in the face of illness or injury, the greater part of the powers that Sister Moyra wielded against hurt and harm were as magic to her. As Gruffyd brought them through the outer chambers into the inner rooms, Dana wondered if she should even be coming along at all – surely this was not her place, even though she was no longer an Adept -- but Father Damogan did not dismiss her.<br /><br />They came into the room where Sister Moyra stood over a bed, attending the sick person who lay there. A fire roared in the hearth, with a pot of boiling water hanging above it. The shelves sagged under the weight of jars of dried herbs, colored liquids, powders, mushrooms, and nearly every other medicine known and some that weren’t. Sister Moyra drew a square of cloth from the boiling pot, using a pair of metal tongs, and when it cooled enough for her to touch, she folded it and pressed it to the patient’s bare chest. Stepping closer, Dana gasped.<br /><br />Brother Malcolm had never looked like this, in all the time she had known him. His body was limp and his flesh pallid, and there were both a large gash on the left side of his forehead and a deep wound, still oozing blood, in his left side, just below his ribs. His skin was covered with fine sweat, and his breath was shallow.<br /><br />“How is he?” Father Damogan asked.<br /><br />Sister Moyra grunted with displeasure. “That gash on his head isn’t nearly as bad as it looks,” she said. “Gruffyd here has worse when he tripped on wet stone and fell face-down in the stables. It’s the wound in his side that may send him to Annwn.”<br /><br />“The wound is deep?”<br /><br />Moyra shook her head. “It’s not how deep it is that worries me. It’s the poison that was on the blade.”<br /><br /><i>“Poison!”</i> Dana gasped, and Father Damogan turned white for the second time. Poisoned weapons were the tools of brigands, bandits and other criminals. They weren’t even used on the fields of war, yet another part of the legacy of High King Prystyl.<br /><br />“Has he awakened at all?” Damogan asked.<br /><br />“Only for moments at a time,” Sister Moyra replied. “His fever is among the worst I have seen, and few of those have survived.” Sister Moyra was not one to soften unpleasant tidings. Dana brushed away a tear.<br /><br />“Malcolm has always been strong,” Damogan said.<br /><br />“He will need that strength,” Moyra said as she turned away to change the water in the pot. “I have given him an extract of goldspot. We shall see if that proves as strong an antivenom as the poison which now runs in his veins.”<br /><br />“Goldspot!” Damogan exclaimed. “How did you come by goldspot? It doesn’t grow in our caves.” From this, Dana surmised that goldspot was a kind of mushroom, although she had never heard of it before.<br /><br />“You are not the only one with secret knowledge, Damogan,” Moyra said. “I have studied the magic of toadstools for longer than you, and while you have no doubt relied on them for their scrying and knowledge-seeking abilities, I have concentrated on them as part of healing.”<br /><br />“Of course,” Damogan said. Dana would have found his admission of ignorance on a particular topic surprising had it not come over Brother Malcolm’s weakening body. Then Malcolm drew an audible breath, and his body shifted slightly.<br /><br />“What is it?” Dana asked as Moyra again drew near.<br /><br />“It is one of his awakenings,” she said.<br /><br />“Will he awaken enough to speak?” Father Damogan asked, but Sister Moyra gave no response. Instead she lifted the poultice closer to Malcolm’s nose, allowing him to breathe in its vapors. A second or two later, he drew another breath, sharper this time, and stirred again. His lips moved, although no sound that Dana could detect issued from them.<br /><br />Father Damogan leaned very closely now, over Malcolm’s face, as the poisoned cleric mumbled. After too brief a time, Malcolm’s lips ceased moving and his body relaxed again as he slipped back into fevered sleep. Damogan sat back on the stool, looking very old in that moment.<br /><br />“Did he say something?” Dana asked.<br /><br />Father Damogan nodded. “<i>Dark Druids,</i> he said. <i>Dark Druids.</i>”<br /><br />Dana shivered, suddenly fearful although she could not know what exactly that meant. Outside, the wind howled louder -- or perhaps it only seemed so.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />On a field at the eastern end of the great vale of Cul Calladan, King Cwerith ap Cellamma sat atop his destrier, waiting as his trumpeters played the ceremonial call of the Kings of Caledonia, and then he waited for the trumpeters on the opposite side of the field to respond with the ceremonial call of Gwynedd. The banners above him snapped to and fro, blown by a cold and vigorous wind –- the only kind that blew in Prydein these days. His entire army was arrayed behind him, and across this great field, fifty paces away, waited that of his ally, King Duncan of Caledonia. About him was gathered the retinue that he had made in the last several months, consisting of lords who had sworn their allegiance to him, but none of them mattered so much as the man he now waited to meet.<br /><br />“We’ve come far, Lord Varing,” Cwerith said to his steward, who stood beside him on his own horse.<br /><br />“We have indeed, sire,” Lord Varing responded.<br /><br />Cwerith nodded. This was indeed a proud moment, although it was not nearly as sweet as the moment that still awaited him, when he would assume his rightful place as High King of Prydein. And now he would have the strength to do just that, the strength that had eluded him at the Battle of Bedwyn. Gwynedd’s time had come, and all else was mere delay.<br /><br />Cwerith’s herald stepped forward and shouted his greeting to the other side. “His Majesty, High King Cwerith ap Cellamma, greets the King of Caledonia in friendship! Will King Duncan of Caledonia come forth to parley?”<br /><br />Cwerith sighed inwardly. In truth, he hated all these ceremonial trappings of Kingship. He found them boring, mere theater for the common folk that had little, if anything, to do with the actual wielding of power. What was important was not the sounding of trumpet calls and the parleys and the pomp of it all; what was important was the power. Cwerith did not crave the love of the people; he craved the power over them that only the High King could wield. But even so, he knew that these ceremonies and rituals were important to remind the people of that power. And thus he went through with it, even though he hated it, for he needed every honor and ceremony that was possible. Too many of the people of Prydein -- <i>his subjects</i> –- were flocking to the banner of this pretender, this...<i>Arthur</i>. Cwerith’s throat clenched as he even thought of the name. The warrior from beyond, sent by the weakening Goddess even as the Dark Brother worked to stop him…the warrior who now claimed to be the Promised King, but who couldn’t possibly be. This Arthur appealed to fools and charlatans and weaklings, not to the men who were the true strength of Prydein.<br /><br />The true High King should not have to remind people of his Kingship.<br /><br />Now Duncan’s herald was giving some long-winded reply. “We, the sons and princes of Caledonia, come now to align ourselves with the High King of Prydein! Not since the days long gone by, when King Maccon ruled the cold and hardy lands to the north, has there been such friendship and allegiance between the nations of Prydein and Caledonia. Now at last, the King of Caledonia proudly marches to battle against the enemies of the High King of Prydein. May the banner of Gwynedd long fly proudly above the cities of all our land, and may it long inspire the hearts of men....”<br /><br /><i>Get on with it,</i> Cwerith thought. His horse, evidently of like mind, stamped the ground and snorted haughtily. Cwerith glanced around at the new lords and allies in his retinue – Gaddamar, who had been first; Lord Paleri of the central wood; and others whose names he could barely recall even now that they had ridden beside him for more than a month. He liked these men very little, and trusted them even less. <i>Sworn allies to a King are as the dandelions in the spring</i>, the saying went, <i>but his truest friends number fewer than the winter robins</i>. How true that was. Irlaris himself had only learned it when Duncan’s banners had appeared on his horizon. The same banners that Cwerith gazed upon now.<br /><br />At last Duncan’s herald fell silent, and Lord Varing turned toward Cwerith. “My Lord?”<br /><br />Cwerith nodded, and Varing gestured for the trumpeters to sound the Call of Acceptance. As the echoes from that call died out, Duncan’s party came forward, and Cwerith’s rode out to join them. All the foolish ceremony and staging, just to bring these two men together as Cwerith finally came face-to-face with his truest ally.<br /><br />“Greetings, King of Caledonia,” Cwerith said. “Be welcome in Prydein.”<br /><br />“Thank you, My Liege,” Duncan said in a voice that was somehow both loud and mumbling. “I find it hard to believe that not until now have I set foot this far south.” He was a large man, his face pink and his complexion ruddy even in the unending cold. He wore no badge of office on his furs, save for a brooch fastened to his collar almost as an afterthought. Duncan’s helm was dull iron, and the pommel of the sword he wore on his back likewise bore no ornament. King Duncan, Cwerith noted approvingly, was not a man wedded to the trappings of being King.<br /><br />“No more surprising than my failure to ever travel to Caledonia,” Cwerith replied.<br /><br />Duncan laughed. “According to the poets, there is much in common between our lands,” he said. “Gwynedd and Caledonia have both long suffered the inattention of Londia." He grinned. "But no longer, I think.”<br /><br />“No longer,” Cwerith agreed.<br /><br />King Duncan cleared his throat. “Well, I’d best be on with it, I suppose,” he said as he swung down from his horse with a thud as his large frame hit the ground. He handed the reins to a page who came running up for just this reason, and then he drew his sword and held it on the ground in front on him as he sank to one knee. “I am Duncan ap Darrmot, King of Caledonia. I pledge all my strength, and all the strength of my lands and the men within them, to Cwerith ap Cellamma, High King of Prydein. His allies shall be my allies, his foes shall be my foes, his wars are my wars, and his peace shall be my peace. I shall serve him as long as he or I draw breath.”<br /><br />Cwerith nodded. “Rise, Duncan ap Darmot,” he said. “I accept your fealty with pride and gratitude. Together we shall forge a new Prydein.” He offered his right hand, and Duncan clasped it as he rose. Then Cwerith said, “Now dine with me, my friend. I would not turn a man away from my table when there is meat to be torn.”<br /><br />“These are not good days for meat,” Duncan said. “I will welcome such.”<br /><br />The two men departed then, leaving Lord Varing and the other lords and barons to see to the joining of the armies. They went to Cwerith’s tent to discuss strategy and war, and how they would now move to defeat the menace of the pretender to the south who called himself the Promised King.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />In a grove in a wood, not too far away from where the armies of Cwerith and Duncan faced each other while their respective lords forged their new alliance, some poor diseased wretch was dragged to the freshly-hewn trunk of a great tree and tied down by Priests in dark robes while another Priest, tall and fat and sweating despite the cold, wiped the silver knife in his hand with a square of blue cloth. Cassion had not performed such a rite in some time – not since the Battle of Bedwyn had turned badly. The King had been angry, of course – how could he not be, since the victory that had been so close to being his had eluded him – but he was still beholden to Cassion and the wisdom and tidings he brought. Cwerith had come too far now, and earned too much, by the light of the Goddess’s brother to turn back. Even if the blood for the summoning had not been Cwerith’s since that day, even if Cassion’s knife had not been pressed to the flesh of the royal forearm in nearly two months, it mattered not. Cwerith was still with him, and the time would come. The boundaries between the worlds were still weakening, and Dona was still on the wane.<br /><br />“Bind him still,” Cassion said. The wretch, some ancient and withered hermit who would likely break his arms in the course of struggling against the bonds now being fastened around his wrists, would provide no challenge – but blood was still blood, and the God would taste it and approve of it. This, too, Cassion knew beyond all doubt.<br /><br />At last the wretch was bound to the stump, with his bare chest exposed. Of course, this summoning would require more than blood let from an arm and collected in a blessed flask; this would require blood directly from the chest, still pushed out as the heart beat its last. <i>The freshest blood is the sweetest to the Brother</i>, it was written in the book whose only existing copy now lay in Cassion’s private chamber back at Caer Mastagg. He no longer needed it. He had learned every word in its pages years ago.<br /><br />“It is done,” said one of his attendants. Cassion nodded and stepped forward, the knife gleaming in the light of the ritual fires. The man on the stump was blubbering and quivering with terror and delirium in his eyes. Once Cassion might have said something to calm him, something to assure him that it would soon be over. Once, but not now. It did not matter in the slightest. He lifted the knife and prepared to receive the power he craved so dearly. Even as Cwerith was making final his alliance with Duncan, there were things to be done…and Cassion needed to know what they were. There was more to do, <i>so much more</i>....<br /><br />And when the knife had flashed, and the running blood had darkened the fresh-cut stump, and the God had come as he always did, Cassion knew what had to be done. He beckoned to his most trusted servant, a once-rich scion who had forsaken his father’s wealth for true power.<br /><br />“Do you serve the Brother truthfully, my son?”<br /><br />“I do,” said the young man.<br /><br />“Then gather your flock,” Cassion said. “You will perform a great deed. There is one whose blood the Brother still requires.”<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />“I told you I saw a camp here,” said the old man as he pointed across the snow-covered land to the remnants of tents and tentframes. “I told you I saw people.”<br /><br />“Yes you did,” the crone replied. “And you also said that if we came far enough south we’d find a land of where the streams ran with honey and where the trees were so heavy with apples their branches would almost touch the ground. So where are the apples and honey, love?”<br /><br />“Do you see this snow, woman? You think there’s honey in the snow?”<br /><br />“You said there wouldn’t be no snow,” she said. “You said there’d be warmth. I didn’t think you’d mean a half-burned camp that’s already been picked over by the buzzards.”<br /><br />The old man shrugged. He had said all those things. Now he wished he hadn’t – not because she was disappointed, but because now she’d never be quiet. “Well, we can have a look anyway. I’m sure there’s something of value left.”<br /><br />The crone stopped short.<br /><br />“Are you sure about this? We’ve heard bad things about that place. Maybe we shouldn’t go closer than this.”<br /><br />“Pagh!” The man spat. “They’re just rocks. If there was really magic here, it would have struck us down already.”<br /><br />The crone looked askance. She did not find this logic very convincing. Everyone knew that there was deep, deep magic in these stones. And the rumors that had reached even their ears, in their cabin deep in the forest far to the north of what had come from...someplace beyond, in this place…a King....<br /><br />“This is no set of standing stones,” she said. “This is the Giants’ Dance.”<br /><br />“Pagh!” The man spat again and stalked through the ankle-deep snow toward the abandoned camp just north of the Giants’ Dance. Surely there’d be something good here, something useful – something they could barter for food or goods. The unending winter was an inconvenience, certainly, but this was still a fine time to be a scavenger. Fields freshly bloodied in battle had been a rare thing during Irlaris's years on the throne, but now he was dead and there were two claimants fighting for his throne. What a wonderful time to be a scavenger, even if the battlefield was like this one: small and confined. The battle that had taken place here had not been a gigantic one, as the battle at Bedwyn had been rumored to be. But it was still a battle.<br /><br />“Near as I can tell,” the man said, “the people camping here were attacked and then they fled, but after winning. I’m not sure why they would leave if they won, but there it is. They put their camp to the torch.”<br /><br />“Maybe they only beat off their attackers,” said the woman. “Maybe they didn’t defeat them totally. Or maybe this was no permanent camp at all. Maybe they meant to leave all along.”<br /><br />“Maybe.” The man shrugged. He didn’t care, actually. All he wanted was to find something here of value.<br /><br />They moved through the burned tents and the wreckage of the place. To their great good luck, the bodies were still here, even though it had been almost two months since this had all happened. The dead were mostly frozen, and thus they had not yet begun to really rot; their frozen eyes still stared from frozen skulls, and their frozen blood still oozed from frozen wounds. It was a bounty the likes of which these two scavengers had never seen. There were daggers still in their sheathes, axes and spears and lances they’d be able to sell, leathers, saddles on the dead horses…it was amazing. As the man filled his arms with more bounty than he’d ever seen from a single battlefield (but less than he’d ever be able to carry), his eyes became wider and wider. Until he bumped into his crone wife again, who was standing over a single corpse.<br /><br />“This is amazing!” he said. “I’ve never seen a battlefield like this! It was a small battle, yes, but no one has disturbed it! No one’s even walked on it since the snow started falling! The body I just saw, the man was <i>gigantic</i>--”<br /><br />“We have to leave,” the woman said.<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />"We have to leave. Now."<br /><br />The man couldn’t believe what he'd heard. She’d never been squeamish before. “Is it the ‘magic’ of that Giants’ Dance? I’m telling you, the magic here is so dead asleep it’ll never come back.”<br /><br />“There is a reason no one has been here,” she said. Her voice was low. "There is a reason this battlefield has not been disturbed."<br /><br />The man gawked at her. Something was bothering her, that much was certain. But what? Was it something about the body at her feet? He stepped forward for a better look. <br /><br />The body at her feet was unremarkable. The snow and the cold had frozen this man’s features, but his most notable aspect was his lack of a left hand. The wrist there ended in a stump that was still bound...his hand had been taken shortly before he had fallen here....<br /><br />“It’s just a dead warrior,” the man said.<br /><br />“Is it?”<br /><br />And that was when they both heard it: the baying of wolves.<br /><br />“We’ll be safe here,” the man said. “We will light a fire—-”<br /><br />“No,” she interrupted. “We won’t be safe. Not from these wolves.”<br /><br />The baying came again, echoing across the lonely, snow-covered field which should have been covered with the grasses and flowers of harvest season. The breeze freshened, coming anew from the only direction in which the breeze ever seemed to come these days: the north. They had known the north wind well, these two; it had driven them from their home when finally they had been unable to further resist the unending winter and the lure of possible warmer places to the south. That, and the word of battles and fields that would need scavenging.<br /><br />“What wolves are these?” the man asked.<br /><br />His crone wife sighed. He had never taken matters like this seriously enough. Never. “They are not of this world,” she said. “We have disturbed this place. They have claimed it.”<br /><br />The man shuddered. The crying of the wolves began again, much closer this time. So close, in fact, that it seemed they were baying from inside the Dance itself. They could see shadows moving within the great ring of stones, shadows amongst the gray monoliths that stood stark against a grayer sky.<br /><br />“We should not have come,” she said again.<br /><br />“Come on!” he suddenly shouted. “We can run! We can’t just let them catch us!” He grabbed at her arm, but she refused to move.<br /><br />“It won’t matter,” she said. The shadows loomed larger, and now their shapes were more definite. The north wind howled all the more.<br /><br />“Maybe not to you,” the man growled, “but I’m not staying here.” He clutched his bounty from the dead to his chest and ran off across the snow, leaving his crone wife behind. She simply stood there, beside the body of the one-handed warrior. They would come soon. She prayed to the Goddess – her first prayer since childhood –- that they would be quick about it.<br /><br />And then the wolves came: two gray lieutenants, followed by one silver.<br /><br />The silver one watched, his eyes impassive, as one of the lieutenants pounced on the woman and made the prayer she'd just uttered come true. The other bounded across the snow after the other fool who had dared violate this place. And then the lieutenants returned and bowed before their master, who stared at the dead, one-armed warrior upon the ground.<br /><br />It was not yet time. He would have to wait...but waiting is easy for the dead. The time would come, when that Priest in the north got hold of the blood of the girl.<br /><br />The three wolves, two gray and one silver, turned and walked back into the confines of the Giants’ Dance as the north wind brought new snow to cover the fresh blood on the old.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-27128276920408937292007-05-30T14:43:00.001-07:002007-05-30T14:48:28.486-07:00Coming June 3!At last, the announcement that as many as a dozen people have waited for: serialization of <i>Book Two: The Finest Deed</i> will begin on Sunday, June 3, 2007. I know, this has been a long time coming, and even though I'm not even done <i>writing</i> the thing yet, it needs to start getting out there.<br /><br />The frequency for <i>Book Two</i> will be slower than it was for <i>The Welcomer</i>. Where I serialized that book at two chapters per month, this time out I will only promise <i>one</i> chapter per month, which will appear on the first Sunday of each month unless otherwise noted. Now, I do hope to get ahead of my schedule a bit as I get chapters finished, so there <i>will</i> be times when I am able to post two chapters a month. So as not to cause anyone to miss anything, when each chapter is posted, I will also post in the sidebar the date on which the <i>next</i> chapter will appear.<br /><br />Anyhow, thanks to everyone who's read Book One. I hope the resolutions to come in Book Two will be worth your wait.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1153604659292557472004-07-22T14:39:00.000-07:002007-05-12T20:22:15.563-07:00An easter egg for Byzantium's Shores readers....<i>(I've moved the <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> post to my main blog, <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">here</a>.)</i><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><font size =-4><br /><a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a> <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com/2002/01/yes-pie-in-my-face.html">pie in the face</a><br /></font><p>Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1136744999825955942006-01-08T10:24:00.000-08:002006-07-22T14:46:27.903-07:00--hiatus--[Updated: see below]<br /><br /><i>The Promised King, Book One: The Welcomer</i> was completed in December of 2005. Serialization of <i>Book Two: The Finest Deed</i> will begin sometime in late 2006 or early 2007; watch this space or my main weblog, <a href="http://byzantiumshores.blogspot.com"><i>Byzantium's Shores</i></a>, for an announcement of when that will begin.<br /><br />All chapters of <i>The Welcomer</i> are still available, via the links in the sidebar to the left. Thank you for visiting!<br /><br />-K.S.<br /><br />UPDATE: Work has been very slow on Book Two, so it probably won't begin here until late 2006 or early 2007. Meantime, feel free to read my main blog for non-fictional stuff.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1134920363060192582005-12-18T07:27:00.000-08:002005-12-18T07:52:42.666-08:00Epilogue<I>The rush of wind died away, and the air was finally still. She turned toward the beach where the waves lapped the shore. He was standing there, as she had known he would be. As she approached, he turned and faced her. How old he looked, and how tired. Still, he smiled as she drew near, and he lifted his hand to touch her cheek. His flesh was still rough and callused from years of work in the fields and at sea, but his touch was still warm.<br /><br />"You are so beautiful," said her father. "I see so much of your mother in you. I think she would be proud of what you have done."<br /><br />"Are you?" she asked.<br /><br />He smiled. "Oh, little sparrow," he said. "How I wish I could have seen it." He touched her hair and looked around at the cottage and the sea. "This place will always be a part of you," he said. "And so will I. But you cannot return."<br /><br />"I know," she said. She'd known it all along. There would be many dreams, but none more of her father and the place where he had always sought solace in the waters that had given him his life and his love. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and then he turned and walked away, up the beach until he disappeared into the haze. Then Gwynwhyfar of Lyonesse herself left that place, and never again did she see it -- neither within her dreams nor without.</I><br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwyn stirred, and she heard someone nearby say, "She awakes!" and rush off. Turning toward the nearby source of warmth, she opened her eyes and found that she was in a camp with the Druids and the refugees from Caer Camyrdin. But it was not the camp beside the Giants' Dance: they were surrounded by sparse trees, and the land was hillier. They had left the plain. She looked at the fire beside her -- small, and one of many -- as the Druid who had been sitting beside her came back, with Brother Llyad and Gareth.<br /><br />"You are looking better," Gareth said. "I feared for you, but Brother Llyad insisted you were stronger than that. I see he was correct."<br /><br />Brother Llyad handed her a bowl of herb-scented soup, which she drank gratefully even though its flavor was ghastly.<br /><br />"Where are we?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"We are just past Walding Wood, to the south and west," Gareth said. "It was not safe for us to remain at the Dance."<br /><br />Gwyn nodded. "What news of Bedwyn?"<br /><br />Brother Llyad shook his head. "Nothing yet, My Lady," he said. "That's where the King went, isn't it?"<br /><br />Gwyn nodded. "But that gate is now closed."<br /><br />Gareth shrugged. "We Finders are used to moving on foot," she said.<br /><br />"As are we Druids," said Horius, who had just joined them. "My scouts have report that what survived of Maxen's company fled north. That is why we have moved south, toward Bedwyn -- and west, into the hills, in the event that there is another army moving north."<br /><br />"How long?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"Three days, perhaps four," Horius said. "Provided that we do not encounter any other dangers along the way. But we are prepared. You will be safe." He smiled, and Gwyn nodded and sipped again at the tea. "Was he there, Welcomer?" Horius asked after a moment. "Did you find him?"<br /><br />"Oh, yes," Gwyn said. "He has returned."<br /><br />Horius breathed a sigh of reverence. "Dona bless us all," he said.<br /><br />Gwyn drank the remainder of her soup, allowing the warmth to spread through her body. "How long has it been?" she asked.<br /><br />"One full day," said Brother Llyad. "We found you at the center of the Dance, and you have slumbered all that time since."<br /><br />Gwyn thought back to the sensation of falling through darkness…and of Nimue calling out for Amairgen...had he caught her? Had he brought her back? She put her empty bowl aside and drew her knees up close to her chest. "I suppose I shall soon return to Tintagel and complete my training," she said.<br /><br />"Nonsense," said Gareth. Gwyn looked up at her, and Gareth laughed. "Don't look so surprised," she went on. "Go back to being a cleric, after the things you have seen and done? Absurd."<br /><br />"My task as Welcomer is done," Gwyn said. "The Promised King has returned."<br /><br />"None of us knows what tasks the Goddess may place before us, My Lady," said Brother Llyad. "But I cannot believe yours will ever involve translating books in Tintagel's library."<br /><br />Gwyn sighed. They were right, of course. Whatever place she had now, whatever role was hers to play, it would not be as a cleric. True, she had spent her entire life until just a week ago as an Adept in service to Dona's priesthood; but Fair Folk blood still ran in her veins. She had been the Welcomer, and not only had she been chosen for it -- she had been brought into the world for it. There <I>would</I> be a place for her, Gwyn realized -- even in this time of war and darkness that was descending on Prydein, and even as the light of hope began to shine upon it. What truly frightened her, Gwyn suddenly realized, was not <I>if</I> she would have a place, but rather <I>what</I> that place would be.<br /><br />They talked a while more, of nothing in particular -- when suddenly there was a bird's call -- repeated three times, very quickly. Gareth jumped up. "Matt and Calloch return! That is their signal!"<br /><br />The entire camp roused as the returning riders entered the camp after not being seen for hours. And with them were two other riders who both wore the device of Bedwyn, and Gwyn recognized the one with the long hair and sardonic grin.<br /><br />"Look lively, Regidan!" Sir Jules said to his younger companion as he approached Gwyn and bowed before her. "Here she is: the Welcomer." Gwyn smiled at both men, and she nearly laughed at the expression of near terror on Sir Regidan's face. If he was older than she, it was not by more than a matter of months. "I'm glad to have found you, My Lady," Jules went on. "King Arthur dispatched a number of us to seek you out after the battle -- which we won -- and he will be grateful to learn of your safety. So will a great many others, I expect. People are already asking about the Welcomer." He bowed again, and then he grinned as he leaned forward and said so that only she could hear, "No one will be happier to learn of your safety than Sir Baigent -- although I think he will also be angry that I found you before he did."<br /><br />Gwyn felt herself blush.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Dana nocked the arrow, drew back the string, and let the arrow fly. It struck the target nowhere near the center, but she was improving. She had sunk four consecutive arrows into the target, her best result yet. <I>Won't Gwyn be surprised!</I> she thought as she went to recover her arrows. Then she saw Father Damogan walking out to join her, and she hastily dropped the bow.<br /><br />"Did you send for me, Father?" she asked quickly. "I am sorry, I--"<br /><br />"All is well, child," Father Damogan said, laughing and holding up a hand as he came near. "I did not send for you, and your tasks have been done well. No, I come to ask you to accompany me to the bridge. A rider comes, from the east. I think we are to have news."<br /><br />"What news?" Dana asked as she gathered her arrows and bow to accompany Father Damogan to the bridge. She had long since learned not to ask just how it was that he could know a rider approached, before any was even seen on the horizon.<br /><br />"News of Gwynwhyfar," he said. He stopped then, and seemed to sniff the air. "Tell me, Dana -- how long since we felt a southern breeze?"<br /><br />Dana considered that. It had been a long time indeed.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />The days after the Battle of Bedwyn were full days indeed. King Arthur Pendragon was presented to the people, and word was sent to all Prydein that the Promised King had returned. But along with those good tidings went calls for war, for the Traitor Kings still lived, and even now King Cwerith was marching to join his ally, King Duncan; and as for King Arthur, he too was planning to march northward, to the Vale of Cul Calladan and a final reckoning with those Traitor Kings. There would be more battle and more death, but for now, there was also hope for the people of Prydein, starting with the people of Bedwyn. The peaceful days of Irlaris's reign were over, and Londia was gone; but there was again a King, even if he would have to fight to forge the realm anew. Though the days were still cold, somehow they felt a bit warmer.<br /><br />A procession was held for the Welcomer and her companions on the morning she at last came to Bedwyn. Gwyn rode with Sir Baigent at her side, and behind them came Estren and Brother Llyad, Lord Matholyn and Gareth, and others; leading the procession were Father Terryn and Brother Malcolm. Gwyn gazed down upon the lean and weary, but also hopeful, faces that were turned upward to see the Welcomer. So many who would have died had she not succeeded -- and so many who might still die, when war came again.<br /><br />The procession reached the Keep, where it was joined by King Arthur and Duke Cunaddyr. Then the procession moved again through the city, out through the Widow's Gate and up to the great mound where slept the bravest of Bedwyn's souls through the ages. There had not been room here to inter all those who had fallen in the fields of this most recent battle -- new mounds now rose on those very fields -- but this was where they gathered to pay tribute to them all. Here the King's procession was met by another, this one consisting of Druids and led by Horius; and when both processions stopped, Estren and Drudwas came forward to sing the work they had composed together, for voice and harp and pipes: the <I>Coming of King Arthur and the Acts of the Welcomer.</I><br /><br />During the singing of the new work, Gwyn looked on each of her companions: Brother Llyad, whose faith had been so unwavering; Gareth, who had been the ally needed so desperately at the journey's darkest hour; Lord Matholyn, whose fiery nobility was now tempered by deep sorrow; Estren, whose words had been of such comfort; Brother Malcolm, to whose wisdom she had always turned, and whose eyes were now haunted by the horrors of war he could never have imagined just a short while ago that he would see. Finally she looked at her Champion, Sir Baigent. Perhaps there would be such time in days to come for her to express adequately her gratitude for all that he had done, but for now she waited until his gaze met hers, and then she smiled. He smiled back, and she listened again to the words of the two Bards, wondering if future Adepts would struggle at their learning as she herself had struggled to learn the words of the Bards who had gone before.<br /><br />As she stood in the southern breeze, not felt in so very long in Prydein, Gwynwhyfar wondered many things.<br /><br /><center><font size=+1><i>Here ends Book One of <b>The Promised King</b>.<br /><br />The tale concludes in Book Two, <b>The Finest Deed</b>.</i></font></center><p>Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1132509332371174592005-11-20T09:44:00.000-08:002005-11-20T09:55:32.416-08:00Chapter Twenty-twoMaxen was not the only one who heard the baying of the wolves. They were also heard by the sole spectator of the combat between the Promised King and the one-handed warrior who fought him.<br /><br />Gwynwhyfar of Lyonesse watched from behind the great stone, safely within the boundary of the Giants' Dance, as King Arthur and Maxen dismounted and faced one another. As Maxen pressed to the attack, she heard in the distance the voices of those wolves, and she knew then that Maxen was no longer a mere agent of Gwynedd. He had been claimed by Dona's Dark Brother.<br /><br />The air in the Dance shuddered, and time outside the Dance seemed to slow. Gwyn turned to the larger battle and watched as deaths that should have taken seconds were instead stretched out horribly. One of Maxen's men struck a defender -- some poor peasant wielding only a scythe whose blade was rusty and dull -- with a club, crushing the man's skull and sending blood and pieces of bone flying everywhere with terrible slowness. She saw Estren as well, and Hugydd; both fought with multiple opponents, not yielding at all. Gwyn saw Murron of the Arrows, standing with several peasants also armed with bows; the Chief Archer of Camyrdin was selecting targets and picking them off with astonishing accuracy, while her new comrades tried their best just to hit Maxen's attackers but missed more often than not, and in a few horrible instances actually struck their own fellow defenders. Gwyn wished for her own bow, even though like most of these people she had never used her bow against anything other than a rabbit or pheasant.<br /><br />Then she saw Sir Baigent, as the gigantic Fflud attacked him from horseback. She screamed, a long and terrible scream, when Fflud's immense axe came down. Even with the slowing of the passage of time, she could not tell if Sir Baigent had dropped before the axe had fallen or after. Gwyn's heart nearly exploded as the baying of the wolves drowned out every other sound.<br /><br />Standing there inside the Giants' Dance where and when the boundaries between the worlds were at their weakest, Gwyn saw everything transpiring at once: the fighting between the Finders and Maxen's men; the other refugees trying to escape; the battle between Maxen and King Arthur. And more than that: she saw a battle raging miles to the south, on the fields north of Bedwyn. She saw the scavengers moving amidst the ruins of Caer Camyrdin and Londia. She saw the snows coming south from the frozen reaches of Caledonia. She saw the gray waters of the sea rearing in terrible waves to pound the rocks below Tintagel and all along the coast of Lyonesse. In this place, in this moment, all of Prydein was hers to see -- all Prydein and more, for she could also see the Lord of Annwn fighting to withhold his dominion over the dead, and the Fair Folk striving to maintain the light in the face of encroaching shadow. And beyond it all she saw the shadow of the great silver wolf, looming over the world entire, pacing back and forth as if awaiting escape from a cage. As if waiting for the moment to pounce.<br /><br />She turned her attention back to the battles before her. King Arthur parried Maxen's attacks with astonishing speed, but Maxen's attacks came ever faster, ever stronger, ever fiercer. Though King Arthur was able to parry Maxen's attacks with calmness, he was able to launch no attacks of his own. It was a horrible reprise of the earlier duel, in the Scarlet King's fortress, but this one was for all Prydein.<br /><br />Elsewhere, the Finders were being pushed back, having lost their advantage of surprise; and Sir Baigent -- where was Sir Baigent?<br /><br /><I>Your champion will fall.</I><br /><br />The voice of the silver wolf sounded in her ears.<br /><br /><I>All your Champions will fall. I shall make it thus.</I><br /><br />Gwyn shivered. Maxen, Fflud, all the men of Gwynedd here and at Bedwyn -- they were all being pushed, <I>powered</I>, by the Dark Brother on this single day when he could reach from beyond and pour upon the world all of his dark strength. He was doing all of this, but there was nothing that the Goddess could do to forestall him. Dona was bound in the same way that her Dark Brother was bound -- she could not reach throught he boundaries to touch the earth, until such time as all the boundaries had fallen. She could only act through earthly agents, as her brother was now doing. But her agents were not as strong as his, and the day was coming when he would be able to touch the world himself.<br /><br /><I>So you see the truth, foolish girl. You see how it all ends. Dona's power fades more with each passing day, and I shall rise ascendant in the end.</I><br /><br />The air in the Dance shimmered around her, and for the briefest of seconds Gwyn was no longer on the Central Plain but in the middle of a deep winter wood, dead and dank. The stones were gone, replaced by lifeless oaks, and the ground about her was littered with bodies -- the bodies of Fair Folk who were being slaughtered by two wolves and a pack of feral dogs. And beyond it all stood the silver wolf, grinning with dripping jaws. She tried to send herself back to the Dance, and for a second she was there -- it seemed that Gwyn, too, had some power here on this day -- but she could not hold on, and she was pulled back to the scene of the murder of the Fair Folk.<br /><br /><I>You cannot flee. You are mine.</I><br /><br />Gwyn turned and, in spite of the silver wolf's words, fled into the wood.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Sir Baigent had, in all his years, never once moved as fast as he did at the moment Fflud swung that axe of his. Strangely enough, to him it did not <I>feel</I> fast -- it felt slow, terribly slow, as he dropped to the ground. He waited for the moment when the axe would cleave his skull in two, but the moment did not come and he felt a swish of air, soft as a maiden's kiss in the springtime, as the axe flashed through where his head had been.<br /><br />Then the horse itself was upon him, and with no thought at all Sir Baigent thrust his blade straight up, into the animal's unprotected belly. His wrists nearly snapped, his arms were almost ripped from their sockets, and the sword was torn from his grip as the beast landed beyond him and tumbled to the ground. The air filled with the stench of entrails and the poor animal's shrieking drowned out all other sounds as Sir Baigent pushed himself back up and moved to recover his sword from the dead horse's guts even as Fflud rose from where he had fallen and turned to face the knight. The look in Fflud's eyes was one of total wrath, and Sir Baigent sighed as he planted his feet and squared his stance to face the giant man. Nearly every joint and muscle in his body was dead with pain, and yet he still had to fight the toughest combat yet.<br /><br />And as Fflud came at him with that awful double-edged axe, Sir Baigent imagined -- for just the march of a single heartbeat -- the sound of howling wolves.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwynwhyfar fled through the strange wood, following no path because there was none to follow. She could only throw herself around the trees and over the bushes, all the while trying to ignore the sound behind her of the pursuing wolves. She spared no thought for where she was or what this place might be; the only thought she could muster was to wonder why the snarling, chasing wolves hadn't yet caught her and ripped her flesh from her bones.<br /><br />Ahead of her she made out what appeared to be a clearing, and she ran even faster, as hard as she could. She pushed her way through the suddenly thick underbrush, thorns and brambles snagging her cloak and robe and tearing at her skin beneath. Bursting into the clearing, she discovered another Giants' Dance, but this one not for giants: it was much smaller, its stones only man-sized, and they were arranged not around some kind of mystical altar but around a cairn. Gwyn ran for this second Dance, but before she could get there the silver wolf's lieutenants exploded from the wood and bounded, snarling, into her path. She stopped, and froze. From behind her came the breaking of branches and the crashing of leaves as the silver wolf himself entered the clearing, and she turned to face him.<br /><br /><I>Foolish girl,</I> he said in her mind. <I>Had you remained where you were my power would still be bound. But I tricked you into the realm of the Powers, where I can touch you and where I can slay you.</I><br /><br />Gwyn flinched. Of course it was true: the Dark Brother's abilities in the world were still limited, so he could only act through agents like Maxen and Cwerith. So he had lured her here -- <I>tricked</I> her here -- where he could kill her, further weakening the Goddess. Gwyn felt stupid and angry. Dona's Dark Brother had Kings and warriors as his agents on earth; Dona had…a girl from Lyonesse.<br /><br />The wolf stepped forward, and Gwyn braced herself for its attack. But then there came the sound of hunting horns, very near and all around them, followed by the barking of hounds. Gwyn recognized them even as they smashed through the underbrush and into the clearing, for she had heard these hunting horns and the barking of these hounds before. The hounds of Culdarra came forth and stood between Gwyn and the wolves, and then the Goddess of the Wild Hunt herself came into the clearing, riding her great horse and holding her bow at the ready, with an arrow already nocked.<br /><br /><I>"This form is ill-chosen, Nameless One,"</I> said Culdarra. <I>"I have hunted many wolves, and you'll not be the last. You have leave neither to enter this place nor to touch this girl."</I><br /><br />The silver wolf only laughed. <I>It is you who are without leave here, Huntress, and this form suits me. This girl has come here unwelcomed and unbidden, and thus I deem her life forfeit. Not even you may deny this, and you may not mark her now that I have claimed her. Not even my dear fading sister has that right.</I><br /><br /><I>"Blind as ever, Dark One,"</I> Culdarra flung back, <I>"and twice as foolish. Think you that I have come to mark her now? I have already done so!"</I><br /><br />Gwyn felt a sudden hotness then, near her neck. It was the brooch that the Huntress had given her. She pulled down her cloak and the neckline of her robe to reveal the brooch, and the silver wolf howled as if pained by the very sight of it.<br /><br /><I>This betrayal means nothing, Huntress,</I> the Dark Brother said. <I>My will still holds sway here. I have naught to fear from you or the lapdogs you have sworn to my dear sister.</I><br /><br />Culdarra smiled -- and with no more warning than that she gave a short, sharp whistle and her dogs snapped to the attack. Instantly the clearing erupted into conflict between the hounds of the Huntress and the lieutenants of the Dark Brother. Culdarra looked to Gwyn. <I>"Flee, child!"</I> she yelled. <I>"Flee to the circle!"</I><br /><br />Culdarra's voice shocked Gwyn into action, and she ran for the small stone circle. When she was inside, time slowed again and the air shimmered so that, just as before, she could see all the battles that were being waged at once: at Bedwyn, where Cwerith's armies were even now pushing Duke Cunaddyr's forces back against the city walls; at the Giants' Dance where King Arthur Pendragon fought a one-handed warrior enhanced by the Dark Brother's power, and where Sir Baigent squared to confront another; and finally in this clearing in the place of the Gods where the Huntress battled Dona's Dark Brother. Two of her hounds were slaughtered, then another, and then still another. Would Culdarra herself die so that Gwyn might escape this place? And even if she did escape, breaking through to Prydein again, would any of it matter with the Dark Brother taking advantage of the weakness between the worlds to flood his power into his agents?<br /><br />Then Gwyn <I>felt</I> something nearby, something powerful. Something within the nearby cairn was calling to her. Something was there, something <I>important</I>. Culdarra had bought her time to find whatever was there, and the Dark Brother had been about to slay her to keep her from finding it. Her death was not important to him just because she had been Dona's agent; he did not want her to find whatever was buried here. Thus she ran to the side of the cairn and began moving the smooth, white stones aside.<br /><br /><I>NO!</I><br /><br />The silver wolf's roar was louder than anything Gwyn had ever heard before -- louder than the thunder of the summer storms, louder than the sea at Tintagel as its pounding of the rocks echoed in the mushroom caves. She ignored it and continued throwing the stones aside, as quickly as she could. She had to find what was here.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Sir Baigent was wondering where the damned wolves had come from as he parried Fflud's attack. The impact of the axe upon his blade made him shudder with a series of new pains: his shoulders and wrists flared, his ankle throbbed from where he'd turned it before, and there were more, not even considering the wound in his side that Maxen had inflicted during their duel. He knew that if he survived this war he would carry these scars and some of these pains, echoing in his bones, through all the rest of his days. Survival, though, looked more doubtful now than it had at any point in this entire affair. He ducked another of Fflud's attacks, but not soon enough to completely avoid the flat of the axe striking his back as Fflud moved by. He had hoped to strike on his own, but the force of even a glancing blow by the huge man pushed all the air from Sir Baigent's body, and he was only able to dodge another blow as he gasped for air.<br /><br /><I>Goddess have mercy</I>, he thought. He had never seen a warrior move in the way that Fflud was moving now; this once-immovable object had been transformed into a terrifying blend of strength and speed that belied his immense size. Sir Baigent could only hope to last in this fight, hoping and praying that the other man's strength would fade over time even as it appeared to do the exact opposite.<br /><br />He parried another attack, and as he did so the howling of these wolves -- as horrible a sound as Sir Baigent had ever heard -- became louder and wilder. These wolves were not natural, in the same way that Fflud's strength -- as well as Maxen's and that of his men -- was not natural. He made a quick inside feint and somehow managed to give Fflud a nick in the leg, but it was not enough to bring him down. As he circled away and turned to face the new attack that was already on the way, he realized that this battle was not Camyrdin against Gwynedd; it was the Goddess against her Dark Brother. He dodged another attack and jumped beyond the range of Fflud's backswing, and as he did so he hazarded a glance to King Arthur, still about thirty paces away. The King, still battling Maxen, was being pushed back -- just as Sir Baigent was.<br /><br />His body burned with pain as he met yet another attack.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwyn kept tossing the stones aside, trying to unearth whatever was buried in this cairn; but the stones were heavy, and it seemed as if new stones were appearing atop the cairn to replace the ones she had displaced. "Goddess let me succeed in this," she whispered. A single tear fell from her eye, dropped down to the stones....<br /><br />...and then the stones, obeying the tear shed for their sake, vanished utterly, disappearing like a puff of smoke in the wind. The cairn lay exposed before her, and in it lay a corpse garbed in tattered, moldering clothes. Gwyn peered at the corpse's rotting face, and then she gasped and retched at the same time. Even though the man in the grave had been dead for many years, she recognized him.<br /><br />It was her father.<br /><br />She covered her mouth and looked away, even as the coins on his eyes slid away revealing empty eye-sockets, the eyes long since rotted away. And then the corpse's mouth opened, and it spoke.<br /><br /><I>"Little Sparrow...do not dig me up...."</I><br /><br />Gwyn longed to beg his forgiveness, for this and for so much…but then she realized that the voice had not been his. Her father had not sounded like this. And he had not been buried, but pushed out to sea in a boat with the ebbing tide. This was not him; this was an illusion.<br /><br />She closed her eyes, swallowed, and reached into the grave. As she expected, the body disappeared just as the stones had, leaving behind a hollowed-out barrow in which lay two items, each wrapped in black cloth. Lifting the wrappings aside, she found a chalice so tarnished it was almost black, and a spear whose shaft was rotting and whose head was rusted away to almost nothing. Gwyn glanced up at the battles -- all of them, raging in all the worlds, but finally on that between the silver wolf and Culdarra the Huntress -- and she made her decision. She picked up the spear.<br /><br />As she lifted the spear from the cairn, the wood of the shaft became firm and brown again, and the spearhead became sharp and clean even as the chalice dissolved as though it had never been there at all. Hefting the spear, Gwyn turned to face the battle before her. Culdarra looked at her and smiled, and Gwyn lifted the spear. She had never thrown one before, and she would have only one chance. She waited for Culdarra to maneuver the silver wolf so that its back was to Gwyn, even as one of the lieutenants broke free of the hounds and surged directly at her. There was only time for Gwyn to shout <I>"Camyrdin!"</I> as she hurled the spear with all of the strength she could summon. The weapon arced over the gray wolf that pounced upon her even now, and Gwyn fell back, toward the empty cairn. She glimpsed the spear burying itself in the left haunch of the silver wolf, and as the cairn closed around her the wolf's scream -- which was very like a man's -- filled the air. And instead of coming under the jaws of the lieutenant, Gwyn fell into blackness.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />The next attack was the strongest yet, and it was all Sir Baigent could do to avoid being cleft in two as he dodged the flashing axe. He would not be able to parry another attack like that, or probably even evade one. It was almost over, the dark certainty of it forming in his mind as he saw the faces of his father and brother and the lady whose Champion he had been one last time...<br /><br />...when the howling of the wolves suddenly stopped, as if it had never been.<br /><br />And before him, Fflud lurched, ever so slightly, as he came about for his new attack. It was only the tiniest of changes in his manner, the smallest of differences in the big man's stance. A less experienced warrior might not have seen it at all; certainly none of these townsfolk or farmers would have, perhaps not even Estren or the Finders. But Sir Baigent <I>was</I> an experienced warrior, and he <i>did</i> see it: that Fflud's unnatural strength had deserted him. Sir Baigent ignored all of the pain in his body as he leapt forward, his cry of rage and determination being wordless as he gave voice to something that came from even deeper recesses of his soul than the name of Camyrdin.<br /><br />Fflud was still strong, and he was still a skilled warrior, and he squared his axe to fend off the knight's blow. But his reaction, though fast enough, was directed to stopping the blow that he <I>expected</I>, not the one that the knight <I>delivered</I>. Fflud braced to turn aside the certain thrust of Sir Baigent's sword toward his stomach, but Sir Baigent instead dropped his blade down and brought it about, using the flat of the blade to smash against Fflud's knuckles where they gripped the handle of his axe. The axe dipped slightly -- a few inches, perhaps a hand's width -- giving Sir Baigent the opening he needed. He swung the sword around, and now he thrust the blade past Fflud's axe and into the huge man's belly, all the way up to the hilt. Fflud's eyes went wide, and his immediate gasp was quickly followed by the spitting up of blood and bile as he staggered backward. Sir Baigent stepped forward and pulled his weapon free and, for good measure, struck Fflud's head from his shoulders before the big man could fall.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Maxen launched another attack, then another, and then still another. He would wear this Promised King down, minute by minute, until the time came to strike the last blow. How could this man hope to rally Prydein, when he was so easily defeated? How could this <I>weakling</I> be the hope of the Goddess? What foolery! Maxen drank in the power of the Dark God, rejoicing in the voices of the wolves--<br /><br />Which suddenly were not there.<br /><br />It was as though something deep within him, at the very center of his soul, had snapped in two. His newfound strength, that had been given to him in a moment of fire and agony, was utterly gone. And worse was that this man he fought, this Promised King, had seen it too. Now came the Promised King's sword, blazing white with the light of the sun.<br /><br />Maxen parried the attacks as best he could, but he could already see that it was hopeless, and despair filled him. He had been so close to victory, but now the day was lost. And moments later, so was he.<br /><br />Maxen watched as the flames engulfing his sword, the flames of war loosed upon the world by the Goddess's brother, flickered out entirely, leaving behind a strip of blackened steel that shattered the next time it met the Promised King's sunlit blade. Maxen let the useless hilt fall, and it clattered to the ground. Then he closed his eyes, and whatever thoughts were in Maxen's soul at that moment, they went unspoken as the Promised King's blade flashed horribly and plunged forward, stilling his heart forever.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Sir Baigent had cleared less than half the distance to the Promised King, intending to aid him in his fight, when he saw Maxen falter and his sword stop burning. He stopped in place as Maxen was struck down, and the Promised King turned to face him. Almost unaware that he was doing it, Sir Baigent sank to one knee before this man; and thus did Sir Baigent ap Pelegaunt, once seneschal to Lord Matholyn of Camyrdin, become the first man of Prydein to pay homage to King Arthur Pendragon upon his return from Avalon.<br /><br />"Rise," said the King, and Sir Baigent did so, meeting the King's gaze. Sir Baigent wanted to weep, for all the words written by all the Bards and poets could never express the nobility that he saw in this man's eyes.<br /><br />"Do you fight for me?" asked the King.<br /><br />"I fight for you," Sir Baigent replied. "And for all Prydein."<br /><br />"What is your name?"<br /><br />"Baigent ap Pelegaunt."<br /><br />King Arthur nodded. "Then fight with me, Sir Baigent."<br /><br />And fight they did.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>"I am here, child."<br /><br />"Nimue? Where am I?"<br /><br />"You are between the worlds, and thus being, you can see them all. Look now, on what you have wrought this day."<br /><br />The air shimmered, and Gwynwhyfar saw the battle at the Giants' Dance. She saw that Maxen and Fflud were dead, and she saw King Arthur wading into battle with Sir Baigent at his side. The tide was turning; without their Captain and his second, Maxen's men lost their discipline and were now being pushed back.<br /><br />"The day is won," said Nimue. "King Arthur wins his first battle, just as he did when the Kings of what he knew as Britain gathered to oppose the young boy who alone had pulled the sword from the stone."<br /><br />Gwynwhyfar tried to take comfort in the victory, but even though it had been hard achieved and hard won, she could not. Instead, she looked to the other great battle that was taking place at that same time, leagues to the south. This battle was not going as well -- not nearly as well. It was clear that Cwerith's armies were going to win the day. There were simply too many of them, and their last push now across the field was unrelenting, unyielding.<br /><br />Gwynwhyfar searched through the crowds of war and found the faces she knew. There was Matholyn ap Macholugh, fighting almost alone in the midst of a throng of Gwynedd men, and even though his cloak was tattered and his armor was soaked in blood and filth and exhaustion was writ upon his face, he still fought as if all the souls lost at Caer Camyrdin had found their expression at last in their onetime Lord. Elsewhere there was Sir Jules, whose swordplay was fast, spare and lethal -- not at all like the wry humor he had displayed on that night in Briston. There, standing upon the rise just outside the main gates, was Duke Cunaddyr, hiskeen eyes following the progress of the battle even though lurking in their corners was the knowledge that this battle was a losing one.<br /><br />Gwynwhyfar's gaze, shaped and focused by the ancient magic of the Giants' Dance, took it all in. She looked upon a thousand faces both within the walls of the city and without: the old and infirm, dying of disease and starvation, and the young and strong, dying on the battlefield of unspeakable injury. Finally she found Brother Malcolm, tending the wounded. His robes were filthy, his eyes sunken and exhausted. She watched as he wrapped a length of cloth around the wound of a man who would be dead within hours, if not minutes, anyhow. Malcolm said no prayer over this man, because there was no time for him to do so. He could only whisper the briefest of blessings before moving on to tend another young warrior, whose years numbered the same as Gwynwhyfar's but because of his wounds would number no more than that.<br /><br />"You must not look on this," said Nimue. "It will bring you naught by despair."<br /><br />But Gwynwhyfar refused to avert her gaze. "All these people fight for the Promised King," she replied. "How will he forge a kingdom if all those who would fill the ranks of his army are dead? Must all these people die, never knowing that their King has returned? There must be a way, My Lady. A way that they can bridge the worlds, as I have." And she looked again to King Arthur, fighting outside the Giants' Dance.<br /><br />"This thing you wish to do can be done. Merlyn Emrys built this place with such power as can only be shaped and wielded by one such as he, born of both the worlds of the Mortals and of the Fair. One such as you. But to control such power may destroy you. The Dance will consume your soul and scattering it beyond all the worlds. Think well, Gwynwhyfar: will you do this thing?"<br /><br />Gwyn did not hesitate. "I will," she said. No other answer was possible. She could already sense the power of the Giants' Dance at Midsummer fading as the day wore on. It had to be now. "I am ready, Lady of the Lake."<br /><br />"Then hold strong," said Nimue. "You alone can work this thing."<br /><br />And so did Gwynwhyfar of Lyonesse, born of a man of Prydein and a woman of the Fair Folk, Welcomer of the Promised King, reopen the portal between the worlds that existed on this one day and in this one place.</I><br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"Behold!" someone cried.<br /><br />Sir Baigent turned toward the Giants' Dance, and gasped at what he saw there: through the great stones he was seeing Bedwyn and its fields of battle. "How is this possible?" he said.<br /><br />"It matters not," said King Arthur as he whistled for his horse. "Merlyn once told me of such things. Come, men of Prydein: we ride!"<br /><br />And as Sir Baigent ran to get his own horse, he heard another voice, feminine and familiar:<br /><br /><I>"Come, King Arthur!"</I><br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>Power coursed through Gwynwhyfar's body, the power of the earth and of the Goddess and of the Fair Folk. She made of her body and soul a vessel for such power as had not touched the world in days uncounted except by legend. The pain was beyond anything she had ever felt before. The power was consuming her, as Nimue had said it would.<br /><br />"Come, King Arthur!"<br /><br />She knew not if the voice was hers, or perhaps Nimue's. Every ounce of her being was given to keeping open the portal which she had forced. And when at last the men had ridden through and out the other side, she finally released the power and felt herself falling through the air as if from a great height.<br /><br />"Nimue?" she tried to cry out, but she did not even have enough strength to force the word from her lips. She went limp, having nothing else to give. She felt the presence of hard earth, rushing up to embrace her.<br /><br />"Make ready," she heard someone say.<br /><br />"Amairgen?"<br /><br />It was the last thing she thought before her fall came to an end.</I><br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Lord Matholyn dismounted and handed the reins of his wounded mount to one page and the hilt of his broken sword to another. "Keep this well," he said. "I will want this blade reforged after today." The page nodded and handed Lord Matholyn a new sword, this one bearing the device of Bedwyn upon the hilt. The Matholyn ducked as a fresh volley of arrows soared overhead. Cwerith's men were pushing forward again, his damned archers were exacting a heavy toll, and behind the archers were the men bringing the great ladders which Cwerith's soldiers would scale to storm the walls. Soon those archers would be sending flaming arrows over the walls and into the city, and soon there would be siege engines.<br /><br />"Well, Matholyn? Coming back to fight?" It was Sir Jules, who likewise had come back for a new horse.<br /><br />"We have to do something about those archers," Matholyn replied. "We can't mount any push of our own with them down there."<br /><br />"I'm leading a charge against that hillock," Sir Jules replied, pointing. "Then we'll be able to move some of our own archers up there."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn frowned. "We won't be able to hold that position for long."<br /><br />Sir Jules shrugged. "Goddess willing, we won't have to."<br /><br />But it turned out to be too difficult a task. The hillock was fiercely defended by Cwerith's men, and too many of their own fell in the hillock's taking. Matholyn and Sir Jules had to call the retreat before any of their archers could even arrive. And this was the way of it elsewhere, in every place where Cunaddyr's forces tried to advance or, failing that, merely defend a tiny parcel of land. Lord Matholyn fought on, knowing all the while that victory was impossible and defeat all but certain. He found himself beside Sir Jules again, and the two of them exchanged grim glances. Cwerith's horns rang across the field yet again, and yet again his archers advanced.<br /><br />"Fall back!" Matholyn shouted.<br /><br />As he and Sir Jules led what was to be the last retreat, Lord Matholyn barely registered the strange wind that had begun to howl.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"The men push forward again," Lord Varing observed.<br /><br />"I see it," King Cwerith replied. Within the hour his archers would be in shooting distance of Bedwyn's walls, and soon thereafter his men would be able to storm the walls and bring forth the siege engines. Soon, Bedwyn would burn.<br /><br />He looked to the rise where Duke Cunaddyr's banner flapped in the breeze. He could not make out the Duke himself, but Cwerith knew he was there. <I>You should have surrendered, Cunaddyr. A place at my table might have been yours, a place beside a King. Instead, the blood of your people will swell the banks of the Test.</I><br /><br />The thought made him smile, but only for a moment before something happened.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Brother Malcolm lifted the man's doublet and gave a single, matter-of-fact shake of his head when he saw the wound beneath. He was past wincing by now, and where once he would have questioned the providence of the Goddess that a man so wounded could still draw breath, now he merely accepted such ill fortune and moved on. To seek the Goddess on the field of battle, he now knew, was folly. He lowered the doublet and moved on to another victim of sword, or axe, or arrow, or club, or lance…it mattered not. He hoped, as he did each time, that the next man would not be so doomed to die quickly and in agony. That hope had gone unrequited too many times this day.<br /><br />Then he heard the shouting: <I>"Move! Move these men!"</I> It was a Captain of the Bedwyn guard, whose name Malcolm had been told but which he had forgotten in the hours since. This Captain had six guardsmen with him, and they were exhorting those tending to wounded and fallen to retreat. <I>"Move! Move! Move!"</I> they shouted, over and over and over again.<br /><br />"What is happening?" Malcolm asked when the Captain was near him.<br /><br />"Archers," the man replied. "The Gwynedd archers are moving into range. It is too dangerous to remain here."<br /><br />Malcolm shook his head. "They would not shoot on the wounded--" he began, but he was cut off by the Captain's harsh and biting laughter.<br /><br />"Stand here, then, if you believe that," said the Captain. And just then, as if to reinforce the point, the air above Brother Malcolm's head whistled and the ground nearby thudded as an arrow struck. One of the guardsmen suddenly made a gurgling sound and fell to his knees, an arrow having struck him in the back of his neck and its bloody head now protruding from the front of it.<br /><br /><I>"MOVE!"</I> the Captain shouted.<br /><br />Brother Malcolm grabbed the knife he had been using to cut fabric and ran, following the others as arrows fell about them, faster and faster. He did not hazard a glimpse back to see how near they were, but he knew that if they were this close, they would soon be able to loose arrows over the walls and into the city. Behind him, the wounded screamed anew as they were hit, for the tenders of the wounded could not move them all. More and more blood, and more and more death.<br /><br />Malcolm had almost reached safety -- relative safety -- when the hissing of the air suddenly became much louder and much closer, and his left shoulder exploded into searing pain. The arrow had only grazed him, opening a wound several fingers long that bled profusely. He cried out and tried to press the cleanest part of his sleeve over it. A cleaning and binding, perhaps even a poultice if it could be managed, would suffice -- but in conditions such as these, they might not, if they could even be done in the first place. His own blood, he realized, had just been spilled in battle. He was thinking of that when the strongest gust of wind blasted across the battlefield, nearly knocking him down. Turning to see what was happening, he looked across the field at last. A great flash of light nearly blinded him, and as his sight cleared he heard cheers -- <I>cheers</I>, of all things, and from his own side, the side of Bedwyn. Then there was another sound, not unlike the booming of thunder. With his good hand he rubbed his eyes and looked again.<br /><br />A great tumult was erupting at the rear of Cwerith's army, and a literal explosion of flame and smoke blasted in the middle of one of the Gwynedd companies, sending bodies through the air along with a cloud of dirt and debris.<br /><br />"What is it?" someone cried out. Malcolm was about to shake his head, reply that he did not know...<br /><br />...when he saw, even from this great distance, an armored warrior leading a newly arrived company of men into battle with Cwerith's rear guard, and this warrior fought with a sword that shone with the wondrous light of the noontime sun.<br /><br />"The Promised King!" Malcolm shouted, caring little if those who heard him thought him mad. <I>"The Promised King is come!"</I><br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />The air shimmered as Sir Baigent spurred Arradwen into the Giants' Dance, just behind King Arthur and with Estren and Hugydd flanking him. He felt the world falling away behind him, and for a second or two it felt like there was no ground beneath them at all. The air shimmered again, and he found himself, along with the entire company -- a small company, but a deadly one -- closing on the rear guard of King Cwerith's army on the fields north of Bedwyn.<br /><br />Behind him, Jonn hurled two fire-globes, and several of the Finders joined him. When they exploded, bodies and dirt were sent everywhere, and King Arthur led them into the heart of confusion and fray. The pain from Sir Baigent's wounds was forgotten -- still there, but pushed down into a dark place he could not feel. He could not afford pain right now, as he rode into the heart of the armies that had brought the flames and death to his home and people. He shouted <I>Camyrdin!</I> over and over and over again, until his voice gave out. Arradwen, who had carried him on such a hard journey, had never given him surer footing than that which she gave him now. The pools of mud and collected blood, the fallen men beneath her hooves -- none of it made the slightest difference. Sir Baigent controlled her with one hand on the reins, and the two moved as one as Sir Baigent rode behind the Promised King.<br /><br />If Sir Baigent fought well, the Promised King fought like no other warrior who had ever set foot upon the soil of Prydein. No man there, on either side, was like to ever forget the sight of that great lord, armored and terrible, atop his white steed and wielding the sword that danced with death and light. The orderly ranks of Cwerith's army broke before this tiny company, and like a wave far away at sea the cheers began within the men of Bedwyn -- small at first, but gathering force until all the horns of Gwynedd were drowned out.<br /><br />On the rise where he stood, Duke Cunaddyr bellowed for his own horns to sound the countercharge, and his army surged forward one last time, led by Lord Matholyn ap Macholugh and Sir Jules. First they swept over the archers who had turned to fire upon the attackers from behind, and then they pushed on, eventually meeting at the center where the Promised King took the lead of the next push, directly into the thickest part of Cwerith's infantry. But here, too, there was time enough for two warriors to greet one another:<br /><br />"Well met, My Lord," Sir Baigent called, and Lord Matholyn laughed.<br /><br />"Well met, my friend," Matholyn replied with gladness in his heart that he had not felt in what seemed like so, so long. Even on a blood-soaked field of war there could still be moments of joy.<br /><br />Sir Jules fell in beside Sir Baigent. "Your hair looks longer," he said.<br /><br />"I even welcome the sight of yours," Sir Baigent replied.<br /><br /><I>"To me, men of Prydein!"</I> It was the voice of the Promised King as he led them all to war once again.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />King Cwerith ap Cellamma had always been quick to rage. It was a trait common to the Kings of Gwynedd, born of living in a cold, wet castle by the side of the sea. Thus it was to Lord Varing's great surprise that he did not react with furious temper to the sudden decay of his army from disciplined host to bedraggled bedlam.<br /><br />Cwerith's voice became cold, his commands clipped and harsh. The orders came faster and faster as he worked to direct his armies together again. He sent this company forward, and ordered that one back; he tried to reform his archers and muster his cavalry. But though he saw what needed to be done and gave the orders as quickly as he saw that need, the execution was another matter. The discipline had been broken, and it appalled him how easily it had happened. This warrior with the shining sword was only <I>one</I> warrior, <I>one</I> man, and the company he had led into his rear guard was a small one, even though they had those exploding missiles. But they fought as men possessed, and their arrival -- unseen by anyone, and accompanied by a fierce wind -- frightened him. <I>Something</I> had happened, of that there was no doubt. Cwerith absently fingered the scabbed-over wounds on his forearm, and he realized the truth: this was no mere warrior. This was <I>the Goddess's warrior.</I><br /><br />Cwerith was looking upon the Promised King.<br /><br />This was the man whose return had been made possible, which meant that the Dark Power's mission to the Giants' Dance had failed. <I>I will speak with Cassion before this day is out,</I> Cwerith thought. Then he gave one last command.<br /><br />"Sound the full charge," he said. "All men are to advance. We will drown them in a sea of blood."<br /><br />Lord Varing and his councilors looked askance. Varing, in particular, turned pale.<br /><br />"What is it?" Cwerith snapped.<br /><br />"My Liege," Varing began. "We might be able to drive them from the field, but--"<br /><br /><I>"Say nothing more!"</I> Cwerith shouted as he glared not at his seneschal but at the battlefield. It had to be possible, the day could still be won -- and yet, it was not possible, it could not be won. "We might win the field, but we will not have enough strength remaining to take the city. We may win the battle, but the siege will fail. Is that what you mean to say, Varing?"<br /><br />Lord Varing slowly nodded. "Your Majesty, we still outnumber them, and when the armies of Duncan merge with yours, they won't be able to withstand you. We must withdraw."<br /><br />To his credit, Varing held his King's gaze -- unlike this craven coward Gaddamar, who shifted about and looked at the ground as his the tips of his ears turned crimson.<br /><br />Cwerith shook his head with disgust as he closed his fist around the stone from Caer Camyrdin in his pocket. Allowing this warrior to win the day would embolden those who would challenge and resist his own claim to the throne of Prydein. He remembered the face of stern King Cellamma, cheated out of that which should have been his. He envisioned his father's anger at his son's failure to bring Gwynedd to the High Throne, and he heard his father's voice, echoing through the ages: <I>Do not fail, or our entire line -- all of our fathers, all the way back to the Cataclysm -- will judge your failure. To leave the field when victory for Gwynedd was in your grasp is the foulest of failures.</I><br /><br />But then Cwerith's anger rose again, and he answered the voices he heard within him: <I>No. This need not be treachery. You left the field too, Father, and you did it without loosing a single arrow or swinging a single blade. I have dealt the blow that you could never strike, and though I lost this battle as you lost yours, I will fight again.<br /><br />Unlike you, Father, I will never bend the knee to a lesser man.</I><br /><br />And in that moment Cwerith banished his father forever from his soul. From this moment on, no longer would Cwerith fight to right the wrongs of Cellamma's destiny. He would fight to secure his own.<br /><br />Drawing himself up in his saddle, the King of Gwynedd turned to Lord Varing and said, "Sound the retreat."<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"Where did everyone go?" Brother Llyad asked as he and Gareth walked through the desolation of what had been the Druid camp. Bodies, broken and dead, were everywhere, and the smoke from the fires had at last begun to clear.<br /><br />"Tracks," said Gareth. "Many of them, leading right up to the Dance. It looks like they charged in, and through."<br /><br />"Should we follow?"<br /><br />"Not yet," Gareth replied. She knelt beside the body of a man she had known -- Padrec, a father whose two sons were with the rest of the company, wherever they had gone. And there were other Finders here amongst the dead. Jonn had brought them into this battle. <I>That's it, then,</I> Gareth thought as she brushed a tear from her eye. <I>I have truly led the Finders to war.</I> She kept moving through the dead, seeking out friends both dead and living. They would need to move on soon. Maxen's men had been driven off, but there was no guarantee that they would not return. But at least their Captain was dead. Matt had found the body of the one-handed warrior, lying beside a broken, scorched blade.<br /><br /><I>"Gareth! Come!"</I> It was Brother Llyad, shouting to her from the edge of the Giants' Dance, where he stood looking in. Gareth ran to his side, and he pointed into the Dance. "Look," he said.<br /><br />There was a man there. Standing near the center of the Dance, his back was turned toward Gareth and Brother Llyad as he bent over to put something -- no, <I>someone</I> -- gently down upon the ground behind one of the stones. Then he turned to face the two who watched him. He appeared to be of immense age, with white hair in loose curls, a long white beard, and deep-set, black eyes, and he was garbed in shining robes of white; however, despite his apparent age he also looked very strong and wise. This man gave a single nod of his head that somehow spoke of comfort and wisdom, and then Gareth and Brother Llyad watched as he turned and walked away. And when he went he seemed to vanish into the earth and the air. Silence fell, and he was gone.<br /><br />Gareth was the first to speak. "Was that--"<br /><br />"One of the Fair Folk," Brother Llyad replied. He moved forward, Gareth following closely behind, to the side of the person the Fairy had placed on the ground. When they arrived and peered around the stone, they gasped.<br /><br />It was Gwynwhyfar.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1131285418643040982005-11-06T05:52:00.000-08:002005-11-06T08:13:09.223-08:00Chapter Twenty-one<I>Damned weather</I>, thought Sir Baigent ap Pelegaunt as he followed with his eye the trails of smoke from the burning tents, rising fast into a clear morning sky that was blue to the west and golden to the east as the sun rose. All those days of riding through dank, cold, wet days when the sky was nothing but clouds; all the rain and that one, great storm that had very nearly killed them -- and now that clouds and dark would actually be of use, there was clear sky and sunshine. Sir Baigent absently rubbed his side, pushing the pain from the wound down deep. There would be time for pain later...<I>much</I> later. He lowered his gaze and took up his position with Murron's line of so-called archers.<br /><br />"They'll be coming now," he said.<br /><br />"Of course they will," Murron snapped as she turned to face her recruits. "Listen, you -- these aren't rabbits. You're not shooting something for the pot. You're shooting at men, and you're shooting to make sure they don't get up again."<br /><br />There were distant shouts then -- but not distant enough. Men were coming through the camp, looking for prey. A group of mounted men came around a corner, about twenty paces away from where the defenders stood. Murron of the Arrows did not hesitate.<br /><br />"Loose!" she shouted, and her band of archers let their arrows fly. There was the rolling thud as all those bowstrings snapped at once, followed by the hiss of arrows in the air. Some of the arrows struck men, some struck the mounts, and some hit nothing at all. Of the men who were hit, only two actually fell; and only one of the mounts came down, the one that Murron had shot herself. She had nocked and loosed two more arrows before she realized that the others were merely looking on their handiwork. <I>"Keep shooting!"</I> she shouted, and the others finally returned to the moment and began shooting again, just in time for the footsoldiers who were now streaming out of the camp behind their mounted chargers.<br /><br /><I>The air is too damned clear,</I> Sir Baigent thought. <I>The smoke isn't enough.</I> Their only hope was for the fires they'd set to create confusion amongst Maxen's men and provide cover for themselves, but there was precious little of either. Beside him, the Druids stepped up with their blow-tubes and shot darts at the oncoming attackers. More fell, but still not enough.<br /><br />"Murron!" Sir Baigent shouted. "Fall back!" Hugydd stepped in beside him.<br /><br />"This is not the finest of plans," the knight-turned-Druid said.<br /><br />"Fine plans, fine armies," Sir Baigent said. "It seems we are doomed to be without such luxuries."<br /><br />The plan was simple, on its face: engage Maxen's men near the edge of the camp and then fall back, drawing them farther in -- and then falling back again, and again, for as long as they would follow. The fires would be hotter and the smoke would be heavier, deeper in the camp; chaos and confusion would grow. It was their only hope. The problem with relying on confusion, of course, was that the side trying to inflict it was even more susceptible to it than the other. A well-trained, disciplined force would never rely on chaos and confusion in battle. It was a tactic only for the very desperate.<br /><br /><I>"Shoot the horses, not the men!"</I> It was Murron shouting. Her archers had been trying to hit the men, as opposed to the mounts. Now they obeyed and did as they should have been doing all along, and the results were good: three horses fell almost immediately. Now the attackers were close enough that Sir Baigent could make out their faces.<br /><br />"Stand and ready!" he shouted, his muscles tensing and his sword-hand flexing. Maxen's men had recognized the source of their threat and were now charging. Sir Baigent could hear their coarse laughter as they realized that they were fighting a ragtag collection of farmers and displaced villagers, and savored the easy kill. Murron's archers brought down four more horses, and the air filled with the sounds of laughter and screaming horses. Sir Baigent saw that they had at last achieved something of the desired effect: a barricade of sorts, formed by dead or dying horses and their riders who were trapped beneath them.<br /><br />"Murron!" Sir Baigent shouted.<br /><br />Murron took her cue perfectly. "One last round!" she shouted. <I>"Aim low!"</I><br /><br />Her archers did just that, loosing one last volley of arrows at the encroaching marauders and striking many of them squarely in the legs, bringing them down behind the horses. Then Murron shouted, <I>"Fall back!"</I>, and the archers fled backward into the camp, accompanied by the blowdart-wielding Druids.<br /><br />Sir Baigent looked to the fifty or so men he had beside him: Hugydd and Estren, wielding swords; twenty Druids with clubs, and the remainder comprised of farmers with farm-tools. More men awaited them at their first fall-back position; the task now was to strike a quick blow and then get back to that position. Lifting his sword, he yelled <I>"Camyrdin!"</I> as loudly as his voice would allow, and then he led the charge. He closed the distance to his first man in three long bounds, removing the man's head in a single stroke, and then turning to face the next man before the first had even fallen all the way to the ground. His impromptu war cry was picked up by the others behind him, most loudly by Hugydd.<br /><br />This fight lasted only a few moments, until Sir Baigent looked up and saw that Maxen's reinforcements had arrived. It was time, whether Murron had the next line ready or not.<br /><br /><I>"Fall back!"</I> Sir Baigent shouted. <I>"To the next line!"</I> He swung his blade, bringing down a particularly large club-wielding brute and then he moved to disengage. The other men joined him in the retreat, and taking quick stock he saw that they had only lost four men in the initial clash, which was less than he had expected. As they fled deeper into the camp, they left behind a pile of writhing horses and bodies that would hinder the progress of Maxen's men -- or so Sir Baigent prayed.<br /><br />"Move!" he shouted. These men did not run fast enough. Behind them, four of Maxen's men broke through and made pursuit; Sir Baigent, Hugydd and Estren killed them all. The harper, it turned out, was indeed a fair hand with a sword. Again there was a pause in the pursuit, and this time it was enough for them all to get far enough away. Sir Baigent ran last, grabbing a nearby torch and dropping it onto a line of pitch they had poured just minutes before, across the lane. The line of fire that erupted was only knee-high -- not much of a barrier, and it would burn out in only a minute or two, but it might give them valuable seconds.<br /><br /><I>A few at a time</I>, he thought. <I>A few at a time, until we've got their number down to where it's a fair fight.</I><br /><br />He ran into the smoky haze that was finally settling over the camp.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Though neither man could have known it, the name of Camyrdin had been Lord Matholyn's battle cry almost at the same moment it had been Sir Baigent's. Matholyn shouted it over and over again, but the tide of men kept pressing forward, his throat became hoarse, and rage and vengeance in his heart gave way to fighting for survival. And not only <I>his</I> survival, but that of the men beside him and behind him, the men who followed him and rallied around him as the Battle of Bedwyn surged.<br /><br />A man beside him fell, his skull split open by a Gwynedd war hammer. Lord Matholyn turned to the left and struck Cwerith's man dead with his sword. There was no scream, just a <I>thud</I>. Matholyn found little satisfaction in the killing. It was just one more man amongst thousands who would die today. Death had little meaning here, in this place. He was fighting for a King he did not know, in memory of a city now dead, and in defense of a still-living city not his own. This man he'd just killed -- perhaps he had been a mercenary, or perhaps a farmer from the hills above Caer Mastagg. And perhaps so had been all the men he'd already struck down, and all those still doomed to die beneath his blade before it was all done.<br /><br />The fighting immediately around him suddenly lulled, and Matholyn hazarded a glance at his surroundings. Ahead of him, a group of Cunaddyr's men were near to capturing a small rise of no consequence other than that it was a definite feature in the field to be won, and a company of Gwynedd soldiers were already coming forward to meet them. Matholyn spurred his horse and cleared the distance to the hillock in seconds. He managed to take Cwerith's men from behind, killing four and throwing the rest into disarray. Thus the hillock was taken, but no cheers went up. The taking of such a small thing in battle only meant that those who had won the moment would now turn their attention to defending it -- or, if they were fortunate, beginning the next advance and the taking of the next rise or dip. The men there simply moved on, digging in to defend a rocky rise that in normal times should have been crowned by crops or wildflowers.<br /><br />Matholyn looked across the field to where Cwerith was watching the battle and directing the progress of his armies, the spot easily picked out by the size of the banner fluttering above it. Horns sounded now and again, telling one company to advance and another to fall back. <I>He can't be too happy with what he has seen thus far</I>, Matholyn thought as he stole a sip of water from a flask before returning to the fighting. A company of Bedwyn archers was already making for the hillock just taken, from where they would -- it was hoped -- be able to rain down some arrows on a particularly troublesome part of Gwynedd's army.<br /><br />Cwerith's aim, at the outset, had been to take the field by one massive thrust of overwhelming force, but Duke Cunaddyr's smaller army had proven at least partly adequate to the task of holding ground, and now -- just two hours into the battle -- they had actually regained some of the field they had initially lost. But it still might not be enough. Cwerith had calmly shifted his focus from total defeat to gaining position for his archers, so they would be able to send coming down upon the Bedwyn forces from two sides -- and eventually perhaps even send flaming arrows over the city walls and into Bedwyn herself.<br /><br />That was all Matholyn could see of the strategy that was shaping the battle. Somewhere to his right he heard a trumpet call sounding a charge that was led by Sir Jules. Matholyn could not tell what objective Jules was trying to achieve, or how this charge would be of import or use now, but it was no longer his place to see such things. Duke Cunaddyr was back by the city gates, and it was <I>his</I> duty to respond to Cwerith's strikes and feints by directing his own men to and fro. Cunaddyr had asked Matholyn to remain at his side to offer wisdom, but Matholyn had insisted on riding to battle himself. "I can offer little wisdom this day that is not better delivered by the edge of my sword," he had said. And thus it had been.<br /><br />There was a pair of shouts then, coming two spearmen attacking him from behind. Controlling his horse with a deftness of hand that caught the two brutes by surprise, he was able to get around the first spearman before he could compensate, and his strike went wide. An easy thrust of his sword, into the man's face, was all Matholyn needed. He pulled his blade free and turned toward the other man. The spear struck the horse, but the animal's pivot fortunately made the weapon strike only a glancing blow. The horse shrieked and lashed out with its hooves, pounding the man solidly in the chest as it reared; and when it came back down again, it trampled the man to death.<br /><br />Matholyn decided it was time for a new horse. This one was already fully lathered, and now it was wounded as well. Turning away from the battle, Lord Matholyn rode across the field back to the main gate where he would be given a fresh mount. Then he would go out and fight again. Glancing down at himself, he saw that he was covered in blood, dirt and filth. So much blood.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"May the silver light of the Goddess shine upon your path, all the way to the feasting hall of Annwn."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm finished saying the Blessing of the Dead, and then he removed the prayer bead from the old woman's forehead. Two of the apprentices in the Chambers of Healing came forward to bear the body away, while another stepped in to take up the bedding and carry it to the fires. Brother Malcolm glanced at the woman's husband, but the poor man -- himself thin and weak -- only turned and hobbled away. <I>He will receive the same blessing before long</I>, Malcolm thought as he looked around to see if there was anyone else needing his services just now. Seeing no one, he decided to go for a moment to one of the Temple's four sanctuaries. He had said seven Blessings of the Dead in the last two hours, and there would be more. Just now he needed to see something other than death.<br /><br />He walked out into the hall and followed the white stones inlaid in the black tile floor. Those white stones formed a path leading to the two sanctuaries in the lowest level of the Temple, which were kept open for the regular use of the people of Bedwyn. Malcolm, being a sworn member of Dona's Priesthood, would have been allowed into the Prime Sanctuary at the center of the Temple, where Father Terryn, as Lord Priest of Bedwyn, would have held official ceremonies, or even in the private Sanctuary on the Temple's top floor, which was for the use of the Priests and Priestesses of the Temple alone. Malcolm, though, actually preferred the plainly-adorned simplicity of this small public sanctuary. Upon entering, he walked past several worshippers to the center of the Prayer Wheel, where he stopped. He had meant to pray, but none of the ceremonial prayers seemed adequate. He was not even sure of what to ask of Dona -- safety for the people of Bedwyn, or victory in the war, or the success and safety of Gwyn in her mission. Perhaps he should ask for all that…he was still considering it when Father Terryn entered.<br /><br />"There you are," he said. "Come. I have need of you."<br /><br />He said no more than that before leaving, and Brother Malcolm had to rush to catch up to him.<br /><br />"What has happened?" Malcolm asked, but he received no reply. Instead, Father Terryn led him into a new corridor and down a set of spiraling stairs, through a heavy iron door which swung open when Terryn tapped it three times with his staff. Now they entered a very dark series of stone passages that smelled of earth and moisture. The way was lit by a glowing jewel atop Father Terryn's staff and a series of small torches, little more than candles, set in the wall every twenty paces or so. Despite the oppressive darkness, Father Terryn moved very quickly. Eventually they came to a junction of such passages, where six strong-looking Adepts waited, each holding a large bundle wrapped in cloth.<br /><br />"What is this?" Malcolm asked.<br /><br />"These passages were built two hundred years ago," Father Terryn said. "They provide a secret way in and out of the city. That one goes to a spot just outside the main gate."<br /><br />"You're sending me to the battlefield," Malcolm said.<br /><br />Father Terryn nodded. "You will be of use there."<br /><br />"To say blessings?"<br /><br />Father Terryn chuckled humorlessly. "The dead will number far too many for you to bless them all," he said. "We need as many to bind wounds as we can spare. You are from Tintagel -- a hard place -- and you have been an itinerant priest, so you have some knowledge of healing." He placed a hand on Malcolm's shoulder and leaned closer. "We who serve in Dona's Priesthood are not often seen as men of strength, but you and I know the truth of that matter. I wish I did not have to ask this of you."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm nodded. "I serve with all of Dona's grace."<br /><br />"And you walk under her light," Father Terryn replied.<br /><br />Brother Malcolm followed the Adepts up the new tunnel. Sparing this many Adepts for the battlefield would leave the Chambers of Healing ill-equipped to deal with the sick and the dying in the city, but that would matter little if the city fell.<br /><br />To Malcolm's surprise, he heard nothing except for his own footsteps and those of the Adepts -- until they reached the stone door sealing the tunnel's outside end, and the strongest of the Adepts shoved it open. That was when Brother Malcolm first heard the sounds of war, and when he first saw its sights. His heart froze. It was as if he had come to the shores of a lake of blood.<br /><br />Which, in some sense, he had.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"Look! Smoke!"<br /><br />Gavidd pointed to the Giants' Dance, several miles distant. Hanging in the air above and around the Dance was a great deal of smoke.<br /><br />"Mercy of the Goddess," Jonn whispered. They were too late. The attack had begun. He cursed himself for not realizing sooner what Maxen had planned to do. <I>"Ride, men!"</I> he shouted to his companions as he kicked his horse into a gallop.<br /><br />The men of the Finders made no effort at all now to conceal their coming. The time for stealth, for quick attacks under cover of night, was done. Now they would attack their enemy by the light of day, with nothing else to hide them. And though Jonn was mostly terrified by this idea, part of him was also relieved that it should be so. <I>We come, Gareth</I>, he thought as he urged his steed faster.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"Burning the camp?" Gareth said, incredulously, as she handed the baby back to its mother. "Well, I suppose it is a time for desperation."<br /><br />"When has it been otherwise?" Matt growled. "We should be fighting with them, or damnation take me."<br /><br />"Aye," said Calloch. He, too, had been annoyed when Gareth had commanded them to remain with her to help these people flee.<br /><br />"Hush!" Gareth snapped. "You are frightening these poor folk. I am sure you will both see fighting soon enough." To the poor woman, she said. "There, mother. Do not move from this place unless you are bid so."<br /><br />"I can fight!" It was the woman's son, a boy of nine who had not bathed in far too long. To illustrate the point, he brandished an axe handle.<br /><br />"Then wait to do so until your family is threatened," Gareth said. "And not before."<br /><br />They had moved away from the camp, away from the Dance, but it would be of little help once Maxen's men came after them. The frozen streambed they followed offered little by way of cover, and once the attackers realized that the people had fled they would be quickly spotted. Delay was all that one could hope for when victory was impossible.<br /><br />"Keep moving!" she shouted. "We must not stop, even for a moment! It is our only chance!"<br /><br />An old man in front of her slipped on some ice. Even from her distance, Gareth heard the crunching sounds of his bones breaking. When she came to his side he was moaning in agony, and his ankle was pointing grotesquely in the wrong direction. Two men came quickly to lift him and bear him away, but Gareth shook her head as they did so. He would be dead soon enough.<br /><br />"In the name of Seren Goleuad!" Calloch cried. "What is the point of all this? The Promised King is going to emerge from that Dance and find a plain full of dead people and an army waiting to kill him!"<br /><br />Something in his words made Gareth stop in place. It wasn't possible. It <I>couldn't</I> be...but it was.<br /><br />Gareth had wondered at the incongruity of Maxen's attack, at this very time and place. She had assumed it the poorest of fortunes, but now she realized the truth and she felt herself becoming very cold.<br /><br />He had known.<br /><br />Somehow, Maxen had <I>known</I>. He was not attacking a random collection of his King's enemies, nor was he marauding upon the helpless, unleashing his wrath upon the most pathetic opponents he could find.<br /><br />He was here to kill the Promised King, even as he emerged from the Giants' Dance.<br /><br />Gareth looked back to the Dance, and the camp now burning around it; she looked at the clouds of smoke now rising into the icy blue sky. And at the very heart of the Dance itself she saw a light, small at first, but soon growing to a white and brilliant gleaming. That light was accompanied by a new wind that whipped the smoke above the Dance into a cyclonic spiral.<br /><br />It was happening.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Sir Baigent struck the man squarely on the head with the flat of his sword, stunning him, and on the follow-through he ran his sword through the man's neck. Somewhere to his right Hugydd was fighting, his sword dancing impressively for a man who had forsaken his life of the blade and more impressively, in fact, than Sir Baigent remembered him ever fighting before. As he and Hugydd carved a path through the attackers, Estren and the farmfolk came in behind, taking advantage of the small amount of confusion that the two experienced fighters were able to create. Meanwhile, Murron and her archers were able to keep Maxen's cavalry at bay. For now, at least, it was all working. They were holding their ground. The fires had served their purpose.<br /><br />And yet, Sir Baigent thought as he fought off yet another attacker, Maxen had to know what manner of resistance he was facing here. He was no fool. After the first success of the defenders, Maxen had held his cavalry back. It was tempting to think that he did so because of the damage Sir Baigent's hasty defense had wreaked, but the element of such surprise was gone and the defenders now had their backs almost up against the Dance itself. Maxen <I>had</I> to know that he was facing a group of Druids and farmers and villagers, and not a disciplined company of soldiers. He had to know that there was no way that this ragtag group could defeat even his relatively small number of mounted knights. To these peasants, it would be as a full cavalry charge, and they would break in the face of it. Sir Baigent knew that if <I>he</I> were in command of such a force against such an opposition, he would order the charge. So why was Maxen waiting?<br /><br />A gust of wind came up at that moment, pushing smoke from the fires into Sir Baigent's face. Coughing, he turned just in time to almost dodge an attack by a club-wielding brute; the club landed on his left arm, nearly breaking it. Sir Baigent killed the man with a single sword thrust and then staggered away. That was when he saw the brilliant light gleaming in the heart of the Dance. He wondered what it could mean, and then he realized what it was, and hope filled his heart -- hope that was dispelled when Maxen's horns at last sounded the charge.<br /><br />He knew, now, why Maxen had waited.<br /><br /><I>"To the Dance!"</I> he shouted, over and over. <I>"Murron! Defend the Dance!"</I> He yelled it as many times as he could as he began fighting his way back toward the Giants' Dance, from where the Promised King was about to emerge into the midst of an attack -- and Gwynwhyfar would be with him.<br /><br />He heard a new chorus of shouts and screams. More of Maxen's men were streaming forward. Sir Baigent's blood froze.<br /><br />"Merciful Goddess!" Hugydd said.<br /><br />They had tried to reach the Dance in time, but they had failed. All of Maxen's men were now upon them, their task dreadfully clear: to hold these commoners in place, killing them slowly while Maxen's men on horse faced the one who would soon come out of the great stone circle.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"They are fighting well," Fflud observed. "We should send in the rest of our men."<br /><br />"Not yet," Maxen said, holding up a hand. It would not be long now. He felt it stirring within him: desire, dark and lusty, for blood and death. He felt the presence of the Power that had come to him in the form of a great silver wolf.<br /><br /><I>Soon...very soon....</I><br /><br />Pain -- wonderful, wonderful pain -- began to smolder in his left wrist. It was coming. It was--<br /><br /><I>"Look!"</I> Fflud cried.<br /><br />It was here.<br /><br />The wind blasted Maxen, but he took no notice of it at all. What commanded him was the light, burning and terrible, that radiated at the center of the Giants' Dance and the shape that stood at the center of that light. The Druids had done it. They had brought him back. But it did not matter, for in wielding the strength of that Power that had come to him in his hour of darkest need, he would undo what the Druids had made this day.<br /><br />"Sound the call," he commanded. Fflud relayed the command. Maxen wound the reins around his left forearm. He was unconcerned about the horse remaining true, for he knew that it would. There was no reason for concern. He drew his sword for the moment that was to come, when he would kick his horse in the flanks and ride with a silent war-cry toward the task that, in the moment when his onetime life ended, would become his.<br /><br />When he would ride to slay the Promised King.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />King Cwerith ap Cellamma looked out over the battlefield at the city of Bedwyn beyond. His initial push for the field had stalled, but now his armies were gaining position for a rallying push, and he could see that the armies of Bedwyn had been spread out too thin across the field. When the time came for him to order the next full thrust up the center of the field, poor Cunaddyr's forces would not be able to repel him a second time. It was already decided, and all that remained was the playing out of the drama. Bedwyn was showing more resistance than had Caer Camyrdin, but still they would fail. Cwerith allowed himself a smile. Today, Prydein would be his.<br /><br />Across the field came a horn call that was cut short; one of Cunaddyr's trumpeters had been struck down, and one of Cwerith's own trumpeters returned the call.<br /><br />"A page returns, My Liege," Lord Varing said.<br /><br />King Cwerith nodded, and he turned to face the boy who had come running from the nearby hills: one of Cassion's pages.<br /><br />"What word?" he said.<br /><br />"I have come from Father Cassion," the boy said, confirming what Cwerith already knew. "He bids me tell you: it has begun in the north."<br /><br />Cwerith nodded. "Go and get water, boy," he said. "We will have word for you to take to the field."<br /><br />"Yes, My Liege," the boy said before staggering away.<br /><br />Cwerith turned back to the battle. One of his companies had broken too far to the east and would have to be summoned back; another had suffered heavy losses and was about to give way entirely. But overall, the battle was going well.<br /><br />"My Liege?"<br /><br />"Yes, Varing?"<br /><br />"Sire, I am wondering -- what is happening to the north?"<br /><br />"The greater part of our victory," Cwerith said. The greater part, indeed...he wished, not for the first time, that he was able to commune with the Power that was the source of Cassion's strength and wisdom. One day, perhaps -- if he showed his fealty...if he showed his worth as King....<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Brother Malcolm tied the bandage around the man's thigh. It was a deep wound, but clean; perhaps he would walk again, although he was more like to lose his leg. Malcolm handed the man a cup of water, and the man swallowed a sip or two before lapsing into unconsciousness. Then he moved on to the next, and even one so unfamiliar with wounds of battle as he could recognize a death-wound when he saw it. A sword, or an axe perhaps, had opened the man's torso so that his body was naught but blood and mangled flesh between the chest and the legs. The man's breaths were shallow, rasping; by what cruelty this man should still be breathing at all was beyond Malcolm's imagination. He whispered something, a snippet of prayer, before re-covering the man and moving on. He had now lost count of the men to whom he had only been able to offer farewell. It all became a blur, a horrible blur of blood, bile and defecation and death.<br /><br />Later he was helping to restrain a soldier whose arms had been taken off at the elbow as an Adept cauterized the wound with a hot iron. The man's shrieks, piercing despite the rag stuffed into his mouth, drowned out the horns that sounded from Cwerith's army. It was just as well. Brother Malcolm would not have recognized those horns for Cwerith's secondary push, even if he had heard them.<br /><br />But someone else <I>had</I> heard those horns. "They are coming," that someone said.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Sir Baigent ignored the pain in his side from the old wound and the pain in his left arm from the new -- and the cut on his forehead, and the twisting of his ankle when he had stumbled over a corpse. He never allowed his blade to stop moving, not for a single second, as he fought through the throng of louts before him. He had no time for pain now, and all the men he killed took on a singular aspect, no longer appearing as separate warriors but just parts of a single, larger foe. He had to fight through. He <I>had</I> to win. But there were still too many by far, and he would not be able to thwart the mounted warriors who now attacked the man who had just come forth from the Dance.<br /><br />That man was tall in the saddle, tall and impressive -- but at the same time he was somehow smaller than Sir Baigent had envisioned, and from the distance of fifty paces or so he looked even smaller. <I>This is the Promised King</I>, Sir Baigent thought with dismay as the first two of Maxen's mounted knights moved to engage him. Sir Baigent brought his own sword about, beheading an attacker, and then he had a moment in which no one was coming at him, a moment for him to watch what came next. He saw the two mounted men lift their swords, and his heart sank. <I>Everything we suffered</I>, he thought. <I>All of it, to end here, like this.</I><br /><br />And then Sir Baigent saw the Promised King lift his own sword.<br /><br />It was a weapon the like of which he had never before seen. This sword reflected the light of the sun so brilliantly that to Sir Baigent it appeared as though the Promised King held a blade wrought of a piece of the sun itself. He reflexively lifted his hand to shield his eyes, but still he was able to see the Promised King ride forward, straight at the attackers. That bright blade flashed twice with amazing speed, and the two knights fell dead from their saddles.<br /><br />The Promised King peeled away and circled back to the spot where he had begun, to await the next attackers. Again they came, and again the King rode to meet them, and again the attackers were slain. Something stirred in Sir Baigent's heart. Once more the name of Camyrdin burst forth from his lips, and he rejoined the fight. The numbers against him were still desperate, but perhaps -- just perhaps -- they might be able to win this day. Then he heard the pounding of hoof-beats, and he thought for a moment that Maxen had sent his cavalry to attack the villagers and defenders, until he heard the new war cry:<br /><br /><I>"Seren Goleuad!"</I><br /><br />That cry was followed by the sound of a clay object hitting the ground, and Sir Baigent threw himself down just as the explosion blasted in the midst of Maxen's men.<br /><br />The Finders had arrived.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Rage, black rage, filled Maxen's heart as the explosion ripped through his men. How <I>dare</I> these damned wretches--<br /><br /><I>It does not matter.</I><br /><br />The voice was familiar, and it calmed him. He touched the maimed tissue of his left wrist and pressed on it, savoring the familiar pain. Of course it did not matter if these people came now, with their damned globes of fire. It didn't matter if every one of his men fell here today, so long as this Promised King never left the field alive.<br /><br /><I>Ride with my strength, Maxen of Caer Mastagg.</I><br /><br />The words, spoken in the voice of the silver wolf, soothed him. He looked up to see the King with the blazing sword strike down another man, and the world seemed to him to slow as he spurred his horse forward and began his own ride to the attack. He lifted his sword, and the blade actually began to burn as though it was made of flame instead of steel. The strength of the Power that had saved him -- the strength of the silver wolf -- surged through him as he rode, and his burning sword met the blazing one at last.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>"Break away!"</I> Fflud shouted. <I>"Stop those men!"</I><br /><br />He shouted his command again and again, until the remainder of the mounted knights turned from their attack on the man with the blazing sword and moved instead to counterattack these damned bandits who had found them once again. Fflud lifted his own battle axe and likewise rode to attack, to trample and behead and maim and kill these enemies who had been so flagrant in their refusal to serve the rightful King of Prydein. What luck, what unbelievable <I>fortune</I>, that these fools would be here as well, fighting in the open and under sunlight at last, without the cover of darkness and fire and smoke to protect them.<br /><br />And there in the front of all the fighting was the bastard from Camyrdin who had taken the mantle of Champion for that whining bitch and maimed his Captain. Easily selecting his target, Fflud steered his horse toward that man -- <I>Baigent</I> was his name -- and positioned his axe for the blow that would send this man to join his countrymen.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Out of the corner of his eye, Sir Baigent could see that the men on horse had swung about to attack the Finders. They would trample their own men, the way they were riding. Amazing -- and even worse, Sir Baigent would be among them. He could not disengage from the men he was fighting soon enough. The horses were almost here -- and then there came the unmistakable rush of air as twenty or so arrows flew over his head, into the charging riders. He heard the voice of Murron of the Arrows, shouting in the distance, but he could not make out her words. Glancing about, he saw Hugydd swing his sword, killing a man who died with an expression of shock that he should be struck down by a Druid.<br /><br />One of the Finders rode by, his horse trampling three men as the rider dropped another fire-globe. The explosion threw more bodies into the air, and Sir Baigent waded into the resulting carnage, using his sword to carve through leather, flesh and bone. Then he heard a bloodcurdling scream, and when he looked up he saw another horseman -- an immense mountain of a man, wielding a gigantic axe -- bearing down upon him.<br /><br /><I>Fflud</I>, he thought, having only time enough to recognize the man before Maxen's second-in-command was upon him.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />In his ears Maxen heard the baying of wolves as he arrived upon the Promised King. The King's blazing sword flashed with astonishing speed, but Maxen's burning blade moved with equal speed to parry the blow. He saw the expression in the other man's eyes, and he was confused by what he saw there: calmness, anger and a small amount of fear, but also sadness. <I>He knows he is here to die,</I> Maxen thought. But still this warrior fought bravely and gallantly, almost without fear. After another exchange of sword-strokes, the Promised King moved beyond Maxen's reach and dismounted, moving with a litheness of foot that Maxen found surprising. Nevertheless, such skill would not save this man who fought with the power of a fading Goddess while he, Maxen, fought with the power of the fading Goddess's rising Brother.<br /><br />Maxen swung down from his own saddle and rushed to the attack. He did not wonder how this man had known he would likewise dismount, for that mattered not at all. He savored the grunt that the Promised King made when he met Maxen's first blow. It would not be long now.<br /><br />Wolves howled for him, and he drank in the Dark God's power and majesty.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1129482747682944872005-10-16T09:33:00.000-07:002005-10-16T10:12:27.716-07:00Chapter TwentyThe sun had only been rising in the place she had left, but here in the place she now entered it was setting. The air was warm, but with the definite crisp of autumn. The tree the crowned the hill before her was in full leaf, but its leaves were red and gold, and they shone in the long light of the closing day such that the tree looked as though it were ablaze against the blue sky. She walked up the rise until she stood directly under its boughs, looking down the other side of the shallow hill on a wide field that ended about six miles distant in a line of wood beyond which stretched the sea. And out there, on the very horizon, she could just make out an island -- enough to see that it was there, but she could discern none of its features. She knelt in the grass beneath the tree as several of the tree's leaves broke free from their branches and fluttered down about her to the ground. Thus did Gwynwhyfar pass from the central plain of Prydein to -- wherever this was.<br /><br />She looked down at the sword in her hands. She knew nothing about swords, in a practical sense, having only held one a handful of times in her life; but even so, she could tell that there was something very special about this particular blade. First, there was the way it perfectly balanced in her hand, despite its considerable heft and the fact that her hand was unaccustomed to the holding of blades in the first place. And when she removed it from its scabbard, the blade reflected the sunlight no matter which way she moved it, so brilliantly that it was as if she held a shaft of the sun itself in her hand. More even than that, though, was the way the weapon felt...<I>alive</I> in her hand. There was power in this weapon, ancient and elemental power, power akin to that which flowed through the Giants' Dance and which she had felt when she had entered the grove of the Fair Folk with Nimue at her side. For some time she gazed at the fine etchings of tracery along the blade, and she even tested the edge on her finger. The cut it made was so fine that she barely felt it, and the droplet of blood it left on the sword rolled off again, dripping away without leaving any trace at all.<br /><br />"Who is it?"<br /><br />Gwyn spun, startled by the voice even though it sounded like a little girl's voice, because there had been no one there before. But a little girl's voice it was. Probably eight years old, she stood before Gwyn with her twin brother -- such he could only be -- at her side. Both wore robes of red, and both had long hair that was strangely white. Gwyn had never seen white hair on a child before, nor had she ever seen eyes that stunningly black. These were the strangest children Gwyn had ever seen.<br /><br />"It is a woman," the boy said, in a voice that was indistinguishable from the girl's. "And she comes wielding a sword."<br /><br />"How strange," said the girl. "First that she is here at all, so far from home and walking a path so long untrodden by anyone from the mortal world, and second, that she comes with a sword when it is clear that her skill is with a bow."<br /><br />Gwyn gasped.<br /><br />"Indeed," said the boy. "It is ever thus with mortals: what they do is rarely equal to what they are able."<br /><br />Gwyn's furrowed her brow. She had heard those words before, and might have even been able to place them in the Oracles, had she been anywhere but this strange place, talking to these strange children.<br /><br />"To see a sword again is very welcome," the boy went on. "It has been a long time since war came here. In fact, when last these fields were bloodied by fallen warriors, it was that sword that did much of the watering."<br /><br />"Yes," the girl replied. "The blood ran deep that day, and never more than when that very blade, wielded by the father, cut down the son even as the son's blade found its own mark."<br /><br />"Such horrible fate," the boy said. "A dolorous day, indeed. But then, all days of battle are dolorous, are they not?"<br /><br />"Surely not," the girl said. "Men make war too easily, 'tis true, but there are times when war is just and when the land can only live again through the bloody death of its sons."<br /><br />The white-haired boy and girl went on like this for a while, talking back and forth to one another even as they gazed, unmoving and unwavering, upon Gwyn. They did not even seem to be conversing so much as reciting proscribed lines, as in Becham's <I>Dialogues</I>. Gwyn looked up at the sky, to mark the progress of the sun, and she was surprised to see that it had not even moved despite the fact that she had been standing here listening to the two children for a long enough time that it should have shifted even a small, but noticeable, amount. Did time not exist here? or only beneath this tree?<br /><br />"I'm sorry," Gwyn finally said, interrupting the two children who were not children. "I have lost my way."<br /><br />"She has lost her way," the boy said.<br /><br />"Impossible," the girl replied. "One cannot lose what one has never had. Her way is not known to her, so how can she have lost it?"<br /><br />"That is true," the boy said. "Although we should perhaps try to help her still, since finding one's way is of the highest importance, whether one has had it before and lost it or if one has never had it."<br /><br />Gwyn blinked. Not even Father Damogan at his most cryptic spoke like this. "I have come for the Promised King," she offered.<br /><br />The two children turned and looked at one another, as if in some form of communion; then they looked back at Gwyn.<br /><br />"A King is a strange thing to promise," said the girl. "One's heart, or one's fortune, perhaps; but to promise a King is something odd."<br /><br />"Do you know where I can find him?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"We know where many things are," said the boy. "The graves of Kings who died young and those who were of great age at their passing. The barrows of where the Thirteen Treasures forever reside are known to us, as is the cavern of crystal wherein Merlyn forever sleeps. Why would you ask for <I>this</I> King, of all the Kings who sup in Arawn's meadhall?"<br /><br />Gwyn thought for a moment. There were so many reasons that she could have given, but what she said was, "Because I have his sword." She held up the weapon again for them to see. "It is time for him to wield it again."<br /><br />The children bowed their heads. "Then the sadness begins again," the girl said. "His duty is never complete, never done; his pain, never over."<br /><br />"But perhaps the cycle ends with this one's coming," said the boy. "That is the place you seek."<br /><br />The children lifted their arms and pointed to the sea and the misty isle on the horizon. Gwyn stepped forward, away from the children, to get a better look at the isle.<br /><br />"Go there," said the girl behind her. "That is where the King sleeps."<br /><br />"It is a long way to travel," Gwyn said. "How shall I get there, and how shall I cross the sea?"<br /><br />But there was no reply from the children, and when she turned round again, the children were no longer there. In their place stood a tall, white horse that bowed its head as soon as Gwyn met its eye. The animal bent its knee, allowing her to mount. It wore no saddle, but with its first step Gwyn could tell that its footing was solid and true, and she knew that come what may she would not be thrown by this horse. It bore her down the hill, leaving the tree of autumn behind and past two white-stoned cairns that looked only large enough to contain…a child. Gwyn shivered, and not from the breeze.<br /><br />The horse trotted down from the hill and out onto the field, heading for the distant wood and the sea beyond. The field was a lovely one, its grasses waving in the gentle breeze and the last wildflowers of autumn dotting the verdant landscape with points of white. Several times Gwyn closed her eyes to savor the warmth -- even the crispness of autumn felt warm to her after so much unending winter -- and the scent of those flowers in the air. She realized suddenly how accustomed she had become to cold and ice, to the scents of earth and dampness. The pent-up spirit within her welled up and burst forth, and she suddenly laughed aloud as the horse trotted across the field.<br /><br />She opened her mouth to sing, but before she could utter a word the horse suddenly slowed to a walk as if its footing had become uncertain. Gwyn looked down at the ground to see what was the matter, but to her eyes it seemed no less smooth and passable than before. She could see no reason why the horse would now be favoring its steps. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see that a bank of clouds had moved over the sun; a cold breeze stirred then, a breeze that smelled strongly of the sea. More clouds came, clouds had not been in the sky before. And there were sounds, too, as faint as the waves of the nearby sea had sounded when Gwyn had slept in her home as a girl. They were the sounds of battle: the shout of a warrior on the attack; the clash of swords upon swords; the scream of a soldier being run through. The sounds were intermittent, scattered all around her -- some from far to her left, some from the right, some from behind her. Her head snapped in each direction as she heard each new sound, but she never saw anything other than waving grasses, wildflowers, and the occasional rock. Then there came a new sound, much louder, and directly in front of her: the piercing shriek of a man dying and dying horribly. Gwyn gasped and nearly dropped the sword, but the horse merely sidestepped the dying man who wasn't there.<br /><br />Now Gwyn saw in the grass the gleam of metal, tarnished but still a bit shiny. There was another, a few paces away; and another, and another. They were shards of armor, pieces of broken blade, shattered helms littering the place once sullied by battle. The bits of metal became more numerous as the horse moved along, and then there were other things in the grass, smooth and white: bleached bones, the bones of the warriors fallen here. The bones were here and there, much as the pieces of metal had been, in pieces themselves, and now Gwyn could see that the horse was carefully choosing its path so as to not step on them. Just as there had been more of the metal fragments, there were more bones, and they were more often together and sometimes still joined together. Gwyn swallowed when she saw her first complete skeleton, still wearing the rusted and rotting armor that in the end had failed to protect its wearer from whatever had struck him down. No longer was Gwyn riding across an ancient battlefield. It was a recent battlefield, and with each step it was becoming <I>more</I> recent: she was riding through the very memories of this place, and the death that had been doled out in such horrible quantity here was now hers and hers alone to behold. She held her head high, always facing forward, trying not to turn her gaze on the remains that littered the ground about her, but it was so difficult -- especially as she realized that the wood was still at least half a mile distant.<br /><br />The sounds of battle and dying men around her horse were constant now, never fading, but somehow never becoming quite real even as the bleached skeletons became less bleached, and the bones began to bear flesh once again, and the rusting armor rusted less and bore the markings of heraldic devices once again. On she rode, as the battlefield took shape as it had been on the day when the King had passed from the world of men into the world of Promise. When at last the trees drew near and their eaves reached out to welcome her, Gwyn rode across a field covered with fallen men who were either waiting to die or dead already.<br /><br />There was no path, but the horse did not hesitate at all. Into the wood it walked. Gwyn had not traveled through many woods, but this one was still very different from any she had seen before. The trees were perfectly spaced at even distances apart, with almost no underbrush to speak of, so much so that Gwyn decided that this wood had been deliberately planted this way. Even odder was the fact that the trees before her were in full, verdant leaf, but as she approached them their colors shifted to the reds and golds of autumn, and when she looked back she saw the leafless trees of winter with their leaves now blanketing the ground. The wood passed in time as she rode through it, as the battlefield had reversed.<br /><br />The ground rose sharply then, which was strange in itself because Gwyn had seen no sign of a hill at all -- in fact, when before she had first surveyed the land from beneath the autumn tree, it had seemed that the ground dipped slowly and steadily toward the sea. She remembered nothing in the lay of the land suggesting a sharp rise in the midst of this strange wood. Nevertheless, a rise there was, and the horse carried Gwyn straight up its side, and as she rode on Gwyn now heard the sound of metal on metal. The sound of combat.<br /><br />The horse brought Gwyn onto the hilltop. Here they stopped beside a pavilion of red cloth and another horse of gray that lazily munched at a pile of hay that was not there, even though the horse's mouth made the crunching sounds as though it was. That would have been strange enough, if not for the duel taking place in the field on the hilltop, which was without any doubt the strangest thing Gwyn had ever seen.<br /><br />There was only one combatant, a towering knight in armor painted green, and he was dueling no one. His opponent was the empty air -- and yet his lunging attacks were parried by <I>something</I>. The knight's sword rang against another sword, but there <I>was</I> no other sword, and the knight dodged attacks from -- the air? Gwyn nearly laughed at the sight, but the green knight was putting every bit of his strength into this weird battle. He launched another attack of almost savage brutality, which missed terribly. The knight in green was not just dueling nothing; he was being <I>pushed back</I> by nothing, and for a moment it seemed as though he might be defeated by...nothing. But then he parried a low attack and returned with a devastating slash of his own. There was a sickening crunch as the knight in green's sword made contact with...nothing, which was followed by a thud as the knight's invisible opponent fell to the ground. Then there was another thud as something landed on the ground very close to where Gwyn stood and rolled to a stop. Gwyn felt her flesh go cold as she realized what the unseeable object had to be. The knight in green turned and approached Gwyn and her horse, stopping several paces away. There he planted the tip of his sword in the ground and stood, silent, waiting.<br /><br />Gwyn had no idea what to do. The knight in green made a gesture that seemed both to beckon her forward and warn her away, and she shook her head. The knight repeated the gesture, and again Gwyn shook her head. The horse snorted.<br /><br />"He demands a question," someone said nearby. Gwyn glanced down at the source of the words, which was a treestump -- or rather, the head that sat on the treestump. She gasped.<br /><br />"A question?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"A question which he cannot answer," the head replied. Its voice was awkward, high-pitched, and raspy.<br /><br />Gwyn glanced at the knight in green, who nodded.<br /><br />"He wants me to <I>ask</I> a question?" she said.<br /><br />"Indeed," said the head on the stump. "The knight in green is tortured by his inability to speak. His soul can be at peace only by being asked a question which would not vex the tongue he does not have by his inability to speak its answer."<br /><br /><I>A riddle</I>, Gwyn realized. Her heart quickened, and not for the first time she wished she had never accepted the mantle of Welcomer -- except that it had not been a thing either for her acceptance or denial.<br /><br />"Three chances shall be yours," said the head on the stump. "You may ask three times. Choose wisely."<br /><br />"What if he can answer them all?" she asked, and then she bit her tongue, suddenly praying that this had not been one of her three questions.<br /><br />"Then your head shall join mine on this stump," the head said cheerfully. "That prospect does appeal to me, My Lady. I would like to have a lovely thing to gaze upon for all my days."<br /><br />For a brief second Gwyn considered turning the horse around and galloping away -- surely this knight in green could not outpace a running horse -- but she had little doubt it would be futile, if it were even possible. She forced herself to think back to her days at Tintagel. She had encountered riddles before, in come of the ancient tales, but she had always found them to be irritating, wordy poems that turned on verbal trickery, an opinion which had annoyed Brother Malcolm, who loved them. She tried to recall one of those riddles now, any of them.<br /><br />"He awaits," said the head.<br /><br />Gwyn thought again, searching her memory, and then she had a riddle, or part of one. She hoped it would be enough.<br /><br />"What is it," she asked, "that shines with light not its own?"<br /><br />The knight in green stood still for a moment that, to Gwyn, was horribly long. She waited for the knight's answer, and she was about to sigh in relief that he did not know it...when he lifted his gauntleted right hand and pointed to the sky.<br /><br />"He says, <I>the moon</I>," said the head on the stump. "Another, please."<br /><br />The answer was correct. <I>Fool!</I> Gwyn cursed herself. <I>You got that one right yourself, the first time you heard it! Of course the knight would get it as well!</I><br /><br />Again she thought back to the places she had read riddles in the books and the Oracles in the Tintagel library. She could almost recall a few of them -- a line here, a phrase there. Almost....<br /><br />"I am the river that never floods,<br />I am the road that never turns,<br />I am the King whose edict is always final,<br />Against me no man can rebel,<br />Nor can he refuse to march by my side."<br /><br />The knight in green made no motion at all, for a longer period than after the first riddle. He only stood there, unmoving, and again Gwyn thought that perhaps she had met the challenge; but then the knight made some gesture Gwyn could not possibly understand but which the head on the stump interpreted: "<I>Time</I>."<br /><br />Gwyn's heart sank.<br /><br />"Ask your final riddle, Lady." The head on the stump sounded cheerful, as though this were the most normal thing in all the world.<br /><br />The knight in green stood, waiting. Every riddle she could remember, few as they were and then only in part, had easy answers that would little trouble her voiceless opponent.<br /><br />"Ask, Lady," again said the head. "Ask a question which cannot be answered, and go forth from this place."<br /><br />A question which could not be answered. Gwyn struggled to think of just such a question. Did the head mean a question that could not be answered because no one could have the knowledge to answer it, or did the head mean a question that <I>had no answer</I>? Either way, Gwyn could not think of one.<br /><br /><I>Think, girl!</I><br /><br />She could hear the exasperated voice of Brother Malcolm, as she so often did -- both in reality and in her dreams -- when she could not summon the knowledge that should have easily come. Did this mean that she should be equal to this task?<br /><br /><I>You are the Welcomer! You must be equal to this, because it is part of who you are! You KNOW what to ask!</I><br /><br />The voice was both Brother Malcolm's and her own. There was something she was supposed to know, something she had been given to remember, for this moment alone. Something in her deepest memory, something she could <I>almost recall</I>….<br /><br />"Ask, Lady," said the head. "Ask now, or go to dwell forever in Annwn, Land of the Dead."<br /><br /><I>Annwn....</I><br /><br />Gwyn remembered a dream then, in which a burial mound had opened and the dead had come forth -- and the Lord of the Dead himself had spoken to her. She tried to recall the things he had said...and then, at last, she had it. She lifted her head and, in a clear and even voice, asked her question.<br /><br />"Knight in green, what will be the last word in the Song of the Dead?"<br /><br />The knight in green did not hesitate, not even to consider the question. Instead, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head in reverence.<br /><br />"Go in peace, Welcomer," said the head on the stump.<br /><br />The horse began to walk, and Gwyn rode past the knight in green, across the combat field, and into the wood on the other side. This part of the wood was not laid out in as regular a fashion as the first, but now there was a path that led straight through, finally to the side of the sea.<br /><br />The water sparkled in the sunlight of late afternoon, and the air was clear and cool. Nevertheless, the distant isle was still shrouded, and only the top of whatever lay there -- Gwyn could not tell if it was a sharp outcropping of rock atop a mountain or a spire atop a fortress of some kind -- was visible above the shifting mists. The horse rode down to the side of the water where it kneeled, allowing Gwyn to dismount, the sword still in her hands. She glanced at the horse, which bowed its head to she who had ridden it; and then she turned to face the water where even now a boat was emerging from the mists enshrouding the isle. The boat was white, its prow worked in the shape of a swan and its sails made of shimmering samite, the same as Gwyn's gown. She glanced back and was not surprised to see that the horse was gone. Thus she waited alone for the boat to come to her.<br /><br />When it neared the shore, it turned and slid up to the bank on which Gwyn stood. She stepped into the boat and stood in its flat bottom for there were no seats. Then the breeze freshened, filling the sail and pushing the craft out to sea. Somehow the tiller moved even though there was no hand guiding it, and the boat swung about and moved across the calm, golden sea toward the misty isle.<br /><br />As the boat drew nearer the isle, Gwyn became aware of voices raised in song -- three voices, those of women. She tried to attend to the words they were singing, but she could not tell what they were or even if they were words at all. There was happiness in that song, though; happiness and gratitude.<br /><br />As the boat came to the first tendrils of mist, the cloud suddenly began to recede as if recoiling from the boat's very touch. Quickly, then, all of the mist enshrouding the isle vanished completely, revealing its features for the first time.<br /><br />The boat was approaching a pier of stone, which was marked by a statue of alabaster in the shape of a woman in a long gown, one hand lifted in a gesture of welcome and the other in a gesture of warning. A path lined with blue flagstones led away from the pier and then followed a spiraling path, all the way around the isle, up to a squat stone building at the isle's highest point. The building's roof was raised toward a great spire, also of alabaster, that gleamed orange in the falling sunlight. The building was circular, and though Gwyn had never seen a building like this before she intuitively knew that it was a sanctuary or temple of some kind. The boat slowed and came to a stop alongside the pier, and Gwyn stepped out. Still holding the sword, she walked up the pier onto the flagstone path.<br /><br />The stones were cool under her feet, and as she walked across them she realized that they did not feel like stones at all -- more like glass, perhaps, or something similarly smooth. The path's spiraling track took her all around the isle, and yet when she reached a height where she could look back to sea, she could no longer see the mainland from which she had come. As far as she could tell, the isle now rose above a totally empty and featureless sea. She followed the smooth path, up to the sanctuary gate, and despite the fact that it was utterly black inside, she entered without hesitation. And when she passed beneath the gate, the world seemed to shift again as it had when she had entered the Giants' Dance, and her next footfall came down not on stone but on grass.<br /><br />She was on a wide, clear path that wound through a lush, green wood where the trees were in full, verdant leaf and air was warm and smelled of wildflowers. A pair of butterflies, one black and one white, fluttered past her ear and down the path in front of her. This wood was larger, by far, than the building she had thought herself to be entering, and there was no sign at all of the endless sea.<br /><br />She followed the path as it looped into the center of the wood where at last she emerged into a grassy grove where a pool fed a babbling stream. Beside the pool, three women in gowns of white samite identical to Gwyn's knelt in the grass beside a blanket on which lay a man garbed in chain armor. It was these women who were singing, but they fell silent as Gwyn entered the grove, and one by one they stood, cast back their veils and faced the Welcomer. They shared the same face but at different ages: the woman on the left was young, a girl barely on the cusp of womanhood; the woman on the right was old, wrinkled and near the end of her days; and the woman in the center was in the fullest flower of her years. They stepped forward, and the woman in the center spoke first.<br /><br />"Come in peace, Welcomer," she said. Her voice, though she spoke alone, was the voice of all three. "We are the Queens of Avalon."<br /><br />"Some have named us Faith, Hope and Charity," said the young one, the one on the left, also with the voices of her sisters added to her own. "Other names we have had, so many that even we have forgotten our true names."<br /><br />"There are those," the crone said, "who would consider it a sadness that our names are lost to us. But it is the strange belief of men that names capture our truest selves."<br /><br />"It was we," spoke the younger, "who came to the shores of Prydein, called <I>Britain</I> in those days and still so known to this man, to bear away the dying King from the place called Camlann."<br /><br />"Here we healed him," said the crone. "Here we made him whole again, and here we have held him for the time of his return."<br /><br />"But be warned, Welcomer," spoke the woman. "You must not bind this man's soul again to Prydein if the cause is not just, for we were granted one intercession only. When he leaves this place, it will be to never return. Come what may if he returns to the world of men, he cannot come again to Avalon."<br /><br />Gwyn looked at the sleeping warrior and then at the sword she still held in her hands. What the Queens of Avalon had just said was true, and she knew it: for good or ill, she was bringing this man back to Prydein to die.<br /><br />"He must come," she finally said. "He cannot remain here. You speak of me binding his soul to Prydein, but his soul has ever been bound thus. Avalon is not his place, and he can remain here no longer."<br /><br />The three Queens each nodded. "So it is said," said the youngest, "and so it shall be." They stepped aside, allowing Gwyn to approach. Gwyn could tell, even though he lay in the grass, that King Arthur Pendragon was a tall man. His long hair, brown but streaked with gray, hung loosely about his shoulders, and his beard and mustache were also flecked with gray. He did not look particularly old, but still his eyes were lined and his hands, folded over his chest, were rough and callused -- calluses formed wielding the very sword Gwyn now held. She knelt by his side, and he awoke at that moment and beheld her with eyes of deeper brown than she had ever seen.<br /><br />"You are not one of them," said the Promised King. His voice was surprisingly soft, and not as deep as she had expected. He pushed himself up so he was sitting in the grass before Gwyn.<br /><br />"I am the Welcomer," Gwyn said, bowing her head. "I have come to bring you back."<br /><br />He sighed. "I feared it was so," he said. "I have been here for so long, and yet it feels as if I have only just arrived. I do not wish to return."<br /><br />"You must," Gwyn said. "The country is at war, the boundaries between the worlds are falling, and the land itself is dying. Into such a time a King was promised to come, and you are that King. Things must be put right, and you are the one who must do so."<br /><br />"Merlyn spoke as you do," said King Arthur. "What is your name, My Lady?"<br /><br />It was the question Gwyn had dreaded. Nevertheless, she answered it. "Gwynwhyfar of Lyonesse," she said.<br /><br />King Arthur recoiled as if she had slapped him. How many years it had been, how much time had passed, and yet for him the pain was still fresh. Some wounds, Gwyn was learning, never truly healed, no matter how much time passed after the wounding. King Arthur rose to his feet and stood silently for what seemed to Gwyn a very long time. All she could do was wait.<br /><br />"Gwynwhyfar of Lyonesse," King Arthur said at last. "Gwynwhyfar." He faced her then, and studied her features. "You do not have her appearance. She was the most beautiful girl in the entire land, with hair like the sun in spring...and eyes that...." He sighed heavily. "When Leodegrance brought her to me it was as if I had never known beauty before. I loved her so...but it was all for naught. Even then the seeds of my fall had already been sown."<br /><br />Gwyn said nothing.<br /><br />"In the end, we destroyed ourselves, all of us. Some at the Table blamed the Gods and the Goddesses, some blamed Lance, some blamed her. Some even blamed me, and I blamed my ill-gotten son. And now you wish me to return to that place." He turned to face her again. "I do not want to go back, My Lady. It is too much to ask of me, of anyone."<br /><br />"I feared you would feel so," Gwyn said as she rose to her feet herself, the better to address the Promised King even though he was still a full head taller than she. "Much of your tale has been lost to us in my time, but we know it for a story of terrible sorrow, when a realm of such glory was undone by many dark deeds, some intended as such and some now, but all dark nonetheless. But the things that were true then, Arthur Pendragon, are true now. You <I>are</I> the Promised King and you must return to Prydein with me."<br /><br />"No," King Arthur said.<br /><br />"You <I>must</I>," Gwyn said, pitching her voice higher and harder. "Even now the fields of Prydein are being turned from fields of grain to blood-soaked fields of war, and those fields not seeing battle are still as dead as the unending winter can make them. There are priests at work who serve the darkness, and they are using the blood of the innocent in the rites. Ill powers are at work in the world. That is why I have come here, Your Highness -- that is why so many people have suffered to see me here. And it is why I have been given this sword, so that once again it might be wielded by your hand in the name of Prydein."<br /><br />She held up the blade, still in its scabbard. King Arthur's eyes widened and his cheeks whitened at the sight of it, and almost involuntarily he reached out to take it. His hand hesitated, though, and he curled it into a fist.<br /><br />"No," he said through clenched teeth.<br /><br />"This is your sword, Arthur Pendragon," Gwyn said, pressing forward. "Its hilt was meant for your hand, and here it is again. Deny this and you deny not only Prydein. You deny yourself." She thrust the sword toward him, and again he hesitated.<br /><br />"What if I fail again?" he asked. "How many more people will I watch die for me and for a dream that is doomed to failure?"<br /><br />"We can only serve the Goddess in the way most fitting who we are," said Gwyn. "You were not carried to this place so you could live in unending sadness over what was lost. You were brought here to await the time when you could return and build it anew. Take the sword, Arthur, and become King Arthur once more." Again, she held out the sword. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.<br /><br />"You say I am to return, but the land I knew is long dead," said Arthur. "I would not be returning. I would be coming to a place less familiar than new. Oh Merlyn! the seeds of deception you planted at Tintagel are still bearing fruit." He lifted his face and met Gwyn's eyes. Then he reached out and took he sword into his hands. Holding the hilt in his right hand, he removed the scabbard with his left and then held the weapon up so that its blade once more reflected the sunlight. The sword was blinding, and Gwyn shielded her eyes with her hands. "It feels as though it has never left my grip," he said in a voice thick with wonder. "Bedevere did true, when he threw it back to the Lady of the Lake." He resheathed it.<br /><br />Gwyn thought of beautiful and ancient Nimue, and again she wondered how deep the Lady of the Lake's part in all this was woven. "Does the sword have a name?" she asked.<br /><br />"Caliburn," King Arthur replied. "I was the only one who could claim it, and was thus made King."<br /><br />"And now you are King again," Gwyn said.<br /><br />"Not so," King Arthur said. "There will be battles to be fought before that comes to pass. It was thus before; even though Caliburn was meant for my hand alone, I still had to wield it in many wars before the realm was mine to build. And, first: we must return."<br /><br />The three Queens of Avalon stepped forward then.<br /><br />"And go you will," said the younger Queen. "Return you shall, Arthur ap Uther, Pendragon, High King of Prydein." In her hands she carried Arthur's great helm, and beside her the crone held his cloak and the woman held a small, wooden box ornately carved.<br /><br />"Long did we wait to bring you here," said the crone. "Long also did we wait beside you, and now, long will we sleep."<br /><br />"Take these gifts in memory of Avalon," said the woman. The crone placed the cloak on Arthur's shoulders, and the woman opened the box to reveal a silver brooch with a single blue gem. With this brooch she fastened the cloak, and then the younger handed him the helm, which he took under his arm.<br /><br />"Thank you," Arthur said. "For so much more than this."<br /><br />"It is the task for which you were ordained," the woman said. "Now go, Arthur Pendragon. Go, and complete your task on earth."<br /><br />"I would have the Welcomer gird Caliburn to my side," King Arthur said. "It was done by Guinivere before, and it should be so again."<br /><br />Gwyn nodded and knelt before the Promised King to do as he asked. She could see his strength as clearly as anything, but she could also sense a gentleness in him. Strong and gentle -- like Sir Baigent, and like her memories of her father. When she was done fastening the sword to his belt, she rose to her feet again. "Take me back," he said.<br /><br />As Gwyn and the Promised King walked away from that place, the three women began to sing once more, their voices shaping a phrase that was lament and farewell. Gwyn and King Arthur came to the thickness of trees, and before passing through the King stopped to look back one final time at the place where he had rested for all these years. The three Queens stood about that spot, their hands joined and their heads raised up, offering their voices to the heavens and sky. A tear rolled down Gwyn's cheek, and she saw King Arthur wipe one away from his own eye. As they watched, the summer trees around his resting place shifted and turned before their eyes to the gold and red leaves of autumn, with those leaves dropping and fluttering to the ground. And as King Arthur turned away, never to look on that place again, autumn came at last to Avalon.<br /><br />Gwyn and King Arthur walked through the trees and emerged again outside the stone sanctuary, whose walls were now crumbling and covered in moss. Then they followed the spiraling path back down to the dock. The boat was still there, its swan-shaped prow now pointing back to the mainland.<br /><br />"I remember this boat," said the King. "When last it carried me over these waters, I was dying." He stepped into the boat and, offering his hand, helped Gwyn in as well. Then the boat slipped, easily and gently, out to sea. The mists again formed about the Isle of Avalon, first at its summit and then gradually shrouding all of its features until the Isle entire was gone from view such that there might not have been an Isle there at all.<br /><br />Finally the boat came back to the mainland, and there it slowed and stopped. King Arthur and Gwyn stepped out onto the ground and stood in silence as the boat floated away until it too disappeared into the mists that covered the sea.<br /><br />Turning then, they found awaiting them the same horse that Gwyn had ridden before, although now it bore the finest saddle Gwyn had ever seen. The horse lowered its head as King Arthur approached, and he fondly scratched the animal's ears and patted its neck.<br /><br />"Do you know this animal?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"I seem to," he said. "There were many horses then. Come."<br /><br />He and Gwyn mounted the horse, and it carried them back through the wood -- but this time there was no silent knight in green to demand riddles -- and back onto the wide, sloping field. Here there were no more sounds of battle, no dying men as before; only a warm field that was quickly turning colder. King Arthur looked around with an expression of deep, deep sorrow.<br /><br />"This is the place of my last battle," King Arthur said. "Here is where my realm ended. We called it Camlann. And there"--he pointed to the tree on the rise, which they now approached--"there is the place where I last faced my traitorous son. I slew him there, even as he struck me down. That was the wound that could only be healed in Avalon."<br /><br />They cantered up the crest of the hill, beneath the eaves of the tree, and down the other side. Now the air began to feel colder and colder with each step, and mists -- more mists, but darker and grayer, less a veil than a thick blanket -- formed before and around them, completely removing the world from view. For a moment Gwyn felt as though they were not riding over ground but through air, and then there was ground beneath them again: the stony soil of Prydein. Her gown of white samite was also gone, replaced by her Druid robes of before. A cold wind blew, and there was a very sudden and very brilliant light about them, dispelling the mists entirely and momentarily blinding them. The light faded, or dimmed at least to that of the sun; Gwyn smelled smoke on the air and as she saw the great stones about her once more her ears were met by the sound of steel upon steel, of wood against bone, of men shouting and of men dying. Somewhere in the distance there were horns sounding a call that filled Gwyn's heart with fear.<br /><br />"So it begins," King Arthur said with a heavy sigh. "Find cover, My Lady. Those robes will not turn aside anything more than a blunt dagger." He helped Gwyn down from the horse, and then he rode forward, beneath the great stones and onto the central plain of Prydein. Gwyn moved forward, hiding behind one of the stones for cover but so that she could see. A company of mounted men was charging, directly toward King Arthur; and she recognized the device they wore: the device of Gwynedd. This, she knew, was Maxen's company. Gwyn had told King Arthur that he would be returning to war, but she had not thought that it would be thus.<br /><br />And as the men of Gwynedd charged the man who had just returned to claim his kingdom, King Arthur Pendragon turned slowly to face them and pulled Caliburn from its scabbard. The Sword of Prydein blazed with the reflection of the morning sun, and King Arthur lowered his head and rode forward to meet the charge alone.<br /><br />Thus returned the Promised King to the land of Prydein.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1128266100657815342005-10-02T07:55:00.000-07:002005-10-02T08:15:00.680-07:00Chapter Nineteen"Is there any sign of her?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />"No," Brother Llyad replied.<br /><br />"You should eat," Sir Baigent said as he handed the monk a bowl of the thin, grainy soup the Druids had prepared.<br /><br />"Ah," Brother Llyad said as he sniffed the soup. "I have missed this."<br /><br />"I'm sure you have," Sir Baigent said as he sat on the ground beside the monk. He had eaten a bowl of the soup, and though he had indeed found it nourishing, he had also found its flavor too close to that of dirt.<br /><br />"Is Estren resting?" Brother Llyad asked between mouthfuls.<br /><br />"Probably," Sir Baignet said. "Or perhaps he is singing with the Druids someplace -- I haven't seen him in a while."<br /><br />"He is the first Bard in more than two centuries to come into the company of the Druids," the monk said. "He is no doubt wondering by what measure he so deserves the providence of the Goddess to also be here for the coming of the Promised King."<br /><br />Sir Baigent sighed and said nothing. He had some thoughts of his own as to the providence of the Goddess that it would little avail anyone to voice just now.<br /><br />It was going to be a bright morning. The clouds had all vanished moments after Gwyn had gone into the Giants' Dance, leaving a clear, moon-lit sky that was now taking on the purple hue of just before dawn. The sun would rise within the hour, its morning rays falling upon the very spot in the Dance where Gwyn had entered.<br /><br />"How long has it been?" Brother Llyad asked.<br /><br />"Hours," Sir Baigent replied. It had been shortly after the middle of the night that Gwyn had disappeared into the Dance, and since then they had neither seen nor heard a single thing form the great stone circle. Sir Baigent hoped that when the sun rose, perhaps they would be able to see into the Dance -- but he was slightly fearful of what they might see when that time came. After the ceremony had ended and the gathered Druids had walked away -- rather laconically, Sir Baigent had noticed, hardly as if they had just partaken in the most important rite of theirs in centuries -- he had approached Horius and asked what it was that had happened, and what it was that they had seen, and where it was that Gwyn had gone. Horius had not given any answers, because he had had none to give. Thus they had done nothing since then but wait, and rest, and wait some more. Sir Baigent had tried to sleep, and he had even succeeded for an hour -- maybe two -- but no more than that. He had to be awake for Gwyn's return. He had to see this King for himself, this man for whom they had risked so much; and more than that, though he would never say so directly to anyone but himself, he had to know that she was well and that her journey had been a safe one. He was still her Champion.<br /><br />Sir Baigent looked around at the Druids who milled about the camp. "What do you think is happening now?" he asked.<br /><br />"I couldn't possibly say," Brother Llyad replied. "Perhaps she has gone to Avalon."<br /><br />Sir Baigent had actually been wondering what the Druids were now doing, but he didn't feel like correcting the monk. "Avalon?" he asked.<br /><br />"The place where the King was taken after his last battle," Llyad said. "It is the place where his wounds were healed and where he has spent all the days since, awaiting the time of the Promise when the Welcomer would come for him."<br /><br />Sir Baigent picked up a pebble and rolled it about in his fingers. Rough, with a sharp edge -- not like a stone from a riverbed. "Does it ever bother you that we're relying entirely on legends and stories and tales where no one knows the truth of the matter? We can't know it for history."<br /><br />Brother Llyad shook his head. "You still have trouble believing?"<br /><br />"I've seen too much to not believe, but I haven't seen enough to give myself to it the way you have, cleric."<br /><br />"Perhaps I've seen too much," Llyad said. "It's always been difficult for us to sort out the truths in the tales. So often, there is no perfect answer to the questions we ask. In that way, is not the work of a cleric like that of the seneschal to a lord? Are your choices ever truly clear?"<br /><br />"They often are," Sir Baigent said, "but only after we've made them. I think--" He stopped suddenly. He had heard something.<br /><br />"What is it?" Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />Sir Baigent cut him off with a hiss. He had heard -- it had sounded like -- but now it was gone. Had he heard it? or were his ears deceiving him, over the sounds of the mostly sleeping camp? How could it possibly be--<br /><br /><I>He didn't turn south,</I> Sir Baigent thought. He suddenly felt very cold, and by reflex his hand moved to the pommel of his sword, just to make sure that it was there. <I>He isn't marching to rejoin his King. He is coming here.</I> "On your feet," he said as he jumped up.<br /><br />"What is happening?" Brother Llyad asked.<br /><br />His answer came not from Sir Baigent, but from the sounding of the horns, distant horns but not distant enough, sounding the call of battle.<br /><br />"That call--is it--"<br /><br />"It is the attack call of Gwynedd," Sir Baigent said. "Maxen is here."<br /><br />It could be no one else, Sir Baigent knew. He ran to join the stirring camp.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />When dawn rose over Bedwyn, Brother Malcolm took his first look at an army of war. Nothing prepared him for the sight. All the histories of Prydein, all the tales of the bloody wars of years gone by, some penned in his own hand, could not prepare him for the actual spectacle of ten thousand men ready for battle. And here, before them, was the six-thousand-man strong army of Bedwyn. Malcolm could recite the details and dates of so many of the wars that had raged across Prydein, but that was completely different from <I>seeing</I> one, <I>hearing</I> one. The two armies on the field below looked, at once, both vast and small -- although in the case of the Duke's army, it was not an illusion. Cwerith's force outnumbered Cunaddyr's by at least four thousand. Unless they fought perfectly, a siege would be inevitable.<br /><br />The field was fairly level, so neither force would have the advantage of higher ground. A mile west, off to Malcolm's left, the land did slope down to the river, but the battle would not be waged anywhere near the water, or so Malcolm believed. As was true of most things, that was of no great certainty.<br /><br />He felt Lord Matholyn's hand on his arm. "It is time," the Lord said.<br /><br />"You're certain that you want me to come with you?" Malcolm asked.<br /><br />Lord Matholyn shrugged. "I am hoping that having you nearby will give me cause to hold my temper. When you write the history of this day, I don't want it reported that the battle began because of something I said in a moment of fury." He smiled, but it was without humor, and Brother Malcolm did not return it.<br /><br />"If anyone on this field has a right to claim anger, it is you," he said.<br /><br />"The right to anger is not a right I gladly claim," Lord Matholyn said.<br /><br />The two men walked down from the walls to the main gate, where they joined the party that would soon ride out to parley with Cwerith ap Cellamma, King of Gwynedd and claimant to the throne of all Prydein.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />At that moment, King Cwerith was putting on his armor, which he had not donned since the attack on Caer Camyrdin. None of the raids or skirmishes since then had required his presence, and thus his armor had sat in the cases that his pages tended and secured through the days of travel. Today, though, his armor was needed. Not that he would be joining in the actual fighting, of course -- a King did not take foolish risks -- but he would not ride unarmored out to parley with the Duke of Bedwyn. Surely Cunaddyr would honor the flag of truce for those few moments of talk, but Cwerith did not trust all of Cunaddyr's men to resist the urge to throw a well-concealed dagger in hopes of ending the war before the battle even began.<br /><br />He had hoped that this would not be necessary. He had driven his men hard, as few armies had ever been driven, to take advantage of the possibility that the Duke might not return in time. They had very nearly made it. Only a few more leagues per day would have been the difference. He would have been able to overwhelm the city and only then deal with Cunaddyr and his displaced army, whose morale would have been shattered before the battle ever began. It would have been a decisive rout, and all that would remain would be the Kentish Shore now that Duncan had done his part and burned Londia to the ground. Alas…even as the towers of Bedwyn had appeared on the horizon, Cwerith's keen-eyed watchers had spotted the armies of Cunaddyr, filing out of the city and onto the plain to meet them. Their best estimates put the Duke's army at six thousand men, while Cwerith had ten thousand -- odds favoring the King of Gwynedd, but not strongly enough for his tastes.<br /><br />Baron Gaddamar, that old craven idiot, had actually asked how such a thing was possible. Cwerith had not bothered to answer him, but Varing had patiently explaiend the additional possibilities for moving an army that existed for a city that lay on the banks of a deep and wide river like the Test, a river which led quickly and swiftly to the sea. "Ships?" Gaddamar had asked, incredulous at the concept. Cwerith had, admirably, held his tongue even though surely the Lord of a tiny landlocked parcel like Gaddamar should know about ships. People in coastal towns, after all, still knew about wagons.<br /><br />"Watch there!" Cwerith said. The page helping him with his armor had pinched his leg.<br /><br />"Forgive me, my Liege," the page said as he tightened the fastenings.<br /><br />Lord Varing arrived and bowed. "The party is assembled," the eunuch reported.<br /><br />"Has Cunaddyr taken the field yet?"<br /><br />"No, Your Highness."<br /><br />"Then we have time." He intended to savor this moment, to revel in it, as surely as Irlaris had savored the look on his father's face when he had seen the banner of Macholugh on the side of the King.<br /><br />He rubbed his arm absently, not really noticing the pain from the fresh offering Cassion had drawn that morning. He never noticed the pain anymore. It had become part of him, like his hand or his foot, and in any event he had other concerns that were more pressing than mere pain.<br /><br />Lord Varing cleared his throat. "Their gate is opening," he said. "Cunaddyr's party is taking the field."<br /><br />Cwerith lifted his head to see. A mile away the Main Gate of Bedwyn was lifting. A horn call echoed across the field from the Bedwyn battlements, the traditional call to parley.<br /><br />"Let us go," Cwerith said as he pulled himself up onto his horse with some help from his pages. Lord Varing mounted beside him, and together they rode to where the rest of his party waited. He would ride with Baron Gaddamar, a few other lords, and six of his best knights. "Return the call," he ordered his own herald, and the call was returned as King Cwerith's party rode out onto the field to meet Duke Cunaddyr.<br /><br />"How many are with him?" Cwerith asked when they had reached the halfway point.<br /><br />"Nine," Lord Varing replied. "Four Knights in corner formation, four in his party, and the Duke himself. Strange -- it looks as if he has a cleric with him."<br /><br />"Unusual," Cwerith agreed. He would not have dreamed of bringing Cassion with him. In fact, he would not have brought Cassion anywhere… "Who is that man to Cwerith's left? He looks familiar...."<br /><br />Lord Varing squinted as he tried to recognize the man who rode to the Duke's left, slightly behind him. He was certainly familiar...and then Varing gasped audibly. "My Lord, I believe that is Lord Matholyn of Camyrdin."<br /><br />"I know," Cwerith said, his voice little more than a growl. He had recognized Lord Matholyn even as he had asked. He reached absently into the pouch on his belt and felt for the rock that he had carried with him ever since he had destroyed this man's realm. At least now he knew why they had never found Matholyn's body.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />The Duke held up a hand, and the members of his party cantered to a stop on the cold field that would soon be a place of the dead and the dying, where nothing would likely grow for at least several growing seasons. Brother Malcolm forced himself to draw a deep breath. This was not remotely like any place he had ever dreamed of being. All this would one day make a fine tale, if there was ever again a time for the telling of tales; but such a tale should be his to <I>write</I>, not to actually be named within its pages as one who had played a part. Malcolm glanced over at Lord Matholyn, whose posture in the saddle was as rigid as ice and whose grip on the reins was so strong that had they been a walnut the shell would already have shattered.<br /><br />The wind stirred out of the north, preceding the arrival of King Cwerith. Malcolm flinched a bit in the face of the fresh, icy breeze, and the aches in his bones flared. He was really too old for such traveling. He had done a good deal of riding about Lyonesse and Southern Prydein in his younger years -- on one such trip finding a young orphaned girl named Gwynwhyfar -- but now he suffered from saddlesores and aching muscles and he wished for nothing so much as a chair by the fireplace in his Library. He looked forward to getting back there, when all this was over -- and then he looked across the field at the army massed against them, and he wondered if he would <I>ever</I> go back. It had truly not occurred to him, until just that moment, that when the day was done he might very well be numbered among the dead on this field.<br /><br />He felt a new chill, not from the wind, as the Traitor King's party came to a stop, about twenty paces away from Cunaddyr's. Cwerith's herald separated from the rest of his party, and came alone to the midpoint between the two parties.<br /><br />"Cunaddyr of Bedwyn," the herald said, louder than he really needed to and in a practiced voice with sharper enunciation than Malcolm had ever heard even from the Bards, "the High King of Prydein would speak with you. Will you come forward?"<br /><br />Duke Cunaddyr cleared his throat, and his horse stamped the ground twice. "If you mean do I consent to parley with the King of Gwynedd, then I do," the Duke said. "As for the High King of Prydein, I see his flag here, but I do not see Irlaris son of Islinbad before me."<br /><br />That brought some angry grunts from Cwerith's party, but no one said anything. The King himself, Malcolm saw, maintained a cold and malevolent stare at the Duke, who for now only stared at the herald.<br /><br />"King Cwerith of Gwynedd <I>is</I> the High King of Prydein," the herald said. "He is High King both by right and by battle, and he requires your audience."<br /><br />"By battle is clear enough, I suppose," Cunaddyr replied. "But by what <I>right</I> does he claim the throne?"<br /><br />"Such matters are for the King to discuss," the herald said. "Will you speak with him? He commands it."<br /><br />The Duke shifted in his saddle. "And if I do not?"<br /><br />The herald blinked, having not expected this. He glanced over his shoulder, clearly indicating the army behind him. "There will be repercussions," he said.<br /><br />"Perhaps not the repercussions your King believes," Cunaddyr said. "Bring your King forward. I will hear what he has to say -- on a great number of subjects." Here he took an exaggerated glance over his own shoulder, his <I>left</I> shoulder, indicating Lord Matholyn. The herald scowled before returning to his own party.<br /><br />Sir Jules, who was riding on Brother Malcolm's right, leaned over. "You look tense, Brother. Does something vex you?"<br /><br />"Isn't it unwise to anger them so blatantly?" Malcolm asked.<br /><br />"No," Sir Jules replied. "What is said here matters not in the slightest. This is just part of the game. There will be battle, and the words spoken now won't change that one way or the other. We could spit on Cwerith's cloak, or invite him to dinner -- the outcome will be the same."<br /><br />"And that," Duke Cunaddyr said, "is an invitation Cwerith would not accept. We use utensils at <I>my</I> table." It was not a particularly funny jape, but the men chuckled anyway. Even poor humor served a purpose. The Duke straightened his cloak on his shoulders. "Here he comes," he said.<br /><br />Brother Malcolm stiffened. Indeed, here came King Cwerith, with his steward and another man -- an older man, some kind of Lord -- also riding along. Malcolm was surprised by the fact that, despite his fine armor which was splendidly decorated and his powerfully handsome war horse, Cwerith of Caer Mastagg was a fairly small man. He had expected, as claimant to the throne, someone larger.<br /><br />Cwerith and his attendants stopped a mere five paces away from the Duke, where he turned his gaze on each member of the Duke's party -- each member, that is, except for Lord Matholyn. That was the one gaze he avoided.<br /><br />"Greetings, King of Gwynedd," Duke Cunaddyr said. "What is the occasion of your presence here?"<br /><br />King Cwerith cleared his throat. "I am claiming my place as High King of Prydein, and I have come here to demand your loyalty."<br /><br />Sir Jules snorted at that, just loud enough for Cwerith to hear. Nevertheless, he gave no sign of it. <br /><br />"High King?" Cunaddyr said, raising his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "And what of Irlaris?"<br /><br />Cwerith tossed his head in frustration. "Do not play the fool, Cunaddyr. We are all aware that Irlaris is dead."<br /><br />"And it is certainly sheer happenstance that you were marching with an army such as this when Duncan deposed Irlaris," the Duke replied. "One might think that this was planned, and that you are not a claimant to the throne but a usurper."<br /><br />Cwerith's face hardened. "Irlaris was the usurper," he said. "I seek to restore the throne to its true line. Irlaris bought his throne with guile and betrayal. In this he had the aid of certain Lords who previously had been allied with Gwynedd." Here he glanced, for the first time and only for the briefest of intervals, at Lord Matholyn. Matholyn, through some force of will, kept his eyes focused tightly on the reins in his iron-like grip.<br /><br />"That is not the way the tale is usually told," Cunaddyr said.<br /><br />"The shaping of tales for the telling is ever done by the victors," Cwerith replied.<br /><br />"Ask <I>the victor</I> if he has already written the tale of Camyrdin," Lord Matholyn suddenly said. His stare did not waver from his own knuckles, and his voice was little more than a whisper. Still, no man there failed to hear him.<br /><br />Malcolm looked to Cwerith, and the other man smiled. He <I>actually smiled</I>, and Brother Malcolm shivered to see it. There was no warmth at all in that smile.<br /><br />"That tale shall be written as what it was: the righting of a wrong done fifty years ago, and the sad fate of a people forced to pay the price for a betrayal half a century gone by."<br /><br />"<I>Treachery?</I>" Matholyn's voice was like a knife, and now he stared directly at Cwerith. "You <I>dare</I> utter that word here?"<br /><br />"It is the only word that suffices," Cwerith replied. "Had Macholugh done his duty, those many years ago--"<br /><br />"His duty to whom?" Matholyn cut in. "To your drunken despot of a father?"<br /><br />"Mind your tongue, Matholyn. Or yours shall be the first I have cut out, before I execute you." Cwerith's eyes were narrow and his voice had gone even harder.<br /><br />"Already planning executions," Matholyn said with a harsh laugh. "How like a Lord of Caer Mastagg. The only entertainment in that dreary place is watching the convicted die."<br /><br />Cwerith bit back a reply, and then he glanced up to the sky. "This winter has done our land so much harm," he said. "I cannot think that your food stores are prepared for a year without a growing season, Cunaddyr. And I wager that they are certainly adequate to the task of waiting out a siege. There are no allies coming to join you. Will you truly doom your people, as did the Lord of Camyrdin when he chose to leave his city even as my armies gathered on his borders?"<br /><br />It was an obvious ploy, and to Lord Matholyn's credit he did not rise to it.<br /><br />"Is that to be the way of it, then?" Duke Cunaddyr asked. "Those who join you are spared, while those who do not are subject to flame and steel?"<br /><br />Cwerith nodded. "A High King can allow neither challenge nor denial of his reign. It has ever been thus -- or have you not heard the tale of the Scarlet King and his sons, and what befell them when they denied High King Prystyl?"<br /><br />"Everyone in Prydein has heard that tale," Cunaddyr replied. His voice and manner were becoming impatient for an end to this charade of a parley. "Bedwyn is not some citadel sitting atop a hill in the wilderness, I am not some self-styled King who has bought his fortress and his men with all the gold in his possession, and you are not High King Prystyl."<br /><br />"My name shall eclipse his," Cwerith said. "I will not merely be another High King to be listed among those who came to the throne by surviving a long and bloody war. I will be heralded as the King who brought Prydein through its darkest time, when the Goddess herself lose her power over the affairs of men."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm shivered anew. Had he heard the man's words correctly? There was a glow in Cwerith's eye that was not the reflected sun, and it filled the Priest with fear, for now he knew what was in Cwerith's mind.<br /><br />"I will be the King who came in Prydein's hour of darkest need," Cwerith went on, his voice growing in stature. "I will restore the realm and I will be seen as the King whose coming was foretold in our oldest stories."<br /><br />Cunaddyr's mouth opened and closed, and he exchanged glances with Lord Matholyn. Brother Malcolm could scarcely believe what he was hearing.<br /><br />"You are claiming to be the Promised King," Duke Cunaddyr said.<br /><br />"I have been chosen by a Power greater than all Prydein," Cwerith said. "Indeed, greater than the Goddess herself, a Power with the strength to force the Wyrm of the World to do its bidding. A new time is coming, and you can either be a part of its shaping or perish resisting it."<br /><br />"You are mad," Cunaddyr said. "You have betrayed the Goddess and all of her servants on earth. It is the true Promised King who will come to defeat you."<br /><br />Cwerith's eyes flashed in a moment of quick anger. "No doubt you wait for the Promised King to come riding from the sky on a great winged horse," he said in a voice that was as full of contempt as could be possible. "Or, perhaps you wait for some King to be escorted back from the Giants' Dance?"<br /><br />Brother Malcolm's heart stopped for just a moment, and Sir Jules groaned. Neither Lord Matholyn nor Duke Cunaddyr made a sound, but they didn't need to. It was still evident on their faces, and Cwerith laughed. "Yes, I know about the small mission you sent to the Dance in hopes of finding a savior, a man behind whom you could hide from destiny. That mission will not succeed. They will find nothing, certainly no dead warrior waiting for the kiss of some girl; and they will be slaughtered by a force of my men who were sent there days ago."<br /><br />Malcolm could not conceal his reaction. He knew that he had gone pale, and he gaped at Lord Matholyn, who likewise looked ill. <I>How could he know?</I> Malcolm wondered, desperately.<br /><br />"The Darkness lies within you, Cwerith," Cunaddyr said. "It is consuming you. No Welcomer has come for you, and your march to war fulfills no prophecy. You have been deceived; by whom, I know not, but the deception is complete and it has consumed you. Turn away from this field, Cwerith. Go back to Caer Mastagg, and pray to the Goddess for guidance and forgiveness, because if you stay on the path you now walk you will surely die."<br /><br />Cwerith shrugged. "How easily doomed men speak of death, though they know not it comes for them," he said. "I came to this parley for an answer, and I have received it. Know this, Cunaddyr: when next I leave this field, it will be with Bedwyn in flames and your body swinging from a gibbet. And before I head east, I shall pick up a stone to carry with me and remind me of this day, just like this one, which I picked up before leaving what used to be Caer Camyrdin." Now he held up the stone for all to see, and Lord Matholyn breathed a heavy sigh. Cwerith laughed. "Would you like to kiss this stone, Matholyn? A relic of what was once yours, but is now mine as it should have been all these years? It shall be so: before I go from this place, I shall press this stone to your dead lips."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm winced and shook his head. This man was more vile than he had ever thought possible. Cwerith returned the stone to his pouch and took up his reins again. "Your High King has heard your words and marked them, Cunaddyr of Bedwyn," he said. "And now I mark you for death." He gestured to his attendants that the parley was over, and they turned and began heading back to their army.<br /><br />"And what price enticed <I>you</I>, Gaddamar?" Lord Matholyn suddenly called out, before they were gone. As Brother Malcolm watched, one of King Cwerith's attendants, an elderly man who looked ill at ease in the saddle, gave Lord Matholyn a surprised glance before turning and following his new liege. Matholyn shook his head when they had gone. "Traitors ever flock to the company of other traitors, though they must know that they too will be betrayed in the end."<br /><br />"How could he know about the girl?" Sir Jules asked. "If he has truly sent a company of men to the Giants' Dance--"<br /><br />"We know that there is a darkness in Cwerith's heart," Duke Cunaddyr said. "But I fear we have misjudged the source of this darkness. He does not even claim to serve the Goddess."<br /><br />Malcolm didn't like the implication. "Can he have turned to the Dark Brother?"<br /><br />"He will not be the first King to do so," Cunaddyr said. "And we cannot help the Welcomer. All we can do is make our own stand, and hope that we are strong enough."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm nodded. He was unsure of what to feel now -- fear for himself, fear for Gwyn, fear for Prydein itself, or all of it at once. He rode alongside the Duke and his men back to the city, where he was taken back within the walls while the others remained outside. Malcolm would best serve by going to the Healing Chambers, ready to help tend those already sick and to prepare for the hundreds of wounded to come. He did not need to witness the battle; it was enough that he was here. The history that he would one day write of this day, were he to live through it, would not suffer for material.<br /><br />Though he did not know it, he was praying over a child dying of fever when the Battle of Bedwyn began.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"How do you know these people won't be armed?" Fflud asked. "It appears to be a large camp. They will number two for every man of ours."<br /><br />Maxen looked at his second-in-command, and then back to the distant camp. "It won't matter," he said.<br /><br />"What won't matter?" Fflud said. "If it is an armed camp--"<br /><br />"It won't matter," Maxen said again. There was nothing to question, no reason for Fflud to think. They were going to strike a blow today, the most important blow. So much would be decided, and it would be decided here -- not at Bedwyn, which would be recorded by historians as the moment when Cwerith became High King in truth, but here, where historians would write of nothing at all. How often had that been the case, he wondered; how often had the historians and the Bards written the tale of some battle or toehr event while the real shaping of history was being done someplace else?<br /><br /><I>It won't matter</I>, Maxen thought. It would not matter if every man in his command died here today. He pressed on his bandaged stump, and thanked the Power that spoke with the voice of the wolves for the sharp pain that reminded him that he was alive. He gazed on the camp and the shadows of the Giants' Dance that loomed over it, and he smiled.<br /><br />"Sound the horns," Maxen said. "The call to battle."<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"Did you hear that?" someone asked.<br /><br />Jonn held up a hand and hissed for silence. He had heard <I>something</I>…the call of a bird, perhaps -- or a thrush or a hawk, coming down for its prey…but those things would have been normal, expected. They would not have been out of place here, as morning rose over the plain. This sound that he had heard was different.<br /><br />"It sounded like--" someone began, but someone else hushed them. Silence fell over the Finders as they stopped just an hour's ride from the Giants' Dance. What had the sound been? And then it sounded again, filling Jonn's heart with fear as he recognized it for what it was, for what it only could have been.<br /><br />Horns, sounding the call of battle.<br /><br />Worse, he recognized the call. He had heard this call before, when he had led small teams of the Finders on their strikes against Cwerith's men.<br /><br />"To horse!" he shouted. "All men, we ride first!" He turned to Gaspar, the young son of his friend Gavidd. "Remain behind," he ordered. "Stay with the women. We will signal you if it is safe to come to us."<br /><br />Gaspar swallowed. "And if it isn't safe for us to stay?"<br /><br />"Then flee," Jonn said.<br /><br />"Yes, Jonn," the youth replied. He sounded calm, but the fear was in his eyes. Jonn reassured him with a hand on his shoulder, and then he turned away.<br /><br />"Come, friends!" Jonn shouted. "Prepare your fireglobes! Against Maxen, we ride!"<br /><br />The men of the Finders, all of them save Gaspar, slipped on their wooden masks before they kicked their horses and galloped away.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"How long until they arrive?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />"You can't judge the speed of an attack for yourself?" Murron of the Arrows said with a scowl.<br /><br />"I'm testing to see if <I>you</I> still can," Sir Baigent replied.<br /><br />Murron scowled again, but left her retort unsaid. "A quarter of an hour," Murron said. "No more than that."<br /><br />Sir Baigent nodded. The mass of Maxen's company could be seen quite clearly now, and it would indeed be here within a quarter of an hour. He spared a backward glance, to where the Druids worked hurriedly to move as many of the refugees to the eastern side of the Dance as was possible. Some of them, though, joined Sir Baigent, carrying bows, and some had weapons of dubious use -- farm tools, mostly, some of which bore a not-very-sharp edge, and three men with very old swords whose blades were dotted with rust-spots. Sir Baigent had little hope that they would be able to make much of a stand against Maxen's soldiers, and no hope at all that they would be able to defeat him. Their only chance, he knew, was in their numbers -- at least five for every man of Maxen's. But few battles were decided by numbers alone. Caer Camyrdin's fate had not been decided by numbers, and the people there had had walls besides.<br /><br />"All of you! Any of you with bows!" Murron shouted to the various villagers and refugees. "Get up here! You can't do any damage behind us!" Some of these men looked askance at suddenly being summoned to the front of the defense. Not one of them had ever been in any kind of army or battle; they had used their bows to hunt rabbits or some other small animal for the pot, never as a weapon of war against charging men on horse.<br /><br />"We're not going to be able to do much against them," Estren said.<br /><br />"I know," Sir Baigent replied. He looked at the Bard, grateful to have at least one person with a sword beside him.<br /><br />"You're not totally alone," came a voice from behind them. It was Hugydd. His own sword was in his hand -- once an ordinary blade, remarkable now for the device of Camyrdin emblazoned on the pommel -- and he had a group of thirty or so young Druids with him, each wielding an oaken staff or one of the blow-tubes the sight of which made Sir Baigent wince. Sir Baigent gestured at Hugydd's blade, and the former knight-turned-Druid shrugged. "I couldn't toss it away," he said. "It is a reminder of other times. I hadn't planned to use it in battle ever again, Goddess forgive me."<br /><br />"I'm glad you kept it," Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />"These are all the men we could spare," Hugydd said. "The others are helping the refugees to the other side of the Dance. Your cleric companion is with them as well. He is a stronger man than he appears."<br /><br />"Good," Sir Baigent said. "I can tell right now that Maxen is attacking with all of his men, and from the same direction. He is holding nothing back, and he is obviously confident that we will not be able to defend ourselves."<br /><br />Hugydd looked over the gathering -- a dozen or so archers, thirty Druids, thirty or so farmfolk with sickles and scythes, and three men with real swords. "This will not be enough," he said.<br /><br />"It's what we have," Murron said. "That's why you were such a bad archer, Hugydd. You never saw possibilities for what you had. <I>All</I> of you were such bad archers...but never mind. Between our arrows and your darts and a handful of brute weapons, we should be able to slow them down."<br /><br />Sir Baigent looked again out at the approaching force, now no more than ten minutes away and more likely only five, the horsemen leading the way and the footsoldiers immediately behind them. Then he looked back at the now empty part of the camp: hastily abandoned tents, some of them with their campfires still burning. Something stirred in his mind, and an idea began to form. <I>Slow them down</I>, Murron had said....<br /><br />"Come!" Sir Baigent said suddenly. "There is something we can do. <I>Come with me!</I>"<br /><br />He led the defenders of the Giants' Dance back into the abandoned camp, where they did as he instructed and began setting throwing all of the remaining firewood onto the campfires and dousing them with what pitch they could find, causing the flames to hungrily leap up. Then they snatched up as much damp cloth as they could -- cloaks, blankets, anything -- and threw those onto the fires as well, and smoke began to rise from them. Then they began to set the tents on fire themselves. <I>Fire served us once before,</I> Sir Baigent thought. <I>Now let it serve us again.</I> He grabbed a torch with his left hand and brandished his sword in his right as he prepared to strike a blow for Camyrdin, for Prydein, for the Welcomer and for the Promised King.<br /><br />Flames, fire and smoke rose over the Central Plain of Prydein, and then came battle.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1127004367254386732005-09-18T05:00:00.000-07:002005-09-18T05:14:43.776-07:00Chapter EighteenHugydd set a brisk pace as he led the company out of Walding Wood and onto that last plain where less than half a day's ride away stood the Giants' Dance. Gwyn found little relief in leaving the forest. As the trees around them thinned and then disappeared entirely, a new feeling of dread settled over her. Just a few leagues now separated her from the destiny she rode now to claim. How easily she had accepted it all, even as she learned of her parentage and her place within the world, even as she stood face-to-face with dark powers not of this world, even as she was thrust into the center of events that would decide the fate of Prydein forever. How easy it had all been, until this very hour when her destiny was almost at hand, and she realized just how unprepared she was for whatever was about to be asked of her -- no, what she had been <I>chosen</I> for, <I>appointed</I> for. As the plain sped away beneath Dimnur's hooves, Gwyn found all of her certainty vanishing utterly, to be replaced with fear and raw doubt.<br /><br />The company stopped only once to water the horses, at a brackish stream that was nearly dry. "First the freezing of the land," Hugydd said. "And now the earth refuses to give its water. I tell you, the land itself is dying." He shook his head and led his beast to the stream.<br /><br />"Things will return to their rightful order once the Promised King returns," Sir Baigent said. "At least, so we are told."<br /><br />"That is as we hope," Hugydd replied. "Though I fear it will take more than that. King Arthur's return is only the beginning of what we face, not the end."<br /><br />The company fell silent. Gwyn gazed absently at the near-frozen grassland that surrounded them. It looked like the right kind of land on which giants might dance.<br /><br />"Hugydd," Sir Baigent said, "you have not yet asked about Camyrdin."<br /><br />"Tidings travel quickly for the Druids as well," Hugydd said. He ran his hand along his horse's neck as the beast drank. "Though I am certain you believe otherwise, I am grateful that you were not there. That you and Lord Matholyn still live somewhat softens the blow." He looked into the knight's eyes. "I know you, Sir Baigent. If you are in any measure the man I knew before I found this new path, then I would wager that since you learned of Caer Camyrdin's fate you have blamed yourself for not being there."<br /><br />"You do remember me well, Hugydd." Sir Baigent chuckled and flexed his hands. "Knowing that I was spared when so many others were not has been a heavy burden. But it seems that the goddess knew that her Welcomer would need a Champion." He smiled at Gwyn, and she returned the smile.<br /><br />"Ah, yes," Hugydd said. "This man of Cwerith's whom you maimed. You struck the first blow of retribution in Camyrdin's name that night."<br /><br />"Would that it had been a fatal blow," Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />"Perhaps it was," Hugydd said. "Such wounds often are. And in any event, it is perhaps fitting, as the blow to Camyrdin that Cwerith intended to be fatal was not entirely so."<br /><br />Sir Baigent looked hard at his former knight. "Are you saying--"<br /><br />"There are others," Hugydd said, nodding. "More than a hundred, who managed to slip away through one of the secret gates in Caer Camyrdin's walls."<br /><br />Sir Baigent drew a deep breath and let it out. He had often wodnered why Lord Matholyn had never sealed the secret gates that were not secret to him at all, and now he knew. "More than a hundred survivors? A hundred...out of fifteen thousand...."<br /><br />"A hundred more than you had thought at first," Hugydd said. "Most are women and children, and several others whom you may know. When the time comes to rebuild Caer Camyrdin there will be citizens who remember it as it was."<br /><br />Sir Baigent considered that for a moment, and then he cleared his throat and brushed what appeared to be a single tear from his eye. "We should ride again," he said.<br /><br />The day was ending, and the sky was darkening swiftly, but the riding was easy now as they followed a road that was as flat as the land around it. As night fell around them, tiny points of flickering yellow light appeared on the horizon before them. The closer they rode, the brighter and more numerous they became. The fires of the Druid camp.<br /><br />And behind them, Gwyn knew, the Giants' Dance.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Maxen lifted the flask to his lips and took a deep draught of the liquor inside. The taste was awful -- Maxen hated such swill -- but it deadened the pain of the bandaged stump of his left wrist. Despite that, he pressed on the bandage with his right hand, savoring the bit of pain that flashed through his arm as he did so. He needed the liquor to make the pain bearable, but he did not want to lose the pain entirely.<br /><br />He had known other men who had lost limbs. He knew that in time the pain would vanish, although there would be times, when he was alone and in the dark, when he would feel the itching of the hand he had lost and when he would try to flex muscles that were no longer there and grasp with fingers long rotted to dust on some distant hilltop already littered with bones. That was not enough, though. Not for Maxen. He didn't want some small reminder of his maiming, once in a while in the middle of the night. He needed more than a sporadic reminder of what had happened and what had spoken to him from beyond the flames and with the voice of wolves. No, he could not be without the pain. He could lessen it, to be sure, but he could not bear to be without it. It was a part of him now. He would hold onto it and never let it go.<br /><br />He looked around at the men of his company. None of them returned his gaze directly; none had since that night -- not even Fflud -- and he knew why. By rights, he should be dead or, failing that, fevered and weak with death lingering. One could not suffer a wound such as his and be <I>stronger</I> for it. The men in his company were simple men, and they had fears about such things.<br /><br />He waited patiently for Fflud to return from questioning the peasant they had found on the road. It wouldn't take long, and indeed it did not as Fflud soon came riding back to where Maxen stood.<br /><br />"What did you learn?" Maxen asked, wondering as he spoke if the rasp that had entered his voice after that night would ever go away.<br /><br />"Nothing terribly important or surprising," Fflud said. "He is a sickly fool, and will probably be dead in a matter of weeks anyhow. Besides, he soiled himself at the sight of my blade and--"<br /><br />"What did you learn?" Maxen repeated, cutting him off.<br /><br />Fflud blinked. "Your reckoning is correct," he said. "We are on the southern edge of the Central Plain, but the valley of the River Test is still a day's march away. We have taken too long, and we should have gone south around the wood. Now we will not arrive at Bedwyn until well after the siege has begun. The city may even lay in ashes before we can get there and join our King."<br /><br />Maxen gazed upon the wide plain that stretched away before them. The purpose set before him was so clear now. He would never again be a mere Captain of some small part of the High King's army. He had been chosen for something <I>important</I>….how proud his men would be, when afterwards they finally learned what they had done. He pressed at his wound again and drew a deep breath, savoring anew the fresh stab of pain. Fflud shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.<br /><br />"Do we march, Captain?" Fflud asked.<br /><br />"Oh, yes," Maxen said. "But not to Bedwyn. A different battle awaits us. We march east, to the Giants' Dance."<br /><br />The man he had been would have noted Fflud's expression. The Maxen of before, the Maxen of two hands, would have seen how his second had paled and hesitated before nodding. The Maxen of before would have been swift to anger and would have called Fflud a coward for his hesitation.<br /><br />But he was <I>not</I> the Maxen of before, and the Maxen of now -- Maxen the one-handed, Maxen the chosen -- took no notice at all of Fflud's reaction. The fears of little men were of no concern to him, and he gave them little thought as he led his army toward its own greatest battle.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />A thousand people gathered in that place for Midsummer Night. Hugydd led the companions through the encampment, past refugees of other towns in Cwerith's path who had not been able to flee all the way to Bedwyn; past survivors of Caer Camyrdin who looked upon Sir Baigent and cheered; past the Druids who stood and bowed with reverence as the Welcomer came through their midst. Gwyn actually <I>saw</I> few of these people. Their faces blurred as she rode past. Her gaze was focused instead on the Giants' Dance itself, whose great stones loomed before her at last, after so much travel and hardship.<br /><br />She had never imagined that the stones would be this <I>big</I>. Surely living in the rock-hewn halls of Tintagel -- always so near the vast, gray sea and the great cliffs which rose beside them -- would have prepared her for the sheer majesty of these stones, but not so. Their size was stupefying. They towered above her, above everyone, even from this distance. The boundary of the Dance was a ring of titanic standing stones that were crowned by equally huge stones lying prone, and Gwyn realized that the Giants' Dance not a mere collection of standing stones but a single thing, impossibly ancient, that had stood here across stretches of time as vast as that great gray sea. Here dwelt a power older than anything except the Goddess and her Dark Brother and the Wyrm of the World itself.<br /><br />Ceremonial fires burned at equal points around the Dance, with the largest of the fires blazing at each of the four points of the compass; these fires, combined with the hundreds of smaller cookfires that burned throughout the wide encampment, cast a yellow glow into the twilight sky, and yet with all that firelight nothing at all could be seen of the inside of the Giants' Dance. It was as though a cloud had settled within, and no light could penetrate it. Gwyn's heart quickened, for it was into that very darkness that she would soon go.<br /><br />They rode through the encampment, led by Hugydd...somewhere.<br /><br />"Where are we going?" Matt asked.<br /><br />"I'm sure the Druids have a Lord," Gareth replied. "We are no doubt going to see him."<br /><br />"True enough," Hugydd said, having overheard them. "But we do not call him a Lord. He is our Chieftain."<br /><br />Calloch was glancing around at the camp, and a strange look passed over him. "The refugees have tents, but the Druids do not. How do you survive the night?"<br /><br />Hugydd smiled mysteriously. "We draw our warmth from the earth."<br /><br />"I would prefer to draw warmth from a good fire," said Matt. Gwyn glanced at Brother Llyad, who shook his head.<br /><br />"Hugydd is having a joke," he whispered. "The Druids use tents as does anyone else. But they only use them when the elements are harsh enough to warrant them. Otherwise, what he said is true." He looked around at the Druid camp, into which they now passed. If he was trying to suppress his joy, he was not entirely successful. This, for him, was as much a homecoming as had been his return to Tintagel. Perhaps more.<br /><br />They finally arrived at a wide open area, as close to the Giants' Dance as they would come this night. The Dance was still a quarter of a mile away, Gwyn thought, but it felt close enough to touch. Something within it called to her; she felt something stirring within her soul, a deep and powerful yearning to break from the company and ride full-gallop to the Dance and over its threshold. She had to almost physically tear her attention away from the Dance to look upon the group of Druids that now approached them, led by the man who was undoubtedly the Chieftain, so unmistakable was his authority. Gwyn realized that this man looked familiar to her somehow, though she could not place him in her memory; beside her, Sir Baigent stiffened. Hugydd gestured for them to halt.<br /><br />"Here we dismount," he declared. Gareth, Matt and Calloch all looked askance at this, and Hugydd smiled. "You cannot think to remain on horseback," he said. "The horses will never fit into your tents, to name the smallest concern. Fear not. Your beasts will be well cared-for."<br /><br />One by one the companions dismounted, and young Druids -- their equivalent of pages -- came forth to see the horses away. Hugydd beckoned the companions to stand and bow before the Chieftain, which they did. Sir Baigent, Gwyn realized, was standing very rigidly; and to her right, Brother Llyad stood with a tear running down his cheek.<br /><br />"Are these the Druids you knew from Mona?" she asked.<br /><br />Brother Llyad nodded, once. "And I know this one very well," he said.<br /><br />The Chieftain came forward and gazed into Gwyn's eyes with the deepest, wisest stare she had ever before seen. His hair and beard were all silver, and his eyes were lined with age. His face was a face of wisdom, and yet his hands -- which he held clasped in front of him -- were hands of toil, large and strong. This was a man who had worked the earth even as he worshipped the Goddess. He stared into Gwyn's eyes for a long moment, and then he finally spoke.<br /><br />"The Welcomer," he said in a deep voice that reminded her of Father Damogan. "So many Druid Chieftains have labored, for so many centuries, to keep alive the lore of the Emrys. So many have both feared and awaited the day when you would come unto us here, in this place. That such a responsibility has come unto me is a burden I had thought myself equipped to carry -- until now. I see today that it was foolish of me, as it would be foolish of anyone, to wish for such times, but though I must count myself a fool at least in part, I still thank the Goddess for my part in what is to be done this night." He bowed before adding, "I would have your name, if it pleases you to offer it."<br /><br />"Gwynwhyfar," she said, returning his bow.<br /><br />"Gwynwhyfar," he repeated, as if the name were the answer to a riddle that had vexed him since childhood. "That name is not new to the tale of the Promised King. I wonder what role you will have to play in the days to come." He turned to face Sir Baigent. "This man I know," he said. "Our meeting this time is a happier one, Sir Baigent of Camyrdin, for we are met with a common purpose. It pleases me that you did not share the fate of your countrymen, because when we last met, in a wood far from here, even then I took you for a man of honor and valor."<br /><br />"A price was exacted," Sir Baigent said. Gwyn realized now that this very Druid was the same one that Sir Baigent had met in the wood, when he had left one man dead and another sick and taken into the Druids' care. And she remembered, from the knight's tale, this Chieftain's name: <I>Horius</I>.<br /><br />"We each paid a price, I recall," Horius replied. "Two died that night, victims of ignorance. But you were only required to pay the price once, because you showed wisdom. A more foolish man would have paid a price more dear."<br /><br />"Perhaps," Sir Baigent said. Horius stepped back and looked at Brother Llyad, who was now weeping openly as he bowed before the Druid Chieftain.<br /><br />"It honors me to be in your presence again, Llyad of Tintagel," Horius said.<br /><br />"And I am doubly honored," Brother Llyad replied. His voice was near to cracking.<br /><br />"You did what you said you would, when spring came," Horius said. "You said you would go to Tintagel and find the Welcomer. I prayed for calm seas for you, though I doubt you had them."<br /><br />"We did not," Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />"You did not make the trek alone, did you? Who went with you?"<br /><br />Brother Llyad hung his head. "It was Llawann," he said.<br /><br />"Llawann!" Horius exclaimed. His eyes went wide. "But I told him to remain on Mona. Why would he leave, against my wishes?" Horius's tone, Gwyn noticed, was no longer that of a Chieftain. It was more like the concern of a father for his son--<br /><br />And Gwyn's heart suddenly lodged in her throat. <I>Oh, Llawann…</I><br /><br />"We waited for spring, which never came," Brother Llyad said. "We waited for the calmer seas, and yet each day they were as storm-tossed as the day before. We finally realized we had waited almost too long, and that we had to go. Llawann saw the peril, and he would allow the task to no other. Without his skill at sea, I would surely have been lost. And without him, the Welcomer and I would surely have been...." He trailed off, and he looked up at Horius. "He saved us."<br /><br />Horius lowered his eyes. "He is gone," he said. It was not a question.<br /><br />"His barrow is beside the lake where the Fair Folk came to Gwynwhyfar," Brother Llyad said. "He accepted the task willingly, with peace and love of the Goddess in his heart. He could not have done a more noble thing."<br /><br />Horius lifted his head and gave a single nod. "Then in time pride will come to my heart with the sadness fades," he said with a sigh. Then he gestured to the other companions. "A Bard of Prydein, I presume?"<br /><br />Estren nodded.<br /><br />"We are part of the same tradition, the Druids and the Bards. I am glad to see our paths become one." Horius turned then to Gareth. "I do not know you," he said.<br /><br />Gareth held his gaze. "Does the Druid lore speak of Seren Goleuad?" she asked.<br /><br />"Ah," Horius said. "Finders. I have heard of your traditions. Many things are told of in our lore, but I fear nothing is said of the union of the Sun and Moon. Nevertheless, you are welcome here." He returned to his original position, in front of all the companions. There he spread his arms in a gesture of ceremonial welcome. "This is the Night of Midsummer, when the boundaries between the worlds are lowered and many things are allowed to pass between, some dark and some light -- and none so light as what we seek to bring back tonight. Here, in this place of power built by the Emrys himself, the Welcomer will step through those boundaries and bring Arthur Pendragon back from his long rest in Avalon. The Rites will begin at night's darkest hour, when light is most distant. Come, Welcomer. You must be prepared."<br /><br />Gwyn swallowed. Her companions had achieved their mission, and their work was done; now she was in the care of the Druids. Two women stepped forward and took her gently by the arms. She glanced back at her companions -- at Estren, whose words had brought cheer on the journey; at Brother Llyad, whose act of rashness had started it all but who since then had been utterly unwavering in his devotion; at Gareth and her mysterious Finders, who had saved them purely by chance; and finally at--<br /><br /><I>"Where is he?"</I> a voice suddenly shouted.<br /><br />Gwyn whirled in the direction from which the shout had come. Someone was pushing their way through the crowd of Druids, but Gwyn could not see who it was. Not yet.<br /><br /><I>"Move aside, you fools! I will see him now!"</I> the person shouted again. A low, sharp voice, but definitely feminine. Beside Gwyn, someone made a gasping sound. To her surprise, it was Sir Baigent.<br /><br />"Blessed Goddess," he said, and then, turning to Hugydd, "Is it--"<br /><br />Hugydd smiled broadly. "A surprise to bring warmth to your heart after so cold a journey," he said.<br /><br /><I>"Move, you damnable dogs!"</I> the person shouted one last time as the crowd of Druids, most of them laughing, parted to allow her through. The woman was short -- fully a head shorter than Gwyn -- but her body was tough and wiry, her face hard, and her walk severe. Her white hair was tightly curled, her lips were set in a frown that looked unbreakable, and she wore simple clothes of leather and homespun. On her back she carried a bow and quiver.<br /><br /><I>"Murron!"</I> Sir Baigent shouted as he jumped forward to embrace the Chief Archer of Caer Camyrdin. Murron of the Arrows returned his embrace, but followed it with an angry glare -- or at least a glare that appeared angry.<br /><br />"They said it was you," she snapped. "I didn't believe them. 'Not possible,' said I. 'Inconceivable that my seneschal would involve himself in business like this, and even more inconceivable that he would be so late in arriving.' <I>But it's him</I>, they said. <I>And he brought the Welcomer</I>, they said. 'I'm sure he did,' I told them. 'And I'll wager he grew out his hair and took up archery too.'" She reached up and ran a hand through Sir Baigent's hair, which had grown a bit in the last week although it was still quite short. "I see I was right on one such score, at least."<br /><br />"I haven't been gone long enough for my hair to have grown much," Sir Baigent said with a laugh. "As for archery, I'm afraid I've failed you again. Despite all your best efforts, the sword is still my weapon."<br /><br />"Swords," Murron said, and she spat on the ground. "The weapon of brutes and louts. No elegance at all. No beauty, just two witless lugs pounding at each other with edged strips of metal. Pagh!"<br /><br />Sir Baigent laughed. Clearly this was by no means a new topic of conversation.<br /><br />"If that is your view of swords," the knight said, "then I shudder to think of what you would say of clubwielders, lancers and pikemen. But perhaps it would please you to know that the Welcomer is an archer herself."<br /><br />Gwyn blushed as Murron turned to look at her. "So this is the one we've all been waiting for, eh?" She looked Gwyn over, studying her features and finally nodding. "I suppose I can see why. You have that 'fairy' look to you. Well, it stands to reason that you'd be an archer; the Goddess is wise, and archers are the wisest of warriors."<br /><br />"Thank you," Gwyn said. "But I am hardly a warrior."<br /><br />"Of course not," Murron said. "You are a pretty thing, but you have the look of a cleric, and thus I do not doubt that your archery consists largely of shooting at piles of hay, the sides of wooden buildings, and small animals to bring back to the pot. Well, do you have a name, girl? or should I call you, 'Mistress Archer'?"<br /><br />Gwyn bowed lightly. "I am Gwynwhyfar of Tintagel, and before that, Lyonesse. It is an honor to meet you. Sir Baigent has spoken highly of you."<br /><br />Murron scowled. "I can imagine what might pass for high praise coming from him," she said.<br /><br />"I know what you mean," Gwyn said, casting a sidelong glance at Sir Baigent, who rolled his eyes. She felt an odd stirring inside her that she hadn't felt in a long time. It was the stirring of mischief. "But now," she said casually, "meeting you after meeting Lord Matholyn and journeying with Sir Baigent, I begin to see what marks the people of Caer Camyrdin."<br /><br />Murron raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"<br /><br />"Bluntness," Gwyn said.<br /><br />Gareth was first to laugh, followed by Sir Baigent and everyone else. Murron did not laugh, but instead gave a satisfied smile that Gwyn suspected was as close to a laugh as she ever came.<br /><br />"Mirth is ever welcome," Horius said as he stepped forward. "Even in these dark days. But now is the time to prepare for what is to come. The moment approaches."<br /><br />The Druid attendants again stepped to Gwyn's side. "Come," one of them said.<br /><br />Again Gwyn glanced at her companions, and then she turned and followed the Druid women to the tent where she would prepare for what she had come to do.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />As Hugydd led the companions out of the Walsing Wood and onto the plain, Jonn led the Finders around the easternmost tip of the same forest and then to the northwest, where someplace before them stood the Giants' Dance. During a stop for water, Jonn studied the only map they had of this region. It was, of course, woefully inadequate. Only the wood was clearly marked, and the map gave little indication of the distances involved. He only knew the general direction in which they were to go, and he prayed that was enough.<br /><br />"Come on!" he shouted. "I don't want to tarry here any longer than we need to fill our skins and water the horses."<br /><br />"Pushing us hard enough, eh?" It was Gavidd, his oldest -- and gruffest -- friend, one of the oldest Finders.<br /><br />"Not nearly," Jonn replied. "Midsummer Night is tonight, and we must be there to greet -- whoever it is who that girl brings back from wherever it is she's going."<br /><br />Gavidd snorted. "Well, putting it like <I>that</I>, how could any of us possibly doubt the urgency of the matter?" He bent over to fill a waterskin. "<I>You</I> don't believe this business, do you?"<br /><br />Jonn shrugged. "I follow Gareth, wherever she may decide to go. Such is my oath, and the way of the Finders."<br /><br />"That's a fine statement of purpose," Gavidd said. "But it doesn't answer the question asked."<br /><br />"And as a Finder, you should be accustomed to having questions going unanswered." He said it perhaps a bit more harshly than he intended, but Gavidd only frowned. Far harsher words had been exchanged between the two of them over the years, and still they were friends. Jonn stepped back from the stream and looked over the Finders, the entire ragtag band of them. Here they were, going into what would be the greatest war in Prydein's history, when just days before they had been content to live in their camp, safe and unconcerned with such matters. But then, how safe had they really been? How safe had they <I>ever</I> been? There was no doubting and no denying it: they had chosen a side in this war. Their die had been thrown and now they had to play the number rolled. "Gaspar hasn't returned yet," Jonn said.<br /><br />"He will," Gavidd replied. Gaspar was Gavidd's son, and he was their fastest and most skilled rider. Jonn had sent him alone to see if there were any signs of Maxen's approaching army, which would certainly be coming this way as they circled the wood on their route to rejoin King Cwerith. The worst possible thing that could happen, in Jonn's view, would be for the Finders to be forced into open battle with Maxen and his men. There was a reason they had struck quickly and at night. Fighting in the open would not at all be like a handful of masked riders lobbing fireglobes in the midst of darkness.<br /><br />Finally they had rested long enough, or as long as Jonn dared allow them to rest. "Come!" he called. "Time to ride!"<br /><br />His command was met with groans and protests, but the entire company was ready to ride in minutes, a display of efficiency that would have deeply impressed any commander in any army. Barely a quarter of an hour passed between the time Jonn gave his command and the time when the last of the Finders left the stream.<br /><br />"How much farther, do you think?" Gavidd asked.<br /><br />"Half a day," Jonn replied. "Perhaps more, perhaps less. If we--"<br /><br /><I>"A rider!"</I> someone called out. Jonn glanced sharply to the west, where indeed a single rider could be seen approaching at great speed. Behind that rider was the dark line of the distant wood. Gavidd laughed.<br /><br />"Here's my son!" he said. "I told you he would return."<br /><br />"I never doubted that," Jonn said, though in truth he had begun to do just that.<br /><br />"Greetings," Gaspar said when he arrived. He and his horse were both winded. "Forgive my tardiness. I rode a farther distance than I had planned."<br /><br />"Why so far?" Jonn asked. "You were not to get so close to them that they would see you."<br /><br />"And I did not," Gaspar replied. "That was what took me so long -- I had to find them first. It turned out that Maxen's company does not cleave to the edge of Walding Wood, as we expected. They are in the open, marching across the plain."<br /><br />"What?" Gavidd said. "Are their brains addled? They are late to the war, and they have time to recover if they wish to fight alongside their brothers at Bedwyn -- time they won't make up if they venture too far north."<br /><br />Gaspar shook his head. "That is what I saw," he said. "I had to ride twice the distance I planned, just to catch a glimpse of them. Nearly killed my poor beast here, getting back in time to tell you." He patted his horse's neck.<br /><br />Gavidd shook his head in disbelief. "Then those men are truly led by a fool," he said. "Perhaps that Knight did manage to kill Maxen, and that lout Fflud's sense of reckoning is poorer than we thought."<br /><br />Jonn nodded slowly. He was inclined to agree. There was no reason to leave the wood behind, if they were trying to circle it before turning south. No reason at all. Except--<br /><br />And Jonn's blood went to ice.<br /><br />"He is not marching to Bedwyn at all," Jonn said. He glanced up at the darkening sky. Soon they would have to stop for the night. He couldn't march his people in darkness -- but <I>Maxen</I> could, and he would. There was no doubting it.<br /><br />Gavidd was still confused. "But if he's not going to Bedwyn, then where can he be going?"<br /><br />He saw the look on Jonn's face before he even finished asking the question, and so he had his answer.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />The Druid priestesses helped Gwyn to prepare for this last part of her journey by sitting with her in the calm of the tent, giving her cups of strangely fragrant herbal tea, and providing her with a set of Druid robes which felt terribly strange after long days of dirty riding clothes. They also sang Druidic chants and hymns to which Gwyn knew neither the words nor the melodies. Finally they simply left her alone. Even though the tent's walls were thin, fashioned of some kind of animal skin, the din of outside was completely shut out. The silence was no doubt meant to be soothing, and Gwyn knew that she was supposed to find solace and succor in it, but in truth she found neither. She found her heart racing ever faster, her flesh cold, and her muscles trembling. For how could a task such as this be entrusted to one such as her?<br /><br /><I>Absurd!</I> she thought. <I>Completely absurd!</I> Such a task should fall to someone with the wisdom and power of a Lord Priest, or perhaps a great Lord of some fine realm should be here. It should be Father Damogan here, or maybe Lord Matholyn -- certainly not an Adept who should have been at home, studying for her Trials. A farmgirl from Lyonesse, remade as the Welcomer? <I>Absurd!</I><br /><br />And yet, it had to be so, did it not? How could she say otherwise? Who was she to deny the Goddess herself, and say that it had all been for naught -- the hardships endured, the enmities made, the wounds suffered and the sacrifices made? How could she ever face Sir Baigent or Brother Llyad -- or anyone -- if she came back from the Giants' Dance with no one beside her, or worse, never went in at all?<br /><br />"Malcolm, I wish you were here!" Gwyn said aloud.<br /><br />But even as she said it she knew that had he actually been here, Malcolm probably would have been little real help. More likely he would offer one of his less-than-clear remarks that were nonetheless oddly satisfying when he uttered them. She even knew what he might say: "It does little good to pine for the road that you wish to travel, for in the end you must still walk the road that you are on." That was her answer, the only one possible, and it calmed her as it had so many times in the past. With those words in her heart she knelt upon the floor of the tent and began to recite the Five Holy Paths as written by Lennynder of Old. She had reached the Third Path when the tent flap swung open, and Horius entered.<br /><br />"Come, Welcomer," he said. "We begin."<br /><br />Gwyn rose to her feet, straightened her robes, swallowed several times, and followed Horius outside.<br /><br />A straight path led from the tent's entry to the edge of the Giants' Dance, and the way was lined on each side by Druids holding candles of yellow beeswax. Behind the lines of Druids were the hundreds of others who had gathered here, some seeking the Welcomer and some seeking refuge from war. At the opposite end of the path, just before the Dance itself, blazed the East bonfire. She would therefore enter the Dance from the East, so that when she returned -- with King Arthur -- he would be coming out of the West, as he had in the time before. Behind it all, the stones of the Dance loomed even larger than they had before.<br /><br />"This place has been shunned by all who live in Prydein, through all the centuries since the Cataclysm," Horius said, his voice sounding small and distant. The power of the Giants' Dance has forever been reserved for the oldest of Dona's servants, the Druids -- but even we have never dared to venture within the boundary marked by the stones that were set standing here by Merlyn Emrys, so long ago."<br /><br />"What lies inside?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"The Dance lay dormant through the days of the Ancients, and its purpose was lost to them," Horius replied. "They followed other powers, and the old ways faded into memory. The Dance fell into disrepair and was ignored. Some of its stones toppled, and the Ancients would even chip away pieces of the stones themselves as keepsakes.<br /><br />"But after the Cataclysm, when the Wyrm of the World rose from his slumber and plunged the world back into fire, the Dance was restored. Its stones were lifted again and returned to their places, and a new power was known here, one that would never falter as it had before. Since then, none have dared venture within the boundary of the Giants' Dance, for fear and respect of what once had been and was now again."<br /><br />"And now I must enter," Gwyn said.<br /><br />"You must enter," Horius agreed. "In and through, to whatever awaits inside."<br /><br />He walked with Gwyn toward the last gathering place. When they reached the point halfway from the tent to the East Bonfire, the line of Druids to Gwyn's left parted, allowing her companions to step through. One by one they came forward to kneel before her. Gwyn was taken aback by such a tribute, and as Gareth fell to one knee before her she shook her head.<br /><br />"No," she said. "Not this. I am not worthy of such--"<br /><br />"It is as much for the Goddess as it is for you," Horius said. "Perhaps more. Allow it."<br /><br />Gwyn still felt that this was too much. Nevertheless, she nodded.<br /><br />"I never dreamed something like this was possible," Gareth said. "It has been my greatest honor to be even the smallest part of this. Perhaps it will serve as my atonement for…for losing the Finders' Way, seeking revenge instead of seeking the Son."<br /><br />Gwyn blinked. Clearly she was supposed to say something now, something wise. All she could manage was, "Thank you for saving us." Nevertheless, Gareth smiled as if it had been enough. As she turned away, Horius whispered into Gwyn's ear.<br /><br />"Part of this night's meaning is atonement -- that of the land for its Goddess. That is why the people who brought you here are voicing their own wishes for atonement before you enter the Dance, because you are Dona's surrogate."<br /><br /><I>Dona's surrogate.</I> Gwyn nearly laughed at the words.<br /><br />Next came Estren. Kneeling, he said: "Of all the Bards, to witness this night has fallen to me. I will sing of it as best I can, though my words are hardly the equal of the great masters who have gone before me."<br /><br />Gwyn laid a hand on his shoulder. "Your words brought light on dark nights -- once in fact as well as in spirit. For that I thank you." The words came easier now.<br /><br />Then it was Brother Llyad's turn. It did not surprise Gwyn that he was weeping. "My Lady," he began, "I wish I had not handled myself so poorly on Tintagel. I should have trusted your wisdom, that you would see what had to be done. I shall live with that regret the rest of my days."<br /><br />"Oh, Llyad," Gwyn said. "You did what had to be done, though you are correct in that it could have been done another way. The Goddess is forgiving of poor actions, if they are done by a good heart and they do not come to ill." That last was a quote from some book in the Tintagel library, but as Brother Malcolm had so often told her: <I>"The wisdom contained in those pages was not meant to be contained in the pages of some book to remain on a shelf, unopened, through decades of disuse, but to be lived and used as any such wisdom."</I><br /><br />Brother Llyad stepped away, the tears still streaming down his cheeks such that Gwyn feared they would never stop. And then Sir Baigent stepped forward, although he did not kneel. Instead he looked around at the scene: the candle flames, the light of the bonfire, the gathering of the Druids and the displaced, and looming above it all the ancient sightless stones of the Giants' Dance.<br /><br />"So this is why we did it all," he said.<br /><br />A smile tugged at the corners of Gwyn's lips. "Is it what you expected?" she asked.<br /><br />He looked around. "I suppose it is," he said. "And I suppose it's not. I'm just a man of arms, My Lady. I don't know about such things."<br /><br />Gwyn shook her head. "Once again, you mark yourself less than what you are. Wisdom is not the sole property of clerics and Bards."<br /><br />"Would you have admitted that several days ago?" he asked.<br /><br />"Would you have claimed wisdom for your own?" she returned.<br /><br />"Then you have changed something in the soul of a 'sword-carrying brute' after all," he said with a joking smile.<br /><br />"And you have helped this 'sheltered, cloistered cleric' to see wisdom on the edge of a blade."<br /><br />"Well," Sir Baigent said with an extravagant wave of his hand, "in what other way could I possibly have been of service to My Lady?"<br /><br />Gwyn laughed, he smiled, and then he drew his sword and planted the tip in the ground. Gripping the cross of the hilt, he knelt before her. "My Lady, I regret that you must do this thing alone. That I am your Champion no longer."<br /><br />Now Gwyn's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Knight of Camyrdin," she said, "it is I who regret that on this last road I shall not walk with your strength beside me." The words came from some part of her heart and her soul to which she rarely gave voice. "But if I cannot have your strength beside me, I will at least carry it inside me. I could not have asked the Goddess for a finer Champion, nor could she have granted me one." She leaned forward, toward Sir Baigent's upturned face, and kissed him upon the cheek. Then, still close, she whispered such that only he could hear: "I owe you everything."<br /><br />Gwyn straightened, and Sir Baigent rose and returned his blade to its scabbard. "Walk with the light of Dona," he said. And then Horius was back at her side, and Sir Baigent of Camyrdin, the Welcomer's Champion, joined the other companions beyond the line of Druids. <br /><br />Gwyn took Horius's arm again, and they walked the rest of the way to the East Bonfire. When they reached it, the Druids behind them shifted to form a half-circle around the blazing fire. Horius reached out to one of the Druids, who handed him a black wooden staff. Holding this staff aloft, he began to chant in the ancient tongue of the Oak Brothers -- softly at first, then louder and louder. Unsure of what, if anything, to do, Gwyn stood silently beside him. Behind her, the other Druids began to hum a wordless melody that soon filled the night with Horius's voice rising above them all.<br /><br />Gwyn had never heard voices like this, not in all her days. The singing of hymns in the Sanctuary at Tintagel had been one of her favorite things about living in that place; the way their fifty or so voices raised in song had filled that simple stone structure had always given her solace and made her feel keenly the presence of the Goddess. She had also heard and loved the songs and dances and ballads performed by the wandering troupes which had occasionally come through Lyonesse. This music of the Druids, though, was completely unlike anything she had ever heard before. A single voice was born out of the multitude of Druids who sang, a single voice in which could be heard the call of the sparrow and the roar of the wild boar and the whales beneath the waves, the wind across the plain and over the sea and through the wood, the rains of spring and the snows of winter. The voice was singing the very song of the earth -- not in its words, but in the music itself and the way the voices blended and in the way Horius's single voice both rose above the chorus and sank beneath it.<br /><br />And through all that music, Gwyn stood waiting silently. At first she was keenly aware of all the eyes turned upon her, but gradually she became less aware of them and more aware of the clouds that gathered above them, obscuring the full moon and darkening a night that was already near black, and of the power stirring within the boundary described by the towering blocks of granite. She imagined that she heard -- no, she <I>knew</I> that she heard a new set of voices, lifted in a song of their own, unrelated to that of the Druids and yet somehow a part of it. They were the voices of the things in the Earth and above it and below it, the voices of the plain and the sky and the Giants' Dance itself. The stones whispered to one another, and she heard their words though she knew not what they said nor what tales they spoke. The words themselves were long, taking years to speak, and a single one of those words told more than all the words in all the tongues of men.<br /><br />Lightning flashed in the sky above the Dance, and thunder rolled across the plain. A cold breeze stirred, and it blew with a steady force. Now Horius stopped singing, and he moved again to Gwyn's side and took her arm.<br /><br />"Take now the first steps!" he cried.<br /><br />Gwyn allowed him to lead her forward and then back, forward and then back, forward and back again. They walked forward until they were almost close enough to touch the stones of the Dance, but then they turned and followed the Dance's path almost all the way to the Southern Bonfire. Here they swung about and partly retraced their steps to where they had started, and then they went back again. They were tracing a Druidic spiral path on the ground, identical to the spirals Gwyn had seen on the faces of the standing stones they had passed on their journey. They were pacing out that mystic spiral, writ large on the central plain of Prydein, with the Giants' Dance at the center.<br /><br />When they reached the Western Bonfire -- halfway through the spiral -- a blast of lightning ripped from the sky, touching down in the exact center of the Dance. The light was blinding, and the thunder that crashed over the plain was the most deafening sound Gwyn had ever heard. Beside her Horius flinched, but somehow Gwyn did not; instead, the power of the lightning and the thunder washed over her and soaked into her and became part of her. In the searing flash of lightning Gwyn was able to glimpse something of what waited for her within the Dance: a smaller set of standing stones, and at the center of that, a single, altar-like stone…with something embedded within…<br /><br /><I>It is time, Gwynwhyfar.<br /><br />Nimue?<br /><br />It is I, child. The way is almost complete.<br /><br />I want to come inside.<br /><br />You must complete the Path.<br /><br />Is this what I have come here to do? to walk this Path?<br /><br />This, and so much more.</I><br /><br />Gwyn closed her eyes and, holding them closed, allowed Horius to lead her on the spiraling path as she came to the North Bonfire. The wind blew fiercer, harsher, and yet she barely felt it. The path was all that mattered. Nothing else was important, nothing else even <I>existed</I> -- not the wind, nor the cold, nor the heat of the fires, nor the light of the candles, nor even the passage of time. More lightning came, and more thunder, and Gwyn felt none of it. There was only herself and the Path. Gradually Horius's grasp on her arm slackened and then fell away entirely; she was walking the Path alone now, alone and unguided for she knew the way in the deepest part of her soul. More lightning blasted into the Dance, more thunder smashed the air like the hammer of a giant, more wind whipped across the plain, and still Gwyn walked. She came to the East Bonfire at last, and here she turned and walked straight toward the Dance as Nimue's voice called out to her again.<br /><br /><I>Come, child! Oh, come!</I><br /><br />And then she passed beneath the ancient portal erected by Merlyn Emrys, and she knew calm -- utter calm. This was her place. She opened her eyes and glanced outward, out of the Dance, at the storm that whirled out there but could not be felt in here. She looked down at herself and saw that the plain Druid robes had vanished, and in their place was a gown of shimmering samite that glowed in the candle and firelight, a gown she had seen herself wearing before, but only in her dreams. She walked forward again, and entered the inner circle. A new voice spoke to her then, old and masculine.<br /><br /><I>Who comes here?</I><br /><br />"Gwynwhyfar," she said. "The Welcomer."<br /><br /><I>At last! My work is complete, and now at last I may rest, for my part in the tale is finally done. My crystal prison now becomes my tomb, as I forever knew it would. Go with strength, Gwynwhyfar!</I><br /><br />Gwyn opened her eyes as the voice of the Emrys faded away into the night, never to be heard again. Before her stood an altar of granite, and atop the altar lay a sword and scabbard. She picked up the weapon, and in that moment the great stones around her, and the very plain itself, vanished. Or, perhaps, they remained where they had always been, and it was she who vanished.<br /><br />In that moment, Gwynwhyfar of Tintagel, the Welcomer, was taken -- someplace else.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1125837475015343592005-09-04T05:28:00.000-07:002005-09-04T05:45:20.700-07:00Chapter SeventeenDavin ap Danach looked up, bleary-eyed, from the papers on his table when Amren entered the chamber. He was actually grateful for the interruption. The papers were reports on the city's food stores, and the news was not good. The stores had been depleted, as expected, by the winter -- but winter usually ended, and this one had not, and so they were not being replenished. Davin had never seen them this low, even in the spring following years of poor harvest. Making things even worse was Bedwyn's swelling population. The hundreds bordering on thousands who had fled their homesteads, towns and villages to the north and west in the face of King Cwerith's invading force had come here, and they had to fed as well. Davin had never understood the impulse that told people facing war that it was better to seek refuge behind a wall that was still in war's path rather than getting out of war's path entirely, but fearful times made for strange thoughts in the minds of men, and this was no different. He had already imposed strict rationing for those already within the walls, and he knew that the time was swiftly coming when he would have to close the gates to any more, leaving those still outside in danger's way. That was inevitable, but Davin well knew that things inevitable are in no way less dreaded.<br /><br />He looked up from the reports and rubbed his eyes. "What is it, Amren?"<br /><br />"Forgive the intrusion," Amren said. "There is news."<br /><br />Davin stiffened. He had known this man for many years, and he well knew the tone in Amren's voice. "Poor tidings are the only ones I seem fated to hear these days," he said.<br /><br />"And mine to deliver," Amren replied. "A group of riders has just arrived from Caer Bonnyr."<br /><br />Davin's brow furrowed. Caer Bonnyr was a small village on the Test, about half a day's march to the northwest. It was not a large town, but it was well-known for the quality of its ale and the fact that some of the finest potters in Prydein toiled there. It was also generally held to be the place where the sea country ended and the great expanse of Inner Prydein began, starting with the plain on which stood the Giants' Dance.<br /><br />"A group of riders?" Davin asked.<br /><br />"The survivors of Caer Bonnyr," Amren replied.<br /><br />"Survivors," Davin echoed. <I>Survivors.</I> The air went out of him. Davin stared at Amren. "Cwerith?"<br /><br />Amren nodded. Davin felt his flesh turn cold, even colder than it already was, and his injured leg throbbed suddenly. He looked down at the table, covered with reports on granaries and food-stores that had just become irrelevant to the task of surviving an unending winter and instead relevant to the task of surviving a siege. He shoved the reports aside, looking for the map that lay beneath everything else. Davin knew the lay of the land around Bedwyn better than any man in the city -- moreso, even, than the Duke himself -- and could find his way, blindfolded and seated backwards on a horse, back to the city from any of the valleys or hilltops in the area; he had even done so several times as a result of a bad throw of the dice when he had perhaps quaffed too much ale to be able to make a wise wager. Even so, he still preferred to be able to actually look at the map. Finding it at the bottom of the stack of papers and reports, he traced with his finger the easy route that led from Caer Bonnyr to the main gate of Bedwyn. He considered the state of the road at this time of year, and the speed that an army the size that Cwerith had amassed could maintain. It all added to one certain and terrible conclusion. "Cwerith will be outside our walls by sundown tonight."<br /><br />"If he drives his men fast enough," Amren said.<br /><br />"He will."<br /><br />"Yes." Amren knew the distance too, and they both knew that even an undisciplined, motley assortment of highwaymen and mercenaries could make the march from Caer Bonnyr to Bedwyn in a single day. Cwerith's army was hardly that.<br /><br />Davin sighed. "What happened?"<br /><br />"The accounts are not entirely clear," Amren said. "The survivors amount to five families who lived on homesteads in the hills east of Caer Bonnyr. As near as we can tell, Cwerith's men attacked without warning or parley. They had the village in less than an hour and put it to the flame. They gave the people no chance for surrender."<br /><br />"He had to do it that way," Davin said. "Had he given them adequate warning, they might have burned the bridge before Cwerith could bring his army across it." There were no bridges over the Test south of Caer Bonnyr. The river became too wide and swift, and all crossings south of that village were by ferry.<br /><br />Davin rose from his chair and wiped his eyes.<br /><br />"You have not slept," Amren observed.<br /><br />"Nor will I," Davin replied. His days of fitful rest were over for now, and perhaps for the rest of his life. It was just as well, for in all the years since his last war he had never truly taken to a night spent entirely in a warm bed. "It is time. I had prayed that this moment would not arrive until after the Duke's return, but that is not to be the way of it. All rations are to be halved, immediately. Our granaries are ill-stocked to see us through a long siege, but we must make them last as long as they can."<br /><br />"Yes," Amren said.<br /><br />"Cwerith will be coming from the north. Send word to the men in the relay towers that they are to desert their posts as soon as their fires are lit. Assign all archers in the city to the north walls, and put out the word that we will accept the aid of anyone new to the city who can shoot a bow."<br /><br />"It will be done," Amren said.<br /><br />Davin grabbed his cloak for his morning survey of the walls. "As for the people still approaching the city, dispatch the city guard to send them east, until the signal fires are lit. Tell the Guard that all men are to return as soon as the fires are seen, whether there are still people coming or not. There will be no further refuge given in Bedwyn. This is now a place of war. Tell the people coming to go to Londia, the Kentish Shore, around the city and on to Bornmuth -- anywhere but here."<br /><br />Amren nodded. "And the gates?" he asked.<br /><br />"Close them," Davin said. "All of them."<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />The morning air was surprisingly still as King Cwerith arose and dressed himself. The scent of the smoke from the burning of the town called Caer Bonnyr still hung in the air, but Cwerith barely noticed it if he noticed it at all. The scent of a town's burning was as constant to him now as the salty air of Caer Mastagg, on the edge of the sea, had been before he had led the men of Gwynedd far enough inland that the sea was no longer in the air. So familiar, indeed, had the smell of smoke become that he could barely remember what the sea's salt spray smelled like.<br /><br />He finished dressing slowly, stifling a yawn as he pulled his cloak over his shoulders. Cwerith had risen before the sun nearly every day of his life, but for some reason on this particular morning he was still very tired. He thought it strange that it should be so, on this day of all days, when he would lay siege to Bedwyn, the largest city in Prydein except for Londia herself -- at least until he received the tidings that he knew were coming from the east. Today, the final reckoning would begin. He would confront the last of Irlaris's powerful allies; after he had brought Bedwyn down and either forced Cunaddyr to his knee or killed him outright, the remaining lordlings who still opposed him would quickly fall into line or into the grave. Soon he would truly be High King of Prydein. Caer Camyrdin had been retribution -- the retribution of the rightful King, but mere retribution nonetheless -- but Bedwyn would be different. Like the Battle of the Scarlet King that had confirmed High King Prystyl, and the Unfought Battle which had confirmed High King Irlaris, the Battle of Bedwyn would confirm High King Cwerith. <I>Let the Nine Bards sing about that,</I> Cwerith thought as he walked outside to where Lord Varing waited.<br /><br />"Good morning, Your Majesty," Varing said. "Your horse stands ready." He gestured to the page who stood at attention nearby, with King Cwerith's horse saddled and ready to ride. Several paces behind him stood the four knights who would accompany him.<br /><br />"Thank you," Cwerith replied as he pulled on a pair of gloves. The air this morning was as cold as any of the winter winds that blew so often at Caer Mastagg. <I>If it is this cold,</I> Cwerith thought, <I>the blood will steam on the stone.</I> "The men are still to be roused at dawn," he said.<br /><br />"It will be as you command," Lord Varing said. "I must report that some of the people from this village survived and fled before we could take them. They will, no doubt, bring the news of what happened here to Bedwyn."<br /><br />"Let them," Cwerith said. "Bedwyn will still fall just as Caer Camyrdin did."<br /><br />"I know it will," Varing said, quietly.<br /><br />Cwerith stopped for a moment. He did not like the tone that had entered his steward's voice. "Are you vexed by something, Lord Varing?"<br /><br />"No, Your Highness," Varing replied. "I merely wonder if this…ritual that you go now to attend is as important as Cassion would have you believe. Surely the throne cannot be denied you now."<br /><br />"Think you so?" Cwerith said. "Do you question the judgment of your King?" His voice was like a slap. The page audibly gasped, and Lord Varing swallowed and shifted backward by a single step.<br /><br />"Never, my liege," he said.<br /><br />"Good," Cwerith said. "Cassion is a far wiser man than you, Varing. He understands power. And I am sure that there are any number of men who would suffer themselves to be gelded if I were to offer them the position you now hold."<br /><br />"But none of them would serve you more gratefully than I, Your Majesty," Lord Varing said with a deep bow, which King Cwerith ignored as he turned and mounted his horse. Then he rode away, accompanied by the four knights as he headed out away from the camp to the place where Cassion and his fellow priests awaited him. He swore under his breath as he left the camp. Varing was the perfect servant: loyal, obedient, and never offering his opinion unless it was asked of him, which in fact Cwerith had just done. But still, Varing did not understand. None of them did.<br /><br />The others would be there: Baron Gaddamar and his sons; Lord Clastor and Lord Relimach, the most recent defectors to his cause; others whose names Cwerith could trouble to remember -- cowards, all of them, who had sold their loyalties for the promise of lands and power in the new Realm. Cwerith hated these men who would buy what they were too weak or fearful to take or make for themselves, who would march under any banner at all so long as there was a place for them at the victor's table. He hated them, almost as much as he hated men like Matholyn and Cunaddyr and Irlaris -- men who would never bend the knee for the one, rightful King. But Cwerith knew that the cowards of the world were necessary to defeat the brave fools. That was the way of it.<br /><br />As he rode up and over a small knoll, so that he was no longer in sight of his army, he wondered -- as he had wondered so many times since he had come to know Cassion -- if his father would be proud of what Cwerith had made of his kingdom, or if he would he angered by Cwerith's turning away from Dona. Surely he would have approved, Cwerith told himself -- after all, his father had spoken all of the familiar words to the Goddess, he had said all of the correct prayers, he had observed the Festivals for the Moon -- but after the Unfought Battle, his tone on those days had become pallid, devoid of passion. Cwerith had long wondered if his father had tried to set the Goddess aside, only to fail because the Goddess had been so constant in his life and because he had lacked someone to show him the way to a new Power, as Cassion had shown Cwerith. Gwynedd and Caer Mastagg had never been favored by the Goddess, but it had taken that rogue Druid to show King Cwerith the way to new power. That was what Cassion was, after all: the descendant of the Druids who had been slaughtered and driven away by High King Prystyl. A few of them had survived and kept their dark teachings alive, in the mountains of Gwynedd and the far-flung islands beyond the northernmost reaches of Caledonia. <I>They</I> were the true Druids, not those weak-willed fools from Mona who sang to the trees and babbled about ancient prophecies and Kings promised to people who were barely worthy of the kings they had. No, the Goddess did not favor them -- and if she did not favor them, they would not favor her.<br /><br />The gathering took place near a stream that flowed down from the shallow hills into the Test. The three ceremonial fires burned in their newly-dug pits, and the priests stood in their central circle. Beyond that circle were gathered the Lords who had joined Cwerith rather than die, the cowards he so needed and so despised. Each of them sank to one knee as he rode up and dismounted; he acknowledged them with a curt nod and moved into the circle where Cassion and his Druids stood -- "Dark Druids", Cwerith sometimes thought of them.<br /><br />They were chanting in some language Cwerith neither understood nor wish to understand. Cassion spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome for the King. Cwerith focused his gaze on his high priest, ignoring the unconscious form -- man or woman, it mattered not -- splayed and tied to the ceremonial stone.<br /><br />"Now among us comes the Majesty of Prydein," Cassion said, shifting to the normal tongue. It mattered little; Cwerith ignored the words Cassion spoke. Instead his thoughts kept turning to the siege and battle that lay ahead, perhaps before this day was out. He thought of the throne that would soon be his, and the crown he would order shaped from gold taken from all the palaces and keeps he had defeated. He imagined the weight of that crown upon his brow, a crown that would be his by the taking and by the making, as all crowns should be.<br /><br />Cwerith did not think, though, of the blood with which he would water the fields of his new realm -- neither the blood already shed, nor the blood that would be spilled on the fields of Bedwyn on the morrow, nor even the blood that now ran across the ceremonial stone as Cassion drew the knife across the stomach of the offering to the Brother of the Goddess. A King could not be concerned with such things. The only blood that concerned him was his own, which he would soon offer to that God who had come in the dark when the Goddess had not.<br /><br />Later, when the blood of the living King had mixed with the blood of the dead in payment for the favor of Dona's Brother, Cwerith returned to his army where Lord Varing had done well in his absence: the army was ready to march. There were new tidings, as well: a rider had come from the east, from beyond Bedwyn, from the army of Cwerith's ally, Duncan of Caledonia. As Cwerith heard the rider's news, he realized that his blood had been well-spent indeed. He had prayed to the God for just this news, and his prayers were fulfilled.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Davin leaned up against the railing of the battlement, looking down on the chaos that had erupted outside the main gate of Bedwyn in the hour that had barely passed since the gate's closing. He had seen this sight before, or one much like it, years before when he had fought as a young soldier for King Irlaris, and therefore he had known what he would see here; but still he insisted on watching. A man who had to give the command that would bring so much more suffering to so many more people should have the courage to watch them go to their fates.<br /><br />The area outside the main gate had been a scene of hectic activity before, when the thousands of people fleeing the oncoming enemy had been seeking entrance into Bedwyn, but now it was total chaos as the refuge they had sought was now denied them. Worst of all, Davin could offer no answer to the question these poor souls asked: "Where are we to go now?" They could not go east, for that way lay Cwerith's Caledonian ally and fellow traitor, King Duncan; they could perhaps go south, toward the sea -- but what then, when the war went that way as well, and it surely would?<br /><br />Davin looked up from the din below -- from the mothers screaming for lost children and the fathers trying to control the horses and the farmers begging entry to trade for food, disbelieving that a city as rich as Bedwyn could now have nothing for the trading -- to the barren farmlands north of the city. Those fields, which on a normal Midsummer's Day should have been worked by the skilled farmers whose toil fed all of Bedwyn, would soon be churned by the feet of soldiers, the hooves of cavalry horses, the wheels of wagons and siege engines -- and after that, the unnaturally fallow soil would be watered by the blood of the bodies that fell there. Years would pass before those fields ever yielded as they had in their best summers gone by. Davin knew of farmfields turned battlefields that had never returned to their original vitality, even forty or fifty years after the last body had fallen. He had fought on a few such fields himself. Some of the blood spilt on them had been his.<br /><br /><I>Irlaris, where are you?</I> he suddenly thought, as a breeze stirred from the east. The High King for whom he had fought in his younger years, sacrificing the proper use of his leg -- a far lesser price than that paid by many others, to be sure, but a price paid nonetheless -- was now doing nothing to defend his throne and the realm itself from these Traitor Kings. He had sent no one to help Bedwyn, even after the unthinkable fate of Caer Camyrdin.<br /><br />Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to see Amren approaching with a fair-haired man whose unkempt appearance indicated that he had just completed a journey of some distance and whose set of pipes, hung round his neck, marked him as some kind of musician.<br /><br />"Is this a good time for a tune, Amren?" Davin asked. "You know that even in the happiest of times I am not given to dance."<br /><br />"My name is Drudwas," the man said as he sketched a deep bow. "I arrived just as the Widow's Gate was being closed."<br /><br />Davin's heart quickened, and yet another feeling of nebulous dread sprang up in his heart. "The Widow's Gate," he echoed. "You came from the east."<br /><br />"I came from Londia," Drudwas said. His voice had become soft, and grim. "I have tidings."<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"Which do you need?" Dana asked.<br /><br />"The blue-stem," Father Damogan replied. "There, toward the back. Do you see them? There are only three."<br /><br />"I think so," Dana replied as she stepped over a wide pool to get at the tiny patch in the very rear of the cave. It was hard to see, terribly hard. The wind whipped through the cave, lashing at her cloak and Father Damogan's torch flicker wildly. Her initial flash of pride -- when, in the absence of Gwyn and Brother Malcolm, he had asked for her assistance in the caves -- had vanished, and as she tried to keep her footing on the uneven rock in this dank cave, she wished that Father Damogan had chosen someone else for this honor. She found the blue-stems, amidst the red-caps and blacktips and a dozen other kinds that all looked the same and whose names Dana had long since forgotten, and picked one with a flick of her wrist. Father Damogan raised the torch higher as Dana clambered back across the rocks to join him. There she handed him the blue-stem. He held it up and studied it in the dim light.<br /><br />"They aren't growing nearly as well as they used to," he said. "I fear the enchantments here may be weakening." He put the mushroom into one of his pockets. "We are finished here for today."<br /><br />Dana followed him back up the cave and outside, into the light of midday. The winds this day were actually calmer than normal, despite the way they had felt in the cave, so out here in the open there was less spray in the air as Dana and Father Damogan walked up the steep path back to the monastery of Tintagel. Just before they reached the top Dana glimpsed over the edge of the path, at the rocks below where just eight days before a boat carrying Brother Llyad and a Druid had come to rest.<br /><br />Father Damogan led Dana into the Sanctuary and then down the long stairs to his personal chambers. Once they were inside, he removed his heavy cloak and stirred the fire in the hearth. "Each day grows ever colder," he said. "I am not the man I once was. I feel the cold in my bones."<br /><br />Dana said nothing. She had never really felt comfortable in the presence of the Lord Priest of Tintagel, be it Damogan now or Reynald before.<br /><br />"Do you think often of Gwynwhyfar?" Father Damogan asked suddenly.<br /><br />Dana swallowed. He had not mentioned Gwyn to her since Brother Malcolm and the men from Caer Camyrdin had gone after Brother Llyad.<br /><br />"Yes," she finally said. "I worry for her."<br /><br />"She is your friend," Father Damogan said. "It is right that you should do so." He began to walk around the room, lighting his many candles. The shutters on his casements began rattled slightly, as they always did. "Brother Malcolm sent back word that she is safe. Did you not find his word comforting?"<br /><br />Dana tried to think of something to say, something other than "No". <I>If Gwyn was truly safe, she would have been returned here. Instead she has gone on, somewhere else.</I> She wanted to say that...but instead she said nothing at all. Father Damogan smiled.<br /><br />"My dear, I am told by the Brothers and Sisters here that you are not normally given to silence. So much so, in fact, that your tongue has brought you more trouble than any other Adept here -- possibly excepting Gwynwhyfar herself, of course. And yet, you barely utter more than one word during each hour you are in my presence. Am I that terrifying to the young, even those who are on the cusp of maturity?"<br /><br />Dana blushed. "<I>When Wisdom's Words are unclear, the wise hold Silence dear."</I> Quoting the Oracles was always appropriate.<br /><br /><I>"But the heart whose words are not spoken is the saddest heart of all,"</I> Father Damogan replied. "You have wondered, of course, why she has not returned to Tintagel -- why she has gone on, perhaps into more danger."<br /><br />"Her place is here," Dana said.<br /><br />"Her place?" Father Damogan lifted an eyebrow. "We never knew her true place. We may not know it, even now." He gazed into the flames of one of his many candles. "These are times of terrible uncertainty, Dana -- uncertainty such as I hoped never to see. In time, we may come to understand why things have unfolded as they have -- why these events have transpired, and Gwynwhyfar's place within them.<br /><br />Dana remained silent. She had no idea at all what he was talking about. Gwyn's place within the recent events? What could that possibly <I>mean</I>? Gwyn was a cleric-in-training -- what other place could she have? Dana looked at Father Damogan. He looked old in the candlelight, really and truly <I>old</I>. He had never looked old to her before.<br /><br />Someone knocked on the outer door then, and Dana went to answer it. In the corridor stood Brother Brian.<br /><br />"I'm sorry to intrude," he said. "I have the reports the Lord Priest wanted." He held forward several sheets of parchment.<br /><br />"Thank you," Dana said, accepting them.<br /><br />"Are the reports accurate, Brother?" Father Damogan asked, coming over to the door.<br /><br />"Yes, Father."<br /><br />"I'm sure they are," Damogan said, smiling kindly. "Your work is always exacting. Return to your studies now -- I'm sure your Adept will have questions for you."<br /><br />"I hope so," Brother Brian said. "He was boasting about the ease with which he has completed his recent assignments, so I started him translating Eddylraed's <I>Protocols</I>." He grinned, and then he took his leave. Dana smiled inwardly as she handed the reports to Father Damogan. The <I>Protocols</I> by Eddylraed of Snowdon were so impenetrable that there was no established clerical view as to their true meaning, and some commentators had made a fairly strong case that their author had actually been mad. Father Damogan opened the reports and quickly scanned their contents. His expression became grim as he did so.<br /><br />"Father?" Dana said.<br /><br />"The state of our food stores," he said. "I wanted to know how difficult things are like to become. Now that I know, part of me would have preferred to remain ignorant."<br /><br />"We've all seen the dark times ahead," Dana said. "We often speak of it at the table and between lessons. Some of us fear that the winter will destroy us."<br /><br />Father Damogan looked sharply at her, and then he sighed and nodded his head. "I should not be surprised that such thoughts occur to others besides myself," he said. "Being Lord Priest does not mean that I have sole claim to wisdom or insight on Tintagel. I fear that the darkest tidings yet will soon be reaching us."<br /><br />Now Dana felt a new, icy sensation in her heart. Father Damogan, like all the Lord Priests, was somehow privy to events that no one else could know had happened -- or, in some cases, were to happen. "What tidings?" she asked, not really expecting an answer. It was to her great surprise, and greater fear, that he gave one.<br /><br />"Londia has fallen," he said. "High King Irlaris has been cast aside, and a war is now waging for his throne." He paused. "The war in which Gwynwhyfar now goes to play a part."<br /><br />The icy feeling in Dana's heart became even colder -- like she had gone to stone. She wanted to ask anew what part Gwyn could have in what was likely to be the bloodiest conflict yet fought on the soil of Prydein, but for once -- for just this once -- Dana's quick tongue failed her, and she had no words.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"How many men do you make them to be?" Amren asked.<br /><br />"Ten thousand," Davin replied. He had marched in an army of that size before; now he would have to hold a city against one.<br /><br />Again he stood atop the battlement overlooking the main gate. This time there was silence, utter silence, from below. The people had fled, all of them. But war -- whether fighting it or fleeing it -- always exacts a heavy price on the old and infirm. The fields just beyond Bedwyn were dotted with fallen bodies, left where they had died for lack of time to bury them. The usual scavengers, then -- some people, some not -- rushed from body to body, looking for any trinket that might be salvaged from the chilling flesh and later used for barter. And beyond that space lay the farmlands which had gone dark under a moving, roiling mass: the armies of King Cwerith.<br /><br />"I didn't know there were that many people in all of Gwynedd," Amren said. "And that's counting women and children. How could Cwerith put so large a force together?"<br /><br />Davin shook his head. "It is to our woe that we have taken Gwynedd less seriously than we should have, in many a year. There is strength in that land. We see it before us."<br /><br />"How long until they get here?" Drudwas asked.<br /><br />"They <I>are</I> here, Bard," Davin said. "The remaining distance matters not. Bedwyn is now under siege." He glanced up at the darkening sky. At least there would not be battle tonight. Cwerith would certainly not try to storm the city by darkness without first attempting to learn what defenses that city had mounted against him. <I>At least I pray that he does not</I>, Davin thought. There was little doubting that the citizens of Caer Camyrdin had not feared the storming of their city, either. Davin turned to Drudwas. "Tell me, Bard -- have you begun writing your lyric for the fall of Londia?"<br /><br />"Some lines have come to me," Drudwas replied.<br /><br />"Was the city taken by treachery?"<br /><br />"No more treachery than it took for Duncan to march in the first place," Drudwas said. "Londia was taken by force. Duncan simply threw his men against the walls and brought fire to them until they burned. The death of his own men mattered less to him than the city's destruction."<br /><br />"That is what I fear from Cwerith," Davin said.<br /><br />The men fell silent for a while. Away beside them, on the next battlement, a burst of laughter from men playing dice -- perhaps the same men Davin had chastised the day before for that very offense. Now, he let them play. The hours before battle were the worst for a soldier, hours that were full of both fear and boredom. Anything to pass the time -- a game of dice between comrades, say -- could only be a good thing.<br /><br />At some point in the last few hours, a deep rumbling had begun to throb throughout the valley of the River Test. No one could say when it had begun, a no one needed to ask what it was. It could only be the sound of a thousand wagons and three thousand horses pulling them. They watched that army for a time as it slowly came into view, becoming larger and blackening the northern fields like some terrible blight. It was Davin who finally spoke:<br /><br /><I>"When days of battle come O Lord,<br /><br />Do not fear and do not cry;<br /><br />For when the battle's day is done<br /><br />Your soul will walk with mine<br /><br />Across the star-lit sky."</I><br /><br />"I've always liked that one," Amren said. "Who wrote it?"<br /><br />"Pyrion the Blade-singer," Drudwas and Davin answered in unison, and then both men laughed. Davin shrugged. "I do know <I>some</I> verses, at least."<br /><br />That was when a horn of alarm was sounded, somewhere behind them. All along the walls around the city of Bedwyn, that same horn call was answered.<br /><br />"Odd," Amren said. "That's coming from the river-post."<br /><br />Hobbling all the while, Davin led the way along the walls toward the river-post, where the walls ended on the bank of the Test and overlooked the harbor of Bedwyn. Halfway there they were met by another soldier, who bowed.<br /><br />"Sir Steward!" the soldier said. He was short of breath and very agitated. "They said you might be up here."<br /><br />"I am," Davin snapped. "What is it? Why the alarm?"<br /><br />"Sir, the harbor is closed as you ordered." He snatched a few breaths before continuing. "And yet, they are coming up the river and are almost here."<br /><br />Davin took a step forward. "Who?" he asked.<br /><br />"Ships, Sir Steward! <I>Ships!</I> Fifteen of 'em, fifteen ships, big ones, each one big enough to carry five hundred men. And sir, they are flying the banner of Bedwyn!" Tears welled in the man's eyes, so excited was he. Davin laid a calming hand on his shoulder, though he felt the same thrill.<br /><br />"Ease, man, ease," he said. "We shall need to keep our wits about us, now most of all." He looked at Amren, and he barely noticed the fact that the pain in his knee had almost totally vanished. "Get the docks ready," he ordered. "The Duke returns."Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1124648237747308902005-08-21T11:10:00.000-07:002005-08-21T11:17:17.776-07:00Chapter SixteenAs the company got underway, Gwyn was unsurprised to see that the path they rode did not match what she had walked in her sleeping vision. She wondered to what extent the world of the Fair Folk mirrored that of the mortals.<br /><br />There was no gently spiraling path that came down to a still pool; instead there was only a normal-looking track that led into the heart of the wood. In her dream the trees had been alive and in full leaf; but now they were bare again, and all around her she heard the creaking as they swayed in the cold breeze. Despite the relative lack of light that reached the forest floor through the dense canopy of wood above them, Gwyn could tell that it was a cold, gray day. This, of course, was no surprise at all -- had there been any other kind of day recently? Warmth was a thing of memory only, as was everything else she had ever known. Every step toward the Druids and her destiny as the Welcomer was a step away from Tintagel and the student she had been.<br /><br />As they rode deeper into the heart of the wood, the path gradually narrowed. At the outset, the path had been wide enough to ride two-by-two as Sir Baigent had outlined, with himself in the lead position. However, only a short march into the day, the path became narrower until it was a mere track in the leaves weaving its way amongst the trees. Moreover, the trees themselves hung lower and lower until the companions were frequently ducking under particularly low branches.<br /><br />"We must go single-file," Calloch said.<br /><br />Sir Baigent scowled. "I don't like going single-file on forest-trails like this. It's too easy for one of us to lose the way, especially if we become spread out."<br /><br />"Then we must not become spread out," Gareth said.<br /><br />"Easily said," Sir Baigent said. "Not so easily done." Nevertheless, he guided them into a single-file formation, with Gwyn riding directly behind him.<br /><br />As they rode on, Gwyn found herself studying the knight. She noticed that he always rode holding his reins in his left hand and with the pommel of his sword under his right. She also heard him occasionally wheeze as he twisted into a position that put pressure on his wound. She thought back to that night at Maxen's camp, and the display of the knight's brutal strength in the duel; at the same time she recalled the tenderness of his touch when he had bound her own wound after the wolfs had attacked her and Brother Llyad. He was a far more complex man than she would ever have guessed originally.<br /><br />She was snapped out of her reverie by the sharp tugging on her cloak as it became snagged on a bramble-bush. Angrily, she ripped her cloak free, tearing away several scraps of cloth in the process. The thorny cluster of brambles seemed to shrink back to the ground. She glanced up at Brother Llyad, whose features were grim.<br /><br />"I would swear that the bush reached for you under its own power," he said. "Walding Wood is a dark place indeed."<br /><br />"Perhaps the Druids made one of their Wards here," remarked Gareth. "It is said that they have power over the living things in the Wood."<br /><br />"All Mortals have power over the things of the Wood, Gareth." It was Estren speaking. The Bard had ridden close behind them. "Yes, even you. Perhaps it is not the power of which you speak, but you wield it every time you lift an axe toward the trunk of a tree."<br /><br />"That is not the power I speak of, Harper, but it suffices to make masters of men." Gareth said no more, and now Sir Baigent was glaring impatiently at them. They rode on in silence, and Gwyn kept a tighter grip on her cloak.<br /><br />They stopped only for the briefest of meals when they came to a tiny stream -- barely one pace in width -- at which the horses watered while the companions ate. Their morning repast had been taken in haste, but now seemed as a feast compared to this meal. "I wonder if the Druids will have food for us," Gwyn said when they were riding again, hoping to break the oppressive silence that fell around them.<br /><br />"They will indeed," Brother Llyad answered. "They are adept at living off the bounty of the wood, and their supply will be greater than ours. We will not go hungry at their table."<br /><br />"You know the Oak Brothers to be excellent hosts, it seems," said Gareth. "I hope that your faith applies to all of them."<br /><br />Brother Llyad fixed Gareth with a frustrated stare. "Do you mistrust them?"<br /><br />Gareth thought a long moment before answering, a moment that was filled with the sounds of the horses' movements along the trail. Then she spoke.<br /><br />"No, but I cannot forget what they once were. They were not always the peaceful Oak Brothers, and one can still find their altars in the woods of Prydein. You know the altars of which I speak."<br /><br />Brother Llyad frowned, nodding. "That time was many years ago, when the Ancients were not so ancient."<br /><br />"Aye. In those days, when Dona put forth her will again on the Land, she gave her might to the people who would give their lives to see her reign again. And then came the Druids, who thanked the Gods for sending the Cataclysm, for it would allow the forests to grow again. They darkened the forests with their fell rituals, and their Altars still bear the stains from the blood they loosed in their offerings. The skulls of the dead can still be found in those places, and it was well that they were driven to Mona. Peaceful they may be today, but I have been in their groves and I have seen the legacy of their deeds in those days. How have they come to be the benevolent Oak Brothers of whom you claim such knowledge? and how will they stay true to their new, peaceful selves in the days of war to come?"<br /><br />"I don't know," he replied. "Their history is theirs to know and to reveal. But I know that they do not shed the blood of people, and I know that their ways are peaceful. I cannot deny that there were rituals of blood and death performed in those groves, but I also cannot deny what I myself have seen, on the shores of Mona."<br /><br />Now Estren spoke. "Much time has passed since those days, and naught has been heard of the Druids until very recently," he said. "They have only emerged from their Isle in recent years, and the Bards have heard of no new rituals of death. If the Druids were once brutal, it is perhaps no longer their way."<br /><br />"Have <I>you</I> met the Druids, Harper?" asked Gareth.<br /><br />"I have not. But I will not stand in judgment of them until such time as I stand in front of them. That is the way of the Bards." Estren's was the last word spoken on the subject.<br /><br />The path now rose up the side of a hill, circling as it approached the summit. Here the forest became thinner; the top of the knoll bore only small trees, and the cover was light. From there they would be able to see the places from which they had come. As they crossed the top of the knoll, they passed through a circle of worn stones that bore very ancient carvings that were so old that it could not be said if they were letters or mere designs. Those stones, aside from the path itself, were the only sign that people had ever walked the top of this hill. Here Sir Baigent held up one gloved hand, signaling the stop. Gwyn looked around and saw that from this place they could see part of the countryside beyond the forest, in the direction behind them. Before them lay only more forest. They were able now to see the weather. The sun was obscured by clouds, but they were high clouds, and the air was clear. "Before the day is done we shall see snow," Calloch observed.<br /><br />Brother Llyad sighed. "Snow during summer? Evil times are upon us."<br /><br />Meanwhile, Sir Baigent stood in his saddle and looked long toward the horizon, peering into the lands beyond the trees. The forest to the west thinned out much quicker than Gwyn would have expected, giving way to empty plains. Dimnur snorted, and Gwyn patted the horse's neck to calm him. As they waited, stopped on that hilltop, the wind began anew, sending a fresh chill through the company. Gwyn shook her long hair out of her eyes, and finally Sir Baigent gave a knowing nod.<br /><br />"There," he said. <br /><br />Gwyn tried to see what he saw, peering through the trees, and finally she did see it. A column of men was snaking across the countryside, and it was moving northward.<br /><br />"Maxen's company, or I miss my guess," Sir Baigent said. "As we expected. They will go around this wood to the north, and that gives us a certain freedom, if not a gift of time." He settled back into his saddle and took up the reins again. "We must quicken our pace now," he said.<br /><br />The company rode on, down into the wood again. The path dropped down a bit, and then rose again slightly, remaining atop a ridge that bordered a wide valley where lay the very thickest part of Walding Wood. This route must have been beautiful in the summer, when the trees were in leaf, but now the going seemed dreary. A sadness hung on the air around them, the sadness of the Earth at its failure to blossom. Gwyn decided once more to break the silence.<br /><br />"Brother Llyad, what do you know of the Emrys?" she asked.<br /><br />Brother Llyad's brow furrowed as he considered the question. "The Emrys was the greatest of all the Druids," he finally said, "and the Druids are the heirs of his lore. He was also called Merlyn, and he had some connection to King Arthur. I had hoped it would be contained in the Finders' book, but I could find nothing of him in its pages. Perhaps his part of the tale was over before that book's beginning…" He mused on that for a moment, and then went on. "Even the Druids could not keep all of his lore alive, and much of it was lost. Legend says that Merlyn Emrys was undone by a witch, and that now he sleeps in a cave, hidden for all time. He was part man, part Fairy -- as are you -- and he left behind many items of secret lore which have passed into the hands of the Druids. They knew not the specific time and place of the Welcomer's birth, but certain signs were given them to await, and they knew those signs when they came. The final test came that night by the lake. Then we knew, and our errand was laid clear."<br /><br />Gwyn's mind raced. "But Llawann died, without being able to take word that I had been found. Do the Druids even know that we come?"<br /><br />"They hope." His voice trailed off for a moment. "What troubles me is this talk about the blood flowing in the sacrificial groves again. The Druids I know do not do those things. There is more at work here than we know. The Dark Brother's reach is long, and growing longer."<br /><br />"I never heard much of the Dark Brother when I was young," Gwyn said.<br /><br />"There are words about him in the most secret of the Oracles. No Adept would ever be allowed to read those pages, though I have long disagreed with my fellow Priests on this point -- it seems to me that ignorance of Dona's Brother is not a position of strength, but I obey the edicts of the Lord Priests who are wiser than I. There was once a Lord Priest of Tintagel who was defeated by the knowledge in those dark books." A shadow passed over him. "Some of the things I have heard…I wonder if Cwerith has perhaps taken interest in--"<br /><br />"Silence!" Sir Baigent hissed. He jerked to a stop and looked all around, listening intently to the wood. The company had reached the top of a rise, and the path forked ahead of them, with the left fork proceeding atop the ridge, while the fork on the right dropped down away from them into the dark vale they had seen before. At the center of the fork was another Druid standing stone, but this one was no longer standing. It had been toppled not long before, and a chunk the size of Gwyn's arm had broken off and was lying inches away form the rest of the stone.<br /><br />"Which way?" she asked. No one answered. Arradwen grunted as Sir Baigent circled about, trying to hear whatever it was that he thought he had heard. Gwyn shivered, and she pulled her cloak tighter around herself. Up here on this hill, she felt very exposed.<br /><br />Estren suddenly sat bolt upright, alarm on his face. "I hear it now!" He pointed back the way they had come. "It comes from behind us."<br /><br />Sir Baigent moved his horse to the rear of the company to stand beside Estren, where he sat still, staring back up the path. A sound came to them then, and it filled Gwyn with fear. Horns were sounding, hunting horns. She could only hear the briefest wisps of their calls. She had often heard horns in Lyonesse as a child; the nearby woods were often used by the local Barons for hunting, and the air often echoed with their jubilant calls back and forth...but these horns were different. Terrible was their call, a snarling sound that seemed to mock them and sounded as much like the growling of some pack of dark beasts as a group of hunting horns. An answering call sounded from somewhere ahead of them, the first group sounded once more…and then, when the echoes of both calls had faded away, there was a new sound: the barking of hounds.<br /><br />Sir Baigent tightened his grip on his reins as he glanced back and forth between the two paths before them. Gwyn had not seen so much indecision in his eyes at any point in this journey as was there now, and the sound of the horns was heard again. Gwyn was certain they were much, much closer than they had been before. "I cannot believe that Maxen would release his men for a hunt," Sir Baigent said, "and not in a winter wood such as this, when they are marching to war." He spun about and looked at Estren. "Harper, are those horns mortal?" The words made Gwyn shiver.<br /><br />"No," answered the Bard. "I fear that we are hearing the Horns of Culdarra. The Wild Hunt is riding again."<br /><br /><I>The Wild Hunt!</I><br /><br />Fear filled Gwyn's heart. The Wild Hunt of Culdarra had not been seen in many years, and even then only in legend. It was said that those who heard Culdarra's horns would not see the next full moon, and that those who were hunted by her Hounds could not escape them long. Gwyn remembered the pictures of Culdarra in the books, pictures drawn from no possible source for no one who saw her lived long enough to pass the details to an artisan. Culdarra the Huntress, oldest of Dona's servants and daughter of Arawn the Lord of Annwn, was hunting again. Another of the boundaries had fallen. Gwyn's heart began to race, and she felt a cold sweat lick at her back.<br /><br />"Does she come for us?" asked Brother Llyad.<br /><br />"No mortal knows for whom the Hunt rides," Estren said.<br /><br />Gareth gave a snort. "It could simply be Maxen's men seeking a boar for their cookfires," she said. "Why would the Huntress come for us? What have we done that would attract her attention?"<br /><br />"The Wild Hunt is not named Wild for nothing," Gwyn countered. Her voice sounded small in her ears, and she looked down at her hands to see that her knuckles were white from clenching the reins as tightly as they could. Again the horns sounded, and the terrible howling of the hounds grew closer.<br /><br />"It matters not!" Sir Baigent snapped, spinning his horse around to face the lower path. "If those horns are Culdarra's, we are surely lost. If they are Maxen's, we are lost only if we are found. Our only hope is to flee, and pray that those hounds take the scent of better prey!" With that, he spurred his steed forward, and he began to ride down the right path. He gave no opportunity for further debate, and so it was that the company turned right, into the valley, as the horns sounded through the Wood.<br /><br />It started off being an easy descent, but that was belied by the fact that the path sharply turned this way and that, weaving a baffling course through the thickest part of Walding Wood. Here the trees grew so tightly together that Gwyn could not tell where one tree ended and another began, and as far as she could see it was all one gigantic tree with a thousand trunks. They rode quickly now, trotting if not galloping, into the deepest dark of the forest. As they moved into the valley, the sky vanished behind a canopy that now seemed as solid as the stone ceilings of the buildings on Tintagel. They rode on, into the dark of the gathering wood.<br /><br />The path at the bottom was mercifully fairly straight, allowing Gwyn to pay mind to keeping her cloak away from the branches and thorny bushes. Each time her cloak snagged on a bush, she was jolted upward in her saddle before tearing her cloak from the grasp of whatever plant had grabbed her. As careful as she was, it kept happening to her and the others, slowing them as if the forest itself was trying to hold her the company back for Culdarra's grasp. The hems of her cloak became tattered and ripped, and she was hardly alone. At this rate, each of their cloaks would be threadbare by the time they reached their destination. <br /><br />"There they are again!" Brother Llyad cried. They could hear the horns again, and still the baying of the hounds, which seemed to be growing closer as they rode. Estren nodded.<br /><br />"They have found our trail, and they are coming," said the Bard.<br /><br />"Will we be safe when we leave the Wood?" asked Gwyn.<br /><br />Estren shook his head. "I do not know," was all he said. And the ride through the wood went on. Gwyn had absolutely no idea of the time as they continued. The position of the sun in the sky could not be seen, and it little mattered. It was still winter, and despite the work of the ride she was cold to her bones. <br /><br />The path steepened, and they all had to lean back and grip their reins tightly to keep from falling. Although the horses were sure-footed, the ground beneath them was not as solid. It was already slippery enough, damp as it was from the recent rains and covered as it was in rotting leaves and grass, and each horse slid a bit on the way down. At one point Gwyn was certain that she was about to lose her balance and fall from Dimnur's back, but somehow she regained her composure and reached the bottom still upright. Matt and Estren, bringing up the rear, were not so fortunate.<br /><br />It happened when Estren rode a bit too close to a bramble-bush, and his cloak caught on its thorns. He twisted to rip his cloak free of the bush, a sudden movement that on any other patch of ground would have been harmless but on this steep slope had the effect of throwing his steed off balance. The animal tumbled, throwing Estren to the ground as the beast rolled over him and slid, uncontrolled, down the remainder of the slope to crash into the rear legs of Matt's horse. Matt fell to one side, landing on the ground just in front of the prone Bard. The two horses ended in a heap at the bottom of the slope, where they regained their footing and became panicked. The two animals bolted down the path, past the companions, as Estren and Matt both slid through the mud to the bottom of the incline. Matt had the further misfortune of sliding head-first into another bramble-bush. His screams pierced the air as the thorns cut into his flesh on his hands, and his face.<br /><br />"Get the horses!" Calloch shouted as he whirled about to see to the fallen companions. Gwyn and Brother Llyad moved to one side as quickly as they could, allowing the two racing horses to come through. Displaying reflexes that belied her age, Gareth grabbed the reins of Matt's horse and slowed it down, while Estren's plunged on past Sir Baigent, who kicked Arradwen into a gallop to go after it.<br /><br />Gwyn, Calloch, and Brother Llyad all returned to help their fallen comrades. Calloch dismounted and helped Matt out of the thornbush. His face and hands were extensively scratched, and he picked broken thorns from his vestments and his cloak, but his eyes were uninjured and otherwise he appeared all right. Gwyn helped Estren turn upright. Somehow he was not terribly hurt after falling beneath his horse, although his right shoulder now seemed to hang at an odd angle, and he winced with pain that was obviously very sharp. She probed his shoulder, and he winced with pain as she did so.<br /><br />"It is not broken," she said, finding some use at last for having grown up as a reckless girl on a rocky island. "But the joint has come apart. We will have to re-set it."<br /><br />He nodded, and his voice was hoarse with pain. "I rolled to one side to keep from landing directly on my harp." He winced again as he tried to assess any damage to his instrument, which somehow was still slung on his back. Gwyn looked around at the hill they had just descended as the hunting horns echoed again.<br /><br />"You won't be able to ride like that," Gareth said, who had come up with Matt's horse in tow.<br /><br />"I can help him," Brother Llyad said as he dismounted. He knelt beside Estren, who was cradling his dislocated arm. "Chew on this for a moment." He handed Estren a leather strap, which the Bard put between his clenched teeth. Taking Estren's right hand in his own, Brother Llyad gestured for Calloch to come near. "Put your foot there, on his collar. Don't let him move."<br /><br />"Do we have time for this?" Gareth asked. The echoing sound of the hunting hounds was coming ever closer. Suddenly Gwyn felt the almost-irresistible urge to ride again, as fast as she could, whether her companions could keep up with her or not.<br /><br />"He'll need his arm if he is to ride with us," Brother Llyad replied. "And his shoulder will be harder to put back into place if we wait."<br /><br />Gareth nodded, and Brother Llyad prepared. "It will be quick," he told Estren.<br /><br />Gwyn winced, for she knew what was to come, having gone through it herself when she and Dana had done something rather foolish involving a boat, her bow, and a windy day. She turned as Brother Llyad lifted Estren's arm, but she still heard the sickening <I>pop</I> and Estren's agonized cry, muffled by the strap of leather in his mouth. Gwyn scanned the top of the hill they had just descended, trying to spot any movement, any sign that the hounds had arrived. She saw nothing, but their barks and cries were louder, louder, still louder.<br /><br />A minute later Sir Baigent returned, having recaptured Estren's wayward horse. The bard was clearly favoring his arm, although it was at least in the correct position. "Can you ride?"<br /><br />"I don't have much choice," Estren replied. With Calloch's and Matt's help he got back up into the saddle, and although he favored his right arm he was still able to take up the reins again, and again the company rode.<br /><br />This was now the very darkest part of the wood, and it was all Gwyn could do just to see her companions around her and to stay on the path. Almost no light reached the valley floor, her companions were little more than dark shapes in front of her and behind, and in the darkness Gwyn saw all kinds of small things that she imagined to be snarling hounds, their sharp teeth snapping at Dimnur's hooves…but whenever she glanced back, she still saw no hounds. Yet. She knew they would come.<br /><br />It was when they reached the bottom of the valley that the trees thinned at a bit, allowing more light. It was gloomy, cloud-cast light, but it was light nonetheless, and Gwyn felt some cheer in being able to clearly see the faces of her companions. Something icy touched her cheek, and she looked up to see that the tree branches were dripping rainwater or dew, she wasn't sure which. The sounding of the horns began anew, even closer. Then they heard the hounds again, so close that now nothing would drown out their cries, barks and snarls. They came at last to the banks of the river that flowed through the valley. Sir Baigent turned around to study the terrain they had covered.<br /><br />"The hounds will be with us until we cross this river, and we do not have much time to do so," he said. <br /><br />Matt nodded in agreement. "So much for them taking another scent. Are there no deer or boar in this wood?"<br /><br />"If those horns are truly the Huntress's, then we offer the meat that is best to her liking," Sir Baigent said. "We must cross the water."<br /><br />Gwyn took a closer look at the river. It flowed swiftly past banks that would have been grassy in a proper summer but were now bound by mud. The river was wider than three horses end-to-end, and even Gwyn could see that the muddy waters rushed by too fast for their beasts to swim across while bearing riders. She thought of the swollen stream that had killed one of their horses and almost done the same to Sir Baigent and Brother Llyad just two nights before. There appeared to be no way across. "Will this river be enough to keep the Huntress from following us, even if we are able to cross it?" she asked.<br /><br />Sir Baigent scowled. "I see you still have the habit of asking questions none of us can answer," he said. Gwyn's cheeks reddened, and she bit back an angry retort.<br /><br />"The Druids were here," Brother Llyad said suddenly. "Look." He pointed to a rock at the side of the river, a perfectly normal rock that had been here since the world began -- except that a pattern had been painted on the rock in white ink, the pattern of the Druid spiral. "They came through here, at this very spot."<br /><br />"Why would the Druids leave a path to the side of the river with no way across?" asked Gareth. "It makes little sense."<br /><br />"They must have had a way across," Brother Llyad said. "We must find it."<br /><br />"Unless they took it with them," Gwyn heard Calloch mutter. She gazed at the spiraling eddies in the water, noticing for the first time how similar they were to the Druidic spirals from the rock and the standing stones. Then she looked to Sir Baigent, who had dismounted and was now probing the river with a long stick he had cut from a nearby tree. He gave no sign that he heard the horns, which were now sounding again. He leaned as far out over the river surface as he could, testing the depth of the water. To his surprise he found that the river bottom dropped sharply just inches from the shore. There was no crossing at this place.<br /><br />Brother Llyad, meanwhile, had also dismounted and was probing the wood that surrounded the river. There was a strange expression on his face, as though he were trying to remember a name long forgotten. He kept looking up at the trees that were gathered around them. He walked all round them, placing his hands in turn on each of six particularly tall oaks. He then turned back to face the company.<br /><br />"There is Druid magic here," he announced. "I can feel it."<br /><br />Now the hounds were baying much louder, Estren was wheezing in pain from his arm, and Gwyn thought she could see dark shapes moving in the hazy distance. Sir Baigent stepped forward. "Whatever you have discovered, monk, I think you had better let us know now before we are at the teeth of those hounds."<br /><br />"Where we slept last night was only a place on entry to the Wood. <I>This</I> place is their Sacred Grove. Look!" He pointed to the trees. "You can see how the trees in this place have been carefully tended so that only these six, in the pattern of a circle, would grow to their full height. There is a matching pattern on the bank opposite us." Gwyn looked across the river and saw that it was true.<br /><br />"I have heard of places like this," said Estren. "Have we not known the Druids to worship at the side of the water?"<br /><br />"This grove is not well-tended," Brother Llyad said. "The Druids have not been able to maintain it -- but we can still see that they--"<br /><br />"Why are you discussing this, you fools?" Sir Baigent barked. His patience had ended. "Do you know some Druid incantation that will allow us to ford this river? or is there some talisman that might conjure up a bridge?"<br /><br />Brother Llyad, taken aback, bit his lower lip as he shook his head. Sir Baigent took one last look around, and then drew his blade. "Then we will make our stand here. Form a circle. My Lady, you should string your bow."<br /><br />Gwyn's blood ran cold, for there would be no escape from the hounds and the hunt that had now found them. Obeying the knight, she dismounted and strung her bow and opened her quiver. The company moved into a rough semicircle, with their backs to the river.<br /><br />And then the hounds arrived.<br /><br />Gwyn lost her breath as she looked upon the terrible hounds. Very large they were, their size nearer to that of ponies than any hunting dogs she had ever known. Their lips were curled in snarls, and their eyes gleamed with the look of the kill. Their fur was also unlike any hound Gwyn had ever seen: they were black hounds, but they seemed to possess a silvery sheen, as though they had bathed in moonlight. Slowly the hounds formed a great circle around the company, and a terrible baying began as the hounds gave their own call to arms. Steam rose from the spots where their spittle dropped to the ground. Teeth were bared, horrible teeth, sharper than the sharpest needles. And more and more hounds came, until the forest seemed full of them, all of their ghostly eyes focused on the prey that huddled with their backs to the unpassable river. Gwyn thought, briefly, of wolves beside a lake as she nocked an arrow for her stand against hounds beside a river. <I>Is my journey destined to end between the jaws of some terrible beast?</I> she thought -- and then she saw what was coming up behind the hounds, and all thoughts were driven from her mind.<br /><br />It appeared to be a horse, although it was huge, larger by far than any steed Gwyn had ever seen. So large was it, in fact, that the trees themselves had to be bent out of the way to let the thing by. The snorts of this great beast were such that they could be heard even over the snarl of the giant hounds. Its fur was of the same color of the hounds, except for a streak of silver that ran up its nose and into its mane, which was itself the color of fire. The chains in the bridle were shaped of silver that gleamed impossibly bright in the dim light of this dark day. But as fearsome as the horse was, more fearsome by far was the figure that rode it.<br /><br />Unquestionably feminine, the rider was clad in shining armor fashioned of interlocking metal plates. At each joint was a sharp, curving spike, much like the teeth of the hounds. The rider wore a gigantic helm, and long, long hair spilled out from underneath it to encircle her body, almost as a living thing in itself. The helm itself was topped by a set of antlers the like of which could have come from no hart on earth. At her back was a quiver of silver tipped arrows, and she now reached back to draw one and nock it in the terrible bow of thick, black wood that she wielded. So it was that the members of the Company beheld Culdarra, the Goddess of the Wild Hunt.<br /><br />The Huntress rode nearer and turned her gaze, in turn, on each member of the company. At last she gazed upon Gwyn, and then she lifted the faceguard of her helm. Never before had Gwyn imagined a face so severe, so stern, so angry and so beautiful. Her icy stare, from eyes that seemed as deep as the deepest sea, bore into Gwyn's heart. The young woman desperately yearned to turn her gaze away, but she could not: there was something in the Goddess' eyes that held her and forced her to return the stare. Gwyn lost herself in the deep pools of Culdarra's eyes, as if she were floating in bottomless waters under a black and moonless sky without even the stars, the comforting stars, to offer solace. For an eternity they stood, and as they did, the hounds fell silent. No sound was heard: not the breathing of Gwyn's companions, nor even the grunting of their horses. <br /><br />Culdarra continued to stare into Gwyn's soul, and Gwyn knew that the Huntress was searching for something, but she knew not what. Even though a distance of twenty footfalls separated the two of them, Gwyn felt Culdarra's touch as surely as if the Goddess were using her fingers. She knew that her soul was laid bare, and she waited. Every secret that was hers, every thought she had ever kept for herself, every wish and longing, every dream -- they were all open for the Huntress's reading. In those few moments she saw the entire content of her life transpire again, but as though she were outside it; and then she suddenly felt something inside her give way, like a dam giving way to the waters held behind it. In that instant, Culdarra was gone from her mind.<br /><br />The hounds began to bay again as the Huntress lowered her faceguard. The Wild Huntress lifted her bow and drew back the string. The bow thrummed, the arrow flew -- and with a hiss of air and a ringing <I>thump</I>, the arrow embedded itself in the soft soil at Gwyn's feet, its fletched end quivering to and fro. Gwyn gasped as she saw that there was something tied to the shaft of the arrow. And then Culdarra lowered the bow, took up the reins of her great horse, and turned away from the Company. In one great bound the beast carried the Huntress away, and the hounds followed, one by one. Then, at last, the Company was alone again.<br /><br />It was some time before anyone spoke. "May Dona's favor be upon us always," whispered Brother Llyad.<br /><br />Gwyn was the first person who was willing to move after that. She leaned forward and pulled Culdarra's arrow from the ground. To her surprise, there was nothing extraordinary about it: a shaft of dark wood, a sharpened head of metal, normal-looking fletching in the arrow's tail. "I don't understand," she said. "It is just a normal arrow. But this...." Her voice trailed off as she untied the object attached to the shaft. It was wrapped in a scrap of black cloth that shimmered like samite. Unfolding the cloth, she found inside a silver brooch that was also in the shape of an arrow. She held it up for everyone to see.<br /><br />"A gift from the Huntress," Brother Llyad whispered. "She has marked you, My Lady."<br /><br />"But for what?" Gwyn said. "What does this mean?"<br /><br />"And why did they not slay us?" asked Gareth. "No person living has witnessed what we have seen this day."<br /><br />Sir Baigent walked to the edge of the grove and looked after the Hunt, which had left no path. His blade was still in his hand. "They might still return," said the Knight. "We would be fools to remain in this Wood any longer than we must."<br /><br /><I>"They will not return!"</I><br /><br />The companions all spun in the direction of the unfamiliar voice, and in seeing it Gwyn caught her breath in wonder, and Brother Llyad laughed. On the river's opposite bank stood a single Druid, his arms clasped over his chest and the silver pendant of the Druids hanging around his neck. He was garbed in simple breeches and shirt of homespun cloth under a brown cloak, the hood cast over his face. "The Hunt will not return to this Wood this night, and it seems that you have been spared," said the Druid. He was joined then by two more Druids who emerged from behind nearby trees, and the three Druids walked down to the very edge of the water. "Your coming is well-told, and we are well-met this hour. We have awaited you, My Lady Welcomer. It is forever to my honor that I am the one to meet you and, in the end, bring you to the Giants' Dance." He paused for a moment. "And you, Sir Baigent, are also well-met."<br /><br />Sir Baigent stared at the Druid.<br /><br />"How is it that you know my name?" he demanded.<br /><br />"I have learned many things," the Druid replied. "Many things indeed: I have learned the Lore of the Moon, and of the Words that are spoken in the moonlight by the trees. I have learned of the languages of the squirrels, and the tongue spoken by the salmon. I know of the stars, and the names of the Kings who lie beneath the Mound of Annwn. But I have not forgotten things I knew in my life before." With that he drew back his hood, and in shock Sir Baigent stared at him, for this Druid was known to him.<br /><br /><I>"Sir Hugydd!"</I><br /><br />The Druid nodded, smiling. "I was Sir Hugydd, though the title now seems as meaningless as seeking the Wyrm's First Name. I have passed beyond your realm, Sir Baigent, though I remember and hold dear your friendship. When I learned of Camyrdin's destruction, my heart wept. Though my home no longer, it was once home to me, and thus shall always be dear to my heart." He made a beckoning gesture. "It is time for you to come," he said. "Cross the water now. In this place the water does our bidding, and it will bear your weight."<br /><br />Sir Baigent looked askance at this, and he glanced at the other companions. Brother Llyad was less reluctant, and he stepped forward to the river's brink. He reached outward with his foot, and found that it did not penetrate the surface of the water. Where his foot rested the waters flowed on beneath it. He stepped forward now, out onto the surface of the water.<br /><br />"I told you there was Druid magic here!" He beamed as he stepped back onto the riverbank, took his horse by the reins, and led the animal across the water to the other side. "You see!" he called, beaming, from the other side. "Their power is strong here! Cross the water!"<br /><br />Sir Baigent scowled. "Of course, this particular bit of magic would have been much more useful two nights ago," he said, under his breath. But Gwyn heard, and she swallowed a laugh. Now the others followed Brother Llyad, one by one, although the horses nickered nervously while walking on the surface of water.<br /><br />Sir Baigent stood at the side of the river watching as the companions one by one traversed the river. Gwyn was next to last, and as she waited she gazed at the silver brooch. What could it mean, this object in the shape of an arrow? and what powers did it hold, if it held any powers at all? Surely it must have some power. A goddess such as Culdarra the Huntress would hardly give away a piece of jewelry if it was meant merely to be worn as an ornament.<br /><br />"It is your turn, My Lady," Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />Gwyn nodded. Leading her steed by the reins, she followed her companions across the river to the other side, followed by the Knight. Then at last they were gathered on the opposite bank, and Sir Baigent stood face to face with his former knight, who stepped before Gwyn and bowed low.<br /><br />"This is a finer moment for me than you can know," Hugydd said. "We had no way of knowing from what direction you would come, and there are Druids awaiting you everywhere around here. I and my two Apprentices have attended this wood, in case the path of the Welcomer brought her through here. It was we who laid the Wards which stayed the hand of the Wild Huntress."<br /><br />"I believed that we were spared because of Gwynwhyfar's presence," Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />Hugydd shook his head. "You were all marked the moment her hounds took your scent. She would have slain all of you save the Welcomer, who is marked with the favor of the Lady of the Lake, and thus with the favor of Dona. But the Wild Huntress will not hunt within the boundaries set by the Oak Brothers. That lore has never been lost to us. It is to your great fortune that you were able to find your way here, and that we had not yet left this wood for the Rites of Summer. Even now my apprentices here are sending the word to the other Druids waiting in places near to this one and far, telling them to return to the Dance for the Welcomer has come."<br /><br />Gwyn glanced at the two apprentices in time to see them each release a pigeon into the air, a pigeon with a scrap of parchment tied around one leg. She laughed to see the messenger birds fly off into the gray sky. This, too, had been a bit of Druid lore and it had never been known as such.<br /><br />"You really <I>are</I> one of them now, aren't you?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />"I am," Hugydd replied. "They healed me, and they taught me. Horius is as fine a master as I could ever have wished."<br /><br />"Finer than me?" Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />Hugydd shook his head. "You were a fine master, but we both know that I was a poor student, ill-equipped to be a knight. I well remember the hours we spent studying swordplay and archery and all the rest of it, and I well remember that I was by far the least of Lord Matholyn's knights. I only attained the title by your insistence that I not abandon the training. This is where I belong."<br /><br />"In any case," Sir Baigent said, "I have lost a man."<br /><br />"And gained an ally," Hugydd replied. "Come, we must go. Night will fall soon enough, and the Rites must begin."<br /><br />"Then we are near to the Giant's Dance?" asked Sir Baigent.<br /><br />"We are near indeed," answered Hugydd. "We must ride with all the speed our mounts may muster, for the last hours are passing and the time for our gathering is almost at hand. We have no time to spare." As the Druid finished speaking, there was suddenly a very strange sound from Sir Baigent. It took Gwyn a moment to realize that he was laughing. For the first time since she had met him, and certainly since they had learned of Camyrdin, the stoic Knight was actually <I>laughing</I>. "Have I said something funny, Sir Baigent?" Hugydd asked.<br /><br />Sir Baigent mimicked his former man's tone just now: " 'We must ride with all the speed our mounts may muster...'" Again he laughed, and Hugydd joined in with a shrug. "I still know quite well what you used to be like, Hugydd," Sir Baigent said, still chuckling. "If you couldn't say it in fewer than six words, you didn't say it at all. <I>Now</I>, listen to you!"<br /><br />"This way of speaking is valued by Druids," he said. "It took a long time for me to get used to it. But we should move."<br /><br />"Surely there is time for some food, at least?" Gareth interjected. "We have been under hard march for several days now, and we have just fled the grasp of Culdarra's Hunt."<br /><br />"We may only take as much time as is required for a brief meal, and no more," consented Hugydd. "We have only apples, but perhaps they may suffice to nourish you until we arrive."<br /><br />The apples were like no other Gwyn had ever seen: somehow they were fresh, even despite the unending winter. Their skin was a bright orange, and her mouth filled with the sparkling juice with every bite.<br /><br />"May I see what the Huntress gave you, My Lady?" Hugydd asked.<br /><br />Gwyn nodded, and handed him the silver brooch. He turned it over in his hand, examining it. "No markings or lettering," he said. "It does not appear to bear any particular message; nor can I feel any special power within it except for the power that resides in all things. To my hand, it feels like ordinary silver. But the first thing that Horius taught me is that Druid lore is never complete. This token may be of great power after all, or it may simply be a way for Culdarra to claim you as her own. In either case, keep it well." He returned the brooch, and Gwyn used it to fasten her cloak. Its clasp was good and strong. <I>To claim you as her own…</I> Gwyn preferred not to think much on what that might mean.<br /><br />The company finished eating in silence, and then Hugydd's apprentices brought their horses. "It is time to go, my friends," he said. "To the Giant's Dance!" And with those parting words from Hugydd the Oak Brother, the companions again mounted their horses.<br /><br />Gwyn glanced over at Sir Baigent just before getting underway. The knight had a strange look on his face -- almost wistful. "Is something wrong?" she asked.<br /><br />"No," he replied. "I'm just remembering Sir Hugydd, the way I knew him. He's right, you know -- I had to work harder with him than I ever did with anyone else. To this day I don't know how he passed our Trials."<br /><br />"He must have learned something," Gwyn said. "He couldn't be the man he is now without the things he learned from you. And something else -- it turns out that you only lost <I>one</I> man on that expedition last autumn."<br /><br />Sir Baigent smiled at that.<br /><br />The company rode forward, toward the edge of the forest and the plain beyond, on which rose the great stones of the Giant's Dance. And when they were long gone from that place, the trees whispered to one another, in that tongue that no mortal had ever heard, of the great deeds they had witnessed in that sacred grove by the swift running waters.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1123437790152858912005-08-07T10:47:00.000-07:002005-08-07T11:03:10.200-07:00Chapter Fifteen"Come," Brother Llyad said, sticking his head into Gareth's chamber. "They are gathering, and Estren is telling them our tale."<br /><br />It was midafternoon now, and Sir Baigent decided that he had enough strength to rise again and join the companions. "We should be there," he said. He walked with Gwyn down to a gathering of the Finders, all of whom were clustered around Gareth and Jonn. A heated debate appeared to be taking place. As they arrived at the gathering they found Estren in the middle of the group, completing his version thus far of his journey with the Welcomer.<br /><br />"A Bard of Prydein is speaking of you," Sir Baigent whispered to Gwyn. She blushed.<br /><br />"Well spoken, harper," Gareth said. "You honor us with your words." The Finders signaled their agreement with nods of assent, and Gareth continued. "And here she is, the woman who has been chosen by the Goddess to bring King Arthur back from Avalon." She beckoned to Gwyn, who stepped past all the pairs of eyes focused upon her to join Gareth, Jonn and Estren. She was certain that she was no one's idea of what the Welcomer should be, but that of course mattered little.<br /><br />"I have made this decision," Gareth said. "This woman bears the Queen's name, and she carries the blood of the Fair Folk within her. There can be no question that she is the Welcomer. She must be taken to the Giants' Dance, and I will go with her -- as will Matt and Calloch."<br /><br />"What--?" Matt said. Clearly he had not been told before this. His was not the only voice of concern. Many, actually, were raised.<br /><br />"You can't leave us!" someone shouted.<br /><br />"What will we do?"<br /><br />"We cannot wait here for your return!"<br /><br />Gareth raised her walking stick, silencing the crowd with her fierce gaze. "These questions are easily answered," she said. "I have thought of little else since this morning when Jonn returned and brought these people with him into our midst, and in the end I can only conclude that there is one thing -- and <I>only one thing</I> -- for us to do. There is only one path for us to follow, but as so often happens when there is only one path, the struggle was actually in realizing that there were no other paths to take."<br /><br />Gwyn nodded slowly.<br /><br />Gareth went on. "Jonn will still be with you. And you will not be staying here. You, too, will go to the Giants' Dance."<br /><br />Now there were even more voices of dissent, shock, and in a few cases anger. Gareth held her walking stick up again, but this time silence did not come. Jonn began to shout for quiet, and eventually the crowd settled again.<br /><br />"Gareth," Matt said. "How can you send us there? What are we to do when we arrive?"<br /><br />"We will join King Arthur when he arrives," Gareth said. "We will be his army."<br /><br />Now there was total silence.<br /><br />"Yes," Gareth went on. "We will be his army -- or part of it, at the beginning. As King, he will need an army if he is to take the throne that is his by right. And we will fight with him, alongside him, and for him."<br /><br />"The Finders have never fought for anyone before," someone said.<br /><br />"But we have," Gareth replied. "We fight for Seren Goleuad, the forgotten son of our Goddess. We have always fought for him. This is part of that struggle, and we cannot turn away now."<br /><br />"Gareth." It was Jonn. "You are saying that by going to King Arthur, we may find Seren Goleuad?"<br /><br />Gareth leaned on her walking stick and sighed. "Remember the legend," she said. "<I>Those who would seek the child of the Sun and Moon will first heed the sign of history, that the child may live again.</I> And now the Welcomer has come into our midst, with the King to return tomorrow by our reckoning! The chance is here, and it is now. We cannot ignore it." She went silent for a minute, as the look on her face changed. "I know that I have not been as strong as Willam. I know that my hand of leadership is not as strong as his. You have followed me through deeds that some would consider folly -- not the least of which is our war against Maxen." She paused to look from face to face in the crowd. "But I tell you this: Willam was my husband, and though he was taken from me before I could learn from him all that I needed to lead, it is still true that everything I know is because of him. He would see the wisdom of this. He would <I>insist</I> on it -- and you would all follow, to the last child."<br /><br />"You are asking us to do this for Willam," Jonn said. "After you've asked us to do so much for him already."<br /><br />"No, Jonn." Gareth had gained control of her voice again. "I do not ask this of you for Willam's sake. I ask it of you for mine. So much history has been written, so many deeds done and sung of by men and women like this Bard here -- but none of it says anything about us, the Finders. It is as if we are outside history -- like rocks beside a stream, unable to shape its flow as do the rocks within it. This is our chance to join in the greatest tale of our time, and if we can find just the smallest part of the answer that we have sought for so long then it will be worth everything we risk." She paused to let that sink in. "And consider this: one day, long from now, your children will speak of the decision we made this day, when we knew that the Promised King was returning and that we had the chance to join him and take our place in the annals of Prydein. They will speak of the decision we made this day, when the chance was ours to guarantee that in some far off time when a cleric -- on Tintagel, perhaps -- writes a new <I>Book of Kingly Tales</I>, there would be a page devoted to the Finders and their quest. That day will come, my friends. It will come and we will be judged on that day for what we do now, and in all the days from this day to that."<br /><br />Gareth stopped speaking then and allowed the silence to settle heavily over the hundred people before her. <I>Convoluted words</I>, Gwyn thought. <I>But such conviction.</I> The wind stirred, moving the leafless branches of the trees, and somewhere in the distance a thrush knocked. Gwyn turned to gaze at the waters of the small lake, and she wondered if they would soon be freezing over -- in the midst of summer.<br /><br />"And what of Maxen?" Jonn finally asked. "We know that he is on the move."<br /><br />"He has probably gone to rejoin his King," Gareth said. "If he is even still in command of his men. And <I>that</I> depends on how bad a wound this man-of-arms here gave him last night."<br /><br />Sir Baigent shook his head. "It's hard to know," he said. "I took his hand, but I've seen men suffer worse and live, and I've seen men suffer less and die. Either way, I cannot believe he has strength yet to command. I would expect that Fflud is now leading them, and he is not a man who will follow some vengeance quest."<br /><br />"You should take a direct route, through Walding Wood," Jonn said. "You will be less likely to be spotted by any scouts Maxen or Fflud have about. We will come around the edge of the wood, on the eastern side and be only a few hours behind you."<br /><br />Gwyn watched as Gareth laid a hand on her old friend's shoulder and slowly nodded.<br /><br />"Dona be with us all," Gareth said.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwyn was utterly amazed at the speed with which the Finders broke their camp. In less than an hour all that remained were the empty husks of the buildings as everyone gathered their belongings, stowed them in the bags and the three wagons that they owned, and prepared to ride. The companions were given new horses to replace the ones that had been left behind at Maxen's camp, and Gwyn was exceedingly grateful to have her own horse again, a strong and genial beast called Dimnur. She had had quite enough of riding double, whether with Brother Llyad or Jonn. Their supplies were replenished, and Sir Baigent's strength appeared to be back to normal after just a few hours' rest, owing to the Finders' surprising power when it came to healing. Finally, after a very brief exchange of farewells, the company set out again.<br /><br />Thus it was that the party of four became seven, as they struck out again for the road north into the last hills and wood before the Giants' Dance.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />The Finders were not the only ones breaking camp that morning. Just a few hours' ride to the west, the long-empty fortress of the Scarlet King became empty once again as a Captain of King Cwerith's southern flank led his men out of their burned and gutted camp, down the rock-strewn hillside, and onto the road that led to the north and east. Not a single man in that company failed to notice the change that had come over their Captain, and not just in the tightly-bandaged stump which was all that remained of his left wrist. There was a darkness in his eye that made even the most loutish brute in that small army turn away in fear when he caught the Captain's gaze. Even Fflud could not escape the feeling that something had shifted in his Captain's soul. He now saw there a hatred that seemed to have smoldered in forgotten corners of his heart but which now blazed with the brightness of the fires which had reduced so much of their camp to ash.<br /><br />The Captain had awoken in the middle of the night, after being unconscious since the searing of his wound. He had risen, clothed himself, bound the wound himself, and taken a horse alone down to the side of the river where he passed the rest of the evening alone. Not one man would speak aloud of his thoughts -- or fears -- of what the Captain had found there. Some things were not discussed.<br /><br />When he had returned he had simply ordered the breaking of camp and the preparation for march. The thought never occurred to a single man to challenge his right to command, for in some way he looked stronger, more willing to do what was necessary even if that meant his own death.<br /><br />When Fflud asked if they were going to rejoin the main bulk of the King's army, which was now swinging toward Bedwyn for the last leg of the march, the Captain had said no. There was another task for them to do, another battle to be won, that would take place far away from Bedwyn and might not ever be known by the King but might well be the battle that shaped his destiny. Fflud asked him what that battle was, but the Captain said nothing except that they were going to the Giants' Dance. No member of his company questioned him. None dared do so, even though to an outsider it might appear that they had cause. No outsider could possibly understand. No outsider would know the look in their Captain's eye, nor would any outsider know that by all rights this man should be dead of his wound instead of leading them on this day.<br /><br /><I>They don't know the things I know,</I> the Captain thought as the Scarlet King's hilltop fortress receded behind him. <I>They haven't seen the things I was made to see; they haven't been made to look into the heart of Power as I have. They had not heard the wolves who sang for me.</I><br /><br />Some of them, though, had heard the wolves -- and those who had would never admit to even their closest friends the nightmares they had experienced after hearing them.<br /><br />Of some things one should not speak.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />The day was growing long as the seven companions rode northward through the last of the hill country before Walding Wood. The weather had gone damp, with a sometimes steady rain now slackening to a miserable, cold drizzle that soaked everything. They spoke rarely, except for when Sir Baigent would confer quietly with Gareth or Matt, both of whom knew the lay of the land quite well. Calloch, Gwyn quickly discovered, had as little sense of reckoning as she had ever seen. Even Brother Llyad, with all his awkward foppishness, could find his way around, but Calloch -- while a skilled rider and fighter -- was as like as not to ride all day in a single, great circle and not realize it until he saw the same landmarks for the fourth time. It was an odd quality to find in one of the Finders, given their wandering nature, but Gwyn supposed it was less odd than in a former scholar and cleric becoming Lord of Camyrdin, or a female Adept being both a passing good archer and the Welcomer of the Promised King.<br /><br />The rain and drizzle finally tapered off as they crested a particularly high hill. Before them lay the outskirts of the wood, only partly visible through patches of thickening fog. Here they stopped as Sir Baigent studied the path before them, which was really no path at all and little more than even a trail.<br /><br />"Quicker to go through than around, you say?" he asked.<br /><br />Gareth shrugged. "Quicker for our purposes, and certainly less dangerous. Fflud would be foolish to attempt to bring his men through this wood."<br /><br />"Assuming that he is coming in this direction at all," Sir Baigent said. "We really don't know where Cwerith's army is just now, do we? Perhaps they have swung north again, or have even cut south before the Test River valley."<br /><br />"Does any of that matter?" Estren asked.<br /><br />"No," Sir Baigent said. "But the last time I entered a wood that looked like this one, I did not leave with my entire party intact."<br /><br /><I>He could have left that last thought unsaid</I>, Gwyn thought.<br /><br />They rode toward the edge of the wood and stopped again at the spot where the trail entered the trees. At this point, beside the trail, was a Druid standing stone. It was about half the height of a horse, and its spiral carvings were still visible, despite being quite weathered. This stone was very old.<br /><br />"There were thousands of such stones once, all over Prydein," Brother Llyad said. "They were built by the very first Druids to emerge from the Cataclysm, and no one knows why -- not even the Druids of Mona. Perhaps they had some ritual purpose, perhaps they were spots of particular power on the earth, or perhaps they were mere markers for those first Druids in a land covered by vast forests. Now they are vanishingly rare. High King Prystyl ordered them destroyed. This must be one that was missed."<br /><br />They rode again, moving slowly into the confines of the forest. Gwyn watched the standing stone as she rode past it, wondering what hand had shaped it and what mind had conceived its pattern and selected the spot for its placing. Then she rode beneath the low-hanging branches of a large elm, passing into Walding Wood.<br /><br />Although the trees were leafless, their branches still formed enough of a dense canopy above them to obscure the sky. Gwyn had to strain to see all of her companions before her -- except Calloch and Estren, who rode behind -- and though she expected to hear the normal sounds of a forest, there were none. No animals crying out, no birds calling, no rustling and knocking of branches as they moved in the breeze against one another. The air was completely still, and the wood was utterly silent, except for the movement of their horses.<br /><br />Gwyn lost track of time as they followed what at times seemed to be no trail at all. She wondered how Sir Baigent could possibly keep his reckoning in this place, but his every decision of direction was made quickly and with confidence. The sky was beginning to darken -- inasmuch as they could tell that it was darkening at all -- when they emerged into a circular grove, at the center of which stood another standing stone, similar to the one they had seen at the edge of the forest. Another path, shrouded in black darkness, opened in the trees directly opposite the path from which they had just come. The grass in the grove had recently been trodden, the ground at the grove's edge looked like it had been turned recently, and there was a fire-ring exactly like the one they had found at the side of the Veryn Wash. Sir Baigent slid down from his saddle and tied his steed to one of four small pines that stood at equal points from the standing stone, and motioned for the others to do the same.<br /><br />"I suppose the Druids will not object to our making camp here tonight," he said as he began to unpack his saddlebag. As Matthew and Calloch tended the horses, Gwyn helped Gareth in the task of setting camp. Sir Baigent found a small pile of well-seasoned wood near one of the pines, and he used this to build a small but welcome fire that burned brightly in the misty, damp night now settling over the wood. The companions dined on a meal of bread, cheese, and wine from a skin Gareth had provided. A brisk wind began to whistle through the wood, and the air became filled with the creaking sound of swaying trees -- precisely one of the sounds that Gwyn had missed when they had ridden in silence through the outskirts of the wood just hours before.<br /><br />"You are certain that we can reach the Giants' Dance by nightfall tomorrow?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />"Dead certain," Matt said as he packed some leaf into a wooden pipe and lit it for smoking. "A few more hills, a river to be forded, and then we're onto the plain. Easily done." He puffed at his pipe several times. "I only hope that the Druids are actually there."<br /><br />"They will be there," Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />"You believe in the Druids very strongly," Gareth said. "May Dona will that your faith in them is not misplaced."<br /><br />An awkward silence descended then, which was broken by Estren. "I have been wondering: what is in those fire-globes of yours?"<br /><br />Gareth, Matt and Calloch all laughed. "Would you believe me," Gareth said, "if I told you that in truth I do not know? We were traveling in Caledonia last autumn -- the Western Shore, out away from King Duncan's fortress -- when we came upon a hermit living near the side of the sea. He gave to us the burning powder that we put inside the globes. In exchange, we hunted for him and provided him with enough meat to last the winter. Or so he hoped...I have often wondered what became of that hermit."<br /><br />"Was he a sorcerer?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"He may have been," Gareth replied. "Although, had he been a sorcerer I wonder why he would have needed our aid in gathering food. And with something so powerful in his possession, I also wonder why he was a hermit at all. He could have sold the powder to some Lord, or perhaps even to King Duncan, and made himself a rich man."<br /><br />"And so could you," Brother Llyad said. "Not all kinds of riches apply to all."<br /><br />Gareth nodded.<br /><br />"Some of us," Matt said, "believe that the burning powder is actually an invention of the Ancients, or perhaps a product of the fires of the Cataclysm."<br /><br />"It could be anything," Gareth said. "We made the globes out of clay and filled them with the powder. It is hard to believe such a small thing could hold so much power, but power it has...perhaps too much. Too much that I have squandered in fighting against Maxen." She shook her head. "It was a harsh time for us. Dona forgive me."<br /><br />"What happened?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />"We were in Gwynedd, while King Cwerith was massing his army for the march. He has been preparing for this for a long, long time; did you realize that?" She shook her head. "In any event, we were attacked by a cadre of Cwerith's men, led by Maxen. It seems that in Gwynedd they are not overfond of Finders."<br /><br />"Or Bards," Estren said.<br /><br />"It is worse for Finders," Gareth said. "Our search for Seren Goleuad is seen as the worst of foolishness there, and we are hated for our refusal to settle and follow any one Lord. We were ripe for the picking, and nearly half of us lay dead before we were able to flee into the mountains. One of the dead was Willam, my husband. We could only leave his body there in the middle of the field that we fled across. I wanted to use the fire-globes against Maxen then, but Willam was our leader and he chose otherwise. He did not want to use them merely as a weapon, to strike back against a weak-minded enemy. I suppose his bones are still there."<br /><br />"So when you learned that Maxen had made camp so near to you, you took on the role of marauding bandits and attacked him?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />Gareth shrugged. "My wisdom has been short in recent months. I am not certain that I was meant to lead our people. I am not certain that it was Dona's will being fulfilled when Willam fell...or whether it was another's."<br /><br />An uneasy silence fell over the companions. Finally Sir Baigent said, "Perhaps we should be to sleep now. Tomorrow's journey will be the most important yet."<br /><br />And that served as the last word; conversation died as the members of this small company relaxed on the ground. Gwyn wrapped herself in her blanket and rolled about, trying to become comfortable on this hard, cold earth -- something which eluded all of the companions. None could fall asleep. As the firelight waned until all that could be seen was the glowing embers, each of them was still awake.<br /><br />"Perhaps a tale might soothe our spirits," Estren finally said. "My tales are not usually offered as a soporific, but to every tale a purpose in the telling." He thought for a moment, selecting his tale, and then he spoke.<br /><br /><blockquote><i>"Pwyll was a King, the son of Pryderi,<br />and he had no Queen at his side.<br />He ruled in the West with peace and calm,<br />So much peace that his heart and hands<br />were oft turned to the thrill of the Hunt.<br /><br />He lived with abandon, this Western King,<br />but Fate waited like a sleeping beast<br />and struck on the night of King Pwyll's<br />great summer feast.<br /><br />All his nobles came, one thousand and one,<br />a hundred stags and a hundred boars<br />they consumed, and five hundred casks of ale.<br />Games there were, and King Pwyll won them all,<br />save a single wager on the dice.<br />"Name a deed for me," said Pwyll,<br />"for I have lost, and now must atone."<br /><br />"Go, King," said the victor, "stand upon yonder mound<br />and see if the dead might come from the ground."<br />"Done!" said Pwyll, and he climbed the high hill<br />of which it was said that a man who there stood,<br />above the sleeping dead, would soon join them,<br />or else see a wonder.<br /><br />A wonder then, Pwyll hoped, and a wonder he saw:<br />a horse bearing a maiden came.<br /><br />"My name is Rhiannon," she said with a voice<br />that filled Pwyll with love.<br /><br />"I am your wife, and you my husband," said<br />she. "Now let us quit this hill of the dead."<br /><br />His heart and loins afire, his loneliness past,<br />Pwyll took Rhiannon home, a Queen for him at last.<br />He staged a new feast, to present his Queen,<br />and the bell tolled for Rhiannon of the Birds<br />whose beauty lies beyond telling<br />even to the Bards with all their words.<br /><br />Came then to court a man who laid claim<br />to beg favor of Pwyll, who put down his game.<br />"Are you friend?" asked the King.<br /><br />"If so you shall stay. If not, you shall go<br />or feel the point of my sword."<br /><br />"Friend am I, King," said the man,<br />"and I swear by the Moon<br />that I only come to ask of thee a boon."<br /><br />"A boon, then," said Pwyll. "Yours shall it be<br />if it lie within my power."<br /><br />"No, My Lord!" cried fair Rhiannon of the Birds, <br />but the strange man laughed.<br /><br />"Your wife I would have," said he, "for the boon<br />that you vow!"<br /><br />Pale went the King, and his poor wife swooned.<br />Powerless was King Pwyll, and he could but watch<br />as the stranger took away his beloved, his<br />Rhiannon of the Birds.<br /><br />The stranger took her to his keep<br />and thus she was made<br />to live there in sadness, an unkind fate<br />for one so lovely as she.<br /><br />But a man came to that dark keep,<br />a year and a day hence:<br />an old man in rags, with no blade held in defense.<br />The Lord of the Keep turned him away,<br />but the old man said, "Will you wager today?"<br /><br />The offer of wager interested the Lord,<br />who despite his fair Queen was rather bored.<br /><br />"What wager, old man?" said he, and the old<br />man held up a bag of leather, no gold<br />inside, only sand. The bag was as big as his<br />hand, and yet this as his wager:<br /><br />"My Lord, step into this bag. If it closes<br />over your head, your woman I shall take.<br />If not, then never shall I trouble you again."<br /><br />The Lord laughed long, certain that he had never heard<br />so foolish a task named as this.<br />Still laughing the Lord took then the bag<br />and placed it over his head.<br /><br />But when he pulled down it opened wide,<br />and just like that he was trapped then inside.<br />The old man tossed aside his clothes;<br />King Pwyll was he, disguised in rags<br />and with his hunting boot he kicked the bag.<br /><br />"My Queen she is, and yours not ever,<br />My love, Rhiannon, now and forever."<br /><br />And the King took his Queen back to his realm,<br />and peace was theirs in the Kingdom. Never<br />again did Pwyll take a wager from one unknown,<br />nor did he ever again walk upon that mound.<br /><br />And the man in the bag? He is in there still.<br />Some say his screams still can be heard,<br />And it may be so, though of his fate after that<br />There was never a word.</i></blockquote><p><br />After Estren's voice died away, the members of the company finally slipped into sleep. Gwyn's last thought was to reflect on what a strange story that had been.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>"Awaken and rise, Gwynwhyfar!"<br /><br />The voice called out to her, from some distant place beyond the mist and the earth.<br /><br />"Awaken, Welcomer! Come to me!"<br /><br />Gwyn rose from the place where she rested, her companions still slumbering beside her. The voice echoed in the cold night air, but only Gwyn had heard it. It was a woman's voice, and it was at once the voice of youth and of age. Filled with song, the song of things both new and of things long past into the farthest memories of time, it was a voice Gwyn had never heard before and a voice she knew as well as her own.<br /><br />"Arise and come, Gwynwhyfar!"<br /><br />The voice was calling from the dark path that wound into the heart of the wood. Rising, Gwyn found that she now wore a gown of white samite that glowed with the light of the full moon that shone down on the grove from directly above. Had the moon been full when Gwyn had gone to sleep? She could not recall… And the grass itself on which Gwyn stood -- it was green! The Earth was alive! The tress were in leaf, and the moon shared a cloudless sky with a sea of glittering stars. This was not her waking world, but a Prydein unspoiled by the unending winter, where the land still breathed and gave rise to all things living.<br /><br />She followed the path into the wood, tracing a spiraling track toward the bottom of a deep valley, and soon it opened up beside a narrow pool that was fed by a stream of black water. Gwyn knelt and peered into the pool. A great salmon emerged from the deep, blinked at her, and then turned and swam back down into the depths. Had she seen that salmon before?<br /><br />"You have come," the feminine voice said. Now it was very close by. "I have wished for so long to behold you. Everything in my being has led me to this day."<br /><br />As Gwyn gazed into the pool, a light appeared in the depths: a silvery shimmering that was at first like a candle seen through an old window whose glass has warped with age, and then became brighter and closer until it took on form. The light spread across the surface of the water until the pool looked as if it were a part of the moon itself. Then a figure rose from the water and came to stand upon its surface.<br /><br />It was a woman, tall and beautiful. She was clad in a flowing gown of white samite, much like the one Gwyn now wore, that fell from her shoulders to the water, but it did not look wet. Her long, silver hair fell to her waist and also appeared dry; a pendant of shining diamond, cut in the shape of the crescent moon, hung from a silver chain about her neck. And most strange was the pale light which surrounded her, ss if no matter where she stood she bathed in the light of the full moon. In her eyes lay the weight of years, many years, years beyond count. There was sadness there, the quiet gaze of one who had seen more than any other. And yet she was neither crone nor maiden. She seemed to exist outside of Time.<br /><br />The woman lifted a hand, beckoning. "Walk with me, Gwynwhyfar," she said, "Your journey truly begins this night."<br /><br />"I am dreaming," Gwyn said.<br /><br />The woman stepped forward, moving closer to Gwyn. A sad smile was on her lips. "And know you not the true nature of your dreams, my child? You are a daughter of the Fair Folk. Through your dreams, you see our realm -- which is partly yours." She drew near to Gwyn. She smelled of roses and spring rain. "Do not set your dreams aside so lightly, for in the end it will be your vision that makes possible the Finest Deed."<br /><br />Gwyn nodded. "I know you, Lady," she whispered, "though I don't know how."<br /><br />"Most simply call me Lady of the Lake, for though my name has ever been known to few, now it is known to none -- save you, Gwynwhyfar. My name, like his, resides in your deepest soul."<br /><br />And, searching her memories for a name she had never spoken, Gwyn found that it was true. "Nimue," she breathed.<br /><br />The Lady of the Lake nodded. "My name is Nimue," she said. "This night you shall walk with me, down an ancient path to a place visited by no Mortal since the Emrys. It is time for you to learn what has gone before, that such knowledge may illuminate the road that is to come before you." She lifted her arm and offered Gwyn a slender hand, and when Gwyn accepted that hand, the sensation that flowed through her was unlike any she had before felt in her life. It was the power of the world, the power that fed the Wyrm of the World; it was the life of the lake, and the magic of all the waters in all the world. The Lady of the Lake was a Lady of power, timeless power that existed formless before the Beginning of the World; that power moved through Gwyn, and she felt something change within her soul. Old uncertainties slid away into the recesses of time, and where once had been doubt there was now vision.<br /><br />This was who she was! At last she knew her deepest self: I am Gwynwyfar of the Fair Folk! "Truths can come in dreams; forsake their lessons at your own peril." Those words, spoken by Father Damogan in the distant days when she had first come to Tintagel, were now clear to her for the first time.<br /><br />The Lady of the Lake led Gwynwhyfar downt he path beside the stream. The moon's pale light fell upon the grassy track, and there were lights twinkling along the path. Perhaps they were fireflies, or the tiniest of the faeries. The path sloped downward, curving around one ancient oak, and then another, and then still another. Moss covered the trunks of these venerable trees, which the Druids named the Kings of the Wood. The air was filled with the scent of earth and flowers and water. As they walked, Gwynwhyfar found herself glancing more than once at the Lady of the Lake; such age in a face so young, such sadness in a face so beautiful. On they walked, hand in hand, toward the hidden glen at the center of the wood.<br /><br />Here the stream splashed over a short waterfall and into a crystalline pool that fed another stream which rushed away from them over a bed of mossy stones. The pool was ringed by flickering candles set in wooden holders, and the water shimmered with silver moonlight and golden candlelight. Gwynwhyfar caught her breath. Never had she seen more beautiful a place, neither within her dreams nor without.<br /><br />"Now come the people of your lineage," Nimue said.<br /><br />A line of people then entered the glen, who looked much as Nimue looked: garbed in simple robes of samite, and their skin also seemed to glow with the glimmer of the moon. They chanted a long melody as they filed into the glen, with words Gwyn had never before heard in a language older than any language ever known.<br /><br />"They are so beautiful," Gwynwhyfar said. "Father Damogan said that I would not see them. He said that they do not reveal themselves, even to those who share their blood."<br /><br />"I know of Damogan," answered the Lady. "He is wise, but even his knowledge is limited by his mortal perception of the world." <br /><br />The Fair Folk fell silent as they formed a circle around the pool. Then, one of them began to sing in a strong and clear voice that was deeper and more textured even than Estren's. This, Gwynwhyfar realized, was the ideal to which the Bards aspired.<br /><br />This man looked of impossible age, older by far than the Lady of the Lake. His white hair hung past his shoulders, and his snowy beard fell to his waist. His words were of equal age, and Gwynwhyfar did not understand them. But she knew that it was the song of things long past, of things forgotten by all the world, even by the Bards. It was the song of the wood and of the sea; it was the song of the air and of the earth. His words were the words that had been spoken only when the world was young, and in those words could be felt the magic of the world. It stirred Gwynwhyfar's soul. <br /><br />As he sang, the Fair Folk who stood in the circle stepped forward, one by one, until they were all standing on the surface of the pool. Finally, the ancient one completed his song, and likewise stepped forward onto the surface of the pool. Then, at last, he turned to face Gwynwhyfar and the Lady of the Lake.<br /><br />"Long has it been since your feet walked the path to our geln, Nimue," he said. "We have not been graced by your presence since you yielded the Blade and the Scabbard to that young King in this place."<br /><br />"And it is that King whose return I now herald, Amairgen Lord of the Fair," she replied. "The end of our days in Prydein is at hand."<br /><br />The Lord of the Fair Folk, whose name was Amairgen, turned his gaze from the Lady of the Lake to focus on Gwynwhyfar. His gaze frightened her, for in his eyes she felt as though she could see into the eldest depths of time. He came across the pool and stepped onto the ground before Gwyn, and then he lifted an ancient hand to touch her auburn hair. After a minute, during which he looked as though he was trying to recall some distant memory, he lowered his hand and stepped back to face the Lady of the Lake.<br /><br />"You choose your own path, as always, Nimue," he said to her, a tone of reproach entering his voice. "Not since the world was young have we endured the presence of a Mortal at our gathering."<br /><br />"The times in which we live dictate a setting aside of old ways, Amairgen." Her voice was calm, but sad. "The legacy of the Sons of Dona will live in Gwynwhyfar even after we are gone."<br /><br />"Aye, that it may," replied Amairgen. "But I am still uneasy. You have ever walked a different path than I and the others, and through your mortal union you have introduced randomness into that which I would see remain inviolate. And now, dark days lie ahead for us. Have you not heard the call? The call that summons us back to the sea, and the Golden Ships that hold anchor, waiting to take us home? Have you not heard the hounds of Culdarra, riding at the Hunt once again?"<br /><br />"I have heard the call, Amairgen. I know that the ships will soon lift their anchors and sail once more, and I know that Culdarra has been freed to hunt again. But my fate is tied to this land, and I will not quit this place."<br /><br />"To remain would mark your passing!" His voice filled with force, although he spoke no louder now than before. "The boundaries between the worlds are falling. The Gates of the Dead are being forced open, and the Dark Brother will be able to touch the Earth for the first time in uncounted ages. These events will mark the end of Dona's power over men, for their destiny must be carved by their own hands. You cannot remain a part of their affairs, Nimue. It is not written in the stars to be so."<br /><br />"You speak truth, Amairgen. I have long known that my passing was swiftly drawing near, and that a place at Arawn's table is already being made for me. But I have a part yet to play, and I will not abandon those who have awaited my work. This is my path, and I will follow it, no matter where it may lead."<br /><br />Amairgen turned to Gwynwhyfar, a comforting look in his eye. "You do not understand these matters, do you?"<br /><br />Gwynwhyfar shook her head. "I know that my mother was one of you."<br /><br />Amairgen glanced at Nimue. "Those were happier days," he said.<br /><br />"One person's days of happiness are another's days of sorrow," Nimue replied.<br /><br />Amairgen nodded. "But not so now, I think. I shall tell you, Gwynwhyfar, something of your ancestors. I cannot tell it all, for I have neither the time nor the skill of tongue to do so. Taliesin, Father of Poets could tell it, but he is lost to us.<br /><br />"There was a time when this island was ruled not by your people, nor even by the Ancients. This was a brutal place, where only the tiniest scraps of society could survive, by standing defiant in the face of the fury that came from the Western Sea. In those days there was a great Empire that ruled on the Continent, but even they could not tame the place called Prydein. Their day passed, and the time of Arthur came. But we were here before all of that.<br /><br />"Across the Western Sea rose a fair land, more fair than any in the world today. There we lived out our days, in splendor not known since. We served Dona, and we sang her praises, from our Isle of Apples. But it is a tale that has been shared by every people to walk the earth: a tale of jealousy amongst those whom we seek to serve. Dona's dark brother envied her for the Fair Folk who did her bidding on the world below.<br /><br />"Great was his jealousy, and he sought to bend the savages of the earth to his bidding. This he did under a thousand different names, names now which are all but forgotten. But Dona's people, the Chosen ones, the Fair Folk, lived in peace on the Isle of Apples, doing her bidding and receiving her grace. No success that the Dark Brother had on the earth could calm the hatred in his heart for the Fair Folk, and he hungered for our destruction; but we lived under the unsleeping protection of the Wyrm of the World. As long as the Wyrm remained awake, Dona's Dark Brother could do nothing. For a thousand years and more he waited and watched.<br /><br />"Then the day he had long hoped for dawned at last. The Great Wyrm, parent of Dona, the Dark Brother, and all the other Gods, went to sleep. The Wyrm's unsleeping eye had long stayed the Dark Brother's hand, but now its eye was closed. Seeing his chance, the Dark Brother made promises to other powers long forgotten, and he gained, for one day only, dominion over the Sea itself. On this day, he unleashed its full power. The great waves rose from the depths, driven by his hate, and in their path lay the Isle of Apples.<br /><br />"Dona watched in horror as the Sea rushed forward to claim her Chosen ones, the Fair Folk. She tried desperately to stay her brother's hand, but she had been caught unawares and could do nothing to assuage his rage or even turn aside the storm that now raged toward the Isle of Apples with all of the rage once contained in her Dark Brother's heart. The only way to save the Fair was to awaken the Great Wyrm itself, but so deep had its slumber become that not even her greatest screams could stir it. And still the waves came.<br /><br />"Dona's hope was lost. She knew that the Isle of Apples would be destroyed, taken to the bottom of the Sea. But still one power remained to her, a power even her brother could not usurp: the power to warn her people. This she did, and in the mere hours before the waters came, the Fair climbed aboard the Golden Ships and set sail, for there was one Sea Power who still loved Dona. And so, with their sails filled with the breath of the Western Wind, the Golden Ships left the Isle of Apples even as the waves arrived, carrying that fairest place -- our home -- at last into the deep.<br /><br />"With all her might Dona and the Western Wind protected the Golden Ships, but the Dark Brother was mighty, and one by one he destroyed them, either taking them beneath the waters or breaking them upon great rocks. It was then that the Western Wind summoned up its greatest power. It created a new storm, a tempest which completely engulfed the three remaining ships. So violent was this storm that the Dark Brother believed it to be one of his own, and thus he turned away, believing his deed complete. But the Western Wind created a spot of calm in the center of the tempest, and in this way he carried the last three Golden Ships to safety. In the dark of night, while Dona's Dark Brother celebrated his victory, those three Ships came to rest on the shores of that place now named Lyonesse. Thus did we, the last survivors of that doomed realm, come to Prydein. Our tale is known to none, but snatches of it have become part of Mortal lore, and to this day they search for the lost land under the Sea."<br /><br />Gwynwhyfar drew a long breath. She remembered another dream, from the night that Brother Llyad had returned to Tintagel -- a dream in which she had been a bird and flown over an island that smelled of apples. There had been a storm…and she had seen three golden shapes somewhere in the haze before her. She had seen it....she looked up at Amairgen. "Now you are leaving?" she asked.<br /><br />Amairgen nodded. "We must. The Dark Brother knows of our survival, and he is now expending his power to destroy us. He seeks to complete that task he began in that time lost to history. His power has grown over the ages, and he has worked to weaken the Boundaries between the worlds, so he can wreak his power over the Earth once again, which was forbidden him long ago."<br /><br />"The winter that never ends!" Gwynwhyfar exclaimed in dark realization, even though she had already suspected it.<br /><br />"His doing," the Lady of the Lake answered. "And as the boundaries fall, one by one, he will be able to wreak things on Earth far worse than an unending winter. He may even be able to set foot on the world himself." Gwynwhyfar shuddered to think what form he might take. The Lady of the Lake continued. "Dona and the Dark Brother, and all the ancient Powers, were forgotten by the Mortals. They turned to other gods, other powers for their worship. But Dona waited and watched, while her Brother still worked to force the world to his bidding. He tainted the hearts of the Ancients, and drove them toward feats of darkness and war; he gave to them the ability to destroy all, and he marshaled his powers to drive them toward one final conflagration that would leave them all dead except for the few that he would pick off at his leisure. He might have succeeded, but for a chance happening: for the briefest of moments, the Great Wyrm awoke."<br /><br />Now Amairgen spoke again. "The Wyrm is at the center of the World, and the growing influence of the Ancients colored his dreams. Finally, so dark did his dreams become, that he emerged from his slumber and he looked upon what they had built. The Ancients had stained the world, marring it as they worked it and forced it to their image; and worst of all, they had forgotten the Wyrm. Wrathful in the end, he brought about the Cataclysm, a great fire that consumed the world and all that the Ancients had built. When he was done, only a few remained to begin again. Satisfied that their follies were done, the Great Wyrm went back to sleep.<br /><br />"Thus the struggle between Dona and the Dark Brother began anew. He knows that her greatest strength lies on a tiny, rock-bound Isle, long thought unimportant by those Mortals who shape the destinies of the Kingdoms that exist now. But the Dark Brother knows not of Dona's last hope: the Promised King, whom he thought slain by his own minion. The Goddess has kept Arthur these many years, for the last battle, and now he shall come again and his deeds shall shine. The Dark Brother knows this not, and it is Dona's great hope that Arthur shall at last complete the task for which he was intended. When that happens, the Dark Brother's power will be broken and the worlds will once again be bound."<br /><br />"What task?" asked Gwyn.<br /><br />"The Finest Deed," said the Lady of the Lake. "If Arthur succeeds, the day of the Fair on Prydein will be done. For with her Brother's power gone, Dona will be able to raise the Isle of Apples from beneath the waves, and to that place the Fair will return." A note of sadness entered her voice then, and a sudden realization came over Gwynwhyfar.<br /><br />"You came from that place, didn't you?" she asked. The Lady of the Lake nodded. "You were on the Golden Ships."<br /><br />"Amairgen, too, came from there. He and I are the last, although he has kept his heart pure while I have allowed myself to become part of this land." A single tear rolled down her cheek, a tear which glistened as the morning dew. "I cannot return to the Isle of Apples, even when the Golden Ships again unfurl their sails. The destiny of Prydein shall be in the hands of the Mortals, and my day shall end."<br /><br />Gwynwhyfar's eyes filled with tears. "Then when this is all done, you will die."<br /><br />The Lady of the Lake nodded. "I will join those with whom I sailed, in slumber at the bosom of our Mother. But I go to that place gladly, for I tire of the misdeeds of Mortals. I have earned the rest to which I go."<br /><br />"And if Arthur fails?" It did not seem the right thing to say, but Gwynwhyfar could not help it.<br /><br />"If Arthur fails," said Amairgen, "then all is lost. The Dark Brother will eclipse his Sister at long last, and we will pass into memory."<br /><br />"What am I to do?"<br /><br />"You must fulfill your duty as the Welcomer of the Promised King," said the Lady of the Lake. "Go to the Druids. They are our mortal servants, and they will know what to do. Now, return to slumber, Gwynwhyfar. Return to sleep, for you will need the rest for the road that awaits you." And she laid her hand on Gwynwhyfar's forehead. The Lady of the Lake's hand was cool and warm at the same time, and Gwynwhyfar heard the singing of the Fair Folk once again, though very distant, as she slipped back into dreamless sleep.</I><br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwyn felt her arm being shaken, and she groaned in a voice filled with sleep. "Oh, Malcolm, let Father Damogan fetch his own mushrooms for once...."<br /><br />With minor irritation, Sir Baigent shook her arm again. "I am not Brother Malcolm, My Lady. Put away your dreams. We must be underway."<br /><br />The Knight's voice brought Gwyn fully awake, although she had to rub her eyes. The sky was a dark blue, and she guessed that the sun was still an hour from rising. To her surprise, a few stray snowflakes fluttered to the ground. Estren was holding up his light-gem to illuminate the grove, and the others were packing. Gwyn began gathering her things and stuffed them into her saddlebags. There was a small amount of food for breakfast -- a bit of dried meat and a hunk of bread. It was enough for Gwyn; somehow she was not particularly hungry.<br /><br />"How do you feel, Gwyn? A cold morning for riding, I fear." Brother Llyad smiled at her. She returned his smile while she packed.<br /><br />"Until we can end this winter, every morning will be a cold morning for riding," she answered.<br /><br />"Until we can end this winter? You must have greater powers than I."<br /><br />Gwyn only shrugged. In minutes she had finished packing, and now swung up onto the horse's back. Sir Baigent glanced at her and made a face like he had seen something he couldn't place.<br /><br />"Are you all right, My Lady?" he asked. "You seem...different."<br /><br />Gwyn nodded. "I suppose that I am anticipating the end of our journey."<br /><br />"Journeys have a way of not ending when one supposes," Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />The company got underway then, vanishing down the other path, under the eaves of the ancient oaks, leaving behind an empty Druid grove with its standing stone marking the place where the Welcomer had come.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1120998691700405142005-07-10T05:25:00.000-07:002005-07-10T05:38:11.503-07:00Chapter FourteenKing Cwerith sat upright, the stone from Caer Camyrdin forgotten in his hand, as Cassion finished telling him what he had come to say. Dead silence hung in the air, and Lord Varing shifted on his feet. When Cwerith glanced up at Varing, he noted the expression of incredulity on his Steward's face. He turned back to Cassion.<br /><br />"You came all the way into camp -- which you never do -- to tell me foolish children's tales," Cwerith said finally.<br /><br />"You have never found my tidings foolish before," Cassion said. "I have been given this to know by the Brother, the God we serve. My dear King of Gwynedd, if you ignore my tidings now then it is you who are being the fool." He spoke, as he always did, with the calm of a man who knew that he was in control of those to whom he spoke.<br /><br />King Cwerith's brow furrowed, but he made no reply. Instead he dismissed Varing from the tent with a single, curt gesture.<br /><br />"I am uncertain that he will hold his tongue," Cassion said when Varing had gone.<br /><br />"He will hold it," Cwerith replied. "Varing will under no circumstances betray anything that I have told him."<br /><br />"I don't trust him, Cwerith."<br /><br />" 'Your Majesty'," Cwerith corrected, and Cassion nodded with exaggerated humility. "Varing doesn't trust <I>you</I>, Cassion. I do not share his concerns, but I must still honor the fact that his service to me has been unwavering and long -- longer, even, than yours."<br /><br />Cassion spread his hands, conceding the point or more likely choosing not to pursue the matter any farther. "Of course, Your Majesty. I only express my concern on such matters as may affect your rule. Being King is a dangerous business, especially since as King you will be anointed by Powers not of this earth." He said it calmly, reasonably -- and yet with a definite hint of a threat. Cwerith reached for his cup, but did not lift it to his lips.<br /><br />"I have not forgotten," he said.<br /><br />"I hope not," Cassion replied. "Otherwise, I would fear that like all the other craven fools throughout this land, you have turned back to the Goddess for the help that is beyond her power to give." He laughed then, a laugh which had chilled Cwerith when he had first heard it and still chilled him to this day. "I must admit, the expression on that Baron Gaddamar's face when he came to his first Benediction of the Brother...well, perhaps I should not draw amusement from the weaknesses of your new allies."<br /><br />Cwerith frowned, remembering the moment. Baron Gaddamar had obviously thought it would be such a simple matter, to pledge his fealty to a new King in hopes of keeping that tiny bit of Prydein that was his. But while loyalties to Lords and Kings are easily set aside, loyalties to the Goddess are not. It had never occurred to Gaddamar, not once, that such a thing would be asked of him. How could it? Dona's Brother had not been celebrated in Prydein in centuries, since High King Prystyl had cast out the last of the Brother's worshippers. So it had been that when Cwerith had brought him that night to look on as Cassion spilled new blood in the Brother's name, he had paled and then fainted. It had been utterly disgraceful -- and yet Cwerith needed this man, and more like him.<br /><br />He sighed. "So they think to do this thing? Partake in some Druid ritual and bring back a King?"<br /><br />Cassion nodded. "They have been misled, of course -- by their own faith and by the Book of Ryannon. Would that all the copies had been burned, or her heart removed and her body cast out to sea before she could have written such nonsense."<br /><br />Cwerith rose from his chair and began to pace. "Let them read their books and sing to the Moon," he said. "Let them fill their hearts with the thought that Blessed Dona still has any power to affect the affairs of the world. Let them believe that she can still keep the Gates of Annwn closed and the dead beneath the ground. Let them believe all that, and hang them for it." He turned to face the Priest. "Well, Cassion, should we not allow them to do this? This mission of theirs is folly, the last desperate grasp by people who cannot yet see that they have been forsaken by the Goddess. <I>Let</I> them, then! <I>Let</I> them play with the Druids and do what they will at the Giants' Dance. It cannot be of any concern to me. <I>I</I> am the High King."<br /><br />"You <I>are</I> the High King," Cassion agreed. "And there is nothing that they can find at the Giants' Dance that will change that or make it any less true."<br /><br />Cwerith nodded, satisfied.<br /><br />"But, Your Majesty, consider this: while they will not find a King, they may find <I>something</I>. And in a land where there are so many men like that Baron Gaddamar, what they find may nevertheless be dangerous to you -- because men will believe in it, in <I>him</I>."<br /><br />"Who?"<br /><br />"The man they find there, waiting for them."<br /><br />Cwerith stared at the Priest. "You believe they will actually <I>find</I> someone."<br /><br />Cassion nodded. "I only said that they will not find a King. But there will be someone there, waiting. Someone sent by the Goddess, to do her bidding. Perhaps even a great warrior, given back to her by the Lord of the Dead in recompense for…well, who can know what debts the Powers must pay."<br /><br />"You believe they will find someone." Cwerith sat back down, amazed at what he had just heard. "Did the God tell you this, as well?"<br /><br />"I am his servant, and through me his bidding is done on Earth. As it is through you, Your Majesty." Cassion leaned forward. "In time, this man they find will be seen as the Promised King. The legend is powerful, and it will command the imaginations of men throughout Prydein. Even an impostor, a pretender, can be dangerous. He <I>will</I> pose a challenge and a threat to you, merely because he exists."<br /><br />Cwerith gnashed his teeth. "You told me that I was the Promised King," he said.<br /><br />"And so you are," Cassion said, rubbing his fat hands together. "It is you who will come to Prydein in her hour of need. You will show them a new way, My Liege. You will unite all of Prydein, and bring the land together under a new banner and a new Power." He paused for a moment. "But there will be an impostor, a pretender to your throne, who will make the same claims. He will whisper sweet things in the ear of the people; he will tell them that the Goddess is still with them, that the land will be whole only when <I>he</I> sits on the throne. And they will be desperate enough to believe him, because the road you offer is the harder one. It will be easier for the weak to believe in a man sent to them by Druid magic than a man who carves his destiny from the heart of the land itself."<br /><br />"They will find an impostor, and they will rally behind him to deny me what is mine. Always an impostor, a usurper, rising to take the throne that should have belonged to Gwynedd years ago." In a fit of anger, Cwerith slapped his cup from the table, sending the water in it splashing across the tent wall. "I cannot turn aside from the march now to go to the Giants' Dance and deal with whatever threat is coming there. It would take us a day's march, and then another, just to get back to this point -- and we must reach Bedwyn before Duke Cunaddyr is able to return. Time is not on our side this time, Cassion."<br /><br />Cassion smiled. "It need not be, for the task is not ours. The God has foreseen what needs to be done, and selected a Champion for the task. A man has been found whose heart has recently been tempered by fire and pain to the purpose of stopping this…Welcomer. He is one of your own captains. I will observe what transpires, in my own way."<br /><br />Cwerith leaned forward. "You will tell me what you learn," he said.<br /><br />"Of course, Your Majesty. I am always in your service." He rose from his seat. "But I will need more from you to do it properly."<br /><br />Cwerith frowned, and his body tensed. "More?"<br /><br />Cassion nodded and reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out two small vials of obsidian glass, which he offered to King Cwerith. "There are prices to be paid for power, Your Majesty, even for Kings. It is no less than what you would ask of the men who fight for you."<br /><br />"There are always prices to be paid," Cwerith said softly as he lifted his sleeve, revealing a series of short, dark scars. Then he opened one of the vials and picked up his knife, which was freshly sharpened -- the better for the drawing of his own blood. As he laid the knife to his arm, he saw the quiver of excitement in Cassion's lip that was always there when he did this.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwyn awoke from a sleep that was dreamless and not at all restful, coming as it did riding on the back of a strange horse while wearing a sack of rough cloth tied over her head. She could see nothing of where they were riding, save that it was morning -- that much light came through the holes and gaps in the cloth, at least. It was still cold, despite her hopes that one morning she would awaken to a restored summer. She could smell the rider who sat behind her, she could smell the horse, and she could smell the apples that the bag over her eyes had certainly once contained. When she awoke she could tell that they were riding downhill, and they rode downhill for quite some time, until they finally stopped near a stream that she could hear rushing nearby.<br /><br />"Are you sure it's safe?" she heard one of the other men say.<br /><br />"We've been riding for three hours with no sign of them coming after us," the man behind Gwyn replied. "We're as safe as we can be, I suppose. If they've followed us this far, it won't matter if we stop."<br /><br />Gwyn took that to mean that they were near to their destination, as useful as that might be.<br /><br />"What do we do with them?" the third man said, to Gwyn's left. She realized they were talking about her and her companions.<br /><br />"The danger is past," Gwyn's rider said. And with that she felt him untying the twine that held the bag closed over her head. "Go ahead, take it off. We've come far enough that you wouldn't be able to retrace our path, and certainly not with you sleeping much of the way."<br /><br />Gwyn scowled as she reached up and pulled the sack from her head. The morning was not particularly bright -- not completely overcast, but not completely clear either -- but it was still blinding all the same. She blinked for a minute or two, and then looked to her companions. Brother Llyad looked well enough, as did Estren, although both looked very tired. Seeing that they were all right, she looked at her surroundings. They were at the bottom of a wooded valley, with a rocky stream before them. Gwyn thought of how long they had ridden, and where they had been the night before, and finally of the maps she had studied for years. This was likely the edge of Walding Wood, the great forest that lay to the south of the Giants' Dance and west of Bedwyn. And somewhere north of them, on the other side of this forest, would be King Cwerith's army. The leafless trees around them swayed in the cold breeze, the branches eerily creeking.<br /><br />"Come and get some water," the man who was Gwyn's rider said. He had removed his mask, and Gwyn studied him. Somehow the voice had not sounded as old as the man who possessed it now looked. His face was lined heavily, and his eyes were dark and deep-set. His hair was white and unevenly cropped. This was a man who had seen, and probably done, a great deal. He beckoned for her to dismount, and she did.<br /><br />"Is there food?" she asked.<br /><br />"Not now, but another short while of riding and we will be home. There will be food there." Once she was down he took the reins of the horse and led the animal to the water. Gwyn joined Brother Llyad and Estren, both of whom had also dismounted and were blinking at the sudden brightness as well.<br /><br />"Are you well, My Lady?" Brother Llyad asked.<br /><br />"I'm fine," Gwyn replied. "I don't think they mean to harm us."<br /><br />"Nor do I," Estren said. "There were a number of times when we were riding downhill that they moved at a slow pace to keep us from falling from the saddles. If we were prisoners, they would have bound us and carried us like sacks of grain."<br /><br />"That <I>is</I> how it is usually done," Gwyn said, with a sidelong glance at Brother Llyad. He blinked, took her meaning, and turned crimson. She would have laughed had she not thought then of the missing member of their company. "I wonder what has become of Sir Baigent," she said.<br /><br />"We are in no position to help him," Estren said. "But he is a strong man. He may well be coming behind us."<br /><br />"Come and drink," Gwyn's rider called out. "We must ride again in a minute."<br /><br />The three walked down to the side of the stream, which ran a bit cloudy and quite cold. Gwyn's muscles ached everywhere from the ride and the lack of rest, and the water tasted strongly of earth and minerals, but still it was quite refreshing. She lifted five or six handfuls of water to her lips, and then she rubbed some of the cold water on her face and through her hair, which was now quite a tangled mess. She would be best off having it cut short entirely, she realized -- and when it was done, she would have shorter hair than Sir Baigent. That thought made her both chuckle and shudder.<br /><br />Minutes later they were riding again, following the stream up the valley until they reached the long, oval-shaped lake that fed it. The water was clear and looked very cold, colder even than the stream. The path they followed was very narrow, and as it came close to the spot where the lake emptied into the stream Gwyn saw a tiny wooden bridge before them, which was barely wide enough for a small wagon. They crossed the bridge, the horses' hooves making a clattering on the wood that somehow reminded Gwyn of the bridge at Tintagel, and then they came through a particularly thick stand of trees and into a wider, open area that had been invisible from the path.<br /><br />Around the perimeter of this area were ten buildings whose walls were made of earth and whose roofs were made of wood and thatch. At the farthest point away from them was a larger building that looked as if it had some kind of ceremonial function. As they rode into the center of this place, people began to emerge from the woods around them or the buildings before them. In minutes the square had filled with nearly a hundred people, all of them simple, rugged types not unlike the fisherfolk of Lyonesse Gwyn had known as a child. The faces around them were all careworn, but most were smiling, and there was even laughter as their men had returned. There were also children, but not as many as Gwyn might have expected in a settlement of this size. She only saw three women suckling babes. The riders dismounted and then the companions followed. As Gwyn looked around, she saw that her rider was now embracing a woman who was clearly his age, probably his wife. The other two men had joined several of their own friends, who were laughing and clapping them on the back.<br /><br />These people had not brought the companions to an armed camp. They had brought them home.<br /><br />"They aren't soldiers," Gwyn said to Estren and Brother Llyad. "And they aren't bandits. They are people. Commoners. Like us."<br /><br />"Why would they do such a thing?" Brother Llyad said. "It's very reckless of them to attack an armed camp like that."<br /><br />"Maybe we'll find out now," Estren said as he pointed to the ceremonial building. "That looks like a leader."<br /><br />Approaching them was the tallest woman Gwyn had ever seen. She was dressed in plain farming clothes: a pale shirt under a blue jerkin, black pants, and dark boots, well-worn. Her black hair fell in thick curls about her shoulders. She carried a walking stick, but Gwyn could see that this was by choice rather than by necessity; the woman's strides were long and sure.<br /><br />"Gareth?" Gwyn said.<br /><br />The woman moved through the gathered group and joined the returned riders, whereupon she hugged each one in turn. "Thank the Son," she said. Her voice was surprisingly soft. "I was not at all certain this last strike was such a good idea. I'm glad to have you back, Jonn."<br /><br />"I'm glad to be back," said Jonn -- the man Gwyn had ridden with. "Although, matters became more complicated." He gestured to the companions, and Gareth turned to face them. She studied each of their faces, long enough for Gwyn to see that her eyes were a vibrant green. Then she shook her head and sighed.<br /><br />"Maxen had prisoners, did he?"<br /><br />"We didn't actually free them," Jonn said. "They freed themselves, and our paths crossed outside Maxen's camp."<br /><br />"Really?" Gareth raised her eyebrows and gave a low whistle of interest. "Then these people may be more interesting than they look."<br /><br />"More interesting than we look?" Estren said.<br /><br />"Two clerics and a harper?" Gareth said. "Not a combination that immediately commands my attention. But knowing that Maxen took an interest in you, and that you avoided such interest? <I>That</I> interests me." She looked them over again, and then she turned back to Jonn. "But where are Matt and Calloch? I sent five of you, not three."<br /><br />A shadow passed over Jonn's features. "I do not know," Jonn said. "They were not at the appointed place, at the appointed time. We could wait for them no longer."<br /><br />Gareth sighed heavily and leaned on her walking stick. "Not good news," she finally said. "Not good news by far. I knew that this attack was ill conceived, and still I sent you anyway. If I've lost two men--"<br /><br />"We accepted that possibility," Jonn said, a bit forcefully. "All of us did, Gareth. The fault is not yours, if they are dead."<br /><br />Gareth looked at him for long moment, her lips pursed. Gwyn wondered what relationship these two shared. Gareth was clearly the leader here, but Jonn was a leader as well -- a subordinate to the woman, but also something of a mentor.<br /><br />"The fault is mine, if the mission was foolishly given to the men who accepted it," Gareth said. "It will not be long until Maxen finds us, and each attack will make it easier. Perhaps it is time to stop, and to move again."<br /><br />A chorus of groans rose from the people around them. Gareth lifted her stick and used it to signal for silence.<br /><br />"No, listen to me! Each time we strike we leave a trail, even as good as we are at concealing it. And now he will want to come after us even more, since we have taken three people he apparently found valuable, and he may have the means to find us if the two men we have possibly lost are not dead."<br /><br />A grim silence settled over the crowd. Gareth rubbed her forehead in a sorrowful gesture. A crow cried, somewhere in the woods.<br /><br />Gwyn decided to break the silence. "Maxen may not be coming quite as soon as you fear," she said. Everyone turned to look at her.<br /><br />"You don't need to talk right now," Brother Llyad muttered.<br /><br />"Oh, but she does," Gareth said, having heard the monk's remark. She took two steps toward Gwyn. "What do you mean, girl? Why would Maxen's hand be delayed in striking us?"<br /><br />"Because his hand is somewhere in the mud on that hill," Gwyn said. "One of them, anyway. And you are not the only one missing someone. Our party numbered four before last night."<br /><br />Gareth studied the faces of the three companions again, lingering particularly on Gwyn's. "Who are you?" she asked.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwyn sipped again from the cup of herb tea that Gareth had made for her as she completed telling her part of the tale and listened to Estren fill in the remaining parts but leaving out the reason for their journey. Jonn also spoke, filling in the parts and telling Gareth about how the attack had gone. Gareth sat on the floor, her legs crossed beneath her, the walking stick laid across her lap and a cup of the strong and fragrant tea cupped in both hands. She displayed little reaction to their description of the events, instead taking it all in calmly and quietly.<br /><br />After Gwyn's interruption of the reunion, Gareth had brought them to this, her own abode. It was a small, low house tucked behind the ceremonial building, and likewise made of mud and thatch. The smoke from the fire, in the middle of the floor, rose through a hole in the roof. The room was sparsely furnished. There were several straw-filled pallets for sitting and sleeping, a stack of neatly-folded clothing, a set of cookpots and jars containing herbs, a sheathed dagger and a small throwing axe. This abode had been built quickly and recently; these people had moved here from somewhere else.<br /><br />Gwyn drained her cup of tea. It tasted the way wildflowers smelled, and Gareth had also added a few pinches of herbs and a few chunks of dried apple into each cup. The effect of the tea was marvelously soothing, and Gwyn felt the aches in her muscles and in the wolf-scratch on her arm melting away as she sipped the hot drink. <br /><br />"Ale and mead have their place," Gareth said, "but never so much as a pot of that tea. The growing of those leaves has been forgotten everywhere in Prydein, except for here. My people remember, as we remember a great many things. And I expect you are also hungry, so...."<br /><br />She rose and left the hut, returning a minute or two later with the food that Jonn had promised earlier: two kinds of bread, one dark and one light; two kinds of cheese, both hard and tangy; and more of the dried apples. It was a simple meal, but still each of the companions ate their fill. It occurred to her that she may be supping with an enemy for the second time in as many days, but she didn't think so although she could not explain why. Finally she sat back and relaxed, her tea cup having been refilled by Gareth. Then the tall woman resumed her listening position on the floor, opposite the companions.<br /><br />"So you were traveling on the road, and you happened upon Maxen and his search parties," Gareth said, summarizing what she had heard thus far. "Who were looking for us. And this swordsman you traveled with may have done Maxen more harm personally than we have been able to do in all our attacks on his camps, and he may have paid for the trouble with his life -- as well as that of Matt and Calloch, my missing men." She looked at Jonn. "The pattern that the Son weaves is ever a complex one," she said softly.<br /><br />"It is always that," Jonn replied. Gwyn glanced at Brother Llyad, wondering again at this "Son" business, but also sensing that this was not a good time to ask.<br /><br />Gareth laid another small log on the fire. "There is something I am wondering," she said. "Why were you traveling on that road to begin with? These are not safe times for travel."<br /><br />Gwyn had expected this. "We were making for Bedwyn," she said. "The Brother and I are on pilgrimage."<br /><br />Gareth shook her head. "Forgive me for this," she said, "but it is not looked upon kindly to repay hospitality with lies."<br /><br />Gwyn felt her cheeks go red. Beside her, Brother Llyad sighed. Only Estren remained calm, sipping his tea.<br /><br />"I don't blame you for being wary," Gareth said. "After all, you have fallen out of the hands of one villain into the hands of someone who may yet be a villain, for all that you are aware. Were I sitting where you are now, I would feel the same -- particularly in times as dark as these. So, I ask again: why are you traveling?"<br /><br />There was really no reason at all to trust this woman, for they knew no more about her and her people than they had about Maxen and his men. Wariness had been the rule then, and surely it should be so now -- except that Gwyn <I>felt</I> differently about Gareth. She couldn't explain it, and had Sir Baigent been with them he would have certainly challenged her right to know anything about them at all. But he was not here, and thus the decision could not be deferred safely for the knight to make. Even in the short time of this journey, Gwyn had become used to relying on Sir Baigent's judgment. She glanced at Estren and Brother Llyad, both of whom nodded.<br /><br />"We are not going to Bedwyn," she said. "We are going to the Giants' Dance."<br /><br />Gareth leaned forward. "Why would you do this?"<br /><br />"Because the Druids are meeting there to greet the Promised King, and I am his Welcomer."<br /><br />Gwyn expected the burst of incredulity that had been nearly everyone else's reaction upon hearing this but Gareth's eyes merely widened. "I have not heard your name," Gareth said.<br /><br />"Gwynwhyfar," said Gwyn.<br /><br />Now a look of sheer amazement spread across Gareth's face. She looked at Jonn. "Can it be?" she said. "Jonn, do you know what you have found?"<br /><br />"I begin to suspect," Jonn replied.<br /><br />"Fate is so often shaped by those unknown and unseen," Gareth said, obviously quoting something although Gwyn did not recognize the reference. She gazed at Gwyn for a long moment, and then she pushed herself to her feet, using the walking stick for leverage. "You should come with me," she said. "I have something that will interest you." With that she headed briskly for the door, and the companions had to scramble to keep up with her.<br /><br />Gareth took her into the larger, ceremonial building. It was dark at first, but Gareth lit a torch and then used it to light a ceremonial fire in the center of the building. Gwyn looked around. This was obviously a sanctuary of some kind, although very different from what Gwyn knew on Tintagel and other places. For one thing, there was no altar or standing stone etched with the symbols of the Moon and the Goddess. Also, the room inside the building was not circularly arranged. The focal point of the room was not the fire, which merely existed for lighting; it was instead the wall opposite the entrance, where a very old tapestry hung suspended from three iron hooks set in the ceiling. Gwyn heard Brother Llyad exhale a long breath, and she walked toward the tapestry. It was woven in intricate fashion, and it showed the Moon and the Sun in the same sky, although the sky was dark, and the earth below. Also in the sky was a blazing star, or what Gwyn took to be a star, but this one was different: a very long tail of light extended backward from it, and the star appeared to be falling toward the earth.<br /><br />"What is this?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"I didn't know that anyone still believed that legend," Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />"It is no legend," Gareth said. "He will be found."<br /><br />Gwyn gaped as she finally realized who these people were and what the references to "the Son" had meant. Brother Malcolm had once told her a story, a very ancient one whose origins no one knew, that the Moon had once taken the Sun for her mate, and a child had been conceived of that union -- a child of mixed parentage, who carried the blood of the stars and of the earth. His parents loved him and doted on him, and named him Seren Goleuad, <I>the Luminary Star</I>, and thought to keep him with them in the sky forever.<br /><br />But the Goddess's dark Brother, long before banished from the sky and chained beyond the Land of the Dead and forbidden to touch the world, despised the child for the love he received; and his hatred grew through the centuries until the dark Brother could stand it no more, and he whispered in the ears of the stars that the child, this Seren Goleuad, had come to usurp their own beauty forever. The stars set upon poor Seren Goleuad, and did him grievous harm. Wanting only to shine in the sky above the world with his loving parents Seren Goleuad ran to his father the Sun, but his father's embrace only set his flesh aflame. No longer able to avoid the wrath of the stars in the sky, Seren Goleuad leaped out of the sky and fell to earth, the flames from his flesh bringing false dawn to all the lands below as he tumbled down, down, at last down into the sea where he was never seen again. The Moon and the Sun were heartbroken at the loss of their only child, and in their heartbreak they knew that the same fate awaited any other children they would ever have. And so the Moon and the Sun parted forever. The Moon salved her pain by taking new interest in the fates of those in the world; but the Sun, in his agony at losing his only son, had turned dead to the world and to everything but the sky itself as he moved through it, creating day after day after day.<br /><br />Seren Goleuad was mourned by the people of the earth, but some believed that he had survived the fall, and that in time he would be found and restored to his proper place in the sky. These people paced the length of Prydein, looking for the one who was both star and earth -- or so they had, centuries before. "The story is still known," Malcolm had said in that lesson long ago, "but none actually believe it."<br /><br />Except that some, apparently, did.<br /><br />"I see you have heard the tale," Gareth said. "There are so very few of us now -- in fact, we are now the only ones. We are the Finders, although we have found little that we have sought and much that we haven't. We travel across this land, listening to the wind and the earth and the waters for signs that he has been somewhere seen, that he has left a trail for us. He will be alone when we find him, terribly alone." She looked so sad just then, for only a moment until she smiled. "We can discuss that another time. What I wish you to see is over here." She walked up to the tapestry of Seren Goleuad's fall and bent down over a wooden chest that Gwyn had not noticed before. Gareth lifted the chest and placed it again on the floor nearer the fire, where the light shone brighter on its dark wood. Then she undid the latches, lifted the lid, and pulled something out. It was a book, or what was left of one. She closed the lid of the chest and laid the book on top of it. "Tell me, Gwynwhyfar, what do you know of the Promised King?"<br /><br />"I know that he is to return to Prydein in the land's greatest hour of need," Gwyn said. "And I know that that time is now, and that the Druids--"<br /><br />"No," Gareth interrupted her. "What do you know <I>of</I> the Promised King? of the man himself?"<br /><br />Gwyn thought the question was odd. What did they need to know of him? Surely it was enough to know that a King was coming who would heal the land, who would defeat the Traitor Kings, restore peace, and create a kingdom of greatness. And yet, considering it, Gwyn realized that Gareth was right: they did not truly know anything about the man who awaited them somewhere beyond the Giants' Dance. "We know nothing save his name," Gwyn finally admitted. "Arthur Pendragon."<br /><br />"Yes," Gareth said. "Arthur Pendragon. And why do you know so little about this man?"<br /><br />"Because nothing about him survived the Cataclysm," Gwyn replied. "All that we have are legends begun by the Druids and kept by the Priests and Priestesses of Dona. All we have is the Book of Ryannon."<br /><br />"Now you have more," Gareth said. And she gestured to the book that lay on the chest.<br /><br />Gwyn, Brother Llyad, and Estren crowded around the book. It was a tattered thing whose pages smelled of must and mold. The pages were bound in cured sheepskin, and when Gareth opened the book they saw that the pages were covered with tiny, regular script -- amazingly regular, every letter perfectly proportioned to the others. Gwyn had never seen a book in so perfect a hand, and she had certainly never seen script that small and yet so perfectly regular. Whatever scribe had done this work, in whatever cloister he had done it, must have had the sureest hand of any scribe, Adept, Monk or Priest who had ever lived. Gwyn gazed at the lettering in astonishment, only realizing after a moment or two that she could not read the language in which the book was written.<br /><br />"I cannot read these words," she said.<br /><br />"I have seen some of it before," Brother Llyad said. "A very small bit of it. Books in this language are more rare than the eggs of dragons."<br /><br />"Indeed," Gareth said. "One never knows where treasures will be found, if one even recognizes the treasure when one finds it. Before last winter began in earnest, we were crossing the Pennyn Mountains, from Northumbria to Serick Wood, when we came upon a cave. My husband -- who was as fine a mushroom-hunter as has ever lived -- went inside. He found that the cave was not really a cave at all, but the ruined cellar of some long-fallen building. There were a number of items there, all shattered and destroyed, but somehow this book had come to rest beneath a large rock that protected it from the elements and the rodents who like to eat such things. He brought the book out, and we studied it occasionally on our travels. One of our Elders was a schooled man, and he was able to decipher part of this language, before he died. There is much in it that we don't understand -- the greater portion of it, actually -- but we were able to read enough to know that this book is about the Promised King. It is about King Arthur."<br /><br />Gwyn and Brother Llyad looked at each other. They were afraid even to breathe. Here, in this unlikeliest of places in a part of Prydein where the path of history had never been shaped by anyone, was a book that was perhaps more important than any of the Oracles or any other work in the library at Tintagel. Here was a direct link to the Promised King and the legend that had brought them this far, and would take them to the Giants' Dance for a meeting with the Druids.<br /><br />"Magnificent," Brother Llyad whispered.<br /><br />"But what has this to do with my name?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"What indeed," Gareth said as she turned a series of ancient pages to a passage near the back of the book. "As I said, we cannot read all of this -- but here we find that King Arthur's peaceful kingdom was undone by the secret, illicit love shared by his most trusted knight, named <I>Lancelot</I>, and his wife the Queen. Her name was <I>Guinevere</I>, which is a form of <I>gwynwhyfar</I>." She pointed to the word on the page.<br /><br />Gwyn paled. "Are...are you saying that...."<br /><br />"Who better to welcome him back to his realm than one bearing the name of she who helped undo his realm in the time before?"<br /><br />"Gwynwhyfar is not an uncommon name," Gwyn said. This idea, that she might be Queen to the Promised King, was an ugly one -- although she could not say why. What place a Welcomer, though, <I>after</I> the King's return?<br /><br />"No, it is not," Gareth said. "But <I>you</I> are not common. You bear her name, and you come from Tintagel, one of the most ancient of places in all Prydein. We have often thought that the key to finding Seren Goleuad would be found at Tintagel, and you may be that key. Events do not join as one so easily. The existence of the Wild Hunt guarantees that. What seems later to be a rich tapestry of history only appears so because we look at the events long after they have faded into memory. But the hands of the Goddess can still be felt on the world, even as her power is weakened and the world itself begins to feel the approach of the time when the last barriers shall fall and the dead ride forth from Annwn. Don't you see, Gwynwhyfar? Can you not realize the awesome part that is yours to play?"<br /><br />Gareth's words were dizzying, and Gwyn said nothing. Everything to this point had been an answer, of sorts, to some question she had never been able to fully ask. But <I>this</I>? Riding alongside Arthur Pendragon, not as his Welcomer but as his Queen? This was no answer she had ever sought, and the very thought filled her with fear and disquiet. She told herself that it would all be well, that Arthur Pendragon would turn out to be a kindly and just man, that being his Queen would be the greatest of honors for a farmgirl from Lyonesse. She told herself these things and more…and yet her disquiet only grew. And she did not know why. There was something else that made it wrong to her, and she couldn't tell what. Outside, the cawing of a crow could be heard. Three times.<br /><br />Jonn became rigid. "Alarm," he said. "Someone comes."<br /><br />"Go," Gareth said. He strode out of the sanctuary, and Gareth led the companions to the door, where she gestured for them to stay back, out of sight. Gwyn craned her neck to see what was going on outside, but she only caught glimpses of Gareth's people moving quickly for cover, some of them ascending rapidly into the trees on ropes that were pulled up behind them.<br /><br />"Maxen?" Estren said.<br /><br />"We won't know for a few moments yet," Gareth said. "But if so, I will take you out the back of this sanctuary and to a nearby cave which they will have a very hard time finding."<br /><br />"And then?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"Some questions should not be answered until they have actually arisen," Gareth said. "If it is Maxen, we will know as much before he is within sight of our camp and he will know our fire again." Her words were confident, but her voice was grim. Gareth was clearly far less confident in their abilities to fight now, in the broad daylight, than she was when her people were striking out of darkness when fire and smoke yielded cover as well as delivering damage.<br /><br />After that initial burst of activity outside, there was silence that lasted for three, four, five excruciating minutes. Gwyn strained to hear the sounds of approaching riders, the clattering of their weapons and the pounding of their mounts' hooves, but all she could hear was her own breath. The crow's call came again, and she started at the sudden breaking of the silence. Gareth tensed, and then she relaxed again when the crow's call sounded twice more in rapid succession. She lifted her walking stick and smiled.<br /><br />"It is no attack," she said. "Come. Unless I miss my guess, this will be the return of my missing men. Praise Dona that they live!"<br /><br />The companions followed her outside, where Gareth's people were already coming out from under piles of leaves and down from the trees. The approaching riders could now be heard, and Gwyn joined in everyone's general relief when she heard that this was certainly no war party. The two riders came around the last bend into the camp, and Gwyn felt her stomach twist as she recognized the third horse trotting behind the first two, led by a rope tied to the saddle of one of other steeds, and her own rider slumped unconscious in the saddle. It was Arradwen, and the unconscious rider was Sir Baigent.<br /><br />The companions rushed forward to join him. "Give them room!" Gareth called, beckoning with her walking stick to keep the people from clustering around the new arrivals. Gwyn feared at first that Sir Baigent was dead, but she quickly saw that it was not so. His cloak and clothing were torn and blood-stained and his face was filthy, but Gwyn noticed relief that the wound in his side had been dressed after a fashion, although it would need further attention if he was to avoid fever. The two riders -- one very tall, with wispy black hair and one almost as tall, fatter, with no hair whatsoever -- dismounted and then came back to help Sir Baigent slide down from his saddle.<br /><br />"Easy," one of them said. "We have reached our home, and you will find rest here."<br /><br />"Where...where is this...." Sir Baigent's voice was little more than a mumble.<br /><br />"Sir Baigent!" Gwyn pushed through the crowd until she stood before her Champion. She placed her hands on his cheeks and looked into his weary, bloodshot eyes. "Praise to Dona, you are still alive...I had feared..."<br /><br />The weakened knight actually managed something of a smile. "What manner...of Champion...could I be...if I were dead?" He looked at each of his companions. "It pleases me to see you, My Lady...and I'm even glad to see Llyad. Was he wounded? He is not...talking...."<br /><br />Gwyn laughed at that, the first laugh she could remember in days. Certainly the first since they had heard of Camyrdin.<br /><br />Gareth moved closer, standing next to Gwyn and looking at Sir Baigent.<br /><br />"This is the companion you lost?" she asked. "The one who took Maxen's hand off?"<br /><br />"He is," Estren said.<br /><br />Gareth nodded. "Then we owe him some thanks…and some attention to his wounds, I see. That dressing needs changed. Matt, Calloch, bring him into my chambers."<br /><br />The tall rider, the one named Matt, laughed. "No joy at our return?"<br /><br />"None at all," Gareth said with a scowl. "And certainly none for lateness."<br /><br />"Well," said Calloch, the fat man. "I'm certainly glad we rode as fast as we could back here. Nothing like a warm welcome."<br /><br />The two men lifted Sir Baigent and carried him toward Gareth's chamber.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Matt and Calloch laid Sir Baigent on one of the straw pallets by Gareth's fire, and Gareth knelt beside him and worked as she questioned her two wayward riders on the details of their journey. It had been pure chance that had kept them from the meeting point. A group of Maxen's men had broken from the main group and chased them into the farthest corner of the camp within the walls of the Scarlet King's fortress, were their only chance for escape was to use two of their fire-globes to bring down a section of wall. By the time they finally reached the meeting point, Jonn and the others were already gone -- with their own new companions -- but before they could follow, the wounded knight from Camyrdin had happened upon them.<br /><br />"A good thing," Gareth said as she used a knife to cut through Sir Baigent's jerkin. "Damned boiled leather," she said. "We'll have to give him a new one once I'm done." She pulled the garment away, exposing his shirt beneath. Once tan, it was now brown and scarlet with dirt and blood. Gareth cut that shirt away as well, exposing Sir Baigent's bare torso. Gwyn had never realized how thickly muscled he was until that moment. His body bore more scars than she had expected, and the wound itself looked even worse than it had when he had been clothed. The knight moaned slightly as Gareth probed at the wound in his left side, examining the dressing that Matt and Calloch had provided. Then she looked up at them and nodded with approval.<br /><br />"You did a passable job," she said. "It's been kept clean and the bleeding has been stopped. This man will owe the two of you his life, for if you hadn't done this he would likely be suffering the onset of fever right now, and tomorrow he would be dead."<br /><br />"I...have survived...worse wounds than this," Sir Baigent said. Gareth shook her head.<br /><br />"Never has there walked a man on this earth who didn't make that same claim," she said. "Yet in the end they all end up in the meadhall of Annwn. Now hold still; I am going to remove this dressing. Then I will clean the wound again, and place some herbs and salve on it." She looked up at Gwyn. "Gwynwhyfar, please hand me that jar there, on the shelf -- the one with the bluestem in it. You know what bluestem is?"<br /><br />"I do," she said. Bluestem was a particular kind of mushroom, which they had cultivated in Tintagel's mushroom caves for use in the Chambers of Healing for Sister Moyra. It was a powerful mushroom indeed, with great healing powers. She handed the jar to Gareth, who had now removed the old dressing from Sir Baigent's wound and now was about to pour some kind of elixir over it. "This will sting," she said, and judging by Sir Baigent's hissing reaction, it did indeed. Gareth worked with a swift and deft hand as she cleaned out the wound and the surrounding skin, treated it, and redressed it. Gwyn gave Sir Baigent a swallow or two of the special liquor that he carried, and then he was asleep. He had not looked so peaceful on this entire journey as he did at that moment.<br /><br />Gareth laid a hand on Gwyn's shoulder. "He will need rest," she said. "You should clean yourself and get refreshment. And we should replace those clothes of yours."<br /><br />Gwyn nodded, realizing just how dirty she was. "As long as you promise to burn these ones," she said. She followed Gareth, leaving the sleeping Sir Baigent behind.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Several hours later, Gwyn had bathed and donned new clothes, grateful to be rid of the filthy things she had been wearing since leaving Tintagel. She passed the remainder of her time at Sir Baigent's side as he slept. Estren was off somewhere, both singing for Gareth's people and listening to their tales of the long search for Seren Goleuad, and Brother Llyad spent his time reading the Book of Arthur, as Gareth called it. Gwyn, though, maintained her vigil beside the knight. At one point Gareth came in to look at the wound and the dressing, and to Gwyn's amazement the wound already looked better than it had before. "We have lore of our own," Gareth said. "Not so much as the Bards, and not remotely so much as the Druids -- but we are not without our abilities." When Gareth left the chamber again, Gwyn found herself becoming drowsy, and she lapsed into sleep as well. Her dreams were hazy, and she could not remember them. They disappeared entirely when she was awakened by Sir Baigent's hand on her arm.<br /><br />"My Lady," he said.<br /><br />She blinked her eyes as she awakened, and then she smiled at the knight. "My Champion," she said.<br /><br />"I'm afraid my strength was not quite adequate in that regard," he said.<br /><br />"It was enough. We are alive."<br /><br />"There is that," Sir Baigent said. He sighed. Gwyn rose to fetch a pot and some herbs. "What are you doing?" he asked.<br /><br />"Gareth said I should make you some tea when you awoke," she replied. "We were given this same tea when we arrived. It will warm you and help you."<br /><br />"That would take some doing," he said as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, wincing as he did so. Gwyn put the pot and herbs down and rushed back to his side to help him.<br /><br />"Are you sure you should be sitting up just yet?" she asked.<br /><br />"I have to rise sometime," he said. "Tomorrow night is Midsummer, is it not?"<br /><br />"It is," she confirmed.<br /><br />"And the time now?"<br /><br />"Mid-day," she said. A quiet moment passed between them as Sir Baigent looked down at the binding on his wound. "Does it hurt much?"<br /><br />"Not as much as I expected," he replied.<br /><br />"I hoped it would be so," she said. "Gareth has good healing skills. She and Sister Moyra would have much to discuss." She stirred the tea, releasing some of its pungent aroma into the air. "Is it true, what you said before? About suffering worse wounds?"<br /><br />"One wound, actually." He twisted around a bit, showing her a very nasty scar on his back. "Two years ago I took a company of six knights and their squires into the mountains northwest of Caer Camyrdin, to find a group of bandits that had been harassing the travelers and trade caravans that passed the mountain roads. The camp was easy to find, and the men there were fools, unequipped to do battle with six fully armed knights. They had been overwhelming their victims by sheer number and nothing else. It was a slaughter, really -- but slaughters are where it's easiest to make a bad mistake. I let the bandit leader to put the fire between me and himself, and then he did what I should have been expecting. He kicked some embers and ashes into my face. I had my visor down, but it was still enough to blind me for a moment. Long enough for him to come around and stick me with his blade, right in the back.<br /><br />"Did you kill him?"<br /><br />He raised his eyebrows. "Of course I killed him! But even so, I had to spent a month in our Chambers of Healing." He fingered the scar. "They did a good job, they kept me from dying. But still, they could learn something from these Finders." He drew a deep breath, held it a moment, and let it out.<br /><br />Gwyn handed him the cup of tea, and he took a long sip. "Your beard is coming in," she said.<br /><br />He chuckled as he rubbed the whiskers on his chin, which were in fact now becoming substantial. "Yes, it is. Somehow, trimming it doesn't seem very important just now. So, have these people told you where we are?"<br /><br />"Gareth tells me that we are only half a day's ride from the Giants' Dance."<br /><br />"Gareth," Sir Baigent echoed, and then he stared for a while at the tea in his cup. "My Lady -- I have said things to you, on this journey, that I have come to regret. Will you accept my taking of your Challenge as amends?"<br /><br />Gwyn looked at Sir Baigent, surprised by the earnest tone in his voice. "No one should make amends for speaking what is truly in their heart," she said. "Doubly so, for one who has lost as much as you. I could not ask you to do one thing more than you have already done."<br /><br />"And yet there is more to do," he said, although he returned her smile as he said it. He drained his tea and laid back down on the pallet. "Before I rise again, I would like to hear what became of you after we were forced apart, and just who our new friends are."<br /><br />As Gwyn waited for the water to boil and the tea to steep, she told him.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1120341414880640722005-07-03T02:52:00.000-07:002005-07-03T04:55:54.563-07:00Chapter ThirteenOn a hilltop stood one of the Nine Bards of Prydein.<br /><br />His name was Drudwas, and he was not a harper. He had never liked the blistering of his fingertips when he tried to play that instrument, nor had he ever mastered the dexterity of hand to make the strings do his bidding. Thus he had taken up the pipes instead, a decision that suited him even if it vexed some of his fellow Bards. There was something about the pipes that, to some, seemed inferior because one could not sing while playing them. How could he possibly devote the necessary attention to his words and turns of phrase, it was always put to him, when he was so busy working out the abilities of the pipes and exploring their possibilities? Ah, but there are more possibilities than in merely accompanying a singer. Could not music by itself be a force, moving an audience merely through the tones themselves, instead of manipulating with words? Could not the words take on even greater effect, woven in a tapestry <I>with</I> the music instead of being merely accompanied <I>by</I> it? Drudwas would have cheerfully spent the rest of his days exploring these matters, had it not been for the spectacle laid out before him from that hilltop.<br /><br />To his left, to the northwest, lay the city of Londia. And to his right, to the east, lay the armies of King Duncan of Caledonia.<br /><br />Drudwas was the newest of the Nine Bards; the next youngest, Estren, was fifteen years his senior. He had never known a time when war raged in Prydein, when a High King was so threatened, and when the land itself seemed to wither as her King withered. <I>May you live during times of light and beauty</I>, the standard curse among the Bards went; no matter how they might wish for peace and well-being throughout the land, they all knew that it was times of darkness that made for the best song and verse.<br /><br />Drudwas rubbed his horse's neck. It wouldn't be long now.<br /><br />He knew that as a Bard his duty was to bear witness, but he was also a man of Prydein. This was <I>his</I> High King whose rule was being challenged. And it was his High King who, he now knew as he beheld the size of King Duncan's army, was going to fall.<br /><br />There would be fires in Londia, and the city would burn to the ground. The people there would flee; the ones who failed would die. It had happened already, at Caer Camyrdin; it had happened already at Corric's Landing in Northumbria. It would happen again and again, until Cwerith and Duncan had brought the land beneath their heels. Anger flared in Drudwas's heart.<br /><br />His horse whinnied. "Steady, girl," he said. "We will go when it is over. The people to the west will need to hear of what happens here this day."<br /><br />Drudwas could not say why it was so important that he go to Bedwyn when this was done. He only knew that it was so. Something in his heart, in his soul, told him that there was something important happening in the hills and plains between Londia and the sea. Perhaps it had to do with the Fair Folk, as he had always dreamed.<br /><br />Drudwas the Piper waited, alone on his hilltop, watching the fall of Londia and marking the details as he saw them. Hours later he mounted his horse and rode down the hill and into the west.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>"Do it, damn you!"</I> Maxen screamed at the healer, his right hand clutching the man's collar. <I>"Do it now!"</I> <br /><br />"We must wait a few minutes for the liquor to take effect," the healer said. "The binding has restricted the bleeding, but the pain--"<br /><br />"Did I ask you about pain, you dog?" Sweat poured from his brow. "I want it done now! No waiting!"<br /><br />"Captain, as your healer--"<br /><br />"<I>Healer?</I> You only bind wounds because you are not fit to wield a sword. Now, do it!"<br /><br />An hour had passed since his wounding. A cord of leather had been tightened around his left forearm, and the stump of his wrist had been thickly wrapped with scraps of cloth. By now the fires that Gareth's attackers had caused were mostly under control, and Maxen wanted to have done with it. He had seen maimed men who, forced to wait too long, had become delirious and died of fever. That would <I>not</I> happen to him. He still had work to do. He would not be reduced to a life of begging outside castle walls for the charity of travelers, commoners and clerics. That was not for him. From this moment his life would go another direction. He had been shown the way by the one who had come to him in the darkness. Fflud stood nearby, watching in silence. He had suggested that Maxen name another as Captain, but Maxen had refused. "I will be stronger than I was," Maxen had said. It had been promised to him.<br /><br />The physician gestured for the four huge louts standing nearby to each take one of Maxen's limbs. They bound his wrists and ankles with thick straps of leather which they wrapped around their own arms, and they knelt upon his legs and his right arm. His left arm was held by Lerkk, the biggest and strongest of all of Maxen's men. It was not unknown for men of strength to break free of even these bonds when undergoing the procedure that the healer was about to perform.<br /><br />"Hold him well," the healer said. He pulled on a thick glove and took the handle of the iron that had been sitting in the hottest coals of his fire. Its end glowed yellow with heat, and smoke sizzled from its tip. Holding the searing iron he approached the table and Maxen's exposed left wrist. The light of the glowing iron reflected off Maxen's sweating skin and the air was filled with the smoky scent of hot metal. One of the louts slid an axe handle into Maxen's mouth. He fastened his teeth around it and bit down as hard as he could.<br /><br />"Don't let go!" the healer barked as he stepped forward.<br /><br />Maxen smelled the aroma of burning flesh and for the second time that night he felt white heat on his left wrist. He bit down even harder and screamed as his soul was purified by the exquisite agony. His eyes rolled back as he lapsed again into unconsciousness, and as his world went black he threw his soul out into the Void, an offering of desire and hate for the one who had come to him in this hour of greatest dark.<br /><br />Somewhere, Fflud thought he heard the baying of wolves.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Somewhere far away, or not so far, to the north and east, a former Priest of Dona who had lately come to the service of another Power painted a rock with blood from a bronze flask. Normally he would use fresh blood, not old; normally he would have his lesser clerics about him, chanting the words he had taught them, as he used his glass knife to let the blood free from some wayward soul who still prayed to the Goddess. Normally he would do all these things and more, but this was not a normal summoning. He had awoken suddenly, in a cold sweat, having seen…he knew not what, in his dreams. He only knew that something had happened on a hilltop not far away, something involving blood and fire. The Power had come to someone unknown to him. <I>A new servant?</I> the Priest wondered as he inscribed the forgotten letters on the rock, the letters that only he could read because only he had found the book that contained them. Then he chanted the words that he had been taught when the Power had first come to him, words that had last been spoken by the very Druids who had been driven by High King Prystyl into the sea. Not the foolish oak-worshippers of Mona, but the <I>other</I> Druids -- the ones of whom the rumors of blood-soaked rituals were true. For in blood was the <I>real</I> power.<br /><br />A warm breeze stirred -- warm, not cold, unlike all the other breezes these days -- and then the Power was there.<br /><br /><I>"Why have you summoned me?"</I> the Power asked.<br /><br />The Dark Priest asked his questions, and the Power answered them. As he heard the words spoken by the Power, fear began to gnaw at the cleric's heart. Things were coming to pass whose telling he had always dismissed as mere legend. It was impossible that a King long dead could return and fulfill the promise that he had failed so long before. Surely the Book of Ryannon had only been a book of lies…but it was not. Dona's Dark Brother told him so, and told him what must be done. Then the Power was gone, leaving the cleric to consider what he had been told.<br /><br />He rose and left the grove almost immediately. It was a longer walk than he liked to make, but the King had to be told. He could not wait for the next ceremony, when Cwerith's warm blood would wet the Seeing Stone.<br /><br />Cassion, the High King's Priest and most trusted counselor, who had shaped so much of what was now transpiring, broke a sweat as he walked despite the cold air. He was not accustomed to this much effort. But this was important. Before the end, this could mean everything.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />For the second time in a single day, Davin ap Danach ascended the walls of Bedwyn.<br /><br />He was not a fearful man. On the battlefield he had never been seen to lose his nerve, or to panic at the sight of a charging enemy. "Fate is either in your hands or in Dona's," he was always telling his men, and he truly believed it. Luck did not exist for him. Misfortune was actually a failure to anticipate every possibility, a view which he applied even to himself, after the mishap in combat forty years before that had left him with a painful limp ever since. It was this very hardness and steely resolve that had led Duke Cunaddyr to name Davin the Steward of Bedwyn. Davin was perhaps the most renowned man in Bedwyn outside of the Duke himself and he conducted himself accordingly. He would do so until the day finally came when he either died or, of his own free choice, handed over the position of Steward to that long-haired whelp Sir Jules. No, Davin was not a fearful man -- but with each passing day his feelings of anxiety grew. They grew because the Duke was away, King Cwerith was coming, and King Duncan of Caledonia was about to attack Londia -- where nothing had been heard from High King Irlaris in months.<br /><br />So it was that Davin climbed up to the top of the walls that defended the city of Bedwyn, for the second time in a single day. In the past he had only done this during the morning, when his legs were at least partially fresher after a night's rest. He grunted at the pain that throbbed in his left leg as he pulled himself up the stairs and steep ladders to the top of the wall. It didn't help that a storm had come last night -- the harshest storm he had seen in years, leaving twenty-seven dead in its wake -- and that the weather was so damned cold. Winters were hard on Davin; his leg ached with the coming of the cold and only felt better when the warmth returned. But it hadn't returned, and despite the fact that tomorrow or the day after was Midsummer Night it was still as cold as in early winter, and thus his leg continued to ache. Davin suspected that the cold would get worse before it got better. He pushed himself up onto the last deck and turned to look over the city behind him and the harbor in the River Test below.<br /><br />Bedwyn was one of the largest cities in the south of Prydein, exceeded only by Saltreach in the Kentish Shore and by Londia herself. Thanks to the deep and steady waters of the Test, Bedwyn was a center of trade. Goods from the farms and homesteads of the North and West, as far north as the western reaches of Caledonia and as far west as Lyonesse and Camyrdin, made their way here on the way to Londia, and ships from Armorica even came up the Test to Bedwyn after stopping at Bornmuth. This influence of Bedwyn, and the resulting power wielded by her Dukes and Duchesses, had given Irlaris the power he needed to defeat the warring factions and unite all of Prydein under his own banner as the first High King since Padraic the Younger had died more than one hundred years before.<br /><br />Davin was not normally concerned with history, but he could not help but think of it now. No sitting High King had been challenged since the disastrous reign of Vellix the Mad. Cwerith's challenge would be momentous enough, but the refusal of winter to relinquish its grip upon the land made everyone wonder if the coming war was actually the work of the Goddess and…the other Power. Davin tried not to think of such matters, choosing instead to focus on the coming battle as best he could. But even he thought occasionally of why Dona was seemingly allowing her world to founder.<br /><br />He turned to walk along the wall, looking down at the harbor which should have been teeming with ships but was now empty except for three grain-boats that had not left dock since putting in for the winter nine months before. It had been that long, it seemed, since there had even been fresh news from anywhere else -- except, of course, for the news of Caer Camyrdin.<br /><br />Davin adjusted his cloak and rubbed his bearded chin as he approached four soldiers who were supposed to have been keeping watch, but were actually huddled over a game of dice and not expecting Davin to be walking the walls for a second time. They didn't notice him until he was close enough to have seen what they were doing for his last ten steps or so. Nevertheless, they jumped to their feet and tried to look as though they had never left their duties. Davin only shook his head.<br /><br />"If I can approach you unnoticed from this short distance," Davin said, "then I suppose you boys will not sound the alarm for the arrival of Cwerith's army until his rope-men are already scaling the walls."<br /><br />"The guard duty is still manned," one of the guards said, pointing to the two nearby guard towers, each of which did in fact carry a single man. "We played to see who would have to stand up there and freeze their arses off. They lost."<br /><br />"Interesting," Davin said. "Is it no longer our protocol to maintain watches by pairs?" He glanced up at the guard towers. Both of the men there, one in each tower, had now seen Davin and were trying to look dutiful -- which was itself an absurd thing to try standing atop a tiny watchtower. The men under Davin's stare shifted on their feet. It was always mildly amusing -- <I>only</I> mildly amusing, no more than that -- to see big, strong lads turning a sheepish red. "So," Davin continued, "you can imagine my surprise at finding the four of you together. Or, by your helpful admission, the six of you. And since there are only the two guard towers, exactly what were the rest of you playing for?"<br /><br />The men looked back and forth at each other. "Ale rations," one of them finally admitted, looking quite miserable as he did so.<br /><br />"I see," Davin said. <I>Fools! Bet your cloaks, your best pair of boots, the ceremonial dagger your father gave you when you entered the Guard, but NEVER bet your ale rations!</I> "Well, carry on."<br /><br />The men stood there, exchanging quizzical glances.<br /><br />"With your patrols!" Davin snapped. The men scrambled to get about their duties, and Davin resumed his.<br /><br />After a while he came to the section that overlooked the city's main gate. Looking down, he shook his head. Inside the wall at this point was a marketplace that should have been teeming with activity in summer; now it was packed with listless people who had fled their own towns and villages in the face of war to take refuge within the city. There were so many now, almost more than could safely fit inside the walls, and there were more coming each day. On the other side of the gate, outside the city walls, more and more displaced people from the surrounding regions were gathering. Some of Bedwyn's healers mingled through the throng, trying to soothe the pains of the sick and infirm. Most grimly, there was a new burial mound in the distance -- and it was growing. Davin had seen this spectacle before, in the wars of his youth, and he had long since learned that during wars it was not only soldiers whose bodies filled the mounds. Sometimes soldiers did not even make up the greater portion of the dead.<br /><br />"Here you are!" The voice came from behind him. He turned to greet his old friend Amren, Captain of the City Guard. Amren was very tall and thin man, and his skin was mottled by some disease he had suffered as a child. Amren was as old and experienced as Davin, and Duke Cunaddyr was counted fortunate indeed to be able to leave his city in such capable hands. "I was surprised that you had come up here again."<br /><br />"So were the men on patrol," Davin said. "You have news, I assume?"<br /><br />"One of my riders has returned," Amren said.<br /><br />"How long do we have?" Davin asked.<br /><br />Amren swallowed. "Two days, at most. By this time tomorrow, we may be able to see the lights of Cwerith's cookfires on the horizon."<br /><br />"I feared as much," Davin said. "And we are prepared as well as we will ever be."<br /><br />"Cwerith will find this place harder to take than he did Caer Camyrdin," Amren said.<br /><br />Davin sighed and thought of the great burial mounds that lay to the southeast of the city, where the dead of Bedwyn had for centuries been taken to rest. The gate that led out through the walls toward those mounds was called the Widow's Gate. Davin wondered how accurate that name was soon to become…if, in fact, when all was done the gate was still standing.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"You look tired, Matholyn," Duke Cunaddyr said as he filled the other man's cup with mead.<br /><br />"I am not accustomed to marching," Lord Matholyn replied. "I haven't done so since…well, in all honesty, I've never done so."<br /><br />"It is brutal business," Cunaddyr said.<br /><br />"It will get worse," Matholyn said.<br /><br />Cunaddyr cocked an eyebrow and swirled his own mead around in his cup. "Even if the Promised King returns to save us all?"<br /><br />Lord Matholyn scowled, but made no other reply. Instead he sipped his mead and chewed at what was left of his stale bread. Matholyn was no palace-bound Lord who never set foot outside his keep; he had often led his own hunting parties, trading expeditions, and he had even once taken an entourage, for reasons he could not now recall, to pay tribute to King Cwerith at Caer Mastagg. Nothing, though, had ever been so grueling as the two days of hard march since they had left Briston. His entire body was sore, his backside especially so. And it had been worse for Brother Malcolm, whose discomfort had been such to make even Lord Matholyn wince in sympathy.<br /><br />"You have nothing to say to that, I take it?" Cunaddyr said.<br /><br />"Do you mean to mock me, Cunaddyr?"<br /><br />"No." Cunaddyr set down his cup. "But I have been wondering: if the Promised King <I>does</I> return, where does that leave High King Irlaris? We cannot merely set aside our sworn loyalty to him."<br /><br />"I think you already know the answer to that," Matholyn said. "Surely the Promised King would not return if..."<br /><br />"...if the land already had a King," Cunaddyr said, finishing the thought. "You think that Irlaris will not survive this."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn shrugged. He sipped his mead, swallowed, and changed the subject. "How much longer to Bornmuth?"<br /><br />"We should make it there the day after tomorrow," Cunaddyr said. "As long as we do not encounter any more storms like the one last night."<br /><br />Matholyn nodded. He had known such storms before, but those had always been sea storms. He had never seen one so far inland before. They had lost a good number of tents and a substantial amount of provision, along with eight horses before it had ended. He and Brother Malcolm had both prayed for the safety of the tiny band they had sent, alone and nearly unarmed, into the wilderness on a journey to the Giants' Dance.<br /><br />The two men sat in silence a while more, until the silence was broken by shouts outside the tent. Sir Jules and the man who had gone with him, young Sir Regidan, had returned. And they had done so earlier than expected: Duke Cunaddyr had expected them to meet at Bornmuth, two days hence. Something was amiss.<br /><br />"Easy there, lad!" It was Sir Jules's voice. Lord Matholyn could hear him now, calling out to the pages who had come to tend his horse. "That saddle alone would fetch a price to restore your mother's virtue." That brought laughter from everyone in earshot, and a minute later Sir Jules entered with Sir Regidan behind him. Regidan was a very young knight, having been elevated just two months before. Sir Jules had taken a liking to the young man and had taken him on this, his first mission. Regidan looked every bit as young as he was, with his hair still neatly cropped, the stitching on his badge of office still tidy, and his sword still looking as if he'd never drawn it except in practice -- which was, in fact, the way of it. Looking at the young man and admiring the eager gleam in his eyes, Lord Matholyn wondered if he had ever himself been that young.<br /><br />Both men knelt before the Duke, and he bid them to rise. Their cloaks and boots were mud-spattered; Sir Jules's long braid was rough and untidy. They had ridden a good distance in quite a short time.<br /><br />"Is there wine?" Sir Jules asked when he rose back to his feet.<br /><br />"Mead only," the Duke answered. "We drained the last casks of wine last night."<br /><br />"How horrible," Jules said as he filled a cup from the flask. "Necessity though, I suppose. Find your own cup, Regidan! I'm not doing it for you." He settled down next to the Duke's tiny fire and was joined by Sir Regidan, once the other man had filled his own cup.<br /><br />"You couldn't have ridden all the way to Londia and back in the time you've been gone," Duke Cunaddyr said.<br /><br />Sir Jules shook his head. "There was no need to go all the way to Londia -- and even if we had, we probably wouldn't even have been able to enter the city. The gates have been closed, and they are waiting out the attack by King Duncan."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn felt the air go out of his chest. "Duncan attacks? So soon?"<br /><br />"So soon," Sir Jules said with a nod.<br /><br />"And the High King has not even raised his army!" Sir Regidan said.<br /><br />"<I>What?</I>" Duke Cunaddyr exclaimed. "What madness is this? Of course he has an army!"<br /><br />"It won't do him much good," Sir Jules said. "Once we got to the Southern Londia Road, we went from outpost to outpost. Most of them have been deserted. We finally found one that was still manned. It was the sixth one."<br /><br />"Seventh," Sir Regidan said.<br /><br />"Learn to count, boy. It was the sixth. And there were only two men there."<br /><br />"Two?" Lord Matholyn said. "Not eight?" Along the four Great Londia Roads -- the Northern, Eastern, Western and Southern -- there was an outpost of the High King's soldiery every two leagues, to provide for the safety of travelers approaching Prydein's greatest city. Each of those outposts was always manned by eight soldiers, who rotated from one outpost to the next each year until they had served in all four; at that time they were allowed to return to the city itself and join the City Guard. But now, if even the outposts were being abandoned....<br /><br />"Two," Sir Jules said. "One old man and one whelp that makes Regidan here look like a crone by comparison. And the only reason they had stayed behind was because they were given the choice to do so."<br /><br />"The <I>choice</I>? The High King's men are never given any choices!" Lord Matholyn could not believe what he was hearing. It was impossible, unheard of. It could not be. Service to the High King was coveted, and when one entered his service one forsook the right to make virtually any decision at all. That discipline had been a key reason why Irlaris had been able to forge his kingdom in the first place and become the strongest High King since Prystyl himself.<br /><br />"These were," Sir Jules said with a disgusted nod. "They were tidings bad enough, just seeing those two wretches wearing the emblem of the High King. But what they had to say was far worse." He drained his cup and poured another before looking up at the Duke.<br /><br />"Your Grace, we shall receive no help at all from the High King. Not one single soldier will be sent to aid us as we fight Cwerith. The city of Londia is preparing not for war, but for siege. The gates are closed, the walls manned -- and that is all. King Duncan will have to burn Londia to the ground to get it. He won't find any battle on the field."<br /><br />"The High King has grown soft," Lord Matholyn said. The very <I>idea</I> that Irlaris would refuse to fight for his throne was unthinkable. He was an old King, but he was still the King -- and while Kings occasionally fight for things that are not their own, they always fight for the things that are. Or so, they always had.<br /><br />"It's worse than that," Sir Regidan said.<br /><br />"What is it?" the Duke asked.<br /><br />"All of this is being done under the command of Lord Radderch." Lord Radderch was High King Irlaris's seneschal. He was not a well-known man, having ascended to that high post upon the unexpected death of the High King's previous seneschal, Lord Gwyra. Gwyra had been well-loved and long-served; Radderch, on the other hand, had been a surprising choice by Irlaris. Neither Lord Matholyn nor Duke Cunaddyr had ever met the man, who prior to being named seneschal had been a Captain of the Londia Guard, but they had heard that he was a hard and uncompromising man. That might be what was needed as King Duncan approached Londia with the biggest army to march on that city since the wars between High King Prystyl's three sons. It might also, though, be completely disastrous. It would not be known which until the battle was over. Now a new thought began to stir in Matholyn's mind.<br /><br />"Could Irlaris already be dead?" Lord Matholyn said. Cunaddyr stared at him; Sir Regidan's eyes went wide, and Sir Jules merely shrugged and took another sip of mead.<br /><br />"Why would you think such a thing?" Cunaddyr asked.<br /><br />"Because it is possible," Matholyn replied. "We were speaking before of why the Promised King would return now, if there was already a King in place. Perhaps that is our answer: perhaps Irlaris is already dead."<br /><br />"And what does that make Radderch, then? A usurper, hoping to defeat the Traitor Kings who are already challenging him for the throne?"<br /><br />"Or perhaps a hero," Lord Matholyn said. "Trying to fill a void left behind by a High King who died without heir."<br /><br />"Forgive me, Matholyn," Sir Jules said. "Something confuses me, and I am not a man who normally holds with these matters of prophecy and legend. High King Irlaris has been growing weak for some time, and we would as well admit that we are blind if we deny it. He took the throne by force, and he held it by guile -- but that very guile has left him in his recent years. Like all Kings who rise through hard times and grow old in easy ones, he has become too easily distracted by a warm bed and a feast in his hall to notice the failings of his kingdom."<br /><br />"Have care," Duke Cunaddyr said. "Words such as those could be taken by some as treason."<br /><br />"Are not Kings capable of treason, my lord? If war spreads across his kingdom, and he does nothing to stop it? If a man like Cwerith can destroy Caer Camyrdin and move on Bedwyn after, and still the High King sends no help, is that not treason?" He paused for that to sink in. Duke Cunaddyr said nothing, and Sir Jules went on. "And if he is dead, then is this not a war of succession?"<br /><br />"It is not," Lord Matholyn said. Sir Jules looked at him, his eyes questioning. "It is <I>not</I> a war of succession, Sir Jules. We still fight for the High King -- the Promised King. You must not forget that."<br /><br />"I haven't," Sir Jules said. "But there have been other wars for the throne. Other High Kings have died without heir. Why is this one important? Why is the Promised King coming <I>now</I>?"<br /><br />There was silence for a long time as Matholyn thought. A fresh breeze stirred outside, and some men could be heard trying to share a song but not having much luck in remembering the words. No great insight sprang into Matholyn's mind, and he knew that none would. In truth, he had no answer for Sir Jules's question. No one did, so far as he could tell -- although there had to be a reason. The High King's retreat from the sight of the world, the slow freezing death of the land -- it was all part of something, but Lord Matholyn knew not what. It was not for him to know, and there was no truth for him other than that. An honest man to the end, he admitted as much.<br /><br />"It is written in the Book of Ryannon," Matholyn said. "<I>The land and its King are one, such that the death of one must bring about the death of the other until the Goddess anoints a new King.</I> Some once believed that Irlaris was the Promised King, but he denied it and the belief never truly took root. The signs were not there. And now, one way or another, his reign is ending. Irlaris must be dead, else he soon will be -- for if he is still strong, then <I>what need for a Promised King</I>?"<br /><br />"Unless we are wrong about the Promised King," Sir Jules said. "Unless the whole thing really is a bed-story for children, and we have sent that girl and your knight to their deaths."<br /><br />"We may have done that in any event," Lord Matholyn said. "But war is coming to Londia, and the High King may already be dead. It matters little, as far as he is concerned. If he is alive, he cannot remain High King. Alive or not, his time is over. All that remains to be seen is if the signs tell true, and if the mission to the Giants' Dance is our best hope or yet another in a long series of follies."<br /><br />"Grim words, Matholyn," Cunaddyr said.<br /><br />Lord Matholyn sighed. "Grim words appear to be all that I have left."<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>Would that I had a book with me,</I> Brother Malcolm thought, and then ruefully chuckled. <I>Not that I could read in this dim light, anyhow. My eyes are not so young anymore, and I have become attuned to the glow of a bright candle on the page. The moon and stars are no longer enough.</I><br /><br />He rolled over on his pallet of straw and gazed up into the stars. Not many were visible tonight, between the patchy clouds and the smoke and light from the cookfires of the army. It didn't really matter, anyway; the stars had never been one of Brother Malcolm's better subjects, and their cycles were a mystery to him. He could pick out the more famous constellations -- The Well, The Weeping Mother, The Hero Chasing the Beast -- and he could use them to mark his direction, but that was about all he could do. He spotted The Chalice, the constellation that crowned the summer sky, and found some comfort in that, before a cloud moved across the upper half of the star-picture. At least the skies were not ruled by the frozen seasons of the world.<br /><br />He realized that he was not going to find sleeping easy. He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, accustomed to the rigors of the march; despite the dull ache that filled his bones from the long hours in the saddle, it was only with difficulty that he could fall asleep. It had been harder each night since leaving Tintagel. Each morning he awoke to the certain belief that he had only been asleep for mere minutes, and he found his mental faculties slackening. More than once he had cursed himself for a fool for coming on this journey when he should have gone back to Tintagel, where he belonged. A cleric and a scholar, he had no place in the middle of a war for the throne of Prydein -- especially not a war that had been foretold since the earliest days. A man like Brother Malcolm did not belong on the fields where everything would be decided.<br /><br />He spent an hour lying there, watching the stars and listening to the sounds of the camp around him. He had insisted on sleeping in the open tonight; last night he had slept in a tent with a number of other men and found the stench from their sweat and bodies overwhelming. Father Terryn had offered him a place in his tent, but Malcolm had demurred. His hope had been that fresh air might help him drop off, but thus far it was having no effect at all. A shooting star flashed through the sky above him; had he been more conversant in the matters of the sky he might have been able to at least partially determine the meaning of its portent. As it was, he had no reliable idea at all.<br /><br />The mood throughout the camp this night was very subdued. The winners of the various dice games didn't crow or gloat; they simply gathered their winnings and went on to the next throw of the dice. The talk at the meals had been sparse, and Malcolm heard whispers throughout both days that some of the men did not expect to find Bedwyn standing when they sailed into its harbor. What had happened at Caer Camyrdin was on the hearts and minds of everyone in this army, from the Duke himself down to the lowliest pikeman.<br /><br />With a heavy sigh he finally conceded that sleep was not coming any time soon, and so he arose from his pallet and began walking toward the outer perimeter of the camp, thinking to walk off some of his saddle-soreness. He threaded a path through the tents and rows of soldiers sleeping in the open and soldiers who were not yet asleep. He nodded at a few familiar faces, but it was a large army -- even after two days riding with these men the vast majority of them were still unfamiliar.<br /><br />He came now to the ring of tents that formed the outer edge of the camp area; beyond here were makeshift liveries and the armories. He wound his way through this area, to the very outer edge of the entire camp itself. Here he was greeted almost immediately by a stern-faced soldier who was standing sentry.<br /><br />"Greetings, there!" the man called. He was an older man who kept one hand sturdily fastened to the handle of the axe that hung from his belt. "I am Vinn, Third Captain of the Guard. It is a cold night, sir, and I wonder what brings you out here, so far from the fires."<br /><br />"I am finding it hard to sleep tonight," Brother Malcolm answered through chattering teeth. The sentry guard was right: this <I>was</I> a cold night, the coldest yet. "I am Brother Malcolm. I came with Lord Matholyn. I often walk a bit on sleepless nights at Tintagel."<br /><br />"A walk in the dark, beyond the confines of the camp?" Vinn spat on the ground. "Unwise, cleric. There are evil times, and I'm sure you've heard that our army is shadowed by men who would sell their wives for the right price."<br /><br />"I am only a humble monk," Brother Malcolm said, bowing slightly. "Surely I would not present myself as a target."<br /><br />Vinn sighed. "Not so," he said. "Just yesterday some foolish brigand loosed a bow at us, hoping to get one of our companies to turn from the march. He might have succeeded at that, had he been a better shot. Unfortunately for him, our bowmen were better, and he had selected a position that left him very open. Foolish, really."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm shook his head. "I can't believe that even this far south we would find some of Cwerith's men," he said. "We are still within the boundaries of Duke Cunaddyr's realm."<br /><br />"By the Goddess, how long <I>has</I> it been since you were last off that rock of yours? No Lord commands the loyalty of all within his borders, no matter how much he may deserve it. There is always some fool who can't refuse the money that he thinks he may get if he turns against his liege, and these are exactly the kind of times when such men are most wont to put their loyalties aside if they think a bit of coin might be in the offing." He shook his head and laughed. "Goddess knows that clerics tend to be a foolish lot, but you Tintagel monks are in a more desperate state than most."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm might have taken offense at that remark, but there was something he liked about this man. "You're hardly the first man to tell me that in the last few days," he said.<br /><br />"Oh, then you're used to it! There may be hope for you, if--" He stopped abruptly and turned to stare into the darkness out away from the camp. He took several steps away from Brother Malcolm and sniffed at the air, and after a moment or two he returned. His face had the expression of something foul, but Brother Malcolm couldn't smell anything.<br /><br />"Is there something there?" asked Malcolm.<br /><br />"Oh, there is indeed," Vinn replied. "I smell something, and it isn't a smell that belongs here."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm sniffed the air as Vinn pulled an unlit torch from his pouch and used to chips of flint to light it. Then he held it up, high over his head, and waved it back and forth three times in a wide arc before shoving the torch into the cold, muddy ground. The only smells that Malcolm detected were of earth and grass. He glanced in the direction that Vinn had waved his torch, and now he saw the sentry's signal returned from a distance. A minute later there was the sound of footsteps, coming from the camp, and then four armed men arrived.<br /><br />"Vinn," one the men said, "one of these days I'm going to stuff your nose with cotton. I was winning at dice for once."<br /><br />"And thanks to the Goddess for that," Vinn snapped, "because you still owe me money from the last time you and I played."<br /><br />"So you smell our friends again?"<br /><br />"Who else? They smell worse than usual. They've probably been wallowing in their own dung."<br /><br />The armed man who had spoken walked out away from the camp, about twenty paces or so. Then he came back, a sour look on his face. "They're out there, all right. Once again, there's no questioning Vinn's nose. And they're a lot closer this time, so they've obviously got something in mind. Cleric, perhaps you would be safer back in the camp."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm made no argument at all; he nodded in assent and turned to head back to relative safety. He was glad to be out of the way, if there was to be some excitement tonight. It certainly wasn't his place to be out here. <I>It is a good thing that Gwyn is away</I>, he thought as he approached the line of covered siege engines. <I>She would try to insist on staying to watch those men in action.</I> He was chuckling at the thought when he heard the whistling sound in the air. He had heard a sound like that only once before in his life, when he had been a boy living in Saltreach, on a night when the marauders had come from the sea. The sound was that of a flaming arrow, shot through the air. He dropped to the ground and rolled away, the instinct still strong even after almost sixty years. The arrow struck the ground just three or four paces from where he had been standing.<br /><br />The sight of the arrow made Brother Malcolm freeze in place. There was a rush of air in his ears, and he felt an icy sensation in his limbs. He had never before seen combat, and the fear took control of his body and refused to let him go.<br /><br />More of the flaming arrows came, launched from some point in the darkness beyond the perimeter of the camp. They arced over the spot where Malcolm lay cowering and landed amidst the covered siege engines and supply stores. He buried his head under his arms as the flaming missiles whistled by. One of them struck very close by, close enough for him to feel the heat from the burning pitch on the arrowhead. The nearness of that strike was finally enough to jolt him into action, and he got up to his knees and crawled away from the general area where the arrows were seemingly aimed. When he judged himself to be safely far enough away, he looked back at the action. Some of the arrows -- most of them, actually -- landed harmlessly in the ground while others set fire to the siege engines. Shouts of alarm now came from the main body of the camp, and Brother Malcolm saw many torches lit as the camp mobilized for the possibility of battle. He glanced back to the sentries, and saw that they, too, had lowered themselves to the ground -- but rather than cowering as a frightened old cleric had done, they simply knelt with their swords drawn, waiting for the attackers to run out of arrows.<br /><br />And finally, the attackers did just that. The brief rain of arrows ended as quickly as it had begun. Malcolm heard the call of a bird from a spot where he knew a copse of trees stood a short distance from the camp, and he instantly realized that the bird call was no bird but rather a man giving the signal to his companions to flee. He heard Vinn shout, <I>"Now!"</I>, and in an instant the sentries and armed guards sprang forward and ran full-force into the darkness. Malcolm rose and walked back a bit toward the spot where he had spoken with Vinn and peered out into the darkness, trying to see what was going on. He could hear men shouting and crashing through the underbrush, and he could hear the sounds of weapons being drawn. There came the unmistakable scream and choking sound of a man being run through on a sword, and he closed his eyes despite the fact that he really couldn't see anything at all except shifting shadows in the distance.<br /><br />Now there were more torches. More shouts were heard from behind him, and the pounding of hooves: the sentries were being joined in force by armed men on horseback who carried torches. A number of other men stopped near where Malcolm stood and merely watched the action.<br /><br />"Well, this will be over in a minute or two," one of them said.<br /><br />Brother Malcolm glanced back at the siege engines and supply stores, and saw that the fires which had been briefly set were now almost entirely out. Whoever these attackers were, their effort had failed completely. Minutes later the sentries returned, all of them more or less intact. None had suffered anything more than a nasty-looking but shallow cut or a bump that would on the morrow be a handsome bruise. They were even laughing.<br /><br />"Did you see them tuck tail and run?" one of them laughed. "We should get some horses and go after them. If they fight like they ride--"<br /><br />"They ride better than you, Will," Vinn said. "It's a good day if you can tell a horse's head from its arse."<br /><br />"I can't tell your head from your arse either, Vinn!" There was much laughter at this, and Malcolm found himself smiling despite his brush with danger, however brief it may have been.<br /><br />The horsemen were coming back now as well, and two of them were dragging prisoners behind them. "Are they giving you any trouble, boys?" Vinn called out.<br /><br />"This one's got some struggle left in him," one of the horsemen said. It was true, Malcolm saw: the man was fighting against the bonds around his wrists even as he was pulled along behind the horse. "Must be <I>you</I> hit him, Vinn." More laughter.<br /><br />"I only wanted to get his attention," Vinn replied. "Have care; the Captain will want to see them."<br /><br /><I>"As will I,"</I> came a voice calling out from the camp. Heads turned, and Brother Malcolm saw Lord Matholyn himself approaching. Sir Jules was right behind him. Matholyn's shirt was unfastened, and he was carrying his sword in his left hand, still in its scabbard but ungirded to his belt. <I>He was awakened to this,</I> Malcolm realized. As he approached, the sentries stood aside and lightly bowed their heads in deference to the Lord of Camyrdin. Lord Matholyn stopped and waited as the horsemen stopped in front of him and shoved the two prisoners forward. Now Malcolm got his first look at them. They were young, clearly brothers, and very poor. They were filthy, their clothes little more than rags, and they smelled truly foul.<br /><br />"What happened here?" Lord Matholyn asked.<br /><br />"They attacked us," a soldier replied. "Flaming arrows from that thicket out yonder at our siege engines. There were five of them. We killed two, one escaped, and these two remain. All the fires are out. They did no lasting damage."<br /><br />"No damage," Lord Matholyn repeated. "Attacking the siege engines of an army that won't be laying siege to anyone." He stepped forward and studied the two prisoners. One, the one who was still struggling, was much better for the wear than his brother, who was something of a bloody mess and was barely able to stand. Matholyn shook his head.<br /><br />"You look young to me," he said. "How old are you?"<br /><br />"Fifteen," the more awake prisoner said. "Six weeks from my manhood."<br /><br />"And this is how you chose to demonstrate your age?"<br /><br />"We are starving," the boy said, stuttering on a sudden cough. "He promised us meat and if we caused you harm."<br /><br />"Who made you <I>that</I> promise?"<br /><br />"A Captain in High King Cwerith's army," the boy replied.<br /><br />"Is Cunaddyr of Bedwyn no longer your Lord? and do you now set aside your loyalty to High King Irlaris?"<br /><br />"They are traitors to Prydein," the boy said. Brother Malcolm shook his head. All of the men in earshot, being the Duke's men, growled at the comment. But Lord Matholyn smiled.<br /><br />"To say such things in this camp is foolishness, boy."<br /><br />"Cunaddyr supports Irlaris, who has turned his back on all Prydein. We starve because he will not open his food stores to the people! When Cwerith is King he will not hoard the food in Londia, and the land will be reborn because it will have a strong King again."<br /><br />"And perhaps the fields can be fertilized with Cwerith's own dung," Lord Matholyn said. "His lies are full enough of it. There are no overflowing food stores in Londia, and Cwerith cares no more for your people than he did for the people of Camyrdin."<br /><br />"Caer Camyrdin deserved to die!" the boy said defiantly. "They were practicing Druid blood rituals within their walls, and--"<br /><br />With a heavy fist, Lord Matholyn struck the boy into unconsciousness, probably breaking his nose in the process. The boy never saw the blow coming.<br /><br />"Put them in irons," he said. The sentries rushed to carry out his command, hurriedly dragging the two prisoners away. Sir Jules laughed.<br /><br />"That," said Sir Jules, "was as handsome a blow as I have ever seen struck to a whelp who knew not when to hold his tongue." He chuckled and headed off himself. Now Lord Matholyn and Brother Malcolm were alone.<br /><br />"Well, Brother, now you see why I wasn't meant for Tintagel. Father Reynald did not approve of my temper."<br /><br />"That boy could not have known what he was saying," Brother Malcolm said. "Are the young to be treated so harshly for the foolish things that spring to their lips?"<br /><br />"The young are not to be treated so," Lord Matholyn replied. "These were not young, they merely looked it. They are either paid mercenaries or actual members of Cwerith's army, sent on this idiotic mission precisely because they look like foolish young men, a trait which might have come in useful. I promise you this: when those two are put to the knife they will be far less youthful in their words."<br /><br />"I don't understand," Malcolm said. Those prisoners had looked like nothing more than farmboys whose business should be to tend cattle or grain, and who would only out of sheer desperation turn to shooting arrows at their own lord's army.<br /><br />"They overplayed their part, for one thing. Hunger may be widespread, but as yet starvation is not, though it may well come to that. And, there were their boots."<br /><br />"Their boots?"<br /><br />Lord Matholyn nodded. "Their boots. Cut in the Gwynedd fashion, out of black leather. Unless I am completely mistaken, in no other place will you find the men wearing boots cut so high." He sighed. "These men were instructed on how to act in the event of capture, but they didn't play their part well."<br /><br />"It hardly seems worthwhile to trouble with such a foolish mission," Brother Malcolm said. "Surely they had to have known that they couldn't possibly do any serious harm to the Duke's army. Why do such a thing?"<br /><br />Lord Matholyn shrugged. "They might have managed to burn a few of the siege engines, and more importantly they may have succeeded in planting a few seeds of discontent within the ranks. Cwerith knows as well as anyone that destinies can be shaped by the actions of a single man. He learned that when his father lost the Unfought Battle. Any advantage he thought to gain here would have been well worth the few coppers it cost him." He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Some of the men will be worshipping now. Would you go with me to hear the blessing?"<br /><br />Brother Malcolm was a bit surprised by the request, although he was unsure why, considering that Matholyn was himself a former cleric. The two men followed the perimeter of the camp until they came to the edge of a wide grassy field where two trees stood by themselves. A ceremonial fire blazed between the two trees, and gathered around the fire was a motley collection of footsoldiers, cavalrymen, pages, squires and knights. They had all sunk to their knees to hear the words of Father Terryn as he delivered the blessing. Brother Malcolm found himself saying the words along with Father Terryn, under his breath, and to his surprise he realized that Lord Matholyn was doing the same. When the blessing was done Lord Matholyn turned to face Brother Malcolm.<br /><br />"I still remember some of the words," he said with a shrug. "Others have escaped me through the years. Tell me, Brother -- do you think it a failure of mine, that I left Tintagel?"<br /><br />"You are far from the first man to make that decision," Brother Malcolm replied. "Most leave because they are ill suited to the commitment of serving the Goddess. But you had other duties to fulfill, and in your own way you still serve the Goddess."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn chuckled. "That is charitable of you, especially after my bluster when I came to Tintagel the other day."<br /><br />Malcolm smiled a bit. "I may not have known you well, before, but your bluster is the stuff of legend."<br /><br />"When I left, Father Reynald assured me that my temper would be legendary," Matholyn said. "I gained that trait from my mother. Had I been in my father's place, I suspect that the Unfought Battle might have been fought after all."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm shivered; a new breeze had stirred, just as cold as all the others. He wanted to ask about the bad feeling between Lord Matholyn and Father Damogan, but something made him hold his tongue. Instead he waited for Matholyn to speak again.<br /><br />"We should get back. We will be at the march early tomorrow."<br /><br />"That is the greatest of my fears," Brother Malcolm replied. "I was not born to do so much riding. Not at such grueling pace and with an army, anyway."<br /><br />"You will grow accustomed to it," Lord Matholyn said. Brother Malcolm found that thought an ugly one, but didn't say so. They walked back to the camp in silence.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1119198121300759842005-06-19T08:55:00.000-07:002005-06-19T09:29:40.416-07:00Chapter TwelveAs Sir Baigent walked across the rocks and flattened grass into the middle of the challenge square, he incongruously thought of Murron of the Arrows, the crusty old master archer of Camyrdin, who had taught him many things about life, death and war. He knew exactly what she would say now. <I>"You spent hours carefully planning an escape, and you set it aside for this old-fashioned foolery? Idiot!"</I> He smiled in spite of himself, and then frowned again when he remembered that Murron was dead.<br /><br />On his way out, he took careful notice of the ground. By this time in summer the grass here should be up to his thighs or even higher, but the stunted spring had put an end to that. Last night's storm had also made the ground soft and wet, so Sir Baigent realized that it would not take long for Maxen and himself to turn this ground into a muddy quagmire -- if the fight went on that long. There were also plenty of rocks and chunks of stone that had once been part of the citadel walls. Most of these rocks were the size of his fist or smaller, but some of them were even larger. Footing here would be tricky to start, and as their feet churned the ground it would become more and more difficult. <I>All the more reason to make this fight as short as possible,</I> he thought. Of course, Maxen had certainly reached the same conclusion. His opponent, Sir Baigent knew, was not a stupid man.<br /><br />Sir Baigent stopped and faced Maxen from a distance of four paces. His opponent, like himself, only wore boiled-leather vestments for armor. Seeing this, Sir Baigent knew at least that Maxen would fight honorably. This assuaged part of his worries, while the greater portion -- concerning just how good Maxen was with the sword -- would be settled shortly.<br /><br />Fflud stepped in between them and signaled for silence, which took some time to develop. "This is a Trial by Combat," he announced, pitching his voice to carry even though many of the men had no interest whatsoever in the opening business. "The female cleric"--he refused to say her name--"stands accused of striking a man in the service of His Majesty, Cwerith ap Cellamma, High King of Prydein." This brought a new chorus of boos and jeers, directed at Gwyn. Maxen shrugged, and Sir Baigent only shook his head. <I>Be strong, My Lady,</I> he thought. Fflud went on. "The accused has accepted as her Champion this man, Sir Baigent of Camyrdin"--the mention of Camyrdin brought a fresh round of lusty cheers of derision, making Fflud stop again--"and our own Captain, Maxen ap Mavvyr, has accepted." He was interrupted yet again, this time by loud and raucous cheers, and now annoyed he shouted for silence. "Quiet! <I>Quiet!</I> Quarter will not be given, and only death by blade will suffice as judgement. Begin when ready." With that he walked away to his own viewing position, directly opposite Sir Baigent's companions. An excited murmur began to ripple through the assembled crowd. Sir Baigent and Maxen ignored it.<br /><br />"I have wondered," Maxen said, "just how you come to travel with two clerics and a harper. What <I>is</I> your business with these people?"<br /><br />Sir Baigent, unmoving, held Maxen's gaze. A chill wind blew through the camp just then, and neither man appeared to notice it at all. "And I have wondered," Sir Baigent said, "why Cwerith would send such a large detachment of men so far south when he is so near to fighting a very large battle at Bedwyn."<br /><br />Maxen smiled. "A pity that when this is done neither of us will have received an answer."<br /><br />"A pity," Sir Baigent agreed.<br /><br />"My King will reward me greatly when I bring him the head of such an important enemy."<br /><br />"Then you'd best be about it," Sir Baigent replied just before he moved with startling speed to strike the first blow.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"No shield?" Gwyn asked as she watched Sir Baigent walk, slowly and deliberately, across the field.<br /><br />"No shield," Estren said. "A Trial by Combat is not an entertainment like a tournament, no matter what these drunken fools may think. And a Trial is not an Honor Challenge, where the matter is settled when one man has been unarmed. A Trial is an ugly business, and as such it is to be decided quickly by the grace of the Goddess."<br /><br />"You have seen these before?" Brother Llyad asked.<br /><br />"Twice," Estren said, grimacing. "As I said, an ugly business."<br /><br />Fflud was shouting now, but Gwyn did not listen. Instead she stared at Sir Baigent, her Champion who stood with his back to her, and whispered a prayer to Dona, the same prayer, over and over again. Fflud finished speaking and walked away, and she saw Sir Baigent and Maxen speaking to one another though she couldn't possibly make out what they were saying. Gwyn barely noticed the cold breeze that stirred just then. Her stomach churned, and the pounding of her heart became faster and stronger until it felt to her like a hammer striking an anvil.<br /><br />This was no moment from some child's story or some ballad that might be sung by the fire in a tavern's common room, nor was it a story related by the hand of a long-dead cleric in a musty book. This was simply, brutally real. One of these two men was going to die here, tonight. "Dona guide him," she heard Brother Llyad say. She glanced down at Estren, who had sunk to one knee beside her and was turning a stone over and over in his hand as he looked on. At that moment the terrible clash of steel upon steel rang across the field. Sir Baigent had struck first and stepped back, and now the two men were circling each other.<br /><br />It had begun.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>Damnation,</I> Sir Baigent thought as he and Maxen circled each other. <I>That was a good attack.</I><br /><br />Rather than bringing his weapon high into the air and letting it fall into the attack, Sir Baigent had brought it up directly from the rest position, spinning it as he did so to gain more speed. It was a good tactic; most swordsmen expected the traditional high attack and were thus caught off-guard for a strike from below. Maxen, though, brought his own blade around in a nearly identical motion but reversed, perfectly parrying the attack. Maxen's speed and reflex astonished Sir Baigent, but he still gave an involuntary grunt as the swords met. He clearly had underestimated Sir Baigent's strength. It was a mistake that many of the knight's opponents had made over the years, leading to many of his victories. But not all men failed to recover from that error. Those were the dangerous ones, and Sir Baigent already suspected Maxen would prove to be one of them.<br /><br />Now Maxen tested Sir Baigent's quickness and form, with a sweeping attack that even with Maxen's strength and speed could have been parried by any squire with a year's training. Sir Baigent knocked the attack aside almost as an afterthought, wondering as he did so just why his opponent had opened with such an obvious ploy -- when he suddenly realized that the real attack was only now in the offing. Maxen had known exactly where his sword would be when Sir Baigent parried the first stroke, and was able to bring his blade around in a tight circle and lunge forward in a stabbing motion. Sir Baigent recognized what was happening too late for a full parry, and all he could do to avoid the attack was to duck away while he intercepted Maxen's weapon with his own. He barely avoided giving the first blood, but Maxen's sword nonetheless struck him a glancing blow on his right shoulder that put him off-balance. He lurched away from Maxen in order to regain his footing, and a cheer went up from Maxen's men as he did so. Their Champion had already put the escapee from Camyrdin on the run.<br /><br />As Sir Baigent scrambled to meet the new attack that was already coming, he incongruously thought that perhaps they would have done better with their original plan of escape.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwyn, as it happened, had the exact same thought at almost exactly the same time.<br /><br />A scream nearly escaped her lips when she saw Maxen's blade strike her Champion, but then she felt Brother Llyad's grip on her arm. "No blood," he said, and Gwyn swallowed that scream -- for now. Maxen was already back on the attack. Sir Baigent regained his quickly-lost footing to meet the next blow. The swords rang together again, and the fight began in earnest.<br /><br />With those first probing attacks out of the way, a rhythm developed in the ringing of the blades as they crashed together. The combatants pushed each other forward and back across the uneven and rocky ground, and Gwyn wondered if perhaps they were paying too much attention to the attacks and not enough to their footing. Both men occasionally slipped, but neither went down and certainly neither dropped his blade, which would have been sheer disaster. The fight never came near the companions, but even so Gwyn could hear their grunts as they swung their weapons. <I>Those swords must be terrifically heavy,</I> Gwyn thought as Maxen parried another of Sir Baigent's attacks. <I>The fight may go to the man who in the end can hold his sword the longest.</I><br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>I wonder how heavy his sword is,</I> Sir Baigent thought as he followed through on one of his own attacks into a swift countermove that nicely warded a low swing by Maxen. <I>It doesn't look any lighter than mine, but he moves it so fast!</I> His own weapon one of the heavier blades made by Raddys ap Raddyr, chief smith and armorer of Caer Camyrdin, but its weight was offset by its nearly flawless balance in Sir Baigent's hand. This had been his sword for so many years that now in a fight it became an extension of his own hand. The problem just now was that Maxen had the same relationship with his own sword.<br /><br />Sir Baigent launched two consecutive attacks which, while parried, pushed Maxen back. He tried to step into a third attack, but his right foot landed on a rough spot, a place where a hole had been gouged out of the ground or where a rock had once rested. His ankle turned inward, and he fell. Pain shot through the ankle, but he ignored it. The shouts that came from the crowd told him what he already knew: that Maxen was moving to take advantage of his prone position. The Captain's sword came at him with all of its master's fearsome speed, and Sir Baigent barely blocked a series of blows as he lurched backward to regain his footing. <I>I am moving too much,</I> he thought. <I>He is going to wear me down if this keeps up.</I> It had already begun; his ankle throbbed but he pushed the pain out of his mind.<br /><br />Then Maxen did something unorthodox. He feinted deep inside, with an exaggerated stabbing motion. Sir Baigent had to twist to one side to bring his sword into position for the countermove, which left him in an awkward, leaning position. Maxen leaped forward to deliver a resounding kick to Sir Baigent's awkwardly planted legs. Sir Baigent only realized his mistake as he tumbled to the ground.<br /><br />The wild cheers that erupted all around him filled his ears as he hit the ground and rolled onto his back. Maxen was already above him and bringing his sword down with all of his strength. Somehow Sir Baigent had not landed on top of his sword -- only the Goddess could explain that -- and thus he was able to intercept the attack when it was only inches from cleaving his neck. The strength behind the attack was such that Sir Baigent felt a bone in his wrist nearly break. Nevertheless he was able to throw his own counterattack, forcing Maxen to leap backward to evade it. That gave Sir Baigent the heartbeat or two that he needed to rise to one knee, and with his other foot he kicked a nearby stone into Maxen's path. It was a desperate ploy, but desperate ploys have a tendency to work once in a very great while -- and this one did. Maxen did not see the rock, and his foot came down upon it. He stumbled without going down as Sir Baigent had hoped, but it was still enough. Sir Baigent brought his sword upward in a slashing move, with Maxen parried -- but in precisely the way that Sir Baigent had hoped for. He spun around, letting his sword's new arc gather even more speed, and the weapon found its mark. The sword ripped open a long gash in Maxen's jerkin and sliced into the skin beneath. Sir Baigent spun away as he heard Maxen's sharp inward breath, and blood dripped from the tip of his sword.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Even to an untrained observer like Gwyn the difference between the combatants was easy to see. Sir Baigent was a man of imposing strength whose every attack could be lethal, while Maxen's key was his amazing speed which he now put on display. While Sir Baigent worked to find good spots for his attacks, Maxen's never seemed to stop. Every parry by Sir Baigent only seemed to leave Maxen in position for another strike. The man's moves were impossibly fluid, and his objective was obvious: he planned to wear Sir Baigent down, to force the knight to expend all of his strength on harmless parries and evasions. Gwyn's stomach clenched in cold fear as he heard the laughter from Maxen's men as her own Champion scrambled to evade the deadly pace that Maxen was setting. Those cheers abated somewhat when Sir Baigent was finally able to stand his ground and execute two attacks of his own, forcing his opponent to back up ever so slightly. The respite was only momentary, though, and a fresh round of raucous cheers rose when Sir Baigent's foot landed in a bad spot and turned, sending him to the ground. Somehow he got up, even in the face of Maxen's oncoming attacks, and Gwyn took heart -- and then he was down again.<br /><br />Gwyn's breath left her, and Brother Llyad's grip on her arm tightened sharply, but even though it hurt she ignored it completely. Maxen was stepping up for the killing blow, and his sword flashed in an attack that only one with the will of the Goddess behind him could possibly have turned aside.<br /><br />And somehow, Sir Baigent turned it aside.<br /><br />Tears ran hot down Gwyn's cheeks. She saw Maxen stumble -- Sir Baigent had kicked a rock into his path, and he had stepped upon it -- and then her heart soared as the knight finally rose to his feet again and landed the first blow of the duel. A collective gasp came from the crowd, and now Brother Llyad shouted an invocation.<br /><br /><I>"For Camyrdin! First blood to the Champion!"</I><br /><br />Gwyn felt no such jubilation. Maxen was staggering, but still alive. And now she heard two voices that she had heard before, whispering to one another from within the cold wind. They were the voices of the silver wolf and the other voice that had spoken to him on that night beside the lake:<br /><br /><I>This will avail you nothing,</I> the first voice said.<br /><br /><I>We shall see,</I> came the reply.<br /><br />The wind stirred again, and the voices were gone. Gwyn wondered if she had heard them at all.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Sir Baigent hazarded one glance at the ground, to take notice of any rocks or holes on which he might stumble. This was when the duel would become harder, harsher. It was one the first rules of swordplay that his father had taught him, and one of the first that he always taught his own squires and men-in-training: <I>A good swordsman will become more dangerous, not less, after his blood has spilled.</I><br /><br />When Maxen's next attacks came, Sir Baigent did not have to retreat as much. He was able to stand his ground, even as his wrists began to ache anew. Gradually Maxen slackened his speed a bit and put more strength into his attacks. Several more times the swords sparked when they rang together, and again Sir Baigent's right wrist flared in pain. Maxen's shift in tactic allowed Sir Baigent to make several attacks of his own, into which he put all of his strength. In his opponent's grunts he now heard not only exertion but also pain, and he allowed himself the small satisfaction that he had survived this long. It was a very small satisfaction indeed.<br /><br />Now that neither man was pushing the other as much, the ground beneath them shifted from grass and stone to churned mud. Sir Baigent slowed his own attacks now, not only to preserve his own footing but in hopes that Maxen would see this as weakening strength and thus return to his original tactic of speed, which would only make Maxen more subject to the worsening footing. Of course, Maxen was too smart for this, and he refused to rise to the bait. The fight ground on, both men becoming increasingly mud-spattered and filthy as time passed. To Sir Baigent there were no sounds save for the ringing of the blades, his own grunts and those of his opponent, and the falls of their heavy feet. There was nothing else in the world, except his enemy and the sword in his enemy's hand. Nothing else at all.<br /><br />He and Maxen began to slip around as the ground became worse and worse. Sir Baigent's sword felt heavier and heavier, and cold beads of sweat began to drip into his eyes. Maxen seemed to be having the same difficulties, and Sir Baigent realized that his own attacks were not being parried with the same speed and strength as before. He stepped into his blows even more, hoping -- praying -- to finally land another attack. He very nearly did. Maxen parried one of his strikes, but in so doing he made a crucial mistake and left both of his arms spread wide, with his sword in an unbalanced position. Sir Baigent realized his chance and brought his blade around hard around, toward Maxen's chest and heart. A howl of exertion exploded from his throat as he brought his sword home.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />One man there, two perhaps, who saw the fight that night and lived to tell about it later, claimed that Maxen's footing was solid at that moment and that he could neither have seen nor avoided the attack that came at him now. There was no reason at all that he should fall at that precise moment: he neither stepped onto a rock or patch of loose grass, nor did the ground give way beneath him. This man, two perhaps, would insist that somehow the Captain had been knocked by some unseen force to the ground. Of course, this man -- and his friend, perhaps -- were terribly drunk that night, and their word could not be taken seriously. But Maxen <I>did</I> fall, tumbling to the ground and landing in the mud just as the knight's sword flashed by where his torso had just been.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Sir Baigent's body twisted as his attack met nothing but empty air, the force of his momentum unchecked by the planned entry of his sword into the side of a living body carrying him horribly off balance. His own footing betrayed him, as had Maxen's -- though, in truth, Maxen would now be dead but for that betrayal -- and Sir Baigent landed in the mud. Even as he sprawled on the ground, with mud and sweat in his eyes, his keen warrior's instinct screamed for him to <I>move</I>, and move he did. He twisted hard to evade the attack that he sensed but did not see. He twisted with as much speed as he could summon despite his soaking clothes and his heavy sword. It was almost enough to evade Maxen's sword before the weapon sliced into his left side.<br /><br />Almost.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwyn strained her neck, trying to see if Maxen was favoring his wound or if he had lost much of his strength. It looked as though that he was in serious pain, but she couldn't be certain if it was true or if she only wished it so. He <I>had</I> reduced his speed, but she wondered if that had more to do with the treacherous footing on which they fought than with the wound in his side.<br /><br />"In Dona's name!" Brother Llyad blurted out. "Why doesn't Sir Baigent push him to dryer ground?"<br /><br />"He does not wish to yield any advantage," Gwyn said.<br /><br />"That is no advantage," the monk replied. "I can't imagine--"<br /><br />"Brother!" Gwyn snapped, silencing him. His inability at times to remain silent was truly maddening.<br /><br />Gwyn wondered if the fight would ever end. It had nothing, truly, to do with her -- neither as a woman nor as the Welcomer. It didn't even have anything to do with the fact that she had struck a King's Man. It was purely about the pride of Camyrdin against the enemy of Camyrdin. Gwyn felt a rush of sudden anger toward Sir Baigent. <I>He</I> had brought them to this, even as he fought for their freedom. She wondered if he would have been so quick to fight had these men actually been from Lord Cydric, instead of coming from Gwynedd. Would he have done this thing if these men had turned out to be simple bandits or highwaymen? He had challenged the very idea of this mission of theirs, of <I>hers</I>, more than once -- and just that very afternoon. Some part of her wondered if perhaps he blamed what had befallen Caer Camyrdin not just on King Cwerith, but in some measure on <I>her</I>.<br /><br />And yet there he was, fighting to the death. She was angry at him, and she hated herself for it.<br /><br />That was when Maxen landed a devastating blow.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Hot pain, white pain, searing pain burned in Sir Baigent's side, and he gasped scream was heard by everyone there and cheered by all but three. He pushed himself back up to his feet and wiped the mud and water from his eyes with the back of his hand. He did not look down at the wound; he knew already how long and how deep it was. He knew that it was bad. It had been a terrible blow, and the man who had dealt it was coming again. Sir Baigent weakly parried two attacks and threw one of his own, which Maxen knocked aside with ease. He allowed himself a single glimpse at Gwynwhyfar. Again he imagined what Murron would say: <I>All this for a wisp of a girl? Fool!</I><br /><br /><I>Perhaps, Murron</I>, he thought. <I>But perhaps so much more.</I><br /><br />Sir Baigent swallowed and pushed the pain, the fiery and horrible pain, down deep. With no choice other than to die, he fought on.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>"No,"</I> Gwynwhyfar said. Beside her, Brother Llyad and Estren both shook their heads.<br /><br />Her Champion was staggering away from Maxen, who was pressing again to the attack, slowly but relentlessly. Sir Baigent kept backing up, his parries barely adequate and his attacks listless.<br /><br /><I>Dona, is this how it ends?</I> Gwyn asked inwardly. She expected no answer and received none, although she did see in her mind the grinning visage of the silver wolf. <I>Oh, Goddess....</I><br /><br />Gwyn sniffed the air, which smelled of mud, smoke and blood. This, she knew now, was the stench of war writ small -- for what was a battlefield but the combat square for a thousand such Trials? She wept anew as she beheld the growing dark stain on the torso of her brave Champion.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>Pain must yield to necessity,</I> Pelegaunt ap Prynn had taught his two sons, Baigent and Peryn. <I>For if necessity ever yields, only death can fill its void.</I> Florid words, so unlike his usual manner of speech. He had got them from somewhere else, but it mattered little. They were absolutely true, and not just in war and battle.<br /><br />More attacks were exchanged, more countermoves launched, more ground chewed and trampled into mud, more blood spilled. A high strike by Maxen left a cut on Sir Baigent's cheek, while Sir Baigent drew blood from Maxen's right thigh. And there were blows that did not cut flesh but were still felt, deeply and painfully, like the strikes of a hammer. Each new flash of pain Sir Baigent ignored as well as he could. He spared no thought at all for anything but his opponent. He <I>couldn't</I> think of anything else, even though every bone and muscle in his body ached and throbbed, and the wound in his side continued to bleed. This needed to end. Soon.<br /><br />And yet it went on. The two men fought with strength that should have long faded, leaving one or both victim to the other. Sir Baigent moved his blade to intercept one of Maxen's attacks, wondering even as he did so just how much longer this could possibly continue.<br /><br /><I>As long as is required, Sir Knight.</I><br /><br />The voice was not his own, nor was it his father's. It was not Lord Matholyn's, nor was it Gwyn's; it came neither from Estren nor the never-silent Brother Llyad. It was not Murron of the Arrows, and it was not his brother. He had never heard this voice before, but it somehow sounded familiar -- as if he should know it. He parried another blow by Maxen.<br /><br /><I>You will fight on.</I><br /><br />He threw another attack.<br /><br /><I>You MUST fight on.</I><br /><br />Another countermove.<br /><br /><I>Do you even know why you fight, Baigent ap Pelegaunt?</I><br /><br />Another inside feint, another parry on the backswing.<br /><br /><I>Do you know who she is?</I><br /><br />Another stab, another sidestep, another breath.<br /><br /><I>Do you know whose Champion you are?</I><br /><br />Another.<br /><br /><I>Do you know the part you are to play?</I><br /><br />Another another another another.<br /><br />The blade of his sword now shone with the reflected light of the moon. Had there been a moon before? And why should his mud-spattered and blood-stained blade reflect its light now? He pushed those questions from his mind -- if they even occurred to him -- and struck again, and again, and again. Maxen retreated, and Sir Baigent pressed on. He felt his opponent weakening under the onslaught of strength that was not his own. His sword never stopped, not once, not ever. It couldn't stop, for if it did he would surely die. It must move, never ceasing, never yielding. And move it did, looking like a shard of the moon itself as its dance continued.<br /><br />What is happening? Sir Baigent thought.<br /><br />He pushed Maxen back until the Captain, unable to watch his footing, stumbled and fell for the second time.<br /><br /><I>What is happening to me?</I><br /><br />Sir Baigent saw Maxen lift his blade to parry, and new strength filled him. He made no sound at all as he struck a blow that shattered Maxen's sword, leaving his opponent gripping nothing more than a broken pommel.<br /><br /><I>Why now?</I><br /><br />Sir Baigent spun on his foot, turning a complete circle in no more time than it takes a thrush to flap its wings a single time, mustering his speed and his strength for this. His weapon arced with terrible light, whistling toward Maxen's sword hand, which still flailed in the air brandishing the broken hilt. A scream that came from the depths of his soul tore from Sir Baigent's lips as his sword struck home, sending Maxen's hand flying from its wrist. Then his scream died away to be replaced by Maxen's horrible wail. His strength ebbed, and as Sir Baigent looked at his maimed opponent, his sword suddenly became terribly, terribly heavy again. His shoulders slumped and his knees nearly buckled.<br /><br />He only noticed then that his sword reflected no moonlight at all.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Two screams that Gwyn would never forget in all her days came across the field. The first came from Sir Baigent as he severed Maxen's hand, and the second came from Maxen himself as he stared at the bloody stump of his right wrist in stunned disbelief.<br /><br /><I>Oh, Goddess,</I> Gwyn thought. How had he done it? In one instant Sir Baigent had become a whirl of motion wielding a silvery blade, terrible to behold; and now he was small again, so small and so tired as he stood near Maxen, his chest heaving and his legs looking like they would collapse at any time. He turned to look at her, and their eyes met for only a second. Then he turned again to face his opponent who had clutched his handless wrist between his legs.<br /><br />"We are free!" Brother Llyad exclaimed. Gwyn said nothing. She saw Maxen say something to the knight, and she saw him reply. Then she saw him lift his blade one last time.<br /><br />"<I>O the terrors of this world</I>," she whispered. Words written in some history by a monk whose name she could not even care to remember. Sir Baigent, her Champion, was going to kill this man now. <I>O the terrors of this world, that we should catch our breath to behold a single blossom in a lonely field.</I> But, Gwyn knew all too well, she was no blossom.<br /><br />Then she heard horses behind her.<br /><br />And there was fire.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />All of his strength was gone, vanished in that single violent moment -- if indeed it had ever been his strength at all.<br /><br />Sir Baigent's sword arm was dead, a lifeless weight of flesh that hung from his side. His other arm, too, was like a stone. His legs have never felt this weak before. He looked to the crowd and sought her out, the one whose face was the only face he cared to see right now. There she was, standing with that fool Monk on one side and the harper on the other. His company, such as it was. <br /><br />He turned back to his pitiful opponent, who knelt on the ground pressing his maimed wrist between his legs. Maxen's entire front was covered with blood, and Sir Baigent knew that he was very pale just then even if he couldn't tell for all the dirt on his face. There were sounds all around him, but he couldn't tell what they were.<br /><br />"Is Caer Camyrdin avenged?" Maxen rasped, his voice nearly inaudible.<br /><br />"All the blood in Gwynedd will wash into the sea before that account is settled," Sir Baigent replied.<br /><br />"Then do it and be on with you," Maxen said. "And may my blood be the only that you take before my King Cwerith takes yours."<br /><br />Sir Baigent only nodded. This was the way it had to be. They had both known it. He stepped forward and lifted his blade for the final time--<br /><br /><I>Horses?</I><br /><br />He whirled in the direction of the sound he had heard, the incongruous sound of <I>horses</I>, but saw instead a brilliant flash of white light, followed a heartbeat later by a deafening boom and a wave of heat that knocked him to the ground. When he looked up again he saw that a gigantic fire had begun in the midst of the camp area. Then there was another blast, from the center of a particularly large cluster of Maxen's men. Another boom, and bodies were thrown in all directions. Then he finally spotted the horses: four of them, ridden by figures in dark cloaks with their faces covered by masks of wood. One of them threw something, out into the middle of the combat square. The object landed ten paces or so from where Sir Baigent stood. It was, so far as he could tell, a cylinder of clay or some other earthenware -- but one end of it was burning. A stream of thick, black smoke issued from the thing's burning end, and already Sir Baigent could smell it.<br /><br /><I>"Sir Baigent! Get down!"</I> The voice, to his immense surprise, was Estren's. Sir Baigent heeded the warning and threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his arms a heartbeat before the strange clay cylinder exploded. His ears rang from the blast, and his body was racked with pain as he was thrown at least five feet by the force of the explosion. He felt himself being showered with mud, and the ridiculous thought that perhaps he was dead flashed through his mind before he lifted his head again and opened his eyes. He saw nothing but smoke and fire, although all around him he could hear men shouting and scrambling, and in the distance he heard yet another explosion. One voice -- Fflud's -- could be discerned over the din, shouting orders. Sir Baigent's eyes burned with smoke as he searched the ground for his sword, which he found when the edge of his hand raked across the blade. He swore a single time at the new wound, and then he found the sword's pommel and recovered it. The smoke about him obscured nearly everything; he couldn't even see if Maxen had been killed by the blast and he certainly couldn't tell which direction he was facing. He thought once more of finding Maxen and finishing the deed, but he rejected the thought as quickly as it came. His companions were more important by far than any blood-grudge he might have with some knight of Gwynedd.<br /><br />The smoke cleared enough for him to figure which way he was facing. He turned in the direction his companions had been standing. It did not surprise him that they were not there. <I>They will try to escape,</I> he thought. <I>They'd damned well better, if they have any sense at all.</I> He knew that they would. That Priest was devoted enough to this whole mission to the Druids that he would leap at a chance to get away from these captors, and the Bard certainly had some survival wits about him. As for <I>her</I>...Sir Baigent couldn't be sure about her, which was as always the most maddening thing of all.<br /><br />There was another explosion, somewhere, as he ran across the square after the way he prayed that the companions had gone. The ground before him was littered with bodies. Two of Maxen's men suddenly came at him with clubs, but they were no match for him. He killed them both, finding a tiny bit of pleasure in meeting two opponents who had no idea of how to fight a man who carried a sword and knew how to use it. The action sent pain shooting through the wound in his left side, and for one second spots appeared in his vision. <I>Maxen may win that duel yet,</I> he thought as he staggered over the dead men between him and what he hoped was freedom.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Gwyn barely had time to register the masked horseman at all before the explosion knocked her to the ground.<br /><br />Smoke filled the air, burning her lungs. There were shouts all around, and she felt herself being pushed and prodded as Maxen's men rushed to drunkenly respond to whatever attack this was. A booted foot fell upon her right hand, but her yelp of pain was choked off by someone heavy falling on top of her. This turned out to be Brother Llyad. He rolled off, and she flexed her throbbing fingers, thanking the Goddess that her hand had been on soft ground as opposed to something like a rock, which would have left the bones in her hand shattered when the man had stepped upon it.<br /><br />"Are you hurt, My Lady?" Brother Llyad asked.<br /><br />"I don't think so," she said. Two more explosions sounded, one quite nearby. "What is happening?"<br /><br />"An attack," Estren said. "It appears that Maxen was not lying about the fire-wielding bandits -- <I>Sir Baigent! Get down!"</I><br /><br />Gwyn's gaze shot to the knight, who was still in the combat square. She saw him fall to the ground and cover his head just before the explosion. Gwyn covered her own eyes too late, and the blast blinded her as it knocked her back down.<br /><br />"We have to get out of here!" Estren's voice rang out. Gwyn's eyesight returned in a heartbeat or two, and she saw nothing before her but smoke, fire and running men. There were more explosions somewhere, and she realized that the tents behind her were on fire and the flames were spreading. Maxen's men were drunk and torn between fighting off an attack and salvaging their camp. Somewhere she could hear Fflud shouting. Bodies littered the ground before her, men who had been struck dead by the first blast and whose corpses smoldered and oozed steaming blood over the cold ground. Her gorge rose, but she swallowed it back down. Nearby a section of the citadel's stone wall collapsed with a grinding rumble. <I>Is this what the Scarlet King saw and heard, when he finally fell?</I><br /><br />"Come!" Estren shouted again. "We have to go, before one of these men realizes that we are still their captives. We will recover our belongings, get our horses, and get out of this place."<br /><br />"But Sir Baigent!" Gwyn exclaimed.<br /><br />"He will find us," Estren said.<br /><br />"We can't just leave him here!" Gwyn protested.<br /><br />"We aren't leaving him here! This attack won't last long, and the fire will last longer but the men will recover soon enough. Our chance is <I>now</I>! We must go!"<br /><br />Gwyn still hesitated, looking back into what was left of the combat square. A cloud of smoke hung over the field. She could not see her Champion anywhere.<br /><br />"My Lady, <I>please.</I>" Estren grabbed her arm. "If Fflud finds us I promise you that he will not be bound by Maxen's pledge!"<br /><br />Gwyn remembered that this had been Sir Baigent's original concern, before the Trial had even started. She envisioned briefly what would happen if they were recaptured now.<br /><br />"Let's go," she said.<br /><br />They picked their way over the dead and unconscious men, stopping once for Estren to grab a dagger from one of the bodies. Then they scrambled between the tents and the wall of the old fortress which now seemed far less stable than it had before. This seemed to take an agonizingly long time, but it was only a few minutes before they reached the storage tent where they had been quartered that afternoon. Gwyn took solace in holding her bow again, even though it was not strung. Estren recovered his harp and his own sword.<br /><br />"There haven't been any of those explosions for a few minutes," Brother Llyad said. "I suspect the attackers have already gone."<br /><br />"Duration was never the purpose of the attack," Estren replied. "These masked bandits strike quickly and then run away in the confusion. In an earlier day such a tactic might have been considered cowardly."<br /><br />"Cowardly or no, they have given us our only chance," Gwyn said. "Let's not lose it now!"<br /><br />They left the tent and entered the utter chaos outside. The bandits had done their task well, setting several fires that now threatened the entire camp, and the men were struggling not to extinguish the flames but to salvage what they could before the flames consumed everything. The three companions were forced to take a long way around, keeping to the edge of the tent area -- but to their surprise, they found that they were completely ignored by the still-drunk men staggering about under the weight of the armloads they carried out of harm's way. One man who was trying to cut a tent's support ropes with his dagger succeeded in cutting his own hand, and other men who were overcome by the smoke and heat were dragged away by their equally drunken comrades. The ones who were partially sober tried, with little effect, to direct the efforts of those who were not. None of these men cared one whit for the three former prisoners who moved past them with unsettling ease.<br /><br />"We will be there soon," Estren said.<br /><br />"Won't the horses be guarded?" Brother Llyad asked.<br /><br />Estren shrugged. They would confront that problem when it was before them.<br /><br />They came around a corner and saw the main gate before them, with the wagon area, the forges, and the livery beyond.<br /><br />"They've moved the horses to the farthest point from the camp," Gwyn said. "And look! The gate is guarded already."<br /><br />It was true. There were armed men already standing at the gate. That wasn't what occupied Estren's attention, however.<br /><br />"It is worse than that," he said. "Look." He pointed to their left, where three great wells stood. These wells, all in a row, had been the Scarlet King's source of water and his secret of surviving for so long up on this lonely hilltop. Several dozen men were drawing water from the wells into buckets, helmets, wineskins, and anything that could hold it to be taken to the tent fires. Supervising these men was Fflud. His booming voice could be heard above all, shouting orders and directing the waterbearers to the fires. "We will never get by here, on horseback or no," Estren said.<br /><br />"It doesn't matter," Gwyn said. "Look. They are moving the horses out of the camp until they can put the fire out." She pointed, and they saw that it was so: the livery workers were guiding the horses, two at a time, through one of the gaps in the wall to the relative safety outside -- at least as safe as could be, given that they were at the top of a fairly steep hill.<br /><br />"Can we sneak through the gate?" Brother Llyad asked.<br /><br />"Certainly not!" Estren said. "We will have to find another way. Perhaps--"<br /><br /><I>"The prisoners! They are escaping!"</I><br /><br />It was the poorest of fortunes that they had been spotted at precisely that moment by one of the few members of Maxen's camp who had remained sober this evening, and that his shouts were loud enough to be heard by Fflud.<br /><br /><I>"Get them!"</I> Fflud shouted, and the men nearest him all dropped their buckets and water receptacles to come after the companions. Some of these men were still drunk, but some were not.<br /><br />"Go back!" Estren cried.<br /><br />It was their only chance, but Gwyn quailed at the thought of going back into the fire. They stayed to the outer ring of tents, where the flames were not yet all-consuming, but still the smoke choked them and the heat -- Gwyn had never known heat like this, not even when she worked with Brother Ethgun's bread ovens during the hottest days of summer. Her eyes ran freely, and she had to stop every ten steps or so just to wipe them. At one point she felt searing heat against her calves, and she realized that her cloak had actually taken to flame; with a scream she stopped to put it out and then kept running. They had no way of knowing, through the fire and ask and smoke, if the pursuers were actually behind them or if they had chosen not to brave the flames. A feeling of light airiness came over Gwyn, and she felt a hand grabbing her arm -- was it Brother Llyad's? -- but she paid it little mind. A soft moan escaped her lips, and she wanted nothing more at that moment than to give up, to surrender to these men and beg the Goddess's forgiveness for her failure before she died -- and then they reached a spot where a new gap in the wall had been opened by one of the masked attackers' strange fire-weapons. Estren helped Gwyn and Brother Llyad through the opening into the clear and cold air beyond. They were now outside the citadel.<br /><br />Gwyn fell to her knees, coughing and gasping for huge breaths of clear air.<br /><br />"Come," Estren said. "We can't stop yet. Not until we have our horses."<br /><br />"I can't see anything," Gwyn said. It was true. Moving from the brightness of the burning camp to the darkness outside the citadel was totally blinding. The only light was an orange glow that colored the clear sky above the citadel. It was hardly enough for them to see by, especially if they were going to pick their way around the rocks to wherever the horses had been taken. "Where will we go now?" she asked.<br /><br />"We should go down into the valley and hide somewhere near the opening to the main road," Estren said. "That's the best place that Sir Baigent will be able to reach -- if he comes through."<br /><br /><I>He didn't need to say that last,</I> Gwyn thought.<br /><br />"It is too dark just now," the bard went on. "Perhaps some light, if only for a moment...." He reached into his cloak and pulled out the green gem. Holding it aloft, he chanted softly in his secret Bardic tongue. The gem began to glow, illuminating the crumbling wall of the citadel to their left, the rocky ground that sloped away to their right -- and the three horsemen who wore dark cloaks and masks of wood. Two of them held bows with arrows at the ready, aimed right at them.<br /><br />"Put that damned thing out, fool!" one of them said. "They will see it!"<br /><br />Gwyn and Brother Llyad gasped in unison.<br /><br />"Put it <I>out!</I>"<br /><br />Estren immediately stopped chanting, and the stone went dark again. There was the sound of flint being struck, and then one of the men was holding a lighted lantern -- a candle enclosed in a tube of thick glass, which hung from a length of rope. "This will give us enough light to see as we ride down this damned hill," the man said. His voice was deep and commanding. "And it's not as noticeable as that damned bauble you're carrying. Have you Bards no sense?"<br /><br />"Who are you?" Estren asked.<br /><br />"No sense at all," the man snapped. "This is hardly the time to be asking questions. There will be plenty of time for that once we've brought you to Gareth."<br /><br /><I>Gareth</I>. Gwyn's skin went cold. They had escaped being Maxen's prisoners, and were now prisoners again -- to the very band of mysterious , fire-wielding masked bandits Maxen had spoken of.<br /><br />"You're taking us?" Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />"Oh, wonderful. A Bard and two clerics, and not a stitch of sense between them. Do you think we will leave you to be captured by these ruffians, so that you can tell them which way we escaped after they torture you a bit? No, you're coming with us. It's the only way I can guarantee our safety."<br /><br />"And what of our own?" Estren asked.<br /><br />"That will be decided by Gareth. Now we must move. It won't take these men long to begin searching the outer perimeter of this castle."<br /><br />"But our horses--" Estren said.<br /><br />"By the Son's blood, man! <I>Forget</I> your horses! We haven't time for this nonsense. Will you come willingly, or shall we strike you unconscious and carry you like sacks of grain?"<br /><br />" 'By the Son's blood,'" Brother Llyad whispered. The expression struck Gwyn oddly as well, though she had no idea what to make of it. Estren turned to the companions and nodded. One by one, they each mounted one of the horses behind one of the riders. Gwyn rode behind the leader.<br /><br />"And enjoy the scenery for now," the man said. "As soon as we reach the bottom of this hill, we will blindfold you. It is necessary."<br /><br />"Maxen didn't blindfold us," Estren said.<br /><br />The man made no reply to that. They started to ride, very slowly making their way down the side of the hill and carefully avoiding the main road. <br /><br />One of the other men spoke then. "What if Matt and Calloch aren't at the meeting place?"<br /><br />"Then we go home," the leader said. "They know the way."<br /><br />When they had ridden down a fair portion of the hill, and with no sign of pursuit, Gwyn glanced backward. The ruined citadel of the Scarlet King was illuminated from within by the orange and yellow fires, and she could occasionally hear a particularly loud shout. <I>Goddess, protect Sir Baigent and allow him to find us.</I> She tried to assure herself that this was far from the worst thing that could have happened, but she didn't find herself very convincing.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Maxen pulled himself across the combat square to where Fflud was shouting orders, even as his orderly camp dissolved behind him into fiery chaos. His chin and shirt were covered with blood, vomit, and mud; his face was pale from the loss of blood. He stared down once or twice at the stump where his hand had been and retched anew in revulsion and rage, even though he had already emptied his stomach and now brought up only spit abd bile. Through sheer force of will he pushed himself up onto his knees with his remaining hand and clutched the handless wrist under his right shoulder, seeking to choke off the pain.<br /><br />"Help him," Fflud said. Two men came rushing to Maxen's side and helped support him. "Captain, you need attention--"<br /><br />"You need to find these attackers, idiot." Maxen's voice was raspy, sick. "Find them and kill them all."<br /><br />"Captain, we have to save the camp! The fires will burn everything!"<br /><br /><I>"Damn you!"</I> Maxen tried to grab Fflud's collar -- with the hand that was no longer there. A fresh wave of pain racked his body, and he stumbled. One of the men beside him grabbed his arm and held him up. "Let go, you fornicating dog! I am still the Captain of this army!"<br /><br />Fflud grabbed Maxen by the shoulders. "Captain," he said, "you are not fit for this right now. You have been maimed, and you must be seen by the healer."<br /><br />"Healer? The <I>healer?</I>" Maxen laughed maniacally. He was already feeling light-headed. "Can he heal <I>this</I>?" He waved the bloody stump in Fflud's face. Still laughing, he fell to his knees.<br /><br />"Take him someplace safe, and find something to bind that wound of his," Fflud ordered the men at Maxen's side. "He is not strong enough right now."<br /><br />"Not...strong...enough...." Maxen chuckled at the words. The pain in his maimed wrist was gone, replaced by a feeling of contented warmth. "I wasn't...strong enough....but next...time...." He slumped onto the ground again and this time barely noticed when the two men lifted him, one by the shoulders and one by the feet. His head lolled to one side, and he caught a glimpse of something on the ground that might have been a hand but was really a piece of wood.<br /><br />The strange warm feeling spread through him, but there was a certain icy coldness at its core. Images began to flash through his mind -- Caer Mastagg rising above the stormy winter seas, the gray mountains of Gwynedd, the deep forest where he had slain his first boar. That last image stayed with him. He saw the spot with clarity, down to every blade of grass and every pine cone on the forest floor. He saw a man there, kneeling and wearing armor of gleaming black metal, and he knew that he was looking upon himself. And even here, in this forest of his youth, he had only one hand. Then the trees parted and something came into the clearing to stand before him, towering above him. He saw himself bowing deeply before what had come.<br /><br /><I>You were not strong enough,</I> said a voice that he had never heard before and yet somehow knew as well as if it were his own, a voice that spoke to his soul and brought comfort to the blackness in his heart. <I>You will be. You will be strong enough by far.</I><br /><br />The image faded, swiftly and suddenly. Unconsciousness came so quickly that Maxen had no time to wonder why he had seen himself bowing before a great silver wolf.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Sir Baigent burst into the tent where he and his companions had spent the afternoon. Of course they were not here, but neither were their possessions, so at least they had <I>been</I> here. <I>Their next goal will be the horses,</I> he thought. He stopped to grab a scrap of cloth to wipe the blood from his side -- <I>That will need binding before long,</I> he noted -- and then he ran out, hopefully after the girl and the monk and the Harper.<br /><br />Fire was spreading very quickly now through the camp, and he smiled grimly as he considered the damage the masked attackers had wrought. Maxen's camp, comprising an entire company of Cwerith's army, was going up in smoke. It was a welcome beginning.<br /><br />Sir Baigent glanced both directions, trying to gauge what would be the best way to reach the horses. There would be more men along the path to his right that went behind the tents and along the wall past the main gate; the other way -- to his left, back through the Combat Square and the common area -- would take far longer. And that way, he realized, would take him to the wells where the men would surely be drawing water to fight the fires. Time was his most pressing concern now; he had no idea of where his companions were and he knew that the livery workers, if they were in any way competent, would already be moving the horses outside the citadel walls until the fires were put out. And in both directions, the right and the left, he would find nothing but hostile men to fight his way through. Thus he realized that he would have to go straight ahead, through the heart of the flames. <I>Goddess protect me from this foolery, but there are times when the Fool's Path is the only one available.</I> His father had taught him that prayer. "It sounds absurd, Baigent, but you may someday find yourself in just such a position," Pelegaunt had said.<br /><br />Sir Baigent sheathed his blade and pulled out his dagger. Climbing around the back of the tent, he found that it was still fairly damp -- it had not received nearly enough light to dry out completely from the rains the night before. Using his dagger he cut a large section of the tent away and wrapped himself in it. Then he tucked his head down and ran.<br /><br />He got only ten steps or so before he realized how unbelievably foolish this was. He could barely keep his eyes open in the heat enough to see where he was running, which was even worse given his incomplete knowledge of the camp's layout. All he could do was trust his sense of direction, which had rarely failed him. The wet fabric with which he had covered himself offered protection for a brief time, but then he stumbled on a piece of burning wood that had fallen in front of him, and the makeshift cloak flapped away from him and partly caught fire. He made no effort to preserve it; he only shrugged it off the rest of the way and kept running. Surely it was only a little way more, the camp wasn't <I>that</I> big, the flames would soon recede behind him...and they did. He was beyond the fires. The hem of his cloak was burning, and he tore it from his shoulders and threw it into a nearby tent that had not yet caught fire. His boiled leather clothes were singed, as was his scabbard -- but the sword was still intact.<br /><br />"Gods, man, get out of there!" It was one of Maxen's men, a burly fellow who had mistaken Sir Baigent for one of his own. At least the night's events had served to soil him enough to mask his appearance; he couldn't imagine how filthy his hair and body must be.<br /><br />"All is well," Sir Baigent said. "But the fire is spreading to those tents there." He pointed to the tent where he had thrown his burning cloak, which had indeed started to blaze.<br /><br /><I>"Water here!"</I> the man shouted, running off to divert some of the water-bearers. Sir Baigent overcame another burst of pain from the wound in his side to run again. No one took the slightest notice of him as he did so. Nevertheless, when he heard the voice of Fflud bellowing orders, he quickly ducked behind one of the wagons and, keeping low, crept the rest of the way.<br /><br />Now he was past the wagons and into the livery, where most of the horses had already been shepherded through a small gap in the wall. He was about to run for that gap when he heard the very familiar scream of a particular horse. Spinning about, he saw two of the livery workers -- a fat man who was covered with hair and an even fatter man who was bald as a river-smooth stone -- trying to subdue his horse. Arradwen reared and screamed while one of the workers tugged at her reins and the other lashed at her with a whip.<br /><br />"You'll learn obedience," the one with the whip shouted, "or you will end up in our soup-pots!"<br /><br />"Horses make good soup," the other one snarled. "<I>Especially</I> the bad ones."<br /><br />Sir Baigent had heard enough. He looked around and found a wooden staff that would do quite nicely. He walked up behind the livery worker with the whip and drove the staff's blunt end into the small of the man's back. The man grunted, twisted backward with pain and dropped to the ground. The whip fell from his hand.<br /><br />"One way to know a good horse is that they don't respond well to the whip," he said as he swung the staff around, breaking the man's jaw and knocking him unconscious. The other man let the reins go and faced Sir Baigent, pulling a dagger from his belt.<br /><br />"You can attack a man from the back," the man said. "Can you fight me to my face?"<br /><br />Sir Baigent gave one laugh as he drew his sword. "<I>You</I> decide," he said. The other man's eyes went wide, and he tried to run away, but Sir Baigent quickly grabbed the whip from the ground and lashed it around the man's ankles, sending him face-first into the ground. Then he grabbed the man and wound the whip tightly around his wrists behind him. "You should learn the difference between a swordsman and a stable-worker with a knife," he said. Then he grabbed the man's dagger and tucked it into his own belt. "You should also leave the toys to the children who know what to do with them." He clubbed the man into unconsciousness with the pommel of his sword, and then he rose and turned to his horse. "Easy, Arradwen," he said, calming the beast with a hand to her neck. "We have riding to do, girl." It took him only a minute to find his saddle and to put it on her back. Then he climbed up onto her back and rode through the gap into the small, flat area beyond the citadel walls where the horses had been moved. Here he looked around and saw two familiar-looking animals.<br /><br /><I>They were unable to get their horses,</I> he realized. <I>That means they went on foot.</I> He rode through the horses until he came to the rope boundaries which had been hastily erected to keep the horses from wandering. These he cut with his sword, not only to get through himself but also in hopes that the camp's horses would scatter, further hampering their ability to do anything. He rode through the darkness until he came to the road, just a short distance away from the main gate to the camp. Here he considered what to do now. <I>If they have any sense at all they will hide near the bottom of this road for a time, hoping to meet me.</I> He knew that he was counting a great deal on sense he wasn't sure that they had, but there were no other options. He looked up at the citadel, its walls outlined by the orange glow from the burning camp within. <br /><br /><I>First, I will need light.</I> He turned and rode back up the road, right up to the main gate. Two guards stood there, holding spears. Torches had been set in the wall beside them. Sir Baigent drew his sword as he approached. The men stepped forward, still not holding their spears in any kind of defensive stance. <I>Idiots</I>, thought the Knight as he swung his sword and beheaded one of the two guards and then whirled about to face the other, who only now realized what was happening. The man lifted his spear, but Sir Baigent sidestepped out of his range, slid his sword back into its scabbard, and in one smooth motion threw the dagger he had taken from the livery worker. The dagger buried itself in the guard's shoulder, forcing him to drop his spear. Sir Baigent stayed only long enough to grab one of the torches, and then he headed down the hill as fast as he dared ride. When he had come about halfway down he stopped and stared down at the ground. To his surprise, he did not need to dismount to see the trail; equally to his surprise, it was the trail of three horses, not three footprints. <I>Did they find different horses?</I> he wondered. <I>If this is their trail, then at least we'll have Gwynwhyfar and Brother Llyad off the same horse.</I><br /><br />Sir Baigent rode on, eventually coming to the bottom of the hill. There was no pursuit behind him whatsoever, and when he looked back up at the ruined citadel of the Scarlet King he saw only a diffuse red glow that was already dimming. <I>They must have the fires under control by now. It won't be long until they realize that we've gone. But will they bother with the pursuit?</I> He searched about for the trail, and quickly found it again: the same three horse-tracks he had discovered above. But this was odd: they had kept riding. He shook his head. They were making this harder than necessary. He followed the trail a short while, and then the trail left the road altogether and headed straight for the river. A feeling of disquiet came over him. <I>They couldn't have crossed the river,</I> he thought. <I>If they did I will never find their trail again before daylight. Fools!</I> But it was so: the trail vanished in the waters of the river. Sir Baigent swore. Perhaps they had only ridden for a short while in the water; perhaps they had come out on this side, downstream...he rode on, praying that this was the case. And the dull ache in his side was becoming worse. He needed to find his companions, and soon.<br /><br />Then he came upon another trail. His heart soared for just a moment, until he realized that this trail was only two horses, and that it had come not from the water but from the road. From the looks of it, whoever these two riders were had come to this spot from the road, milled about for quite a while, and then moved...behind the two gigantic boulders in front of him....<br /><br />The rock caught him in the middle of his chest, knocking his breath away and sending him headlong from his horse. He tried to roll upright and to draw his sword, but he felt something drop over him -- it was a net, a damned <I>fishing net</I>. He struggled against it in rage that he had failed to recognize the most perfect spot for an ambush that he had ever seen, and rage that now his companions were most likely gone. He struggled against the pair of astonishingly strong hands that now grasped him and bound his arms behind him and his legs together. They took his sword and dagger and wrapped him tightly in the very net with which they had subdued him. He became aware of Arradwen screaming. His own strength began at last to falter.<br /><br />"She's a spirited one," he heard one of the men say.<br /><br />"Well, calm her down!" the other one, who was still kneeling on top of Sir Baigent, said. "We'll need her to carry this one with us."<br /><br />"We're taking him with us?"<br /><br />"What did you think, fool? That we'd show up and present this fine animal to Gareth, without the rider? You <I>know</I> what Gareth would say. She'd be incredibly angry."<br /><br /><I>She?</I> Sir Baigent thought. <I>Maxen's fearful opponent is a woman?</I><br /><br />"We could tell her that it was one of Maxen's men, and that we had no choice--"<br /><br />"Except that his sword bears the mark of Camyrdin. <I>We</I> would know the truth. No, he's coming with us, I'm afraid."<br /><br />"Oh, fine. But it will take longer."<br /><br />"I know that. Do you have that horse calmed yet?"<br /><br />"I think so...."<br /><br />Sir Baigent found his consciousness beginning to falter. He was unsure of how much time elapsed, but he felt himself at one point being lifted and placed on Arradwen's back. Then he heard one of his captors gasp.<br /><br />"He's got himself a nasty wound here," the man said. "We should dress that for him."<br /><br />"When it's light, and when we are far away from here. Let's go."<br /><br />Sir Baigent felt his horse being jerked into motion. Gwyn's face, sad and strong, appeared in his mind. "Forgive me, My Lady," he mouthed soundlessly. His strength was gone, and unconsciousness overcame him. Sir Baigent ap Pelegaunt, seneschal of Camyrdin and champion of Gwynwhyfar the Welcomer, heard and felt no more.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1117974671927771092005-06-05T05:27:00.000-07:002005-06-05T05:31:11.973-07:00Chapter ElevenThey passed the hours until sundown in somber quiet. Nothing more was said of the suspicions Estren had raised. Instead, Gwyn joined Brother Llyad in prayer and meditation while Estren spent his time composed his thoughts and experimented with several new melodic subjects. Sir Baigent sharpened his sword and used a stick to draw diagrams of the camp, from memory, in the dirt on the floor, down to the larger gaps in the wall whose location he had marked in his mind. Thus the four or five hours passed, and finally Fflud came to collect them. "There is food," was all he said before he turned and walked out of the tent again, making the companions race to catch up with him.<br /><br />They followed Fflud out of the tent area and into the wide central common, where most of the men in the camp had gathered around one of the eight or nine blazing cookfires. As before, Gwyn's presence in the midst of these men was met with whistles, lusty shouts, and utterances of the most bawdy and repugnant kind. Fflud said nothing as he led them past all these depravities to the fire where Maxen himself sat. There were three other men with him, but they were enmeshed in some kind of strength contest involving clasped arms and daggers held by the blade; Maxen ignored them and merely gazed into the fire waiting for the scraggly lamb whose carcass turned on a spit above the flame to finish cooking. The lamb was thin and bony; Gwyn could tell at a glance that its flesh would be tough and gamey, but even after just two days of hard riding since Briston the smell of cooking meat was intoxicating. Her stomach began rumbling immediately, and she almost forgot that they were perhaps going to break bread with enemies. They all sat down on the ground, next to Maxen.<br /><br />"Greetings," he said. "I hope you find the lodging satisfactory."<br /><br />"It will keep out the rain," Sir Baigent said. Gwyn glanced up at the clear sky.<br /><br />"That it will," Maxen replied with a laugh. "I only hope that we don't see much more rain like that which came last night. Do you know that some of my men believe that storm was unnatural? That it was sent by the Goddess for some reason known only to her? Do you believe that?"<br /><br />"Well--" Sir Baigent began.<br /><br />"Actually," Maxen said, "I think that I would prefer the thoughts of the clerics on this matter." He smiled at Gwyn especially.<br /><br />Brother Llyad cleared his throat. "The Goddess does not work in this way," he said.<br /><br />"In what way?" Maxen asked. "She does not manufacture such storms and send them across the land, wreaking havoc and destroying what her worshipers have built? If not the Goddess, then would it not be the work of some other power -- but then the Goddess not be so strong as we would prefer to believe, no?" He looked up at the sky for a moment. Behind them there arose a loud burst of laughter, and one of the three men engaged in the strength contest shouted out in pain and was now rubbing his forearm, the flesh of which had turned a bright crimson. "You should forgive me such talk," Maxen finally said. "I am not as well versed in the matters of the Goddess and her worshipers."<br /><br />"You say 'her worshipers' as if you are not one of them," Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />"I don't worship much at all these days," Maxen replied. "Save, of course, that which I can see before me -- that animal on the fire, the walls around this camp, and this flagon of ale." He hoisted his cup then, and Gwyn suddenly realized how red his face was and how much he was actually sweating, despite the cold night. He had apparently consumed a bit more ale than what was just then in his flagon. "These matters have been much on my mind in recent days," he said.<br /><br />"Such matters have been on everyone's mind recently," Gwyn said.<br /><br />"Impressive wisdom coming from one so young as yourself," Maxen said. "How amazing! Brother, I know that you were once as young as your Adept here, but I doubt very much that you were as wise."<br /><br />"Gwyn is a fine student," Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />"Gwyn?"<br /><br />"Gwynwhyfar," Gwyn said, adopting a formal tone. "Thank you for your kind words. I value them highly, coming from so august a man as the Captain of Lord Cydric's guard."<br /><br />Maxen smiled at that, the tribute clearly pleasing him. Gwyn suspected that it pleased him more coming from a woman than it did coming from a cleric. "I must say," Maxen mused as he ran his finger around the edge of his cup, "that you are quite unlike any cleric that I have ever known. Most are men, to be sure, but even the women I have met who have sworn themselves to the Goddess I have always suspected of doing so because they could not possibly hope to find a man who would swear himself to them. I've never met one so pleasing to the eye." He glanced at Sir Baigent. "Tell me, mercenary, how is it that you travel with so lovely a blossom and resist the urge to pluck it?" Gwyn gasped, and anger flashed in Sir Baigent's eyes. "I should think," he went on, "that such temptation would be impossible to resist."<br /><br />Brother Llyad, utterly aghast, rose to his feet. "You would harbor such thoughts toward one who is sworn to the Goddess?"<br /><br />"Brother!" Sir Baigent said, half rising himself. Brother Llyad had spoken a bit too loudly. Everyone in earshot was now watching and trying to figure out what was going on.<br /><br />"Have care, Brother," Maxen said. "Many of my men are full of drink and may well misinterpret your stance just now."<br /><br />Brother Llyad swallowed hard and sat back down.<br /><br />"As for your question," Maxen went on, "she is an Adept, and not properly sworn to anything yet. Isn't that true? Well, Mercenary? What say you?"<br /><br />Gwyn glanced over at Sir Baigent, who had recovered his cool demeanor.<br /><br />"I don't make a habit of entertaining such thoughts about those who pay me for services rendered," said the knight.<br /><br />"Indeed," Maxen replied. "Interesting to hear you say that. So few mercenaries are men of honor -- it is what drives them to turn mercenary in the first place. You are more than that, I think." In that moment, Maxen suddenly seemed far less at the mercy of his ale than he had been at first. In fact, he seemed now to be quite sober. Gwyn shivered, but Sir Baigent only smiled.<br /><br />"And you seem more than a mere Captain of the Guard," the knight replied.<br /><br />Maxen held his gaze for just a moment, and then he threw back his head and laughed. Then he turned to Fflud. "You dolt!" he said. "Your manners are disastrous! Dinner is about to be served, and still our guests have no ale!" He clapped his hands to signal a passing servant, whom he directed to bring four flagons. "You clerics do drink ale, do you not?" he asked Gwyn.<br /><br />"More often mead or wine, if possible," she replied, avoiding his direct gaze.<br /><br />"Wine is hard to come by, in Caer Mastagg," Maxen said as they were served. "And I've never cared for mead." Maxen lifted his mug. "Whose health should we propose tonight?" he asked.<br /><br />Sir Baigent raised his flagon. "To High King Irlaris," he said.<br /><br />Something flashed in Maxen's eyes, something dark, but he only smiled thinly and nodded. Fflud made an audible grunt of some displeasure.<br /><br />"To the High King of Prydein," he said.<br /><br /><I>Not the same thing,</I> Gwyn realized. Not at all the same thing. If Sir Baigent likewise realized it, he nevertheless showed nothing. They all drank. Gwyn had never been particularly fond of ale, but this was especially not to her liking -- thick and grainy and strong. As she swallowed the bitter libation she heard a chorus of shouts and cheers behind her that moved through the camp.<br /><br />"Ah," Maxen said as he lowered his flagon. "Our dinner is ready, or I miss my guess."<br /><br />It was indeed. Servants came around bearing loaves of bread which they distributed before turning to the task of lifting the roasted lamb from the fire. They cut great hunks of meat from the cooked carcass and handed them out on tin plates. Because the meat was still very hot, Gwyn bit from the bread first. It was thick, heavy, hard and stale; Gwyn supposed that it was at least several days old. Another day or two and it would probably be moldy, although the cold air would help in that regard. The meat, though, was better than Gwyn expected. It was indeed fairly tough and gamy, but even so it was a wonderful alternative to the cold, dried meat that she had eaten at every meal since leaving Briston. Gwyn ate with relish, her appetite winning out over her still-lingering doubts as to just where Maxen and his men had found these sheep in the first place.<br /><br />"Fresh meat is hard to come by these days," Maxen said as he picked a bone clean.<br /><br />Sir Baigent cleared his throat. "Since you mention that," he said, "I've been wondering how you came by these sheep. Killing fresh livestock for meat seems unlikely in these times."<br /><br />"It is a rare indulgence," Maxen admitted. "Sometimes a Captain must think of the pleasures of his men. As for the finding of them, that was by the best of luck, I assure you." He dropped the subject, instead turning and holding up his flagon to be filled by a passing servant. Then, he turned to Estren. "Now that our meal is done, I wonder if the harper would favor us with some entertainment? Games of dice are well enough, but I've become bored with them lately, especially as we pass the same winnings around each night. And our own voices raised in song would waken those who dwell in Annwn." He gave a chuckle. "I'm afraid, though, that I have little coin to offer you."<br /><br />"That is of no concern," Estren said. "I am accustomed to performing in return for lodging and food. It would honor me to perform for your men."<br /><br />"Excellent!" Maxen said, and then he rose and shouted for the attention of his men. Fflud joined him, bellowing at the top of his considerable voice. Even so, with many of the men were already feeling the effects of drink it took some time for them to get the camp quiet enough for Estren to perform. During that time the Bard -- whom Maxen did not know was a Bard, instead thinking him a mere traveling harper -- leaned over and whispered something in Sir Baigent's ear. Gwyn saw Sir Baigent nod, although his expression was grim. Finally, when Maxen was satisfied that the men were going to listen, he gestured for Estren, who rose to his feet.<br /><br />"Don't you need your harp?" Gwyn asked. The harp had been left in the tent, along with the rest of their belongings.<br /><br />"Not for <I>this</I> song," Estren replied, and then he began. That was all the warning Gwyn -- or any of them -- had for what happened next.<br /><br />He could have chosen from any of a hundred songs that he knew, the ones that would not suffer from being sung unaccompanied by any instrument: humorous tales of errant Knights, sad stories of doomed lovers, thrilling accounts of great warriors and their deeds. He chose none of them. He began singing in his clear voice, and before he even reached the end of the first verse Gwyn heard grunts of displeasure coming from the men around her. Finally she recognized the tune that they had all placed almost immediately. Estren had chosen the most famous work of Hamish the Younger, the <I>Lay of Macholugh</I>.<br /><br />This work told of the great Lord of Camyrdin who, by choosing not to fight, brought the last of the unconquered Lords -- Gwynedd's King Cellamma -- under the banner of High King Irlaris. This one song, more than any other, had spread the legend of the Unfought Battle, showing everyone throughout the land that Irlaris had been ordained by Dona herself, and that Lord Macholugh, by virtue of his courage in refusing to ally himself with Caer Mastagg, had been the bravest of Lords. Hamish's <I>Lay of Macholugh</I> was known and revered across all the land -- except in Gwynedd, where it was remembered as a song of treachery and deceit and cowardice, and where to sing it was to risk offending everyone in earshot.<br /><br />When Estren closed the song with the traditional paean to Lord Macholugh, later added by Hamish after Macholugh's passing, he bowed before Maxen and returned to his seat. The whole camp had fallen utterly silent. A hard look was frozen on Maxen's face, and his lips were curled in a tight frown. "An interesting choice of songs, harper."<br /><br />Estren nodded. "I thought it might give comfort to men set at war," he said.<br /><br />Gwyn saw Maxen shake his head once, hard, and she followed his gaze to Fflud, just in time to see the big man remove his hand from the hilt of the dagger he wore stuck in his belt.<br /><br />Sir Baigent saw this too. "Did he give offense?" the knight asked. "Surely it was only a harmless verse about something that happened fifty years ago."<br /><br />" <I>'A harmless verse'?</I>" Real anger -- not veiled, not concealed, but raw and visceral -- was in Maxen's voice now. "That work is nothing more than disgusting doggerel. It is slanderous and sings the praises of a cowardly traitor." He glared at Estren, who spread his arms in feigned reproach.<br /><br />"I only meant--" the Bard began, before he was cut off by Sir Baigent.<br /><br />"Has Lord Cydric come to reject the Lords of Camyrdin?" he asked, not troubling at all to hide the edge that was in his own voice now.<br /><br />"Lord <I>Cydric</I>?" Maxen laughed, harshly this time. "If you were truly perceptive, you would have realized by now that I am no servant of Lord Cydric. I personally killed that miserable wretch and left his body for the carrion-birds."<br /><br />"For what crime?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />"For failing to pledge his loyalty to Cwerith ap Cellamma, the true High King of Prydein."<br /><br />Gwyn felt the blood drain from her face. Their fears had been realized.<br /><br />"Then this is part of Cwerith's army?" Sir Baigent asked quietly.<br /><br />Maxen nodded. "I am a Captain in his southern flank," he said. "What say you to that, mercenary?"<br /><br />"You are apparently an even more impressive man than I had first thought," Sir Baigent replied. "I suppose that you <I>were</I> looking for travelers this morning. And the families that lived in that homestead?"<br /><br />Maxen shrugged. "They had the opportunity to bend the knee for King Cwerith -- the same opportunity that I afforded Lord Cydric. It was such a <I>simple</I> request. All they had to do was pledge their loyalty, and offer some small pittance as a token of their new allegiance."<br /><br />"These sheep."<br /><br />"These sheep," Maxen echoed. Gwyn felt sick. So the people in the hanging tree had been murdered for their sheep.<br /><br />"They had their opportunity to live and to serve their High King," Maxen went on. "Instead, they chose to fight. One of them shouted some nonsense about Camyrdin and then they took up what arms they had -- against my trained men. Their arms turned out to be shovels and ploughshares."<br /><br />"You slaughtered them all?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />"To raise a hand against a King's Man is to raise a hand against the King himself," Maxen said. "It was my duty."<br /><br />"Duty," Brother Llyad echoed. "There was a Brother of Dona among them."<br /><br />"He was the one who shouted the nonsense about Camyrdin," Maxen replied. "Clerics are not exempt from serving their King, lest they share the fate of those who refuse. Like the homesteaders. Like Camyrdin." He turned quickly to face Sir Baigent. "That is the third time you have flinched at the mention of Camyrdin, Sir Mercenary. It occurs to me that I do not have your name."<br /><br />"You never asked it," Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />"I ask it now," Maxen said. "You see, despite your clumsy efforts to conceal it, I did note the device of Camyrdin on the pommel of your sword."<br /><br />"My name is Peryn," Sir Baigent said. Gwyn winced inwardly. He was using the name of his dead brother.<br /><br />"So, Peryn, you travel as a mercenary bearing a weapon of Camyrdin," Maxen said. "I am curious: what was your crime?"<br /><br />Sir Baigent blinked. "My crime?"<br /><br />"You were exiled, were you not? For what crime were you sent from Camyrdin?"<br /><br /><I>He thinks that Baigent is an exile!</I> Gwyn thought. <I>We have hope yet.</I><br /><br />Sir Baigent shook his head. "Some things in a man's life should not be discussed," he said softly. "My leaving Camyrdin is not something of which I am proud."<br /><br />"Ah," Maxen said. "A matter of honor. And thus, you have taken service as a mercenary, working your way toward Bedwyn. Duke Cunaddyr is a known supporter of Irlaris and an ally of Camyrdin. I suppose you hoped to regain something of the honor that you lost in earning your exile?" He shook his head. "You may wish to reconsider if your choice of destination is wise."<br /><br />Sir Baigent looked up sharply. "It was not <I>my</I> choice of destination." He indicated Gwyn and Brother Llyad.<br /><br />"I see," Maxen said as he took a sip of ale. "But still, it fits in with your desires, does it not? The opportunity to restore lost honor, and all of that?"<br /><br />"Cunaddyr is a rich man," Sir Baigent said. "He will pay well."<br /><br />"Your thinking is flawed," Maxen said. "He is certain to lose this war, and if he refuses to accept that Irlaris is done and that Cwerith is the true High King, then Cunaddyr will fare no better than Lord Matholyn did. You should know that the winning side in a war pays its mercenaries better."<br /><br />Sir Baigent took a long sip of his own ale. "Is that an offer, Captain?" he asked.<br /><br />"A thought to consider," Maxen said. "The High King <I>will</I> win this war, that much is certain. But he will always welcome strong men who are skilled at arms. A former Knight of Camyrdin may be useful, and once he has taken the throne, there will be spoils to be doled out. You could end up with lands of your own. Perhaps you could succeed Lord Cydric -- his keep was entirely too drafty for my tastes, and this region is too far from the sea, but for a man like you, it might be the perfect opportunity."<br /><br />"I will have to consider that," Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />"I hope that you will do more than that," Maxen said. "You should also consider this: with the winning side, you are much less likely to be dead afterwards." He laughed at that, as did Fflud. Sir Baigent waited a moment before laughing himself.<br /><br />"And what of my companions?" the knight asked.<br /><br />"Well, I cannot allow them to travel alone on to Bedwyn, knowing as I do that they may end up dead after the battle there," Maxen said. "But I don't particularly wish to keep them here, either. I have little use for clerics and a harper -- especially a harper who shows such appalling taste in music as this one has."<br /><br />Estren hung his head in feigned embarrassment.<br /><br />"Perhaps if you let them go from here," Sir Baigent said, "they may rethink their choice of destination and go instead someplace where they will be less likely to come to harm."<br /><br />"Perhaps," Maxen mused.<br /><br />Gwyn's attention to the conversation was suddenly diverted by the presence of warm breath on her neck, breath that when she turned toward its source stank of liquor.<br /><br />"You're a pretty thing," the man said. He was a particularly dirty member of Maxen's force, a greasy little man with stringy hair, a hooked nose, and a horrible smile that displayed what misshapen teeth he had left.<br /><br />"Thank you," Gwyn replied, trying to sound polite while at the same time making little effort to hide her revulsion. She shifted away slightly, glancing at Sir Baigent who was still talking with Maxen.<br /><br />"We don't get much women, if you take my meaning." The man grinned again, and his meaning was quite plain. Gwyn wanted to throw up -- both from his disgusting intent and the unbelievable stench that arose from his long-unbathed body. Gwyn could not remember smelling any person as foul as this in her life, and she had known many farmers. "Oh come now, lovely!" he said. "Give us a little pleasure!"<br /><br />"Sir," Brother Llyad said. "She is not--"<br /><br />"I didn't ask you for pleasure," the man said, "but there may be a few of us here more desperate than me." He giggled at his own joke, his wheezing laugh spraying Gwyn with spittle.<br /><br />Sir Baigent had finally noticed what was happening. "Captain, are your men in the habit of accosting clerics?"<br /><br />Maxen turned, looked, and shook his head. "Blonn, that will be enough from you."<br /><br />"I only want a little peck, Captain!" the man whose name was Blonn protested. He grabbed Gwyn in a rough embrace and planted a slobbering kiss on her lips.<br /><br />"<I>No!</I>" Sir Baigent shouted, jumping to his feet.<br /><br />Gwyn nearly retched at the ruffian's kiss, and in his drunken lurching the contents of his flagon of ale spilled out all over her chest and lap. She pushed him away.<br /><br />"Don't," she said.<br /><br />"I can give you what these other men can't," he said, pointing to Brother Llyad and Estren.<br /><br />"Blonn, go play dice or something." Maxen's voice was bored.<br /><br />Blonn ignored Maxen and grabbed Gwyn again for a second kiss. Somehow -- surely it was no accident -- his hand found her breast.<br /><br />"<I>Enough!</I>" Gwyn heard Maxen yell. The disgusting man pulled back a bit, perhaps to obey -- but Gwyn did not wait to find out. She shoved him with as much strength as she had. His drunkenness worked against him, and his grip easily broke as he tumbled away from her. Then he shrieked in agony, as she had shoved him directly onto the fire.<br /><br />Blonn wailed terribly as he pushed himself out of the fire, planting his hands directly into the hot coals to do so. He rolled aside, onto the ground. His ale-spattered shirt was on fire and his skin was already terribly burned.<br /><br />"<I>Water!</I>" Fflud yelled as he fell on top of Blonn and smothered out the flames on the man's shirt with his own cloak. Blonn whimpered in agony and delirium. Water was brought, which Fflud poured over the man. Gwyn turned away from the scene and fell to her knees, now unable to resist the bile that rose in her throat. She vomited all over the ground. Brother Llyad knelt beside her and took her in his arms. Estren handed her a cup of water, which she managed to choke down. Finally she regained control and rose back to her feet.<br /><br />"It will be all right, child," Brother Llyad said. "You had no choice."<br /><br />"I was already moving to intercede, cleric." It was Maxen. "She most certainly had choice. She was in no danger of….violation, and certainly not by this man. He is a horseman, not a soldier. I have known children that could best this man."<br /><br />"He tried to force himself on her!" Brother Llyad protested. Maxen shook his head.<br /><br />"He would have gained nothing more than the two kisses that he stole," Maxen said. "Had he attempted anything more than that, I have doubts that he would have even known what to do -- unless his knowledge of horses is easily applied to women, which I somehow doubt. She <I>had</I> a choice. Regrettably, now <I>I</I> do not."<br /><br />"What?" Sir Baigent asked, having recognized where this was going.<br /><br />"I believe that I made it clear before," Maxen replied. "To raise a hand against a King's man is to raise a hand against the King himself." He gestured to the two other men nearby. "You and you, see to Blonn here. See that his burns are salved. Fflud, the girl."<br /><br />Fflud stepped away from Blonn as the two men knelt down and lifted the burned man between them. Then Fflud roughly grabbed Gwyn away from Brother Llyad and twisted her around to face Maxen. She gasped.<br /><br />"No," she said in a strangled voice. Fflud held her hands twisted behind her back with just one of his own, and with his other hand he held her head immobile by a thick cord of her own hair. Her wrists and arms throbbed, and her scalp burned with pain. And then she saw Maxen pull his dagger from its sheath. She opened her mouth, but she could not breath enough to scream.<br /><br />"No!" Brother Llyad shouted. "She travels under Dona's Protection! The King's Law--"<br /><br />"You refer to Cwerith's law, no doubt," Maxen said. "And not even clerics are to be granted freedom from his laws. Blonn will suffer some disfigurement, and thus, so will she. One eye and one ear."<br /><br />"Please no," Gwyn said, her voice so small that she wasn't even sure if she had actually spoken aloud. The agony in her arms and in her scalp from Fflud's grip would be nothing compared to what was about to happen. Maxen's dagger would slice her flesh with appalling ease. He stepped toward her, and her bladder loosened.<br /><br />"Stop!" Sir Baigent shouted. His voice rang out. "Does Cwerith's Law give her the right of a Champion?"<br /><br />Maxen stopped in midstride, and sudden silence fell. He turned and gazed at the knight.<br /><br />"A Champion?" Maxen repeated, as if uncertain whether he had heard correctly. "Are you asking for Trial by Combat?"<br /><br />Sir Baigent glanced at Gwyn, and then back at Maxen.<br /><br />"I ask for precisely that," he said. "An alternative to marring the face of a woman who only struck in retaliation a man who brought his injuries upon himself."<br /><br />Maxen shook his head. "Why would you do this? Surely the coin in this girl's purse isn't enough to purchase such loyalty."<br /><br />"She defended herself," Sir Baigent said. "Injuring her is not a proper response."<br /><br />"That, sir mercenary, is my decision to make." Maxen's voice became hard. "You would do well to be silent -- especially as I have already offered you far more money for your services that these clerics could possibly afford, as well as the chance to fight for High King Cwerith."<br /><br />"The right to Trial by Combat has been affirmed by <I>every</I> High King since Prystyl," Sir Baigent pressed. "Will Cwerith no longer--"<br /><br />"Silence!" Maxen snapped. "She <I>will</I> be punished, and I will not allow some exiled Knight turned mercenary to claim any right for her at all. Have done, sir. If you persist in this you will find my offer for your services retracted and, perhaps, yourself in a worse situation than being my guest. I can still make you prisoner, and take you with me to war -- in irons."<br /><br />Maxen turned back toward Gwyn, but her gaze remained riveted to Sir Baigent's. A long moment seemed to pass between them, although it could not have been more than a fraction of a second. With the sigh of a man who had no other option, he spoke again.<br /><br />"If you will not allow a mercenary to claim her right of Champion," Sir Baigent said, pitching his voice to carry, "will you allow it of the seneschal to Matholyn ap Macholugh, Lord of Camyrdin?"<br /><br />Again Maxen stopped, and again there was silence. Sir Baigent drew himself up straight as Maxen turned and gaped at him.<br /><br />"I seem to have piqued your interest." Sir Baigent spoke this time without any hint of a smile.<br /><br />"You….are Matholyn's seneschal?" Maxen finally said. "This is what you expect me to believe?"<br /><br />"I am and I do," Sir Baigent replied.<br /><br />"Then your name is not Peryn," Maxen said.<br /><br />"No, Sir Peryn was my brother, and he deserves better than for his brother to use his name to deceive those who murdered him." He paused to let that sink in, just for a moment. "I am Sir Baigent ap Pelegaunt. Lord Matholyn and I were at Tintagel when your craven King attacked our undefended city."<br /><br />Maxen's eyes gleamed. "Then Matholyn lives--?" He thought for a moment. "An intriguing claim, Sir '<I>Baigent'</I>, but not one that I can believe without proof. At least, more proof than a device on the hilt of your sword."<br /><br />Sir Baigent pulled down his shirt by the collar, revealing a silver chain around his neck that Gwyn had not seen before. He drew forth the chain and displayed the pendant that hung there, in the shape of the stag of Camyrdin. "My badge of office," he said. "Silver, by tradition the metal of the badge of seneschal -- even a coward like Cwerith would not set that tradition aside -- and marked on the back with the personal mark of Lord Matholyn. Is that proof enough for you?"<br /><br />Maxen grated his teeth together. "So these wayward clerics end up in the guardianship of Matholyn's seneschal? And why are you not at his side, as any seneschal should be?"<br /><br />Now it was Sir Baigent's turn to laugh harshly. "I've wondered that myself," he said. "My Lord sent me with them. Why, I don't know -- out of sentiment, I suppose. Lord Matholyn was himself a Monk of Tintagel before he rose to the Lordship."<br /><br />"And why, then, were you not at Caer Camyrdin when the attack came? What business could be so important--"<br /><br />"We didn't know that Cwerith the Craven was on the march," Sir Baigent snapped. "How could we expect such treachery?"<br /><br />"In much the same way that King Cellamma expected the treachery of Lord Macholugh," Maxen shot back. "And challenge or no, if you speak ill of King Cwerith again in my presence I shall have my archers fill your body with arrows and turn this girl over to my men for their pleasure."<br /><br />Sir Baigent snorted. "Leave the job to someone else? When you could take more pleasure in doing it yourself?"<br /><br />Maxen glared at the knight, gnashing his teeth. Fflud relaxed his grip on Gwyn, just a little.<br /><br />"If I grant you this," Maxen said, "what condition will you name?"<br /><br />"Our freedom," Sir Baigent immediately replied. "We will be allowed to leave this camp unchallenged."<br /><br />Maxen laughed. "And with a fourth horse and saddlebags filled with provisions besides," he said. Then he considered the whole idea for a moment. "You, then, fighting for the freedom of yourself and these three." He thought a minute more, and then he sheathed his dagger. "Granted," he said.<br /><br />"Captain!" Fflud exclaimed.<br /><br />"Relax, Fflud," Maxen said. "I have only promised that I will let them leave this camp if he bests our own Champion. I have not promised that we will not pursue them. And besides, it matters little. He will not win."<br /><br />"Let <I>me</I> fight him, Captain," Fflud said, again tightening his grip on Gwyn in his excitement. "He won't best me."<br /><br />"No, Fflud," Maxen replied. "The seneschal of Camyrdin requires no lesser foe than the Captain of this army. <I>I</I> will fight him." He gestured to a servant. "Bring this man his blade," he said.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />A square was hastily created wherein the Challenge would be fought, back beyond the tents and bonfires. It was bordered on two sides by the stone walls of the onetime citadel, on another by the last row of tents, and on the last by a rope and a wall of Maxen's men, most of whom were now quite drunk. At least that part of their original plan had come to pass -- though now it was unlikely to be of any use. The companions stood, under guard, near the tents.<br /><br />Sir Baigent unsheathed his sword and examined the blade. "I didn't think that I would be taking up my weapon against Cwerith's men so soon as this," he said. "Lord Matholyn would be envious. It's a good thing I honed the blade earlier."<br /><br />Estren coughed. "I suppose that you have me to partly blame for this. It appears that my choice of songs was not so wise after all."<br /><br />Sir Baigent shrugged. "We needed to know the truth about these men, and we learned it. I suspect that our chances this way are really about the same."<br /><br />Gwyn had no idea how he could be so calm about this whole business. She had read of trials by combat in the Oracles and in the Histories; never, though, had she ever suspected that one might someday be fought in <I>her</I> name. It was as if she had become a character in one of the very stories that had so enthralled her in her younger years. She might have even laughed at the incongruity except for the sight of Maxen warming up with his own blade across the square. He brandished his sword with strength and grace, the blade flashing in the light of the nearby bonfires. Of course, Gwyn could not truly judge his skill by watching him spar at the air, but it was obvious that at the very least he knew what to do with the weapon.<br /><br />Brother Llyad had drawn the same conclusion. "He looks strong," he said. "Do you think that he will keep his word if--" He caught himself then, before he finished saying "if you win".<br /><br />Sir Baigent glanced at the monk, and then he laughed and shook his head. "Brother, if I win we won't have to worry about Maxen keeping his word. We will have to worry about <I>Fflud</I> keeping Maxen's word."<br /><br />A new rush of fear came over Gwyn. Of course that was the way of it: the Trial would only end with the death of one of the combatants. If it was Maxen, then it would fall to Fflud to grant what Maxen had promised. <I>He won't hesitate to kill us all</I>, Gwyn realized. She didn't know yet if Maxen was truly a man of honor -- she had her suspicions on that score -- but she was absolutely sure that his lieutenant was not.<br /><br />Sir Baigent spun his arms in a wide motion, loosening his shoulders. "I suppose that you will write a song about this," he said to Estren.<br /><br />"A verse at the very least," the Bard replied. "A great deal of what I have seen lately will make for good song. I hope I remember it all."<br /><br />Sir Baigent executed a few strokes and parries with his own sword. His motions were slower and less exaggerated than the ones Maxen was using to get limber for the battle. Gwyn prayed that this was no omen of what was to come.<br /><br />"<I>Sir Baigent of Camyrdin! The time for Trial is at hand!</I>" It was Fflud, who had moved to the center of the square. There were guffaws and snorts of laughter all around at the spectacle of the earthy Fflud speaking in so formal a manner. He paused to dispense several scowls to the crowd of men, and then he resumed. "Sir Baigent, do you still take the role of Champion for this cleric?"<br /><br />"I do," the knight called out.<br /><br />"Then come to the center," Fflud said.<br /><br />It was time. Gwyn's heart sped up. Sir Baigent took one last great swing with his sword, and then he took a step toward the center where Fflud waited.<br /><br />"Sir Baigent!" Brother Llyad exclaimed. "Before you do this, shouldn't you accept Dona's Blessing?"<br /><br />The knight stopped in midstep and turned back to face his companions. "Yes," he said. "If I do the Goddess's bidding, I should have her Blessing -- but not from you, Brother. With all respect, I must ask the Lady Gwynwhyfar to say it for me." He came back then and sank to one knee before Gwyn.<br /><br />Tears sprang to Gwyn's eyes. She ignored the shouts of derision that were directed at Sir Baigent's kneeling before her. "I cannot," she said. "I have not...the Trials of the Priesthood...." She could say no more than that. Sir Baigent looked up at her, and to her surprise he smiled.<br /><br />"This whole journey is your trial, My Lady," he said. "I don't know if you will ever return to Tintagel to become a Priestess, but I don't think that the Goddess would begrudge you this." With that he bowed his head.<br /><br />Gwyn nodded and laid her right hand upon the crown of his head. The traditional words now seemed terribly inadequate for the task at hand. "Sir Baigent ap Pelegaunt, late of Camyrdin," she haltingly began, searching for the words -- the words which now came from deep inside of her, from some part of her soul that she had always known was there but she had only begun to know in these last few days. "Yours is the hand of courage, of honor, and of love. These things are as dear to your soul as they are to the soul of Prydein. Fight now with the strength of the land and the home which is gone to you but for memory. May Dona's fortune be upon you, and may the light of the moon, her seat amongst the stars which shines upon all the roads in all the worlds, guide your hand."<br /><br />She opened her eyes and lifted her hand away from Sir Baigent's head. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and rose to his feet.<br /><br />"Thank you, My Lady." That was all he said before he bowed and, turning, walked out into the square where his enemy stood waiting for him, sword in hand.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1116160189062353982005-05-15T05:09:00.000-07:002005-05-15T05:29:49.093-07:00Chapter TenGwyn waited for Sir Baigent's outburst of rage, but he only closed his eyes and flexed his already-tight grip on the reins. Is this what it had been like at Caer Camyrdin, she wondered? Had there been hundreds of such hanging trees there, their branches sagging under the weight of so many dead? How many bodies there had been mutilated with the device of Caer Mastagg? Probably few, she decided -- the city had been put to the torch -- but still, she could not put from her mind the horrible image of an entire forest of hanging trees.<br /><br />"Who would do such a thing?" Brother Llyad asked. "And to a Brother of Dona, besides? We are people of peace!"<br /><br />"Such things are not a concern to the people who would do things like this," Estren replied. "These are clearly the people from the homestead we stayed in last night. Were they taken in flight, or sleeping in their beds, I wonder?" <br /><br />Gwyn shuddered, not certain which thought she found more horrific. Then something else caught her eye. "I think they tried to flee," she said, pointing to the broken wreckage of two wagons nearby that had been concealed partly by a group of dense bushes. They had fled and been taken, then; their assailants had caught them and hung them from this tree. A pair of crows fluttered past Gwyn very closely, and she waved them away. They cawed loudly as they returned to the bodies on which they fed.<br /><br />"Let's go," Sir Baigent barked. His mouth was set in a thin line and his jaw was clenched as he turned away from the horrible crows' feast and spurred his horse onward, riding out into the middle of the stream. The others followed, splashing out into the center of the channel. As they left behind the tree of the dead Gwyn said a silent prayer to the Goddess for the souls of those slain so horribly. It would have to be enough, for there was no time to properly perform the Rites of the Dead.<br /><br />The companions rode down the middle of the stream, splashing their way deeper into a valley that was narrowing into a ravine. The hanging tree fell behind them, eventually passing entirely out of view, but the wind stayed with them, shifting so that the death-stench still descended upon them from behind. Gwyn even thought that she could still hear the crows. Despite the sun, the grayness of the hills about them cast a pall over the company that would have been palpable even if they hadn't found the hanging tree.<br /><br />They rode with the stream for a mile, during which their feet became wet and cold. Sir Baigent's mood had darkened considerably since the hanging tree, and he said nothing save to point out large rocks beneath the surface of the water, spots where the streambed dipped suddenly, and other such hazards. Finally they came to a place where two other streams joined their own, forming a wider, deeper river. Sir Baigent glanced around the area, which was marked by old trees and huge boulders. Then he looked up at the highest of the hilltops around them, a crag two miles or so distant toward which all of the land seemed to rise. At the top of that hill stood the ruins of an ancient citadel of stone, two walls of which stood behind shattered ramparts. Sir Baigent stared up at those ruins, and then at the new river before them. Then he looked at Estren.<br /><br />"The Veryn Wash?" he said.<br /><br />"I think so," Estren replied. "I have not been this way in some time, and never to its source."<br /><br />"It must be the Veryn," Sir Baigent replied. "I can think of no other river that this can be."<br /><br />"Is this good or bad?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />Sir Baigent shrugged. "It is not as bad as it could be," he said. "And it is good in that now I have the better reckoning that we spoke of earlier. Come." He led them out of the water and onto the north shore of the Veryn Rush, where the ground was relatively dry. Sir Baigent then looked up at the sky and marked the sun. "We have most of the day before us, and we will need it. We are south and west of the plain where the Giants' Dance stands. Our direction is still true. The Veryn flows due eastward for several leagues, and then it swings south toward the sea. We shall follow it until it turns, and then we too shall turn -- away from the Rush, and toward the Dance. And soon we will find roads again, which will allow us to make up some of the time that we lost last night. It appears that the storm did not steer us so wrongly as I had feared." He nodded with satisfaction, and Gwyn smiled at his returning confidence. She had heard that tone in his voice the first night she had met him, when he had bound her wound after the wolf attack in the glen, but it had been gone since Briston and the terrible news of Camyrdin's fall. Now it was back, at least in small measure. For men such as Sir Baigent, movement and action were the only salve for such a wound of loss as he had endured.<br /><br />They followed the river into a narrow canyon between two hills. Here the way was partially blocked by a series of gigantic square-shaped boulders, and they had to pick their way through the narrow passages between the great rocks where there was no path. As Brother Llyad was steering the horse, Gwyn found herself with nothing to do just then except to study the sharp, regular angles of the boulders.<br /><br />"These stones were shaped by men, weren't they?" she asked.<br /><br />"You have a keen eye," Estren replied. "They were indeed. On that distant hill rose the Keep of the Scarlet King, who was High King Prystyl's greatest rival until the High King finally defeated his army at the Battle of the Veryn Vale, which took place just a few miles from here. From that victory, King Prystyl pushed forward and laid siege to the Scarlet King's Keep. After a very long siege indeed -- it is said to have lasted an entire turn of the seasons, although I'm not sure I believe it was <I>that</I> long -- the High King was finally able to breach the walls and throw them down, and thus the Scarlet King was defeated. These are those stones. You are looking at the very handiwork of High King Prystyl."<br /><br />Gwyn imagined the sound these immense stones must have made as they were thrown down the side of the mountain, It must have been like thunder. "How did he do it?" she asked. "Bring the walls down?"<br /><br />Estren shrugged. "No one knows the truth of the tale," he said. "Those times were so very confused, and even the Bardic lyrics of the time are not to be trusted as history, although the verse of that period is wonderful -- Goroddin of the Seven Pipes wrote some of the best, including this very tale.<br /><br />"King Prystyl left the battlefield and went alone into a glade deep in the heart of a nearby wood. There he prayed to the Goddess for an entire night. When the moon set he was plunged into total darkness, and it was then that a great boar came. The King did not move, even when the boar charged him; he merely kept intoning the name of the Goddess, over and over again, and the boar's attack was turned aside at the last second by an arrow shot from the bow of Culdarra the Huntress. Then Culdarra gave him a gift: a horn of ivory.<br /><br />"When the King returned the next morning to the field of battle, he ordered his men to quiet. When total silence had descended on the hill, King Prystyl walked toward the castle until he stood within the easy range of the Scarlet King's archers -- but before they could shoot him, he blew on the horn the first time and a great mist rose from the ground, completely shrouding the battlements and making it impossible for those archers to shoot. Then he blew the horn a second time, and the soil around the base of the Keep yielded the roots of the hundreds of trees the Scarlet King had felled in the building of his fortress. The roots snaked upward, grasped onto the great stones, and pulled. Then King Prystyl blew the horn a third time, and the air parted as a host of ten knights in gray armor rode forth from the sky led by a king who wore black armor and a veil of gray samite. These knights from the sky swung their mighty war hammers and drove the stones of the Keep apart, toppling the fortress and killing everyone within." Estren shrugged. "At least, that is how Goroddin tells the tale."<br /><br />Gwyn looked at the gigantic monoliths around them, and then up to the ruins of the old citadel. The story had to be untrue; it was well-known that Culdarra the Huntress, wife of the King of Annwn, never bestowed gifts upon mortals.<br /><br />"The stones are impressive," Brother Llyad said, now sounding more like a cleric of Tintagel than he had at any point since Gwyn had met him. "Despite having been shaped centuries ago, their workmanship is extraordinary. The detail of the carving, the precision of the shaping. You can see their like in many of the oldest citadels of Prydein, such as the lowest levels of the Sanctuary on Tintagel, the High King's palace at Londia, and even at Caer--" His voice suddenly trailed off as he caught himself before he said what he had meant to say in a moment of carelessness. Sir Baigent looked back at him, and Gwyn could see that his ears had turned red.<br /><br />"It is all right, Brother," Sir Baigent said. "You do not need to soften your words for my ears. Evil exists whether we speak of it openly or not, so let us name it for what it is and thus damn it." He turned his attention back to the road, and Gwyn looked on him with amazement. There were depths of complexity to this man that he was only now allowing them to see. The wind freshened, and the swirling of the air around the immense blocks of stone created an ethereal chorus that wailed in such a way as to make Gwyn imagine the screams of the men who had died when these stones had fallen on the day when King Prystyl had blown his horn.<br /><br />"Ride carefully," Sir Baigent said. He was pointing to the even larger stones ahead, stones that were themselves as large as some of the buildings in Briston. Here the hillside beside the river became much steeper, and the slope was littered with enough rubble that it would be impossible for the horses to ride over it; their only course lay through a passage that was created by one stone that had fallen atop two others, straddling the space between. Sir Baigent approached the tunnel, patting Arradwen's neck reassuringly as he guided her into the tunnel. Estren followed, and then came Gwyn and Brother Llyad. Their horse whinnied nervously, but still entered the dark passage.<br /><br />The air inside the strange tunnel was cold and moist; the walls and ceiling dripped steadily, splattering the companions with icy water. Worse, the passage actually <I>bent</I> somehow, making the interior of the passage amazingly dark. It reminded Gwyn of the passages beneath the Sanctuary on Tintagel. They pushed around the bend, and the passage became much lighter as it opened up above them into something like a cave before ending entirely. The walls here were covered with moss and a few mushrooms -- another reminder of home. There had been so many, of all their homes. They moved at last out of the passage between the stones and emerged again into the light of day.<br /><br />They had come into a glen beside the river. Tall willows surrounded them, and there were flower-bushes as well; it would have been a beautiful place indeed if the rushing river had been clear instead of muddy and swollen, and had those trees and bushes been in leaf and flower instead of being brown and barren. As it was, Gwyn could only be reminded of how cold it was.<br /><br />"Someone has been here before us," Sir Baigent said as he dismounted and knelt beside an abandoned fire-ring that Gwyn hadn't noticed before. He touched the stones and then the ashes. "Cold," he said. "They have been gone for some time." He rubbed the soot from his hand onto his cloak.<br /><br />"Were they the people who--" Gwyn's voice trailed off. She did not wish to speak aloud of the hanging tree.<br /><br />"No," Sir Baigent said after a moment's thought. "People who do that sort of thing do not build ceremonial fire-rings in groves. And I have seen a fire-ring like this before." He looked up at Brother Llyad. "Haven't I?"<br /><br />"Yes," the monk replied as he guided the horse over to the fire-ring. "It is a Druid ring. They were here."<br /><br />"How do you know?" Gwyn asked. <br /><br />"Look at it," Brother Llyad said. "Use the powers of observation that Brother Denys was always speaking about."<br /><br />She thought back to Brother Denys and his oft-repeated words: <I>Books contain truth, but not all of it. See the world for what it is, not for what you want it to be.</I> He had always chided the Adepts to look at the world with perception uncolored by what they had read in the library. Gwyn looked down at the fire-ring. It looked like a normal fire-ring to her, the kind anyone would build in a campsite; perhaps it was more carefully rounded into its circular shape, and perhaps its stones were of surprisingly uniform shape and color, and perhaps the ashes had been more carefully smoothed out than might have been expected. And perhaps the ring was set almost perfectly in the center of the nearly-circular clearing.<br /><br />"So the Oak Brothers do not totally eschew fire," Estren remarked. "Some of the older songs will need correcting."<br /><br />"Fire is as necessary to the forest as the winter is to the land," Brother Llyad said. "The Druids know this."<br /><br />"Can you tell when they were here?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />Sir Baigent shook his head. "Not precisely, though it was fairly recently -- say, the last four days or so. More than that, I do not know." He stood and looked up at Gwyn. She saw the smallest hint of a self-satisfied smile on his lips. "This would seem to indicate, My Lady, that we are still moving in the right direction."<br /><br /><I>Still a proud man,</I> she thought as he remounted Arradwen and led the companions out of the clearing, still following the path close to the river. As they moved along, excitement began to build in Gwyn's heart. They were nearer, ever ever nearer, to their ultimate goal. It was true: the Druids were gathering for this, the moment their lore had foretold for so long. They had taken to the sea in their wooden boats and crossed the water to walk on shores they had left centuries before, chased by the sword of High King Prystyl. Gwyn felt as if she were riding into the pages of the history books themselves, into the very pages of legend -- but this was not legend, it was real. It was <I>all</I> real.<br /><br />They swung onto the main path, once again surrounded by a jumble of giant boulders from the fortress of the Scarlet King. The view up the hill toward the remains of the shattered fortress was the best yet, and the worn ramparts caught the uncertain sunlight that shone through breaks in the clouds. Gwyn imagined how in earlier days those ramparts must have gleamed in the bright sunlight, casting the light of defiance on the gathered armies of King Prystyl in the valley below where she and her companions now rode. Gwyn's imagination filled in the spots where the walls had fallen, and she saw -- for the briefest moment before she turned her attention back upon the road -- the fortress as it had been, tall and proud with the smoke of cookfires rising from the chimneys. And then with a sigh she pushed her imagination aside and turned back to glance about the road. That was when the realization came to her, and her blood went cold. She had not, after all, imagined the smoke of the cookfires. The smoke was real.<br /><br />And so were the two men who stood on horseback in the middle of the road before them.<br /><br />"Hullo!" the one on the left called out, lifting a hand in greeting. Sir Baigent gestured for the companions to stop as the man who had greeted them returned the map he had been studying to its pouch and beckoned his hulking companion to join him. The two men came cantering over to Sir Baigent and the others.<br /><br />The man on the right was the biggest man she had ever seen, bigger even than Brother Ethgun, Tintagel's scullery chief. This man's face was buried beneath a thick and dirty brown beard. His cloak was filthy and his boiled-leather vestments looked ready to burst, so tightly were they stretched on his enormous frame. Slung on his back was a gigantic battle ax, its blade notched and bent. This man looked terrifying, but despite his foreboding appearance it was still clear that he was subordinate to the smaller man on the left, the man who had greeted them.<br /><br />He was not nearly as tall and not remotely as fat, but he looked every bit as strong. He too wore unmarked leather clothing under a plain brown cloak, but his cloak was not as dirty or as worn as his companion's. His cheeks bore a day or two's growth of beard, and his brown hair was only shoulder length. Instead of a battle ax, he wore a longsword girded on his back. He glanced over all of the companions, his gaze lingering on Gwyn for just a moment or two longer than on the others. His eyes were cold gray, like stone, and his gaze was piercing.<br /><br />"There, Fflud, you see? I told you there were travelers about." He glanced at the man beside him. "That's another wager you've lost."<br /><br />"Greetings," Sir Baigent said, his pleasant tone not entirely masking the careful appraisal that was in his voice.<br /><br />"A fine and fair day, is it not?" the man said. He was smiling as would a person out for a leisurely ride on a summer's day.<br /><br />"A bit cold," Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />"Ah," the man replied. He edged a bit closer to the companions. "As I said, I thought there were travelers about. I didn't expect two pilgrims and a harper with a single man-of-arms, though."<br /><br />"Why were you expecting anything at all?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />The man shrugged. "Because I saw you leaving that homestead an hour or two ago," he said. "You were lucky to find that place, given the weather last night."<br /><br />"We were hoping to pay for the lodging that we took," Sir Baigent said. "But the families that lived there were nowhere to be found."<br /><br />"I should think not," the man said. "I expect they left that place for...someplace better. These are hard times for such people -- wars, unyielding weather, and other unpleasant things."<br /><br />Gwyn shuddered, thinking of the hanging tree.<br /><br />"These are hard times for travelers too," the man went on. "The roads are beset with thieves, bandits and undesirables of all manner. In fact, there is one particularly dangerous band at large in these parts even now."<br /><br />"We have encountered no one," Sir Baigent said. "Not since noontime yesterday." He paused, and then added: "I hope that <I>you</I> are not thieves or bandits."<br /><br />The other man was silent for just a moment. A look of anger flashed over the face of the big man named Fflud, but then the smaller man laughed. "Hardly," he said. "Though a fair suspicion, given these dark times. We serve Lord Cydric, actually. I am the Captain of his guard. My name is Maxen."<br /><br />"I once performed for Lord Cydric," Estren said. "He was quite old then, and that was some time ago. Is he still alive?"<br /><br />Maxen nodded. "He <I>is</I> quite old, and he has been in ill health for some time."<br /><br />"You are the Captain of his guard," Sir Baigent said slowly, "and yet you do not wear his device."<br /><br />"And whose device do <I>you</I> wear, mercenary?" Maxen snapped, his voice suddenly stern and impatient. Sir Baigent did not so much as flinch. Maxen calmed again almost immediately and straightened his pose in his saddle. "As I said, we are seeking after a certain band of vermin that preys on innocent travelers and weak landholders. This particular band is uncommonly troublesome, and there are times when it is wise to set aside badges of office while seeking such lawbreakers. But then, I suppose it is a waste of time to explain such things to a mere sword-for-hire, isn't it?" He fixed his cold gray stare on Sir Baigent, who made no reply whatsoever. His horse snorted and stamped at the ground; Sir Baigent calmed it with a pat on the neck. "All we know of this particular band of thieves is their leader's name -- 'Gareth'. They would find a party like yours an especially tempting target."<br /><br />"I find that hard to believe," Sir Baigent said. "As you can see, we are too poor to merit the attention of any bandit worth the name. And if they did try to take us, they would find it more difficult than they might think." He gestured to the sword slung on his back.<br /><br />"Interesting," Maxen said, "that such a small and poor group of commoners -- two clerics and a harper -- could afford to pay a mercenary of your evident worth. That is a particularly fine-looking weapon that you have there. I wonder what part of a mercenary's pay you spent in acquiring it?" He shrugged. "And you are quite mistaken in any event. Gareth's bandits attack whomever they wish. They come at dusk or shortly after. There are never more than four of them at any time. They are highly skilled riders -- much like the ones that entertain at fairs and tournaments -- and they wear masks of painted wood."<br /><br />"Never more than four?" Sir Baigent said. "How is it that you cannot best a mere four bandits, no matter how skilled they may be in the saddle?"<br /><br />Fflud emitted an angry grunt at that, but Maxen only smiled thinly. "When we find them, there will be a fair reckoning. They have other weapons besides blades or bows. They have fire and smoke, and they use it both to kill and to conceal their escape."<br /><br />"Fire and smoke!" Sir Baigent exclaimed, with a whistle of amazement. "They must be sorcerers, to have such weapons."<br /><br />"Now perhaps you understand, Mercenary." Maxen was perfectly serious. "They are very dangerous, and they are somewhere nearby. And that is why I must know who you are and to where you travel. I would be most remiss in my duties to….Lord Cydric, if I did not seek to protect you as you journeyed through his lands. As skilled as you may be -- and I have no proof of that, save your word -- these brigands of Gareth's would make short work of you. Swords are of no use against their fire."<br /><br />"Then I wonder how you plan to deal with them when you find them," Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />Maxen's lips tightened. "I am not accustomed to having my questions unanswered. I will ask again: who are you, and where are you going?"<br /><br />"Bedwyn," Gwyn blurted out. Sir Baigent hissed at her to be quiet, but Maxen held up a hand.<br /><br />"Now, then, Sir Mercenary, you have had your turn. Allow the girl to speak. You go to Bedwyn, is that right?"<br /><br />Gwyn shuddered to have Maxen's attention focused directly upon her; there was something fearsome about this man but she could not locate that fear. But she also felt a flash of anger to be referred to as a "girl". "I am Adept of the Goddess, the Merciful Dona, blessed be her Name," she said formally. "My name is Gwynwhyfar. This is my teacher, Brother Llyad. We are on a pilgrimage to the Temple at Bedwyn. We have come from Tintagel."<br /><br />"Tintagel...then you must have encountered...." He shook his head, dismissing the thought. "Why Bedwyn, of all places?"<br /><br />"The Temple there has Oracles that we do not have at Tintagel," Brother Llyad said after clearing his throat. "It is a valuable part of my Adept's training."<br /><br />"We encountered this harper in a village outside Tintagel," Gwyn said. "He wanted companionship on his own journey east. A day later we met this mercenary."<br /><br />"And somehow you had enough gold in your purse to tempt a man of arms," Maxen said. "Or perhaps there was <i>another</i> price?" He smiled briefly; Fflud actually laughed. Gwyn felt her cheeks go red. This was not what she had intended. She opened her mouth to reply and closed it again when Sir Baigent gave a single, sharp shake of his head. "So," Maxen continued, "you go to Bedwyn. I know that Tintagel is far away and that tidings are slow in reaching it, but you cannot be unaware of the war going on? There are armies marching on Bedwyn even now."<br /><br />"You know clerics," Sir Baigent said with a laugh that seemed forced. "They are often given to foolish quests."<br /><br />"This seems more foolish than most," Maxen said. "I suppose, mercenary, that once you are there you will sell your services to the Bedwyn Guard?"<br /><br />"I'm sure the pay will be decent," Sir Baigent replied.<br /><br />"For a swordsman of your value, how could it be anything else?" Maxen smiled as he said it. "How interesting it must be, to have no convictions and to be sworn to no lord at all. I wouldn't be able to do it."<br /><br />Sir Baigent couldn't hide the look of pain that flashed over his face just then; all he could do was look down and hope it went unnoticed.<br /><br />Just then a horn sounded from quite nearby -- two low-pitched blasts. Startled, Gwyn jumped. Estren's horse whinnied. "Ah," said Maxen. "The men return."<br /><br />Gwyn's muscles tensed. The sound of feet trampling through the brush rose around and then twelve men emerged from the copse of trees that stood between the road and the river. These men had been searching the riverbank, and were filthy and mud-spattered. Most carried clubs or spears, except one who held a ratty-looking bow. Each looked at the companions, and each finally settled his gaze on Gwyn. She shivered and turned away from them, focusing instead on Maxen's back.<br /><br />"Did you find anything?" Maxen asked.<br /><br />"No, Captain," one of the men replied. "No trace that they came this way."<br /><br />"I <I>told</I> you," Fflud said. "You're not going to find them down here. They came from the east, I said--"<br /><br />Maxen cut him off. "Fflud! Enough. The failure here means nothing. That storm last night would have cleared any trace of them."<br /><br />Fflud shifted in his saddle. "Then why," he said with a look of impatience, "did we bother with this entire exercise? If you didn't mean to find them--"<br /><br />"I said, <I>enough</I>." Maxen glared at the huge man behind him. Fflud returned the glare, but only for a second or two before relenting with a curt nod.<br /><br />"Your masked bandits?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />Maxen nodded. "They have been even more brazen lately. They struck us just last night, before the storm hit. It was almost as if they knew it was coming."<br /><br />"A glance at the sky would have told them that," Sir Baigent remarked.<br /><br />"A glance at one's surroundings will tell one many things," he said, nodding to one of his men. Almost immediately the men formed a perimeter around the companions.<br /><br />"What is this?" Sir Baigent demanded. "Are you making us into prisoners?"<br /><br />"Hardly," Maxen said. "I am expressing my deepest concern for your safety on this road. I could not count myself any kind of guardian of these roads if I allowed you to travel on while this band of thieves and killers is about."<br /><br />Gwyn's heart began to race. He made it sound so benign. "But Bedwyn--" she began.<br /><br />"My Lord," Brother Llyad said, trying to speak with authority and only partially pushing the fear from his voice, "as servants of the Goddess we are prepared to meet whatever fate she has for us. Our mission to Bedwyn must not--"<br /><br />"Your mission to Bedwyn will wait," Maxen said. "The city and its people will still be there...at least, we can only hope so." Some of the men laughed at that.<br /><br />"This is <I>not</I> in keeping with the High King's Law," Sir Baigent said, referring to High King Irlaris's proclamation that all roads were to be free to travelers in his domain. Maxen glanced sharply at Sir Baigent.<br /><br />"The High King's Law is not a thing of permanence," he said. "Nor is the High King himself." There was a new tone of darkness in his voice. Then, in the same assuring tone he had used before, he said: "Do not fear, my friends. My men will want to receive spiritual guidance. Consider it a <I>new</I> mission." He gestured to his men, who tightened up the perimeter around the companions. "Now, I will see you to my camp."<br /><br />With no more word than that he turned and began riding away, with Fflud close behind. One of the men grunted, and Sir Baigent nodded to his companions. Having no choice at all in the matter, they followed Maxen and Fflud, accompanied by the escort of ugly armed men. The path turned sharply up the hill itself, leading to the wrecked fortress of the Scarlet King. <I>So it was Maxen's own cookfires that I saw,</I> Gwyn realized. It struck her as odd that he would make camp in such a place, if his duty was to patrol the roads; but then, if his tale of fire-wielding bandits was true, then perhaps he had taken shelter in this place for defensive purposes. Still, she felt that something about his story didn't fit -- that he was either lying or omitting some crucial part of the truth, and that soon enough they would find out which.<br /><br />"All will be well," Sir Baigent said. He had moved closer to the horse on which she rode with Brother Llyad, and spoke in a low voice so their escorts couldn't hear. "Perhaps we can buy our freedom -- or, when a good time comes, make our escape."<br /><br />Gwyn said nothing. <I>Were</I> they captives, or not? Their weapons had not been taken, which might have been a hopeful sign -- even though it was perfectly clear that they could not possibly fight their way out of this situation. Not yet. All Gwyn knew is that they were so near to Midsummer Night, which was less than three days distant. Three days until fulfilling her role as the Welcomer…<I>if</I> she was there.<br /><br />"Do you believe his story?" she head Estren saying. "Do you believe this business about 'Gareth' and the bandits who fight with fire?"<br /><br />"I believe," said Sir Baigent, "that we should address one difficulty at a time."<br /><br />If the men around them cared about what they were talking about, they did not show it in any way; the men trundled along beside them, completely ignoring the companions. Nevertheless, they said no more.<br /><br />Now the road swung onto its steepest stretch, with the broken ramparts of the Scarlet King's citadel looming directly above them. Little wonder that King Prystyl had had such a hard time in conquering this place. Gwyn imagined his rage as his armies surged up this hard hill and were beaten back, time and again, by a hailstorm of arrows and rocks, by rivulets of boiling oil, by thunderous rolling logs set aflame. She imagined the Scarlet King, secure in his Great Hall, laughing at his rival in the valley below and reveling in his unmatched security and strength. What had he felt when those horrible horn blasts echoed across the world, when the sky ripped asunder and a host came from beyond to lay waste to the place he had built, throwing it down stone by stone? Had he cowered in the end as the earth shook, as the great stones tumbled down the side of the hill? Was his fear then anything like the fear that Gwyn felt now as she came within his long-toppled walls?<br /><br />They did not come through the citadel's main gate. Instead, they followed a precarious trail halfway around the base of the outermost wall to a great gap that had been opened up by a catapult or some other means. Now that they were very close, Gwyn was ever more amazed by this place and by King Prystyl's feat -- whether Goroddin had told it rightly or no -- in destroying it. The stones that still formed part of the ruins were staggeringly gigantic, much larger than any of the ones that had been thrown into the valley, much larger by far than any of the stones that formed the building foundations on Tintagel -- foundations that had weathered the sea's fury for centuries. For the briefest of moments Gwyn felt her sense of scholarly wonder rise up again. But the feeling vanished just as quickly as they came into the wide space that was now Maxen's camp.<br /><br />The surprisingly large courtyard was ringed by broken walls with gaps wide enough for a man to ride through without touching, and it was dominated by the accouterments of a large armed camp. Gwyn paled. This was not the camp of a small band patrolling a few roads. This was a small army.<br /><br />To their left was an area filled with tents, all of them arranged in as close to a series of rows as was possible, given the rubble at the bottom of the fallen walls. To their right was the livery area, little more than a wide space bound by ropes and pikes where the horses and wagons were kept, several dozen of each. Directly before them, past the tents and the livery, was the remainder of the courtyard: a pitted, scarred field where some of Maxen's men were practicing at arms, playing at dice, or singing a tune with bawdy lyrics and tortured rhymes that made Estren wince. Judging by the size of this camp, Lord Cydric was no minor lordling.<br /><br />Word had spread about Maxen's return, and soon the companions were surrounded by several dozen men who had come to see if their captain had captured the bandits. They all looked disappointed when they saw that he had not -- but those looks of disappointment turned to something else when they saw that their Captain had brought a woman into their midst. Gwyn stared straight ahead, into the middle of Brother Llyad's back, to avoid their leering. She could not, though, shut out the unsavory comments shouted in her direction.<br /><br />"Clear aside!" Maxen shouted. "These are guests, not food or bounty. You!" He beckoned to a tall, young lad who was clearly a mere page. "What word from…our Lord?"<br /><br />"A rider came an hour or so ago," the page reported. "He has tidings about--"<br /><br />Maxen held up a hand, cutting him off. "I will hear his tidings myself." He swung down from his horse and handed his reins to the page. "See to the animal. Fflud, escort our guests to their lodging." Fflud only nodded. He said nothing else to the companions; he only walked off toward the tents.<br /><br />"Take their animals," Fflud commanded three nearby livery workers. Then he beckoned the companions to follow him.<br /><br />Sir Baigent shrugged and obeyed, sliding down from his horse. The others joined him, at which point their horses were led away. Too late, Gwyn realized that while she still had her bow on her back, her quiver was still in one of the saddlepouches. "<I>Out of the way, you dogs!</I>" Fflud shouted, making the men clustering around them disperse. He led the companions through the rows of tents, from many of which came the smell of sweat among other unpleasant odors. They finally arrived at a particularly dirty tent in the very rear of the camp, the back of which was pitched right up against one of the ruined keep's stone walls. Inside, it turned out to be a storage place for a miscellany of items: bolts of coarse cloth for cloaks and such, strips of metal for the forging into weapons, bags of arrowheads, leather for saddle repair, and a host of other items. There would be just enough room for the four of them to sleep.<br /><br />"Best we can offer right now," Fflud said. "You may be guests, but watch where you try to go. Not all of us are friendly." He gave a kind of chuckle. "The evening meal is at sundown. Follow the shouts." And then he left. Sir Baigent stood at the tent's entrance, watching him go. When was gone and out of earshot, the knight turned around and, suddenly, delivered a strong and angry kick to a barrel of meal that stood on the ground.<br /><br /><I>"Damnation!"</I> he shouted. The barrel tipped over and spilled its contents across the ground.<br /><br />"Sir Baigent," Gwyn began, but stopped again when he turned his glare upon her.<br /><br />"So here we are," he said, his voice low and calm again but filled with deadly anger. "Made prisoner. My home is in ashes, the entire city is dead, my Lord marches to war in someone else's army because his own has been slain, and what of his seneschal? He rots in the camp of some piddling Lord's Captain of the Guard!" He grabbed a spearshaft from a stack of them on the floor and hurled it against the tent's back wall. "Lord Matholyn rides to fight against the man who took Caer Camyrdin and burned it to the ground, and what is my task? To ride with a harper and two clerics to the Giants' Dance, where we will meet with the Druids and bring back the Promised King! I turned my back on my people and my home and my Lord to <I>chase after legends and bedtime tales for children!"</I><br /><br />Silence fell. Estren distracted himself in the task of restringing his harp, while Brother Llyad simply stared at Sir Baigent. Gwyn clutched her arms over her chest, as she did whenever she felt defensive. She certainly felt that way now, having born the brunt of the knight's outburst. Her eyes filled with angry tears, and she turned away from Sir Baigent to keep him from seeing them.<br /><br />"That was not worthy of you," she heard Brother Llyad say.<br /><br />"Do not presume to speak to me of what is worthy," Sir Baigent shot back. "I see little worth in where we are now. And I see even less worth in how we came to be here."<br /><br />Gwyn faced him then, tears or no. This was too much.<br /><br />"You still do not believe," she said. "All that we have seen, all that we have done, and you still do not believe!"<br /><br />"<I>What</I> have we seen, My Lady? A meeting of fairies beside a lake? I did not see that. I only saw the wolves."<br /><br />Gwyn looked down at the ground as once more she heard the terrifying voice of the great silver wolf in her mind. <I>I will not so be thwarted this time, not by a pathetic King promised to a puny island realm, not by a Goddess who could only barely stay my hand before, and certainly not by a girl only days into womanhood.</I> Gwyn shuddered. Those words had haunted her each minute since she had first heard them spoken. "I have not told you everything about those wolves," she said.<br /><br />"There is so much that I do not know," Sir Baigent said. "For me, this is a quest of ignorance."<br /><br />"Then you give up?" Brother Llyad asked. "Are you abandoning the duty that you swore? Would you turn craven now?"<br /><br />Sir Baigent looked up at the monk, who didn't flinch from the knight's stare.<br /><br />"I have more than once suggested that you choose your words more carefully," Sir Baigent said. "And I have never abandoned a sworn task in my life. "He looked again at Gwyn. "Until a week ago you were just one of many Adepts throughout Prydein, studying for the Order of the Goddess. Now you believe yourself that you will fulfill Prydein's oldest prophecy -- a prophecy so old that many do not see it as prophecy at all, but pleasant legend." He rose to his feet. "How can you be so <I>certain</I>?"<br /><br />Gwyn opened and closed her mouth. Brother Llyad tried to answer for her. "The Druids said--"<br /><br />"I asked <I>her</I>, Brother," Sir Baigent said. "It couldn't have been just the word of a single Druid." He looked back at Gwyn.<br /><br />"I don't know," she finally said. "It wasn't just Llawann. And it wasn't just the Fairy that I met by the lake. It is...something more." She thought, then, of her father. Some part of him had always been looking away, to the horizon and to the sea. Gwyn had always wondered what he had been looking for. Was it her mother? or was it something more? "Sir Baigent," she began slowly, "you always knew you were to be a knight. Anything else was unthinkable. It is a who you are. It was the same way with all of the other Brothers and Sisters and Adepts I knew at Tintagel. For Brother Malcolm, there was never any question that he would be anything else. He was always a learner, a scholar, devoted to the Goddess. But me? I never knew who I was." The words came slowly and awkwardly. She had never expressed these feelings before, not even to Dana or to Brother Malcolm. How could she say these things to a man-of-arms she had only known for mere days? "I used to ask my father who I was, and he would only say, <I>You are my daughter.</I> I used to ask him what was to become of me, and he would only say, <I>No father can ever know what path his child's life will take."</I> She was crying now, but still she went on. <br /><br />"When he died, I fled to town and the Shrine there. The Priest took me in, and he had another guest at the time: Brother Malcolm. He offered to bring me to Tintagel, to see if I had the gift to be an Adept.<br /><br />"But even as I began my studies, I was never certain that this was the correct path. There were nights when I would wake to the sound of the sea -- there is no place on Tintagel where you cannot hear it -- and I would wonder what it was my father always looked for, when he looked out into the waters." She wiped her eyes and shook her head. "This must all seem so absurd to you, Sir Baigent. You are a man who deals very little with uncertainty -- but it has been at the center of my life for as long as I can remember -- until the night at the lake, when I was touched by the Fair Folk and saw my true road. <I>This</I> is who I am." She gave a light laugh then as she wiped her nose and eyes. "I suppose this all still sounds like the ravings of a silly cleric."<br /><br />"It does," Sir Baigent admitted. "But then, it was the raving of a cleric that sent me to meet the Druids myself, and she was far from silly." He sighed. "Perhaps at the end of this journey, when the Promised King stands before me, I shall feel differently. I hope you will forgive me if I don't share your certainty, My Lady. In the same time that you have been given all the answers you have ever sought, I seem to have been given nothing but questions."<br /><br />"I haven't found <I>all</I> of my answers," Gwyn said. "And some of your questions are mine as well."<br /><br />He looked at her for a long moment. Then he rose from where he sat and walked over to one of the piles of clutter along the back of the tent. "Ah," he said as he drew something from the pile, "I thought I saw one of these. My own is in Arradwen's saddlebag." When he turned back to his companions, they saw that the object was a whetstone. He sat down and began the task of sharpening his sword.<br /><br />"Do you think that it will come to that?" Brother Llyad asked.<br /><br />"It might," Sir Baigent replied. "When we arrived, I noticed a wagon that was newly arrived -- the mud on the wheels and on the horse team's hooves was still wet. The wagon was laden with a dozen or so ale casks, probably sent by Lord Cydric. Maxen strikes me as a man who can hold his ale, but that is a not so common a quality as many men would have you believe. I expect that in the course of the evening, the better number of men in this camp will become drunk. That should make our escape somewhat easier." He looked up at Gwyn. "You may wish to look through those piles for some bowstrings."<br /><br />"Do you mean to just ride out the main gate, the way we came in?" Gwyn asked. "Surely those guards will be sober."<br /><br />"I have no intention of going anywhere near the main gate," Sir Baigent replied. "We will go through one of the holes in the wall, and straight down the hill."<br /><br />"Madness!" Brother Llyad exclaimed. "We can't possibly ride down that hill at night! Our horses will stumble, and we will be thrown on the rocks!"<br /><br />Sir Baigent gave a smile that was not particularly humorous. "I should think that you, cleric, would be eager to demonstrate your horsemanship after what happened last night." Brother Llyad's cheeks reddened. "It will be dangerous," Sir Baigent continued. "But we have little choice, and if we ride at a disadvantage with one animal carrying two down a treacherous and steep hillside, the match will be even because those pursuing us will have bellies full of ale. If the clear skies hold, then we should have moonlight to aid us."<br /><br />"What do we do when we get to the bottom of the hill?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />Sir Baigent shrugged. "I will make that decision when that time comes," he said. Then he looked over at Estren, who had begun tuning his harp and plucking out a small tune. "You have said nothing in some time, harper. What troubles you?"<br /><br />Estren let the melody he was playing die out on an unresolved note. "I am thinking of Lord Cydric," he said. "I performed for his court a year or so ago, I think -- after I met you at the Crossroads. He did not impress me as a man not terribly interested in acquiring other lands beyond his own borders. He was content to pay his tribute to Duke Cunaddyr and let that suffice. He did, though, enjoy a good tune." He began plucking the strings again, this time sounding a melody that Gwyn found strangely familiar. It was a simplistic, repetitive tune with little of the complexity and none of the lilt that Estren had favored in the songs he had sung in the brief time she'd known him. Then she placed it: the very song that had been on the lips of Maxen's men out in the camp, the one with the clumsy and bawdy rhymes that had made Estren wince. "I have heard this song only in one place, until today. It was not at Lord Cydric's keep, but rather at Caer Mastagg. That bit of doggerel was very popular there."<br /><br />Palpable gloom settled over the companions as Estren continued tuning his harp and Sir Baigent continued sharpening his sword.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1114963261367838972005-05-01T08:46:00.000-07:002005-05-01T09:04:45.893-07:00Chapter NineIn deepening twilight they rode, not stopping even for the briefest respite as they tried to outpace the clouds that blackened the sky behind them. Gwyn felt that they were alone, utterly alone, on this road heading for the East. They would never make it to the nearest village before the storm, and there were not even any farmsteads in sight. The moon was rising before them, but even now the clouds were casting a misty veil over its pale light. It would not be long before the moonlight disappeared entirely, and they would be alone in the darkness waiting for the storm.<br /><br />"I've never seen a storm like this," Gwyn said at one point.<br /><br />"I have heard of such storms," Brother Llyad said. "The fishermen of my home village speak of them with great fear. They would speak of the water itself turning black, and then...." He shook his head.<br /><br />"Clerics always know the comforting things to say," Sir Baigent growled. And then he set a faster pace.<br /><br />Struggling to keep up, Gwyn clutched her reins with whitened knuckles. The wind now sounded like brutal, mocking laughter, and when Gwyn looked up she could see the clouds now circling about them as a black line swept across the dusky sky heralding the storm behind it. The moon's pale light grew dimmer and dimmer, and it already seemed that they were in utter darkness, although that was not to come for a time yet.<br /><br />And so they rode on, faster still, almost at a gallop: Sir Baigent spared no time for even a single glance upward at the encroaching storm. The wind became even more insistent as it whipped around them, drowning out even the nervous whinnies of the horses, and for a long terrible minute it seemed to Gwyn that the world was now nothing but wind, primal and raw, tearing at them like a hungry beast. It was alive, this wind, and it grabbed at them as if seeking redress for an ancient wrong. Growing up on the lowlands of Lyonesse and later Tintagel, wind had always been a part of Gwyn's world, and she knew so many winds by their sounds alone. There were winds that caressed the land softly and gently; there were winds that sang as balefully as any song of lost love. She remembered winds from the south that were warm and smelled of earth, and she recalled winds from the west that smelled of salt and the sea. And in the winter there were winds from the north that smelled of nothing but ice and cold. This wind, now, was something else, something worse. Gwyn wondered if the Ancients had felt a wind like this before the Cataclysm had come to claim them and take them all, forever, through the Gates of Annwn.<br /><br />They crested a hillock and were able to see the road that lay before them, but at that very moment there was the sound of the sky ripping itself asunder as a bolt of blazing lightning exploded in the air above them. Blinded by the flash, Gwyn screamed in shock. She felt a strong grip on her arm, and she screamed again before she realized that it was merely the hand of Brother Llyad, who had been likewise blinded and was seeking his own savior. Her eyes quickly readjusted, and she looked to their left, where a tree atop an adjacent hilltop had been blasted by the lightning. The tree's limbs blazed, and for a few moments the tree seemed to have leaves of golden fire.<br /><br />Estren saw it too. "Light for our way," he yelled. "Perhaps Dona smiles upon us after all, in her own fashion."<br /><br />But their good fortune was short-lived as first another bolt of lightning struck, and then still another. Each was accompanied by a deafening blast of thunder like a cry torn from the very heart of the earth. Even the insistent howling and wailing of the wind gave way to that terrible roar that surrounded them with a presence that could almost be touched. Gwyn had seen more thunderstorms than she could possibly remember, but never one like this, one so near and seemingly sent for her alone. In that thunder she heard the voice of some Power, ancient and malevolent, calling out for her even as it tried to stop her. She thought of the great silver wolf in the glade by the lake, and she shivered, not entirely because of the cold. And then at last Gwyn felt the first droplet of icy water land upon her forearm, followed by another and another and then finally by hundreds upon thousands of its brethren. The fire-tree was smothered by the torrent, and the moon was completely gone. The storm had caught them. <br /><br />As the downpour began, Gwyn struggled to see where her companions had gone. She could see nothing at all, and the only sound was the pounding of the rain upon the ground. Suddenly there was no more lightning or thunder -- only the rain, sheeting down and pelting her. She threw her head this way and that, trying to see any of her companions, or the road, or perhaps a tree -- anything at all. But there was nothing but impossible, impenetrable blackness. She was alone, acutely alone, in the heart of the storm. <br /><br />Icy fear gripped her. She screamed out for Sir Baigent, for Brother Llyad, for anyone -- but she could not even hear her own voice in the face of the driving rain. Had they kept going? Had they fallen along the road? Were her companions lying injured somewhere nearby, or perhaps worse? Again she cried out, and again she heard no reply. Her horse began circling nervously, and it was all she could do merely to control the beast. She imagined things, out there in the darkness, that were coming for her….she imagined wolves, dozens this time, circling her just beyond the black and the rain. She imagined them rearing and leaping through the air, guided by her scent to know where to snap their jaws -- she envisioned terrible, sharp teeth fastening about her and pulling her down. She screamed again, this time frightening her horse, which lurched forward. The jolt caused her to bite her tongue hard, and the sharp pain and taste of blood that filled her mouth snapped her back into the moment.<br /><br />And that pain was what saved her. Without it, she might never have seen the ghostly green light that now enveloped her and her companions, who had never actually left her side. Sitting to her right was the Bard, and in his hands he held a curious shape: spherical, it seemed as glass, but from its depths shone forth a light that was not of this world. He held it cupped in his hands, and his brow was furrowed as he spoke in hushed tones to it. Gwyn could not hear what he was saying, but they must have been words of old and secret power; and in the heart of the storm she stood in wonderment looking on as Estren the Bard revealed a part of his secret lore. When at last he looked up at them, his eyes seemed to be glowing with the same green light that came from the diadem in his hands, although it was only a reflection. He lifted it up and held it aloft for all to see, allowing its light to shine on the land about them. It was barely enough light to see the road by, but somehow it was enough. <br /><br />"We had best be moving," Estren interjected into the middle of his chanting, his voice cracking under the strain under which his spell had put him. At that moment he seemed to be a completely different person, far from the joking harper that Gwyn had taken him for. Such was her first glimpse into the ancient and new lore of the Bards of Prydein.<br /><br />"A great task, friend," said Brother Llyad.<br /><br />Sir Baigent gestured for Estren to join him at the head of the party. They rode again, now able to see the road. The wind slackened, and now the rain came to fall straight down in huge fat drops that actually hurt when they landed. As Gwyn looked around, it seemed that she was peering through a curtain of rain. Wide pools of water collected in the roadway, and they frequently seemed to be galloping through hoof-deep water. Gwyn wondered just how much more of this they could take.<br /><br />The same thought had obviously occurred to Sir Baigent; he was looking about for any sign that they would be able to get out of this rain as soon as possible. Suddenly he stood up in his saddle and pointed in a new direction. "We will go this way!" he shouted, and with no more announcement than that he whipped his steed about and kicked it into motion, heading up the new road that headed off to the left, upward and between two hills. Gwyn glanced down at the new road, and in the green light of Estren's gem she saw what Sir Baigent had seen: the unmistakable ruts of wagon-wheels. Perhaps there was a farm or homestead nearby, anyplace where they could get out of this rain.<br /><br />The road wound between the hills and into a new valley, and despite the pounding rain they moved slower, allowing Sir Baigent to follow the wagon ruts which were thankfully deep enough to still be visible even though they were filling with water. With every passing minute the road became muddier and muddier, and Gwyn realized that the light from Estren's gem was very slowly dimming. The strain on his face grew as he continued to chant the words of power that kept the magic light flickering. They needed to get to shelter very soon, and she prayed that Sir Baigent was right, and that these wagon ruts actually led someplace where they could get dry and perhaps have a fire. <I>Oh, to have a warm fire again...to sit by the flames and drink in their heat, to savor it like honey....</I> Those thoughts made her shivering even worse. She couldn't remember ever being this cold before. Every bit of her clothing was completely soaked, and the weight of her drenched cloak -- certainly at least greater by threefold than when it was dry -- pressed down upon her shoulders.<br /><br />They came at last to the bottom of the valley and found their way obstructed by a narrow stream, perhaps as wide as two horse-lengths, whose waters were muddy and had already overflowed the banks of what would normally have been a very tiny stream indeed. In the dim green light they could see the wagon ruts run into the stream and up the road on the other side. Sir Baigent stepped his horse right up to the edge of the water. Directly opposite them was an oak tree, its branches leafless and barren.<br /><br />"This doesn't look too deep," he called out. "Whoever made this trail must cross this stream every day. Wait here while I test it."<br /><br />He rode forward, carefully guiding his horse into the water. Watching him stare down at the rushing stream and expertly decipher the swirling waters and eddies to decide where the rocks were, Gwyn realized that he had done something like this before. He was obviously a very capable rider.<br /><br />In the middle of the stream the water became deeper quite abruptly, and with one step the water nearly reached up to the horse's belly, and the tips of Sir Baigent's toes actually dipped in. But after just a few steps the stream abruptly shallowed again on the other side, and Sir Baigent quickly reached the opposite bank. Then he turned around and made the return trip, quicker this time.<br /><br />"As I thought," he said. "It's an easy crossing. In normal times this stream must be little more than a trickle." He looked at Gwyn. "Can you handle a horse in water?"<br /><br />"I think so," Gwyn said through chattering teeth. It was so cold in this rain, and as if things weren't bad enough they were now going to ford a stream. How weak the Goddess must be....<br /><br />"And you, Brother?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />Llyad, who looked even colder than Gwyn felt, nodded.<br /><br />Sir Baigent reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a length of rope, which after dismounting he tied between Estren's saddle and his own. "Keep that light alive, Harper," he said. "I will get you across."<br /><br />Aside from a single nod Estren gave no sign at all that he was aware of anything apart from his effort to keep the green gem aglow. "Ride slowly," Sir Baigent called back after he had remounted. "Let the horses to find their own footing. Step where I step." With that he took up his reins and clicked his tongue. His horse stepped forward, and Estren's obediently followed. Gwyn followed Estren, and Brother Llyad brought up the rear. In this way they crossed the stream, moving very slowly and deliberately. Gwyn stared down at the swirling, muddy water and prayed for her horse's good footing. Soon she reached the drop in the middle of the stream, and with one more step she was in the deepest section. Water splashed up onto her feet and legs, and she gasped at the coldness. This was the water of winter.<br /><br />As she reached the center of the stream Gwyn could feel her horse's struggle against the current. For such a small stream there was a great deal of power in that rush, and she leaned upstream to compensate. Ahead of her, Sir Baigent had already moved out of the water, and Estren's horse was stepping up behind him. The knight dismounted then and walked back to the edge of the water where he waited to help Gwyn to shore. As Gwyn stepped up onto the ground again, her shivering became much worse. If she had been cold before, now she was positively frozen.<br /><br />"Come on," Sir Baigent said. "We must keep moving if we are to find shelter."<br /><br />Gwyn only nodded, praying that he was right and that there was in fact shelter somewhere nearby. She guided her horse back onto the muddy land and stopped for a second to breathe in relief following the crossing -- but the rain kept coming, kept pounding. <I>Goddess, will this never end?</I> She turned to watch Sir Baigent help Brother Llyad ashore.<br /><br />The knight reached out to take the bridle of Brother Llyad's horse. Just as he did so there was a very loud sound, like a sudden rush of air. Gwyn looked in the direction from which that sound had come and only realized that that direction was upstream when she saw what looked like a giant wall of water bearing down upon them. She whipped around and stared at Estren, who still chanted away at the green gem. <I>"MOVE!"</I> she shouted as she leaped forward on her horse and reached down for his reins.<br /><br />"Dona's damnation!" Sir Baigent shouted as he jumped with both feet into the water and grabbed at the monk's reins. With one motion he was able to seize the bridle and he turned to pull the beast onto the ground by sheer strength. It might have worked, it <I>should</I> have worked, had a rock beneath one of the beast's hooves not shifted at that exact moment. The horse slipped violently, and in sudden panic Brother Llyad lost his grip on the reins and tumbled from the saddle and into the water. Sir Baigent shouted another curse as he let the horse go and went after Llyad who had, in the course of being washed downstream, somehow managed to grab hold of a small tree that in normal days stood beside the stream but was now immersed halfway up its trunk. The flood was nearly upon them as Sir Baigent thrashed his way through the stream toward that tree and as Brother Llyad fought to keep his head above the water. To make matters worse, large chunks of wood and rock were being swept along ahead of the flood, debris which Sir Baigent had to avoid as he pushed toward the tree. <br /><br />"We have to help them!" Gwyn shouted, and beside her Estren somehow began to chant louder and faster. As he did so, the light from the green gem became brighter and more intense; it allowed Gwyn to see clearly the stream, the oncoming rush of flood water, and -- most horribly -- Brother Llyad's horse, now riderless, which screamed as it desperately tried to climb out of the stream. The beast almost succeeded, but then a large rock pushed by the flood struck it, knocking it down to its knees. Then the flood water arrived, sweeping the shrieking animal away. Gwyn looked to the tree, where Sir Baigent was pushing himself and Brother Llyad as far up the trunk as they could manage. And then they too disappeared as the tree was struck squarely by the flood.<br /><br />Gwyn's heart stopped. The tree bent under the pressure of the oncoming water, and for a long moment it seemed an absolute certainty that it would snap loose from its roots and be swept away downstream, taking the knight and the monk with it -- if they had not been ripped from their precarious grip on its trunk already. Gwyn grabbed a length of rope from her own saddlebag and then scrambled along the bank to stand directly beside the tree. It was close, actually, maddeningly close; her original thought had been to tie the rope to an arrow and then shoot it into the trunk of the tree, but she now saw that she would be easily able to simply toss it -- if there were anyone to catch it. <I>"Sir Baigent!"</I> she screamed. <I>"Sir Baigent! Brother Llyad!"</I> But there was no reply; only the roar of the rushing water which was even now settling somewhat. The flood had been amazingly brief and devastatingly powerful. As she stared at the muddy water she thought that she heard, somewhere in the midst of all the rain and the water and the wind, the baying of a single wolf.<br /><br />And then Brother Llyad's head thrust up from under the water and into the air under the tree where he drew a long, gasping breath.<br /><br /><I>"Goddess,"</I> Gwyn whispered as she watched Brother Llyad pull himself up the trunk of the tree and grasp one of the lower branches. And then Sir Baigent appeared beneath him, pushing the Priest up from below. Somehow they had survived. Somehow, impossibly, they were still alive. "Sir Baigent!" Gwyn shouted. He turned his head as he followed Llyad up into the branches and saw her standing there, the rope in her hands. Behind her the green light grew even brighter; Estren was shouting his words of power as loudly as he could. Gwyn drew a deep breath and cast the rope toward the tree. It was a perfect throw, hooking around a branch near Sir Baigent. He took the rope, lashed it around the branches and braced it with both hands. Gwyn braced her feet against a fairly large rock and stiffened her back, and then Brother Llyad released his grip on the tree and began to pull himself along the rope. Gwyn dug her feet into the ground and leaned back against his weight and the force with which the water was pushing him. Brother Llyad seemed to be taking a terribly long time in getting to the side of the stream, and as her arms and shoulders burned Gwyn wondered how she would be able to do this twice. But there was no other choice; they could not spare the light that Estren was providing in order for him to help her. Fortunately the stream was still not all that wide, and the monk finally reached the ground and pulled himself up and out of the water. Gwyn slumped her shoulders, took several deep breaths, and braced herself anew for Sir Baigent as he grabbed the rope and similarly pulled himself across the water toward the bank. Gwyn groaned as he released from the tree; he was much heavier than Brother Llyad. The rope slipped several inches, scorching her fingers as if she had placed her hand on a burning candle, but she held on despite the pain. Sir Baigent was heavy, very heavy, but he made up for that with his considerable strength as he crossed the distance between the tree and the ground much faster than Brother Llyad had done. He finally pulled himself up beside the monk, who was now kneeling and retching. Gwyn dropped the rope and blew on her reddened palms. Sir Baigent just sat there on the ground for a minute or two, regaining his breath. When at last he stood he was unsteady on his feet, and in the green light Gwyn saw a wound on his forehead that would be a fresh bruise by morning. His eyes met hers, and he nodded.<br /><br />"We must move," he said in a raspy voice as he helped Brother Llyad back up and led them back to the horses, of which there were now only three. Estren's voice had faded somewhat, and the green gem's light flickered.<br /><br />Gwyn coiled her rope and put it back in her saddlebag. Then she mounted her horse and took up the reins again, somehow getting her fingers wrapped around them. Then Sir Baigent helped Brother Llyad mount the same horse directly behind her. "Don't let him fall," he said, and she nodded. The knight headed back for his own horse, stopping to touch the Bard on the shoulder and say something that Gwyn couldn't hear. A minute later he had remounted and they were riding again, up a long hillside, still following the trail of wagon ruts. As they rode Brother Llyad slumped against Gwyn's body, and she realized how weak he was from the stream. Sir Baigent, of course, being a knight would be much more able to survive such an ordeal; but even his strength had limits. She prayed yet again for shelter somewhere nearby, and at last the prayer was answered. "This way!" Sir Baigent called back, his voice barely audible above the rain. He was pointing toward a structure of some sort, off the main path.<br /><br />Its outline gradually became clear as it came into the field of Estren's green light. It was the outbuilding of a nearby homestead, a large barn or stable of some sort. They sped up, trotting through the mud up to the doors of the barn. Sir Baigent dismounted and pushed them open with a terrific squeaking of rusted hinges, revealing a cavernous space within. Then he came back.<br /><br />"Come!" he shouted, and then he led his horse by the reins into the barn, followed by the companions.<br /><br />Gwyn heaved a great sigh as the pounding of the rain on her head and body was finally stopped. The sound of the storm receded to a grateful distance, and for the first time in a long while Gwyn could actually hear her own breathing. She looked around at their shelter.<br /><br />It was both barn and stable, with horse stalls along one wall, feedbins and plowslots along the other. But there were no horses, and the plowshares had all been stacked in a disheveled pile in one corner. The feedbins had been broken, and a water trough had been toppled. Hay was strewn all over the floor, but there was still one good-sized hay pile in one corner. At least there was something left for their horses to eat. The barn's sideboards creaked and groaned in the breeze, which outside had freshened. The entire place looked like it had been abandoned, and quickly at that.<br /><br />"This will do well enough," Sir Baigent said as he swung down from his saddle. "There is our second bit of luck. We will have a fire." Gwyn looked where he pointed, and saw the immense hearth built into the side of the barn, leading up into a stone chimney that towered above them. Beside the hearth was an untidy stack of firewood and kindling. Reaching into his saddlebag and pulling out his flint and steel, he glanced up at Estren, whose chanting had fallen to a hoarse and ragged whisper. "Only a moment or two more, my friend," the knight said before he turned and walked to the hearth to build the fire. The wood and kindling, it turned out, were well-seasoned; it only took Sir Baigent a few sparks to get a tiny flame, and in minutes he had a small but bright fire burning in the hearth. He quickly stacked firewood around it, and the air was filled with the wonderful scent of burning wood and the unearthly green light of Estren's gem was replaced by the warm yellow light of the flickering fire. Gwyn laid a hand on Estren's shoulder, and the Bard finally stopped chanting and allowed the stone to go out. Estren's shoulders slumped under the oppressive weight of the exhaustion that keeping the gem alight had brought on, and Sir Baigent helped him to dismount and guided him over to the side of the hearth where he sank to his knees. Gwyn helped Brother Llyad down and then dismounted herself, trying all the while not to stare at Estren who just then looked more frail than the oldest of all the monks on Tintagel.<br /><br />"Give me your cloak," Sir Baigent said. He had already removed his and held Estren's along with it in his hand. "There are hooks there, near the hearth. Apparently they are for just this purpose."<br /><br />Gwyn saw the hooks, which were lined up across the upper lip of the giant hearth. Obviously, as the stones grew warm the cloaks hung there would likewise warm and dry. She was terribly glad to remove her cloak, even though the air in the barn was icy cold away from the fire. When she and Brother Llyad had handed the knight their cloaks they sat down before the hearth, next to Estren, and drank in the fire's heat as though it were a gift of the Goddess herself.<br /><br />"This place was built for the farmhands. They would spend their nights here at harvest-time," Sir Baigent said. "This must be a fairly large homestead indeed, perhaps even a collection of homesteads."<br /><br />"I wonder where the owners are," Gwyn said. "This place looks like they abandoned it quickly."<br /><br />"That it does," the knight agreed. "I only hope our own food is not ruined. I fear that storm was too much even for saddlebags made from boiled Camyrdin leather." He knelt close to the fire and put two more large logs onto it. It was already a nice-sized fire, but more would certainly not be unwelcome after what they had just come through. Then he straightened and looked around. "We were fortunate to find this place."<br /><br />"Dona is merciful," Brother Llyad said. "She guided us here, to this place of safety."<br /><br />Sir Baigent looked at the monk for a moment. Gwyn saw the anger in his eyes; it was utterly unmistakable. It passed quickly, though, and Sir Baigent gave a noncommittal shrug.<br /><br />"Dona is merciful, I suppose," the knight said. "And perhaps it <I>was</I> her hand that guided us here. But we have possibly lost a great deal of time in riding through that storm; in the morning I will have to get my reckoning anew and for all I know we may have spent the last hours riding in the wrong direction, and thus be off our course by several leagues. And if there <I>is</I> distance to be made up, it will be that much harder to do so on three horses instead of four." He sighed. "And that is to say nothing at all of losing a full share of our provisions. In all due consideration, cleric, I think we could do with a bit less of the Goddess's bounty."<br /><br />Brother Llyad glared at the knight. "Are you blaming <I>Dona</I> for the storm?" he said. "Is that what you believe?"<br /><br />"What interest do you have in what I believe, cleric? I am not schooled in such things."<br /><br />"You cannot forever hide behind your sword, Sir Baigent."<br /><br />Sir Baigent stared hard at Llyad, a furious retort clearly on his lips. But he said nothing, and finally he turned to walk away. "I should tend to the horses and check our provisions to see what is still usable. Spread your bedrolls as close to the fire as you can, so they dry; and help the Bard get comfortable. His work today is done." He glanced at Estren, who was still showing no signs of engagement in the conversation at all. Then he turned to walk off to where the horses were, but before he did he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "No, Llyad," he said. "I do not believe that." With that he walked away.<br /><br />Gwyn spread Estren's roll on the floor close to the hearth, the stones of which were now beginning to heat up. Then she helped him onto the roll and eased him onto his back. "It's all right," she said. "Rest now. You did a great thing tonight." She had never seen anyone look so drained. Estren made no reply; he only rolled over onto his side facing the fire. To Gwyn's relief, though, he did sip strongly at the waterskin that she held to his lips. When he was done she took several long draughts herself, only now realizing just how thirsty she was. Then she passed the skin to Brother Llyad, who likewise slaked his thirst. When he was done, he looked at her and shook his head.<br /><br />"You may have noticed I have a tendency sometimes to say things I shouldn't," he said.<br /><br />"I'm glad I'm not the only one with that particular failing," Gwyn said. "Perhaps Lord Matholyn was right about the salt air on Tintagel." She looked at the fire, which was now burning with the kind of bright yellow light she had earlier feared she might never see again. "Sir Baigent is a good man, Brother."<br /><br />"I'm not very experienced with soldiers," Brother Llyad admitted.<br /><br />"And he's unaccustomed to dealing with clerics," she said. "We <I>are</I> a strange company, aren't we?"<br /><br />"That we are," the monk agreed. "That we are."<br /><br />They were silent for a bit, enjoying the light and warmth of the fire and the popping sounds as the newer logs took to the flame. After a short while Sir Baigent rejoined them and spread their spare cloaks and blankets in front of the fire and around the stones of the hearth. "It is about as I feared, though thankfully no worse. We've lost half of our food, but perhaps that won't be a problem if we can avoid any more storms like that one. And my mail shirt will be very rusty by the time I can get it cleaned and oiled properly again. But for now, we should eat -- such as it is."<br /><br />He handed out tiny portions of dried meat and berries and what was left of their cheese. The bread had been ruined by the storm, and the other food was soggy and unappetizing; but Sir Baigent still had his flask of the warming liquor. As soon as she had eaten and imbibed a few sips of the liquor, Gwyn fell away to sleep very quickly. The last thing she remembered of the waking world was the realization that the rain outside had ended, replaced by a howling wind.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>The white stones that lined the path were icy cold beneath Gwynwhyfar's bare feet, and something was out there ahead of her, out beyond the trees, but she knew not what. She came to a fork in the path where a gnarled, at the center of which stood an ancient oak from which a crow stared at her from its perch. Then it gave a very loud squawk and then flew away down the left path. Gwynwhyfar considered that dark and foreboding path, and then she followed the crow.<br /><br />The path wound back and forth across the valley until Gwynwhyfar had no more idea of in what direction she was headed. At length she came to a wide area between two sheer cliffs of gray stone. A stream of black water splashed over dark rocks into another wood before her, fed by a very deep pool. She knelt beside this pool and gazed down into the waters. Soon a huge salmon appeared, swimming up and out of the depths to behold her with large, timeworn eyes. And then the fish slowly turned and swam back down into the black water of the pool.<br /><br />A chill wind came then, blowing up the canyon and swirling around her, but she did not shiver; the wind somehow could not touch her. Gwynwhyfar walked on, following the stream away from the pool and farther into the canyon. After passing through a second dark wood she came to a wide field bound on two sides by the cliffs. In the center of this field rose a low mound, and on that mound there lay a white horse. Gwynwhyfar approached the horse, expecting it to awaken and look at her, but it did not, for it was dead. Thick red blood oozed from deep, slashing wounds in the horse's neck that could only have been inflicted by the claws of some horrible, ravenous beast. She gazed upon the face of the dead horse and saw something else that she had missed before: from the horse's forehead grew a single white horn. Gwynwhyfar wept, quietly and softly, for the slain animal. Then, hearing someone something behind her, she turned and saw the Knight.<br /><br />He was tall, so very tall, sitting atop a great black stallion that snorted and stamped. He wore armor of gold that shone in the midday sun. His visor was lowered, concealing every aspect of his face, and the helm itself was strangely wrought and misshapen somehow in a way that almost looked distorted. As she looked up at the golden Knight she knew that he was returning her stare, even though she could not see his eyes.<br /><br />"Gwynwhyfar...."<br /><br />She heard the voice in her mind, knowing somehow that it was the voice of the unicorn even though it was dead.<br /><br />"Flee, Gwynwhyfar! You know not who stands before you!"<br /><br />She glanced back at the golden Knight, who turned slightly to one side. The sun reflecting off his armor was blinding, and she lifted a hand to shield her eyes. Who was this Knight? He lifted a gauntleted hand and held it out to her. Was she to join him? He looked so strong and powerful -- but why was his helm shaped like that?<br /><br />Why was his helm shaped like the head of a wolf?<br /><br />"Flee, Gwynwhyfar!"<br /><br />And she did, running as fast as her legs would carry her toward the distant wood. She heard from behind her the angry snarl of the gold Knight's stallion, and its pounding hoofbeats as it came after her. She ran and ran, but the trees came no closer. The hoofbeats behind her were so close, so terribly close...and then she heard the rasp of steel being drawn from a scabbard.<br /><br />She screamed.</I><br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Her scream was cut short by a thick hand that clamped down over her mouth. She struggled in the darkness against the man holding her.<br /><br />"In Dona's name, girl, be quiet!" It was Sir Baigent's voice, and it was his hand over her mouth.<br /><br />Quieting, Gwyn blinked the dream away, and looked about. The knight was kneeling behind her, his left hand holding her mouth shut and his sword in his right. <I>The rasp of steel</I>, Gwyn thought.<br /><br />"What is happening?" she asked when he uncovered her mouth. Brother Llyad and Estren were awakening as well. The fire in the hearth still burned, but was down to a pile of brightly glowing embers.<br /><br />"There are men about," Sir Baigent said. "Fortunately there is still a decent wind outside, and they may be far enough away to have not heard you."<br /><br />"I had a dream," she said weakly.<br /><br />"I've had my share of dreams the last few days," he said, nodding. "There are at least ten men, all on horse except the two who are on a wagon. I heard them approaching."<br /><br />"The owners of this homestead?" she asked.<br /><br />"No," he replied. "I know men-at-arms when I see them, and I would rather not be here when they arrive. No doubt they will want to know what is in this barn for the taking. Gather your things. We will leave through the back door."<br /><br />Gwyn rose from her spot and quickly rolled up her bedroll and cloak, which was now quite dry. As she packed her things into her saddlebags along with Brother Llyad's, she realized that sunlight was coming into the barn through the tiny gaps in the sideboards.<br /><br />"What is the hour?" she asked.<br /><br />"Mid-morning," said Estren, who looked to have regained much if not all of his strength. "We rested longer than perhaps was wise."<br /><br />"It was necessary," she said. "You were very weak."<br /><br />"A Bard, weak? I question the very notion." He grinned, but his jest did not entirely cover the tension in his voice. Behind them Sir Baigent stood at the barn door, peering outside through one of the wider gaps between the slats. After a minute of that he came back to the companions and took his horse by the reins.<br /><br />"Are they coming?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"Not yet," Sir Baigent replied. "But they will. Douse the fire."<br /><br />Brother Llyad poured a bucket of water over what was left of the fire in the hearth. Then the companions led their horses to the back door, a narrow entrance that was just barely wide enough to allow the horses to get through at all. Gwyn's horse whinnied nervously as she led it through, but other than that they were able to get outside fairly quietly.<br /><br />Gwyn blinked as she stepped into daylight. All of the storm clouds had gone; the sky was a brilliant icy blue, the morning sun hung in the sky before them and the nearby trees swayed in an appreciable breeze from the north. It was a cold day, but not quite so cold as the night before. Gwyn's clothes, now dry, were good proof against the wind.<br /><br />"We are fortunate that these men didn't come from the east," Estren said. "At least this way we can flee in the right direction."<br /><br />"These are truly dark times when we measure our luck in terms of our degree of misfortune," Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />Sir Baigent looked at him and actually laughed. "That, Brother, is the first thing you've said that I have agreed with. We may end up good allies after all!" <br /><br />Moving slowly, they walked down a long slope toward the gray hills in the east. Patches of mist hung about the landscape before them, and the chill air was redolent of damp earth. Gwyn's feet became wet and muddy in the first few moments, but Sir Baigent would not let them mount until they reached the first of the sparse woods that dotted the next rise. Gwyn glanced back at the tracks they had left in the mud.<br /><br />"When they discover that we were there, our trail will be easy to find," she said.<br /><br />"That cannot be helped," Sir Baigent said. "Our hope now is in distance, not concealment."<br /><br />"There will be streams," Estren put in. "Streams are friendly to those who wish to hide their trails."<br /><br />At the bottom of the present valley they did find a stream, but it was little more than a wash of rainwater barely two paces wide -- utterly useless for concealing their path. Neverhteless, they finally mounted here and crossed the water to head up the next rise toward a small copse of trees. The splashing of their horses' hooves was very loud in Gwyn's ears, and she glanced backward at the now distant barn, along with two other nearby outbuildings that she had not seen in the stormy darkness of the night before. Between the barn and the outbuildings stood a group of men on horseback. Their figures were very small, at least a mile distant, and still Gwyn felt a chill as she looked at them; for no reason she could express she was certain that these were not friends.<br /><br />"Sir Baigent!" she said.<br /><br />The knight spun around and looked back in that same direction, her tone having been utterly clear in what it had been communicating. They all gazed at the distant figures for a moment or two, and as they did so it appeared that one of those distant unknown men pointed in their direction.<br /><br />"It won't be long now," Sir Baigent said. "We must <I>ride</I>." He took up the reins, but then another thought occurred to him, and he glanced back at Gwyn. "My Lady, you should let Brother Llyad take over the reins."<br /><br />Stung by the cold remark, Gwyn glared at the knight even though he had already turned away. "I can handle a horse," she said. He turned back to her, and he actually gave an amused smile for the tiniest moment.<br /><br />"I have little doubt of that," he said. "After all, you guided the beast through that storm last night. But right now I am more concerned with how you handle your bow."<br /><br />Gwyn felt her face turn red as she dismounted and allowed Brother Llyad to move up in the saddle and take the reins. <I>Blessed Goddess,</I> she thought as she strung her bow and slung her quiver of arrows on her back, <I>could I have sounded more the fool just now?</I><br /><br />The companions headed straight up the hill, a low rise that culminated in a long ridge that was covered by sparse wood. Sir Baigent stopped there and briefly looked back the way they had come before he resumed riding down the other side of the hill alongside Estren, Gwyn and Brother Llyad.<br /><br />"They are following our trail," he said. "Fortunately they are not following it too quickly. They may not realize just how fresh the track is."<br /><br />They rode down into yet another shallow valley, moving through empty woods and skirting the occasional dense thicket. At times this hill became suddenly more steep, and its surprisingly rocky terrain combined with the dampness from the storm made for slippery riding. The companions picked their way down the hillside, moving much more slowly than Gwyn would have liked. She kept looking back, each time expecting to see an armed party riding down the hill after them, but each time there was no one there and all she could do was nervously finger her bowstring. She also watched Sir Baigent, and saw that whenever the ride did not require both of his hands on the reins he dropped his right hand to the pommel of his sword.<br /><br />At the bottom of the vale they found another tiny stream much like the first except for the presence of a well-worn path beside it. Sir Baigent spent a minute considering the stream, and then made his decision.<br /><br />"This one isn't large enough to hide our track, either; however, it does flow in the same direction as the last one. They must lead to a larger flow, which <I>will</I> obscure our path. Come!"<br /><br />In this manner they followed the rivulet downstream, riding along the smooth path that was almost as well-groomed as the roads they had been following up until last night. The woods thickened around them, and would absorb some of the noise their horses made in case their pursuers were close enough to hear. Still, Gwyn looked back occasionally and saw no one yet. She told herself that all would be well, that they would find the stream that Sir Baigent desired and would be able to use it to conceal their trail long enough to get away. But there was something else in the air that heightened Gwyn's apprehension, something almost palpable, like a scent that she couldn't be certain was real or not. She might have passed it off as something she'd imagined, except that she could see the same expression on the faces of the knight and the bard, and she could feel Brother Llyad's tension merely in the way he sat in the saddle. The cold, the ever-present aroma of the saturated earth over which they rode, the breeze stirring the still-leafless branches of the trees, the pall that hung over the company -- all of that played into her fears.<br /><br />"Do you think we are still being followed?" Estren asked.<br /><br />"I don't know," Sir Baigent replied. "Perhaps they will judge us harmless intruders and give up the trail once they have followed it far enough. But I would not throw the dice with such being the stakes; I will breathe easier once we've ridden for a time in the water and made it harder for them to find us."<br /><br />Gwyn listened to his words, and suddenly a series of doubts crystallized in her mind. "Have you had a chance to find your reckoning?" she asked. Sir Baigent glanced back at her. "We rode for so long in darkness and storm last night, and we didn't care what direction we went in. How can we even know if east is the right direction now? For all we know, we could have ridden a league or two north last night, and now we would still be headed the wrong way."<br /><br />Sir Baigent nodded. "Those men came before I had a chance to mark our location," he said. "After we have lost our pursuers, we must head to higher ground so I can get a better reckoning. But I do not think that we are….too…far….off…." His voice trailed off then, and he reined to a sudden stop, gesturing for the companions to do likewise. Then he turned about, looking up at the trees with an odd expression on his face.<br /><br />"What is it?" Brother Llyad asked, but Sir Baigent only held up a hand for silence. He was <I>listening</I> for something -- but what? Gwyn strained her ears trying to hear whatever Sir Baigent was listening for: the bells of riders' feet in their stirrups, perhaps? or the pounding of hoofbeats? or maybe the hiss of an arrow in flight, the scrape of steel being drawn, or a signal horn being blown? Gwyn suddenly realized Sir Baigent was listening for none of those. She heard the rush of the rivulet beside them, the wind stirring the tree branches, and--<br /><br /><I>"Crows,"</I> she said.<br /><br />Sir Baigent nodded. Somewhere up ahead of them could be heard the cries of dozens of crows. She had heard the sound of that many crows before, when she had been just a girl and their cow had fallen in a storm, broken its leg, and died overnight. Her eyes met Sir Baigent's, and he looked back at her with a grim expression.<br /><br />"There are dead nearby," he said. "Someone has fed the crows."<br /><br />"Perhaps livestock," Estren offered. "Or a wild boar, dead of age and cold."<br /><br />Sir Baigent only gestured for them to resume their ride. The breeze shifted, now blowing straight up the valley and into their faces. The new breeze carried an unpleasant smell, which as they rode deepened into an awful stench of rot. Gwyn pulled her collar and cloak up over her nose, but that didn't help. It took a good deal of her willpower just to keep from retching. She had never smelled anything at all like this, and she knew without asking that it was the stench of death. The cold aroma could be nothing else.<br /><br />The wood toward the bottom of the valley became thickest, and they rode through it in hushed silence. From ahead could be heard the sound of rushing water, much louder than the rivulet they had been following. They emerged then, quite suddenly, from the wood to find themselves standing at the confluence of three of the rivulets and one larger stream, which gained quite a bit in size as it took on the flow of the rivulets. Another well-worn path wound up the side of the hill opposite them and across the water, and at the foot of that hill stood an immense oak tree.<br /><br />That tree was the source of the crows. A hundred of them were there, in that tree, feasting on the twenty or so bodies that had been hung from its branches.<br /><br />"Merciful Dona!" Brother Llyad whispered.<br /><br />"Don't look!" Sir Baigent barked, but Gwyn had already done so. She tried to tear her eyes away, but couldn't. Her mouth went dry, her head suddenly felt horribly light, and her stomach heaved.<br /><br />The bodies were young and old, men and women, even a few children. They had been stripped nude, their throats slashed, and hung by their feet for the crows. Some of their eyes were open, forming a ghastly chorus of staring death. The rains had caused the bodies to bloat. And there, flitting amidst them, were the hundred or so crows who gorging themselves upon the dead. Gwyn gagged violently as one crow thrust its beak deep into one body's open eye, but somehow she kept herself from vomiting though her mouth filled with the taste of acid and bile.<br /><br />"We should get away from here," Estren said.<br /><br />"Yes, we should," Sir Baigent said. "Come. We ride in the stream."<br /><br />"Sir Baigent," Gwyn said.<br /><br />"What?" the knight asked. Gwyn pointed, and the knight's gaze followed hers.<br /><br />One body was still garbed in the robes of the Priesthood, though his waistcord was gone and thus his rank could not be known. Whoever had killed this man had carved a symbol of sorts into the very flesh of the man's stomach, a symbol which, though crude, was clearly recognizable as the device of King Cwerith of Gwynedd.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1113759042108714572005-04-17T10:22:00.000-07:002005-04-17T10:30:42.136-07:00Chapter EightSir Baigent set a brisk pace as they rode into the hilly country east of Briston. The landscape here was quite different from that which Gwyn had known in Lyonesse. The hills were higher and rockier with their sides dotted by small forests, and the valleys were deeper. She also knew that somewhere before them lay Walding Wood, the southernmost of Prydein's deep forests. Woods in Lyonesse were thin and sparse, and Gwyn imagined with apprehension the heart of a dark forest where even at noon the light was like twilight. There were tales, dark tales mostly, of the things that dwelled in the deepest of woods.<br /><br />What struck Gwyn most about this region, though, was that the smell of the sea had dwindled away completely. She had spent almost all her life within a few miles of the sea, but now the sea was more than a day's ride away, and that distance would only grow. This air was different to her and it filled her with disquiet.<br /><br />The first day was fairly uneventful. They passed one small group of armed men who were clearly mercenaries going to throw their lot in with King Cwerith, and the leader of those men slowed his horse to a slow walk as the companions rode by. Gwyn tried not to appear fearful as she saw the man flex his hand on the pommel of his sword, but evidently he decided that these pathetic, dirty-looking travelers -- only two of whom were even armed -- were hardly worth even the effort to greet them, much less accost them. There were also groups of farmers and one tinker who appeared to have nothing whatsoever in his cart; to this man Sir Baigent flipped a coin and rode away without waiting for thanks, which the man didn't offer anyhow. The people they saw looked weary and weak. The hardship of the land was writ upon their faces, and Gwyn tried to focus her attention merely on staying warm. They didn't speak much, and Sir Baigent spoke not at all.<br /><br />When darkness finally fell they made camp at the side of a wide stream. There was a well-worn site under a copse of trees that had seen common use by other travelers on this road. Here Sir Baigent spoke for the first time, if only to give directions. The Knight's silence had bothered Gwyn most of all. She could not read his expressions, and she wanted to say something to comfort him. The one time she ventured to do so, however, he had shot her a look that clearly indicated his desire that she remain silent before she had even opened her mouth. That single glance conveyed more anger than nearly anything he could have said. She ended up saying nothing at all.<br /><br />After they made camp and built a fire, Sir Baigent opened the provisions and doled out a meal of hard bread and dried meat. "We should have enough to get to the Giants' Dance," he said. "But we should still be careful about how much we use. We don't know how well-provided the Druids will be."<br /><br />"They will provide," Brother Llyad remarked.<br /><br />"I do have my bow," Gwyn offered. "There will be game along the roads, and especially if we have to travel across country."<br /><br />"You are too important to be going off alone on hunting excursions, which would take too much time," Sir Baigent said without looking at her. "And besides, we may have need of your arrows when we encounter Cwerith's men."<br /><br />Gwyn said nothing in reply. Normally she might have argued the point -- it was no great matter to shoot a rabbit or, if they were very fortunate, a deer if they happened upon one while traveling -- but just now, arguing anything with Sir Baigent was as pointless as it was unwise.<br /><br />They passed the remainder of the meal in silence. After they finished eating, Estren sang one of the Tales of King Prystyl. Gwyn loved those old stories of heroic deeds by valiant people as they forged a kingdom from the rubble of the Cataclysm. The legends were always welcome, providing certain comfort in uncertain times, and Estren's voice brought the wonderful essences of those tales shining through in a way Gwyn had never known -- the difference between hearing those tales told by a learned Priest or itinerant musician and one of the Nine Bards of Prydein. The world seemed slightly warmer and less dark as Gwyn listened, but during the song Sir Baigent rose and walked a short distance away from the fire, to where the horses were standing. There he sat upon the ground and gazed up at the stars. Gwyn began to go after him, but she was restrained by a hand on her arm. The hand was Brother Llyad's, and he shook his head.<br /><br />"He needs to be alone now," he said. "The wound in his heart will be a very long time in healing, if such hurts can be said to ever truly heal at all. He has lost so much. Perhaps the best he could ever hope for is a closing of the wound."<br /><br />Gwyn nodded and sat back down. <I>But does he need to suffer alone?</I><br /><br />Estren finally reached a point where he could stop singing, for the tales of King Prystyl all tended to braid into one another so that in a proper telling, a tale begun might become another tale at the ending. Once his voice had faded away the companions settled back on their rolls and went to sleep. Estren and Brother Llyad dropped off to sleep almost immediately, but Gwyn lay awake for a long while listening to Brother Llyad's fitful snoring. A steady breeze stirred the trees, and as the campfire dwindled the air became colder and colder.<br /><br />Gwyn rolled over. How strange that the course of one's life could change so utterly, in a march of time so short that the previous course, just days before, now seemed as distant a memory as one's very childhood. Just seven days before her only concern had been studying for the Trials so that she could become a Priestess of Tintagel and devote her life both to learning and the Goddess. And now? Dona alone knew if she would ever even <I>see</I> Tintagel again, much less return there as a consecrated Sister. A week ago she had been an Adept. Now she was the Welcomer of the Promised King.<br /><br />Eventually she became frustrated with awaiting sleep and bored with tracing the constellations that she could see in the spaces framed by the trees, so she sat up. With a start she saw that someone was sitting directly across the campfire, looking at her. She sighed with relief when she saw that it was Sir Baigent. He had come back to the fire, and he actually smiled a little -- albeit without humor -- as she relaxed.<br /><br />"It got a bit cold over by the horses," he said.<br /><br />"It's cold everywhere," she replied.<br /><br />"Yes, it is," he said, and he placed two logs on the fire. "The day before we left Caer Camyrdin for Tintagel I was speaking with Yliane. She is one of the finest fisherfolk we've ever known -- we even called her "The Fish Queen". They say that the tiller of a fishing boat should not be steered by weak women, but Yliane is stronger than many men of arms that I know."<br /><br />Gwyn stifled a shiver and wrapped her arms around her knees, which she had gathered before her. She did not want to disturb Sir Baigent, now that he was speaking at last.<br /><br />"Yliane has led our boats to sea for almost as many years as Lord Matholyn has led our city and realm," he went on. "And she has weathered the worst of all the storms. She came to me because she had noticed lately a decline in the catch. The fishermen were bringing back nets that were half-empty. She told me that the spring sea hadn't come; that with each dawn they were sailing out to winter waters still. Everyone speaks of signs, and Yliane saw signs in the fish." He shook his head. "I suppose she couldn't weather the last storm that came while her boat was still tied to the pier." He fell silent for a moment, and then he looked up at her. "Do you believe that the Promised King is really coming back?"<br /><br />The sudden nature of the question took her by surprise, and she groped for words. "I do," she finally said. "But it is not an easy thing to believe."<br /><br />"No more so than that you are half-Fairy," he said.<br /><br />Gwyn picked up a stick and began absently stirring the coals of the campfire. "What about you, Sir Baigent? Do <I>you</I> believe?"<br /><br />He gazed into the fire a while before answering. "I don't know what to believe anymore," he said. "I wouldn't have believed that Cwerith was capable of attacking Camyrdin at dusk without so much as a parley. I wouldn't have believed that I would be traveling with a Bard and two clerics, or that this journey is more important than the war that my lord is going to fight. I wouldn't have believed a great many things." He let out a sigh. "The Promised King? I don't know. Perhaps it doesn't matter. I haven't been given much choice." He looked up at her. "It always seemed a nice enough little legend to me - the King who would return in the land's darkest days, when he would vanquish the Dark and restore the Kingdom. But if we are to sit and wait for him to save us, then I wonder what place men have to choose their own fates. Lord Matholyn and I left Camyrdin's borders to find <I>you</I>, it seems. And while we were gone...." His voice trailed off.<br /><br />"Unfair, Sir Knight," she said. "Why do men of arms only define what is good by who is dead afterwards?" She saw him stiffen, and she realized that her tone had been sharper than she intended. Or perhaps it had not, after all; she was so tired of men and their insistence on battles and blood and death.<br /><br />"Have you known many men of arms, to be able to make such a judgment of us?" he asked.<br /><br />Gwyn felt her face redden, and she finally had to shake her head. "Judgment seems to come easy to me," she said. "Brother Malcolm has held it as one of my faults." She leaned forward. "I did not ask for this any more than you did, or anyone. The burden was put upon me, for good or ill. We do not always choose our duties. Sometimes <I>we</I> are chosen for <I>them</I>."<br /><br />"That is an easy sentiment for a cleric," Sir Baigent said. "Or a cleric-in-training, as the case may be. But then, I've never thought highly of clerics. They try to find meaning in the words on a page."<br /><br />"Is that a less worthy place to find meaning than on the edge of a sword?" Gwyn asked, now intending every bit of her sharp tone.<br /><br />Sir Baigent gave a half-smile. "Now which of us is unfair, my Lady?"<br /><br />She bit her lip. "I am not known on Tintagel for self-restraint."<br /><br />"I was afraid that I was not seeing the real Lady Gwynwhyfar," he said. "I suspect Brother Malcolm has his hands full, with you."<br /><br />She scowled at the jibe, and he leaned back against a rock and sipped water from a skin.<br /><br />"The edge of a sword is what I have been given," he continued. "That is less a gift than the power of the Fair Folk, isn't it?" He shrugged and flipped a stone over his shoulder. "It appears that we are both unfair."<br /><br />"Many things are unfair," Gwyn said. "Perhaps it is folly to seek fairness at all. If I could not choose the duty itself, then at least I can choose to see it done as best I can. I owe the Goddess that much." She looked at him now and spoke with a much softer tone. "None of us go through life with only one duty, from birth to grave. If your duty to Camyrdin is over, perhaps that is because there is another duty awaiting you."<br /><br />"Another fine clerical sentiment," Sir Baigent said. "They have taught you well on that island of yours."<br /><br />Gwyn flushed. She had not meant to sound trite at all; he was belittling her nonetheless. She opened her mouth to deliver a hasty retort, but then she decided not to deliver it. There had been enough such things.<br /><br />Sir Baigent chuckled."It seems that the time you have devoted to your self-restraint has been well-spent at least in part, my Lady." His tone was no longer mocking, and she smiled. <br /><br />"I was called 'Crow' when I first came to Tintagel."<br /><br />"'Crow'? That seems hardly accurate, unless there are crows with red feathers."<br /><br />"My father called me 'Little Sparrow'," she said.<br /><br />"Mine called me 'Bear'," he replied. He looked up at the stars again, and when he spoke again his voice was very soft. "<I>The rising of the stars brings me to the road again,</I>" he said.<br /><br />"<I>And the moon's light carries me home,</I>" Gwyn said, finishing the lyric.<br /><br />"I always loved that song," he said, and put another log on the fire. "'We do not choose our duties; sometimes we are chosen for them.' Was it Camyrdin's duty to die? And who, I wonder, did the choosing?"<br /><br />She had no answer for that, and she suddenly found his gaze uncomfortable. She looked down into the fire, where the newest logs were beginning to hiss and pop. She pulled her cloak and blanket tighter about her shoulders. "It is getting colder each day," she said.<br /><br />He nodded. "I may not be a cleric and in tune with such things, but I do know that this cold is unnatural. It is the will of some Power."<br /><br />"You shouldn't name it," Gwyn said.<br /><br />"I name it Evil," he replied.<br /><br />They fell silent again for a long while, and Gwyn was thankful for the silence. All day he had seemed so utterly resentful of her and of the mission on which he had been sent, but now -- now, she wasn't certain. When she had first seen this man on Tintagel she had thought him a simple man-of-arms, and she had even gone so far as to speak to him as such. But it was clear that he was far more than that. <I>I am glad he is with us,</I> she finally decided. <I>When the Promised King arrives, he will need allies like Sir Baigent.</I> With that thought she looked up into the sky and picked out, in the small patch of sky visible through the trees, one of the summer constellations that she should have been viewing on a warm summer night. The cold <I>was</I> the work of Evil. She knew it as surely as anything.<br /><br />"You'd best be to sleep, my Lady," Sir Baigent said. "Tomorrow will not be an easy day."<br /><br />"I wonder how long it will be before there is ever an easy day again," she replied. "Good night, Sir Baigent." She returned to her bedroll and was asleep almost immediately, her earlier wakefulness now mercifully gone. She did not dream at all that night, nor did she hear the voice of the knight when he said "Good night, my Lady."<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />The sun was just rising when they set out eastward again. The road in these parts was much more frequently traveled, and they encountered several parties that day. Most were farmers who had been forced to sell not their harvest from the year before, but the precious seed grain that they would have used to plant their fields this spring. Their wagons were never more than half-full with provisions from market; even by selling seed grain these people found it impossible to stock their larders. Soon the people would be starving, and probably sooner than Gwyn wanted to believe.<br /><br />Very few people gave them a second glance after a customary greeting. Gwyn supposed that this was because of the difficult times; perhaps these people had more to think about than the strangeness of Monks of Tintagel so far from home, or of a Bard accompanying them, or of the strong, silent man who rode at the head of their column. But then, she realized, Estren wore no markings to indicate that he was anything but some harper on his way to the next village to earn a few coppers playing for some inn-guests; and of course there was nothing about either herself or Brother Llyad that marked them as being specifically from Tintagel. They <I>did</I> look unremarkable, and this was a good thing. <br /><br />At noontime they came to a crossroads marked by a dead oak tree from which hung a sign indicating what lay in just one of the three directions: a town named Maddurch, of which Gwyn had never heard. Behind them lay the road they had just traveled, back to Briston; and the road to the left was unmarked, though it wound toward more hilly country to the east.<br /><br />"I don't know this town," Gwyn said.<br /><br />"Neither do I," Sir Baigent said. "But it doesn't matter: we are not going there. The road has swung south, and we must turn back to the east."<br /><br />With no more explanation than that he led the companions onto the unmarked road. On this part of the journey they encountered no other travelers, save a single old man leading two oxen. This road ran alongside a series of small woods and followed a stream that came and went beside them, meandering occasionally away into the nearby hills and back again. Along this road the companions spread out slightly, no longer riding in as close quarters as before, with Estren and Brother Llyad falling half a furlong back. Gwyn found this relieving in a way, and welcomed the extra space.<br /><br />At one point, after several hours of riding, the sun vanished behind a cloud and the land darkened. Feeling suddenly colder, Gwyn kicked her horse into a trot and caught up with Sir Baigent, who offered her a drink of water from a wineskin.<br /><br />"I admire you one thing, my Lady," he said suddenly.<br /><br />Gwyn looked at him and smiled mischievously. "One thing only?"<br /><br />"One thing for now," he said. "Most people would be afraid to go to the Druids at all, and far fewer would be willing to trust them with what <I>you</I> are going to trust them. There have been many stories about the things they do."<br /><br />"I have been with one Druid already," she said, thinking of Llawann with a sadness that surprised her given that she had not known him for more than a few days -- or even a few hours, depending on the reckoning. "And besides, Brother Llyad speaks well of them."<br /><br />Sir Baigent shook his head. "I don't know if that would soothe me. Brother Llyad doesn't seem right in the head."<br /><br />She stifled a laugh and glanced back to see if Llyad had heard, but he was too far back and -- as she should have expected -- he was too busy chatting away with Estren. "Why would you say that?" she asked.<br /><br />"I doubt the wits of anyone who would take to the Sea of Eire alone in a tiny boat in hopes of going to see the Druids."<br /><br />"It <I>was</I> an impressive bit of sea-reckoning," she said.<br /><br />"That one doesn't end up dead in the course of doing something foolish hardly means that the original something was a good idea," Sir Baigent said. His horse snorted, and he added, "My father told me that. On too many occasions, I must admit."<br /><br />Gwyn only smiled, not quite sure of how to respond to his remembrance. Then something occurred to her. "You said 'most people'," she said.<br /><br />"What?"<br /><br />"Before, you said 'most people' would be afraid of the Druids. You didn't say that <I>you</I> would be afraid of them." She was remembering something else now. "And you haven't said anything about them one way or the other. Why are <I>you</I> not afraid of the Druids?"<br /><br />"Because he has some experience with them, my Lady." It was Estren, who along with Brother Llyad had caught up to hear the last part of the conversation. "That is where he was headed when we first met, that night as the Crossroads."<br /><br />"You mentioned them before," Brother Llyad said, his eyes wide in admiration. "In the Duke's war-room. How did you meet them?"<br /><br />"I don't <I>know</I> any Druids. I have merely encountered them, and I lost two men to them -- so, my Lady, I would not say that I am not afraid of them. Not totally, anyway."<br /><br />"What happened?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"Can you avoid interrupting for a time?" Sir Baigent said with a half-smile. Then he began. "There is a town called Llanet, a tiny village actually, that lies on the sea. I only know of it because of how close it is to the border of Gwynedd. In the various wars between Gwynedd and Camyrdin over the years, this town has frequently found itself under a different flag -- why, I don't know, because the place has little to offer by way of strategy. Its harbor is very small and not particularly deep, its fields are rocky and the whole damned place is very remote to begin with.<br /><br />"One autumn day -- last autumn, actually -- the town's Priestess came to Caer Camyrdin. We knew that she must have grim tidings indeed if she herself had undertaken the journey, without escort and only with provisions enough for one, and leaving her people without their Priestess at harvest time. How she survived on those bandit-infested roads is beyond my imagination; the badges of priesthood are not always honored by those who have willingly gone beyond the Goddess's touch. And to make matters worse, the days she had traveled were marked by unnaturally cold autumn rains." He stopped for a moment and cocked his head. "<I>Unnaturally cold rains</I>," he repeated <I>sotto voce</I> before continuing. "When she arrived she was exhausted and feverish, and she was taken straight to our Healers. Her fever finally broke after four days, and only then could she tell us what she had come to say.<br /><br />" '<I>The groves no longer stand empty,</I>' she said. <I>" 'Their masters have returned from their island exile and begun their rituals again. We have seen the fires in the groves, and our fishermen have seen their boats riding the inwards waves by the moonlight. The hills at night have sounded with their chanting, and the land itself has recoiled at the touch of their feet. Three of our children have gone missing, and their bones were found still tied to the altars.'</I> That was all she could tell us before she lapsed to sleep again.<br /><br />"Lord Matholyn considered her words for several days. He consulted with Mother Derrych -- the Lord Priestess of Camyrdin -- and I could tell that he was deeply troubled by this news. He finally made his decision on the third day after her arrival. He ordered me to take four men and go to Llanett to learn the truth.<br /><br />"We left Caer Camyrdin on a morning that was sunny but cold. Rather like this one. With me were Sir Meddvyl, Sir Loras, Sir Trincemore, and Sir Hugydd. Good men, all of them." He trailed off for a moment, and Gwyn supposed that each of these men was now dead. Everything was a reminder of some loss or other. "We first took the North Road, into the Grey Mountains, and as the day ended we came to the Crossroads where the North Road meets the Western Mountain Road, which would take us through the mountains to the western part of Camyrdin. We camped there that night, along with a band of travelers -- our friend Estren here, who was riding with a couple of traveling merchants.<br /><br />"I was heading back east from Caer Mastagg," Estren put in. "It has always been said, amongst the Nine, that all that salt-air and the pounding of the sea has left the Lords of Caer Mastagg with ears of bronze. I had decided to test that wisdom for myself. Sadly, it was true. When it comes to song, Cwerith's ear is little more than wax, and his tastes in verse run to tales of bloodletting and the conquest of women. I do not sing many such songs or tell many such tales, and thus my welcome wore away very quickly." He looked at Sir Baigent. "You did not tell us that you were seeking the Druids, though."<br /><br />"We were unsure of what we were seeking," Sir Baigent said. "I did not want those merchants you were with to start spreading rumors based on anything we said." He sipped more water from his wineskin and then passed the skin to Gwyn before continuing. "At the end of the fifth day out of Caer Camyrdin we reached Commot Craddoc, a tiny hamlet near where the Northern Sea Road begins. We lodged at the Inn there, before heading north the next day to Llanet and the Sea Country. We found the inn full of people, which surprised us after we had encountered next to no one on the road for five days. There were farmers going to market after Harvest, several sea merchants who were heading back to their ships, and a number of locals. The talk was the usual kind of rumor that one hears in common-rooms: which King is going to war, whether this prince would marry that princess, and the like. At one point I mentioned that we had heard something about the Druid groves, and when I said that the mood there became much darker. Every farmer there had lost a cow or lamb to the Druids, and there were even rumors about invalid old women or young children wandering too far afield being taken. The next morning, we broke fast with the dawn, and within the hour we were again in our saddles, riding north.<br /><br />"That day was thankfully dry, and we made good time, arriving in Llanet shortly after the mid-afternoon. The people of Llanet were very tense, since so much time had passed since last they had seen their Priestess, but they were glad when I told them that she lived and would return with escort when she was strong enough. I was taken to Morgant, the leader of the town council, but he was loath to discuss the matter of the Druids. It took a number of threats, all made in the name of Matholyn Lord of Camyrdin, to loosen his tongue.<br /><br />"'We have been told of the coming of the Druids. What has happened?' I asked. <br /><br />"'For months now, we have heard things in the Groves, but we dared not look,' he said. 'We could only pray that they had not returned. But one of our fishermen went out late one night to tend his nets, and he watched as the boats came ashore, four of them, each bringing three of the unholy men from Mona. He turned and ran, not stopping until he was safe within my doors. Had the Druids known he was there, surely they would have carved his heart from his chest on the spot.'<br /><br />"Morgant further told us that travelers going to and from Gwynedd had brought news of something happening again in the groves. The fires had again been lit. This news was sweeping across the countryside. I decided that we would go to one of the groves, to see what was happening. We were near to Kassoc Wood; we could be there the next day.<br /><br />"When we left the next morning, Sir Hugydd had taken a chill and developed a bad cough, but he swore upon his shield that he was able to ride. If I could undo one decision I made on the entire journey, the decision to allow Hugydd to ride that day would be the one." He fell silent for a moment as a shadow passed over his face, and then he went on.<br /><br />"We rode into the hills above the sea, through the farm country around Llanet. Soon we passed the last farm, and we were amidst the low rolling hills of the Sea country. The wind was cold that day, and Hugydd's coughing became worse. At times I wondered how much longer he could sit upright in the saddle, but he pushed away all attempts to help him.<br /><br />"We came around a bend in the trail, which was now barely even a worn track through the grass, and before us lay Kassoc Wood. The trail here was marked with standing stones, on which the Druidic runes had been scratched out and new sigils to the Goddess had been carved.<br /><br />"They need not have done that," Brother Llyad said suddenly. "The Druids serve the Goddess."<br /><br />"And how many know that?" Sir Baigent countered. "The Wood was very dark and the sun barely seemed to shine into it. I don't have the words to describe that place. It went beyond the quietest, darkest, and oldest places I can ever remember. The silence was almost something you could touch, and not even Hugydd's coughing could dispel it. Our mounts made no sound, no whinny or whimper; they merely kept their eyes on the ground beneath their hooves. None of us dared speak, and we rode on in silence.<br /><br />"The trail went down into what I suppose was a valley. We found ourselves on the bank of a black stream, whose waters ran fast but silent. We tried to cross, but every one of our steeds refused to cross the water -- even Arradwen here." He patted his horse on the neck.<br /><br /><I>Arradwen</I>, Gwyn thought. <I>The name of Gorlon Great-Sword's steed. This man knows more of the great tales than he lets on.</I><br /><br />Sir Baigent continued. "We had to force our way upstream, now diverging from the trail. Our only guide was the water that rushed from some place before us to.<br /><br />"All the while Hugydd became worse and worse. He was a big man, big and strong; I remember one time in particular when he was so drunk that he tried lifting a nearly-adult cow. He actually got that beast off the ground before it kicked him and broke two of his ribs." He chuckled at the memory. "But now his strength was gone, and he could no longer ride. We used our ropes to tie him to his saddle, and we tied his mount to mine. Trincemore and Loras rode on either side of him, with Meddvyl riding behind. It was now getting dark, and soon I actually had to light a torch to see my way. We needed to find a place to camp, so we pushed on and on, searching for even a tiny patch of ground beside the stream on which we could rest, but there was nothing to be found.<br /><br />"At the time, I thought it was because I was growing weary, but I began to see things -- flashes of light, pinpricks of flame in the distance. But each time I turned to look directly on them, they were gone. My men were seeing things too, and our nerves were stretching themselves out. Finally we came upon a bramble which we had to cut our way through. I drew my blade and began to work on the task, but I could only accomplish one slice before we were surrounded by Druids.<br /><br />"There were probably twenty of them, men and women, some carrying torches of bone. They wore robes of all different colors underneath their brown wool cloaks. The men all wore beards, and each woman had hair down to her waist. Around their necks they wore the silver moon pendant, and their arms bore a mark in the shape of an oak tree."<br /><br />"You <I>did</I> meet them," Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />"I said as much, didn't I?" Sir Baigent said sardonically. "In the darkness we had not seen that we were in fact in the middle of a fairly large clearing, bordered by the stream on one side and forest on the other. We were all nervous -- except Hugydd, who I don't even think noticed them -- but Meddvyl was far worse. As they approached, he drew his blade. He was staring at their torches, the torches of bone. 'Murderers!' he shouted. 'They perform sacrifices of people and use the bones for torches!' He began circling about and looking for a way out." Sir Baigent closed his eyes for several seconds before resuming.<br /><br />"Trincemore and Loras were unsure of what to do. They too unsheathed their blades, but they were still holding Hugydd up, and their weapons remained at defensive stance. Meddvyl, however, swung his blade round, threatening the Druids. I knew that in just a minute or two he would kill one or more of them, and that they would outnumber us in a fight. I could also tell the damned difference between human bone and that of a stag. 'Those are not human bones!' I yelled. 'They're the bones of a stag! Lower your blade!' But Meddvyl wouldn't listen. I think that maybe he had some of the same fever that had robbed Hugydd of his senses; or maybe it was the day of riding in these accursed woods. It doesn't matter. I yelled, over and over again, for him to lower his blade, but to this day I don't know if he even realized I was speaking. 'They are going to kill us and drink our blood!' he screamed. Oh, Dona, would that I had never taken so young a knight on such a journey -- but I had no inkling that he would prove so weak." He shook his head in remorseful reminisce. "Finally it happened: one of the Druid women came too close. She has holding up a branch of holly, which any damned fool could see - any, that is, but Meddvyl. Where the rest of us saw a peace offering, he saw a blade, and with one swing he struck the woman's head from her shoulders. Her body fell to the ground, spewing blood all over Meddvyl and his steed. Her head rolled into the stream. I stepped forward and held my own weapon at Meddvyl's neck. It took my steel, held against his neck, to make him listen to me. I acted too late, as it turned out.<br /><br />"There was a terrible moment of silence. I wondered what the Druids were waiting for; surely they would kill us for this transgression against them. One of the men began wailing, cradling the body of she who had been his wife. The rest of the Druids simply stared at us. I heard Hugydd fall out of his saddle, to a dead heap on the ground, where he lay writhing and coughing. Sir Meddvyl looked at me, and I could see in his eyes that he had finally realized what he had done. Tears were coming to his eyes, and he was moving his blade to its sheathe when I heard a quick whistle, followed by the sound an apple makes when dropped on the ground. Sir Meddvyl choked, and I could see the dart in his neck. There were tiny drops of his blood on the wound, and I could see the thick poison on the shaft of the dart. It took only seconds for Sir Meddvyl to die."<br /><br />Gwyn glanced at Brother Llyad, and saw that he too was thinking of another clearing and another Druid armed with darts and a blowtube. Sir Baigent went on.<br /><br />"Before I could respond to the murder by poison of one of my knights, one of the Druids stepped forward. He was clearly the leader of this group. For some reason it surprised me when he spoke in our language, although I'm not sure why that should have been.<br /><br />"'Strike not!' he commanded. 'You have come to a sacred place without invitation, and you have killed one of my number without provocation. Now you would raise your blade against us? Your weapon will never find its mark. Our darts are aimed at you even now.'<br /><br />"Since that was certainly true, I decided to introduce myself. 'I am Sir Baigent, seneschal of the Lord Matholyn of Camyrdin whose realm this is. Why have you come forth from Mona? Your sacrifices shall not begin again!'<br /><br />"'You know nothing of us, foolish knight,' he said. 'The Druids of Mona are not killers, nor have we ever been We are the keepers of a tradition far older than any realm or kingdom on this island. Before your people spread across this Isle, there were the Druids. After the fall of the Ancients and the fires of the Cataclysm, there were the Druids. Before the rise of the Ancients, there were the Druids. The time has come for us to return to the land of our age-old stewardship. We herald the coming of he who sleeps until the need. I am Horius - leader of these Druids. We are home.'"<br /><br />"Horius!" Brother Llyad said. "I know him! In fact, I stood on the beach of Mona when he set out in his boat for Prydein. He is a man of great importance amongst the Druids."<br /><br />"That much I was able to realize," Sir Baigent said. "As I considered Horius's words, another Druid was looking over Hugydd. She spoke to Horius in a language which I had never before heard. He replied to her, and she began mixing herbs together from some pouches she had within her cloak. I looked at Horius and demanded an explanation.<br /><br />"'Your comrade is gravely ill. If you attempt to travel with him, he will not survive long. I am sure that you are unwilling to bury <I>two</I> of your knights in the same day.'<br /><br />"'Can you heal him?' I asked.<br /><br />"'We will do what we can for him, but you can not remain here. What happens within these woods, amongst the Druids, is not for your eyes.'<br /><br />"'I will not leave without my entire party, Druid,' I said.<br /><br />"'The choice is not yours, good knight,' was his reply. 'You come unbidden and unwelcomed into our midst, and shed blood in the process. This man is the price that we claim for that; be grateful that we claim no more as would be our right. You will leave now and you will not come back. You companion shall not die, if such lies within our power. That is all you may ask for.' He said no more after that. He turned and walked away. Three Druids came forth and lifted Hugydd up, carrying him with them as they disappeared into the forest. In minutes we were again alone, with only the sound of the steeds breathing and the running of the black waters beside us. Trincemore looked at me and asked, 'What shall we do?'<br /><br />"'We shall do as we are bid,' I said. 'We shall go back to Camyrdin.'<br /><br />"'What of Meddvyl's body?' asked Loras.<br /><br /> "'We will not carry a body all the way back to Caer Camyrdin. Bring his blade -- his father will want it back.' And without further word, we mounted or steeds and began the long journey back to Camyrdin." Sir Baigent finally fell silent.<br /><br />"You learned no more than that?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"I was only able to tell Lord Matholyn that the Druids had returned; I didn't learn anything about the sacrifices in the groves or why the Druids were back. But I did tell him that the Druids I met did not impress me as murderers." He shifted in his saddle.<br /><br />"Horius's band was the first of the Druids to return to Prydein," Brother Llyad said. "They came to begin the work of restoring the groves for when the others came, after the winter."<br /><br />"After the winter," Sir Baigent echoed. "Who knows when that will be."<br /><br />The companions rode in silence for a while after that. Estren lazily hummed some unfinished tune, but other than that none of them said anything for several hours. The sun was dipping toward the western horizon when they rode into a shallow valley that would have been lovely had the trees been in leaf. When they reached the valley bottom they found another stream, and after a few minutes of riding beside that stream they came to a wide grassy area beside it. "We should take rest here," Sir Baigent said. Gwyn shifted uncomfortably in her saddle; the knight's decision to stop had made her all the more aware of her discomfort from long hours of riding. Brother Llyad was likewise relieved for a few moments out of the saddle; Sir Baigent and Estren, of course, showed no sign of discomfort at all.<br /><br />A quarter of an hour later they were standing about beside the road as their horses sipped from the cold water of the stream. Gwyn rubbed her backside and squatted several times in hopes of restoring circulation and fliexibility, and then she walked over to the stream to fill her water skin. The water was shockingly cold and it had a strong mineral taste, but still she splashed some of it on her face, which was less refreshing than she had hoped. Beside her Estren walked barefoot in the water gasping at the icy water upon his skin.<br /><br />"Is that wise?" she asked.<br /><br />He laughed and shrugged. "I've done things that were less wise," he said. "Too many, it seems. But for now it feels good."<br /><br />Suddenly Brother Llyad came running from a copse of trees across the road. "Do you hear that?" he called. "Someone is coming!" The other three turned their ears to the air and listened, and each heard it: the rattling of wagon-wheels, coming closer.<br /><br />Almost as soon as they had heard it, the wagon came around the bend in the road. It was, in fact, a rickety old farming wagon, traveling by itself. Sitting on the wagon's seat were a man, his wife, and their young daughter. Their faces were worn with winter and hardship; their clothes of homespun cloth had seen better days. The wagon itself held several barrels and two crates -- probably all the food they had been able to buy at market.<br /><br />"Greetings!" the farmer called as he reined to a stop, the cheer in his voice belying his careworn expression. "Is there room here for us to water?"<br /><br />"More than enough room and more than enough water," Sir Baigent said. "It is clean water, too, if very cold."<br /><br />"Everything is cold these days," the farmer said as he jumped down from his seat and helped his wife and daughter down. "We have been to market at Wainbrow, stocking up on provisions -- such as we could find -- and now we are going home. Where are you headed?"<br /><br />"East," Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />"East?" The farmer shook his head and sighed. "There will be war in the east, and very soon."<br /><br />Gwyn turned and wandered away from the conversation, moving to stand near the side of the water. A short distance away the farmer's wife was filling waterskins, and the little girl was playing on a series of larger rocks that extended out into the stream. Listening to the girl's laughter and delighted shouts, Gwyn wondered if her life had ever been filled with wonder at rocks in a stream and clouds in the sky. She supposed that it must have been, and yet it took her some effort to remember it. Some memories were so easy to summon, some others so hard, and it always seemed that the most pleasant ones were hardest to recall. At last she remembered the warm summer days of Lyonesse, and how she had run down to the beach to search for shells, with her father walking behind her. The game was to pretend that the most beautiful shells were treasures from the wonderful bed-time stories of the night before. "Look, father!" she would call out, holding up a particularly fine shell for him to see. "The jewel from Queen Ileyn's crown!" And her father would take it in his rough and yet so gentle hands and hold it up to the morning sunlight, smile, and say, "Why, so it is, Little Sparrow. Keep it safe! When the Queen wants it again she will want to know where to find it." And yet, always in the end even the finest shells disappeared, forgotten in favor of newer and finer things. It was the same way with memories, Gwyn found.<br /><br />"Are you a fairy?"<br /><br />Gwyn blinked and looked down at the little girl, who now stood directly in front of her.<br /><br />"Gamonwy!" her mother exclaimed. "Is that any kind of question to ask a stranger?" The mother looked at Gwyn and shrugged sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Sister. I have been telling her stories of the Fair Folk lately, and she is always trying to see them."<br /><br />"It's all right," Gwyn said, smiling. "Are you telling her the good stories, or the scary ones?"<br /><br />"The good ones," the mother replied. "Although they are so often one and the same."<br /><br />"That they are," Gwyn said. Then she knelt before the girl and looked her in the eye, and the girl giggled nervously and retreated until she was standing right up against her mother. Gwyn smiled again. "What do you think, little one?"<br /><br /> "You look real," the girl said. "Fairies <I>aren't</I> real. My father says so. He says that I shouldn't look for them, because I'll never find them. But my mother says I might see them if I look hard enough." She leaned forward and whispered as children do: "I think my father really believes in them too, but he won't say so."<br /><br />Gwyn laughed at that, and so did the mother, who had heard. Gwyn glanced over her shoulder, looking to see if the girl's father could hear in an exaggerated gesture that made the little girl laugh. Then she leaned closer to the girl and spoke very, very softly. "Would you like to know where to look for them?"<br /><br />The girl giggled and nodded.<br /><br />"Look for them in the shadows under the trees, when the sun is just rising over the hills and the grass still has dew on it. Look for them in the reflections on water -- but it has to be the cleanest water you can find. And when the wind blows and your house rattles and you're scared at the storm, listen for them. You might hear their singing then. It will comfort you."<br /><br />The little girl's eyes were wide. Gwyn laid a hand on her shoulder.<br /><br />"There <I>is</I> magic in this world," Gwyn said. "It was made by the Goddess. Never stop looking for it."<br /><br />Now the farmer came over, and Gwyn straightened. "I think the horses will be fine now," he said. "We should be riding again."<br /><br />"And so should we," Sir Baigent called to Gwyn, who nodded. She gave a tiny wave, and the little girl waved back as her mother gathered her up in her arms and carried her back to the wagon. The farmer turned back to Sir Baigent.<br /><br />"You might want to leave this road soon, if you're truly heading east," he said.<br /><br />"What news?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />"It may be safe by now, but I wouldn't risk it. Past Wainbrow there was recently a skirmish between Lord Chyen's holdfast -- he is a local lord -- and a company of King Cwerith's men."<br /><br />"Cwerith's men are this far east already?" Sir Baigent was unable to mask his concern.<br /><br />"He has a number of companies about, one of which is particularly ill-reputed. This particular company destroyed Lord Chyen's holdfast, and Chyen himself was killed when his horse was toppled with him riding it." He shook his head and spat on the ground as he glanced at his family. His daughter was happily jabbering to her mother from the seat of the wagon. "Luckily we will soon be turning south. Cwerith isn't concerned with the Seaward Cantrevs yet."<br /><br />Sir Baigent scowled. "Eventually he will be."<br /><br />"Yes, I suppose he will," the farmer said. "Well, we'd best be on our way. I hope to be home by midday tomorrow and find out how many of my ale-kegs my sons have opened while they 'defended' the farm."<br /><br />"I'll wring their necks!" the farmer's wife called out, having heard that last remark.<br /><br />The farmer chuckled. "Men always have more to fear from their mother than they do from their father. After all, our fates are shaped by the Goddess." He glanced again at his family and lowered his voice. "I think it will be a long time before it will be safe for me to travel alone with them again. There were other whisperings at Wainbrow. Some think that the Goddess's power is fading. Dark times will give men dark thoughts. But others spoke of other things. Some even mentioned the Promised King." He gave a bemused smile. "We must seek out what light we can, but <I>that</I> is a little too much to ask for."<br /><br />"Like all things, that would be in the hands of the Goddess."<br /><br />"Like all things," the farmer echoed. "And may the Goddess go with you on your journey. We really must be going!" He nodded at the companions again and then he turned and climbed up onto the seat of the wagon and got the horses moving. The little girl stared at Gwyn the entire way, waving goodbye just as the wagon rolled around a bend and disappeared into the hills. They were again alone.<br /><br />"We'd best be moving ourselves," Sir Baigent said. "This news of Cwerith's roving bands troubles me."<br /><br />Without any more talk the companions again mounted and took to the road. For a long time Gwyn's thoughts were on the family they had just met and, to some extent, on the hardships that lay ahead for such people all across Prydein. But Gwyn thought more about that little girl, and how much she reminded Gwyn of another little girl from an earlier time who had also loved the tales of the Fair Folk. She hoped that her father would not mind her giving the same answer that he had offered her, when she herself had asked him where to look for Fair Folk. She hoped that the little girl would one day use the same words to answer the same question when her own children asked it anew, as all such questions are.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Hours later they were riding through a hilly countryside, with higher hills before them. The land should have been a lush green but instead the fields only bore the dried husks of last year's grasses. The trees should have been turning forth their leaves in offering to Dona; instead, they bleakly held in their blossoms, refusing to even greet the sun that shone through the cold air. The only sound was the whistling and moaning wind as it coursed through the hollows and the barren dells as if crying out for a lover long departed. Only the occasional cry of the crow broke the baleful monotone of the winter wind which blew in the midst of summer. And as the travelers pressed on eastward, toward their hopeful meeting with the Druids, a deep and somber mood settled over them and not a one of them spoke -- none of them save Estren, who for a time sang a lyric of sadness to himself as if there were no one listening in all the world. The song he had chosen brought the companions little comfort, and Gwyn wondered why he had selected it; as if sensing her question, he said: "The Bard does not always choose the song. Sometimes the song chooses to be sung." No one replied, except the wind, which blew even colder and harsher.<br /><br />For the briefest moment Gwyn thought that she could smell on the wind the Sea of Eire, that scent that carried forth each new day onto Tintagel. But that moment was quickly gone: this wind was something else, something older and more malevolent. She realized that this wind came not from Eire but from the Great Western Water, the vast ocean across which no ships sailed and below which dwelt the Great Wyrm, slumbering in his unfathomable depths around the very roots of the world itself. Gwyn remembered the smell of that wind, a memory which crystallized almost immediately. She remembered the night, just days before, when she and Brother Malcolm had gone to the mushroom caves and on the way back had found a broken boat and its two passengers amongst the rocks. The memory went farther than that, though, to a dream she had had -- a dream in which she had been a bird watching a beautiful island be swallowed by an angry sea and the storm that had come from its very heart.<br /><br />Sir Baigent confirmed their fears when, while they had ridden to the top of a rounded hillock, he turned to look back westward. His eyes were grim as he studied the black clouds gathering and moving toward them.<br /><br />"Woe to us if we are still on the road when those clouds arrive," he said to no one in particular. The wind whipped at his cloak, and he had to hold his hood tightly at the neck lest it blow off. Without another word, he turned forward and urged Arradwen ahead, down into the next shallow valley. The others followed, with the storm mustering behind them.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1112496497492680562005-04-03T00:01:00.000-08:002005-04-03T07:56:27.823-07:00Chapter Seven"The Promised King?" The Duke's voice trailed off as he considered the implications. All the legends of youth, all the stories told to the children, all the prophecies spoken by the Priests and written in the oldest books -- all of it, he was now being told, all of it true. "But if the Promised King is truly returning," he finally said, "then there must be a need. And that means that High King Irlaris--"<br /><br />"Soon will be High King no more," Lord Matholyn said. "And with Duncan approaching Londia...."<br /><br />The Duke shook his head. "I have been sworn to Irlaris all my years as Duke, and all my years before that. I was only six years old when he became King. And now you tell me that his reign is ending?"<br /><br />"No King's days are without number," Lord Matholyn said. "Even King Prystyl's reign came to an end."<br /><br />"No one knows what is to be," Brother Malcolm said. "Irlaris is an old man. He may be overrun by his enemies, or he may be merely brought to sleep in the Annwn's Halls as must we all."<br /><br />"He may be gone already," Sir Jules said. "We've heard less and less from Londia these days."<br /><br />Duke Cunaddyr glanced at Sir Jules, shook his head and turned instead to his Priest. "What signs have you seen, Terryn?"<br /><br />The Lord Priest of Bedwyn shrugged. "I cannot be sure that I have seen any signs at all, My Lord. The prophecies of Ryannon speak of warlords rising from the ends of Prydein; this could, I suppose, refer to Cwerith and Duncan. Ryannon also speaks of the dying land, and we are now mired in the latest start of the growing season at any time in memory."<br /><br />"A 'late start'?" Lord Matholyn was incredulous. "We are near to Midsummer Night! This is no late start, no cold spring. The land is in the grip of something unnatural."<br /><br />"There must be more," Father Terryn said. "There must be more than this, to make us think that this is the time and not any other time of hardship. Prydein is a hard land, and always has been. There must be more."<br /><br />"There are the Druids," Lord Matholyn said.<br /><br />Father Terryn's mouth opened and closed. He had not expected this, not at all. "The Druids have returned," he said at last. "We have heard this, but nothing more than rumors whispered in dark corners. Are you certain that it is so?"<br /><br />"It is so. I have seen them. I have met them." Gwyn gasped at the words, for they came not from Brother Llyad but from Sir Baigent.<br /><br />Father Terryn nodded gravely. "Then it is rumor no longer," the Priest said.<br /><br />"I went to Tintagel to consult the Oracles," Lord Matholyn said. "If the signs are true, and the time is near for the Promised King's return, then it is also time to find the Welcomer -- which a certain Druid may already have done."<br /><br />He did not need to point to Gwyn; Father Terryn had already turned to face her when Lord Matholyn finished speaking. "This is your claim, then? That this girl is the Welcomer?"<br /><br />Duke Cunaddyr jumped up to his feet. "What is this? We have gone from the return of the Promised King to the Welcomer, standing here before me? Is that how you come to travel with her?"<br /><br />Lord Matholyn nodded gravely. "She is, if the Druid lore tells true."<br /><br />"What Druid lore?" Father Terryn asked as he stepped forward, staring still at Gwyn.<br /><br />Lord Matholyn spoke then, telling the Duke and the Priest about how Brother Llyad had gone to the Druids, and what he had found on their Isle, and what he had brought back. He told about the journey to the lake -- leaving out, to Gwyn's gratitude, the part where Brother Llyad abducted her in the night. He told how Gwyn met the Fair Folk that night, and how she knew the name of the Promised King.<br /><br />Father Terryn's eyes gleamed. "And that name--?"<br /><br />"Arthur Pendragon," Gwyn answered.<br /><br />Father Terryn blinked as if trying to recover a long-lost memory. "There is power in that name," he said slowly. "But I have never heard it before. It is not mentioned in any of the sacred books."<br /><br />"And it wouldn't be," Lord Matholyn said. "Ryannon makes clear that the name was lost to all but the Fair Folk after the Cataclysm. Not even the Druids, who bear so much, knew the name until Gwynwhyfar spoke it."<br /><br />"Gwynwhyfar," the Lord Priest said. "A fair name, it must be said. Tell me, child: what gives you to believe that you are the Welcomer? Surely anyone could invent a name and speak it in the presence of those who wish to believe."<br /><br />"I have invented nothing," Gwyn said. She had minded her tongue to the best of her ability, but now she was becoming angry. "You are a Lord Priest, and yet you seem unwilling to believe. Why is that?"<br /><br />"Because belief is so often led astray," Father Terryn said. "You are far from the first person to claim to be the Welcomer. There was one such claimant just twelve years ago, an old man of the Kentish Shore. He built quite a following and led a number of people to sea from where they were going to return with the Promised King aboard a far greater ship than the one they set out on. The ship was never seen again, until some of its wreckage washed up on the beaches. And before that there were the twins from Caer Oxinach who nearly aroused a rebellion that tore High King Irlaris's young realm apart when they arrived in Londia claiming to bring news of the Promised King. The people were desperate then, and they are perhaps moreso now. We have little to gain, and far more to lose, in placing our hopes in the hands of the false, be they false Kings or false Welcomers."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn shook his head. "Woe to the man who cannot see what is plain," he said. "Look at her, Terryn. Surely you can see what the rest of us have already marked."<br /><br />"And what is that? I see a girl with pleasing features. What do you see that makes her the Welcomer, in your eyes? What am I missing, My Lord? What proof do you offer me?"<br /><br />Brother Llyad stepped forward. "She is marked by the Fair Folk," he said. "She was found by a Druid in the place where the Druid lore predicted she would be! How can you deny this?"<br /><br />Gwyn closed her eyes. All this was making her head ache and her blood boil.<br /><br />"I may not be properly attuned to receive the word of Druids as truth," Father Terryn said. Gwyn fumed. She did not like this Priest.<br /><br />"I am afraid that I must agree with Father Terryn," Duke Cunaddyr said. "I would like to believe that the Promised King is real, and that he is coming back to help us in our time of need. I would like to believe that the Welcomer has already been found. But if proof cannot be offered--"<br /><br />"My mother was one of the Fair Folk," Gwyn said suddenly, her voice cutting through the Duke's like a sharp axe through the trunk of a sapling. The Duke stopped speaking immediately, his words utterly forgotten in that instant. Father Terryn whirled and stared at her anew, his stern coal-black eyes now opened wide. Even Sir Jules's sardonic grin vanished. Beside Gwyn, Brother Malcolm laid a hand on her shoulder and nodded. Gwyn noted the silence with satisfaction, and went on. "My father was a mortal man, but my mother was one of the Fairies. I have the blood of both worlds, and I have seen both worlds in my dreams. I have seen a golden realm consumed by the sea, and I have seen the opening of the Gates of Annwn. I have spoken with the Lord of the Dead, and I have faced the minions of the Dark Brother."<br /><br />"What?" Sir Baigent muttered involuntarily.<br /><br />"The wolves," Lord Matholyn said. A curious smile was on his lips.<br /><br />"I have seen all these things," Gwyn said. Her gaze now did not waver one iota from that of Father Terryn. "And I have seen the place where the Promised King has waited asleep through all the ages from his day to this. All this I saw because the blood of the Fair Folk runs in me. There is your proof, Father."<br /><br />Father Terryn had been struck silent by not just the content of her claim but by the force with which she had delivered it. But he was a quick man, and he regained his composure. "I see that sharpness of the tongue is still encouraged on Tintagel," he said as he stepped forward and looked at Gwyn, peering much closer at her now. She wanted to recoil but didn't. "Your mother was a Fairy..."<br /><br />"They prefer 'hidden people'," Gwyn said. Behind her Brother Llyad chuckled softly. No one paid him any mind.<br /><br />Father Terryn nodded. "I see the look in your features. Is that what you wanted me to see, Lord Matholyn? That she has the look of the Fair Folk?"<br /><br />Lord Matholyn folded his arms over his chest. "Do you believe now, Terryn?"<br /><br />"I do not know," the Priest said. "Perhaps...perhaps I have been too unwilling for belief."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn only nodded at that. It had been a hard admission. <br /><br />"Unions between mortals and the Fair Folk are only mentioned in our oldest legends," Father Terryn went on. "And even then, only in the vaguest of terms. Can it be?"<br /><br />"It is," Brother Llyad said.<br /><br />It was Duke Cunaddyr who spoke next. "Then the Promised King's return may be coming to pass after all," he said. "And if this is true, then this girl and her appointed task are most important of us all. What must we do?"<br /><br />He had directed that last question squarely at Gwyn, and she blanched when she realized that. She had spoken out of turn before, out of anger; now one of the most powerful Lords in Prydein was asking her counsel. Gwyn swallowed, gathered her thoughts, and spoke with a slowness that she hoped projected as outward calm.<br /><br />"I must go to the Giants' Dance," she said. "I must be there in time to meet the Druids for the Midsummer Night. That is when the Promised King may return. That is when I may bring him back."<br /><br />"Back from where, I wonder?" Father Terryn said.<br /><br />"I do not know that, Father," Gwyn replied. "I don't have that lore."<br /><br />"More is the pity," Terryn said. "Ryannon is less than clear on that point."<br /><br />The Duke cleared his throat, and everyone looked back to him. "Do I hear you correctly, Terryn? Have you come to believe this tale?"<br /><br />"I cannot say," Terryn replied with a shrug. "How odd that belief and faith are so hard for a Priest to find, but I am an old man and such things no longer come easily."<br /><br />"That is not the answer that I was seeking," Duke Cunaddyr said.<br /><br />"It is the only answer I have, Your Grace."<br /><br />There was a long silence as Duke Cunaddyr looked at Gwyn while rubbing his chin in thought. His brow furrowed, and he finally looked at Lord Matholyn. "Do you believe?" he asked his fellow Lord.<br /><br />"I believe something," Matholyn replied. "I saw the signs as well as my own clerics. But in any event, whether you or I or Terryn or anyone else believes is not the question. Gwynwhyfar believes, and if these tidings are true...."<br /><br />"Then it will be our folly to ignore them," the Duke finished the thought. He sighed heavily and took a sip of cold water from his cup. "Would that I had lived at any other time," he whispered. Then, to Gwyn, louder: "Why the Giants' Dance, then? It's only a group of very old rocks."<br /><br />Brother Llyad cleared his throat. "The Giants' Dance is a very sacred place in some traditions, Your Grace. It may have been built by the Emrys himself. It is a place of very ancient power that even the Goddess does not know, power that worships no one. The Dance existed even before the Ancients. It is sacred to the Druids, and they have long held that it is there that the Welcomer must come."<br /><br />"The Fairy said that the boundary between the worlds is weakest at the Giants' Dance," Gwyn said. "It has to be there."<br /><br />"And if it is not there?" the Duke asked. "Or if you are not there for Midsummer Night?"<br /><br />Gwyn glanced at Brother Llyad, who said nothing. Neither had any answer to that.<br /><br />The Duke sighed. "I figured so. Look at the map. My scouts' tidings have grave bearing on this matter."<br /><br />They all clustered around the table to get a better look at the map. The Giants' Dance stood about three days distant, or maybe four, due east from Briston. It was just off the Lyonesse Road, which ran from Londia all the way to Land's End. In normal times it would be a hard march to cover the distance between Briston and the Dance in just four days, and these were not normal times. In normal times it would not still be winter, and in normal times there would not be an enemy army in control of the very territory through which they would have to travel. "What you propose fraught with peril," the Duke said. "There will be scouting parties about, and no doubt there will be spies amongst the locals who will attempt to gain favor with their new Lord by selling word of travelers ripe for the picking."<br /><br />"A simple band of travelers, perhaps," Brother Llyad said. "But an armed escort, and the whole party on the fastest horses you can spare might--"<br /><br />"Nonsense!" Sir Jules said with a laugh that was overly harsh. "A company of armed men riding eastward? Cwerith would know of you before you travel ten leagues, and he would want to know who these travelers are. Every one of you would likely end up dead with the girl being taken to Cwerith himself for service to a different Lord."<br /><br />Brother Llyad swallowed and turned red. Gwyn placed a consoling hand on his arm. He had spoken without thinking, something she was accustomed to doing herself.<br /><br />"This is too much to risk," Duke Cunaddyr said. "I cannot spare the men or the horses. I cannot even claim to believe what I have been told here today."<br /><br />"I will go alone, then," Gwyn announced. "I will travel with Brother Llyad. We will simply be two pilgrims traveling the roads to provide Dona's ministry. Such things are common enough. There will be no reason for his men to accost us."<br /><br />Sir Jules laughed again. "So in addition to placing our trust in some old prophecies and in the Druids -- who have been banished from Prydein for centuries -- now you propose that we place our trust in the manners of Cwerith's men? We might as well decide our fate by a throw of dice, even if they are weighted. This is too much uncertainty by far. Better that our fates be decided by the edges of blades."<br /><br />"A typical view of a soldier," Gwyn snapped. This arrogant knight had said too much. "Will your swords turn back the winter? Will all your sharpened blades restore the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead? Swords break, Sir Jules. Remember the tale of High King Levilor." Levilor had been the eldest of High King Prystyl's three sons, and had assumed the throne when his father had died. He had also been as terrible a King as his father had been a great one, overtaxing his subjects and subjecting the realm to ruthless oppression. Eventually, High King Levilor had been challenged by his other two brothers, and all three met on the fields of the Carkin Lowlands. Levilor personally killed the first of his brothers and pursued the other, who was also the youngest. But when he met his other brother in combat his sword broke in half, allowing his youngest brother to deliver the killing stroke. His tale was frequently told as a warning against over-reliance on strength and force to accomplish one's ends. And in this case, it had the even more desired effect of leaving Sir Jules momentarily dumbfounded at having been corrected so forcefully by a woman.<br /><br />"Even so, My Lady," Duke Cunaddyr said, "you have come here asking us to believe that the Promised King is returning when the same claim has been made many times before and been false each time. You are asking us to forsake our High King, who has held the throne for more than fifty years and to whom we have sworn fealty. You are asking us to place our faith in the Druids, who have not been seen in Prydein in centuries. It is too much, too much by far."<br /><br />"Merciful Goddess, they do not see," Brother Llyad said. Gwyn bowed her head.<br /><br />"It cannot end here, Cunaddyr." It was Lord Matholyn. "This cannot be where it is decided, where the fates of so many are shaped. We don't have that right." He leaned over the table, closer to the Duke. "These signs have been coming for longer than you think. We have seen things in Camyrdin, living nearer the sea and the wilds, nearer the Druids. We have seen them. Some of us"--he gestured at Sir Baigent--"have met them. If it is true -- if the Promised King is returning, if this woman is the Welcomer -- and we do nothing, then we are thwarting the will of the Goddess as surely as if we swore to do the Dark Brother's bidding himself. We will have forsaken not one King, but two. I, for one, have forsaken too much." <br /><br />Gwyn winced. <i>How hard that must have been.</i><br /><br />"She must go to the Giants' Dance," Lord Matholyn said. "If this cause is false, then we have lost nothing. But if it is true and we do not do our part, then we have lost everything."<br /><br />Duke Cunaddyr nodded slowly. "So, it comes down to a wager, does it not? It is as Sir Jules said: our fates on little more than a throw of dice."<br /><br />"My people were not given any throw of any dice, weighted or no." Lord Matholyn's voice was almost a whisper.<br /><br />"As I have said, I cannot spare men or horses to see her to the Giants' Dance in proper safety or speed." He leaned forward. "But a smaller party -- one adept at travel through the wilds -- might have success. Don't you think?"<br /><br />"It may be so," Lord Matholyn said, nodding slowly. Gwyn's brow furrowed as she tried to follow whatever was going on between these two men. A look was being exchanged there as though they were reading each other's thoughts. Finally Duke Cunaddyr sighed.<br /><br />"The legends tell of the Promised King returning in the time of greatest need. If these are such times, then I tremble for what awaits us in the days ahead. We may have more to fear than a war with Cwerith and a late growing season." He rose from the table. "I have been in here too long. I must go see to the preparations. Lord Matholyn, I would consider it a high honor if you rode with me."<br /><br />"And my men?"<br /><br />"They, too, will have honored places. Especially if they are skilled at arms."<br /><br />"We will ride with you," Lord Matholyn replied. "I thank you for the honor."<br /><br />Gwyn's heart sank. Like that, it had been decided. To forsake is often the easiest of paths, someone had written. She couldn't remember who, and at that moment she could not possibly have cared.<br /><br />Duke Cunaddyr, now standing, threw his cloak over his shoulders. "I assume that you wish to exchange some words with your companions here," he said. "We shall leave you alone to do so. Join me in my personal guard when you are ready."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn nodded in reply, and Duke Cunaddyr left the room, taking Father Terryn with him. Now, they were alone: Gwyn, Lord Matholyn, Sir Baigent, and the two clerics. But the first words spoken came from the Bard, Estren, who had remained so silent sitting in his corner that Gwyn had totally forgotten that he was there at all.<br /><br />"So," Estren said, "how small a party shall you send?"<br /><br />"Four, I think," Lord Matholyn replied.<br /><br />"Four," Estren echoed. "A good number. Not overly large so as to draw undue attention, but not so small as to be indefensible."<br /><br />"What are you saying?" Gwyn asked, her heart quickening.<br /><br />"You strike me as being more perceptive than that, my lady."<br /><br />"I am going," she said.<br /><br />"Of course," Lord Matholyn said. "What you have just seen is the good Duke attempting to guarantee some positive outcome from whatever action he takes. In this he has trusted me, for what that may be worth. You are going, Gwynwhyfar. You will travel with the Abductor Priest here."<br /><br />"Dona be praised!" Brother Llyad exclaimed.<br /><br />"Don't be so quick to invoke the Goddess," Lord Matholyn said. "You may still fail. Cunaddyr spoke true of the dangers between here and the Dance -- and when the Dark Brother is involved, who knows what perils there might be."<br /><br />"Is Malcolm coming?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"No," Lord Matholyn replied. "He comes with us. This army will have need of more blessings than even Father Terryn can give; and he and I can at least exchange tales of Tintagel. But I believe that the Bard would be an excellent companion. He shall go with you."<br /><br />Estren actually laughed. "And had you not sent me on this journey, I might have followed behind," he said. "If the other Bards ever learned that I had opportunity to be witness to the return of the Promised King and failed to seize it, they would all remove the strings from my harp and use them to bind me to a rock and leave me for the Goddess."<br /><br />"I thought it would be so," Matholyn said.<br /><br />Gwyn smiled at the bard, and then turned back to Lord Matholyn. "You said there would be four," she said.<br /><br />"That I did." And with that, Lord Matholyn turned to face Sir Baigent.<br /><br />The knight stiffened as he realized what was about to be asked of him. His eyes flicked to meet Gwyn's, and she was not at all sure she liked what she saw in that brief gaze before he faced again his Lord. <i>To ask this much of him, how much can be bear?</i><br /><br />"You will travel with them, Sir Baigent," Lord Matholyn said. "You will be their protector."<br /><br />Sir Baigent worked his jaw as he stared at Matholyn before speaking. When he did, the anger in his voice was raw, primal. It cut through the room like a knife, and Gwyn recoiled to hear it. "You have claimed the right of vengeance for what Cwerith did to Camyrdin," he said. "Do I not have that right as well? If you go to war against him, how can my place be anywhere but at your side? I am your seneschal."<br /><br />"Not so, Sir Baigent," Lord Matholyn said. "Camyrdin is gone, and her onetime Lord now has no seneschal. There are only two men who do what they must to repair a world torn asunder."<br /><br />Sir Baigent shook his head. "Your words ring false, my Lord. Camyrdin still lives. Not everyone will forget what was done to our land, and not everyone will gladly accept Cwerith on the throne. When the word goes forth that you are still alive, the name of Camyrdin will be a battle cry like none other. You <i>are</i> still a Lord, and I am still your seneschal. I swore oaths of service to you, before the Goddess; I swore them by moonlight at the altar of our Temple. Those oaths cannot be unsaid. Camyrdin lives as long as we live, and I fight by your side as long as I live."<br /><br />For a moment Gwyn feared that Lord Matholyn's temper would flare, and that he and Sir Baigent would come to blows. Instead, Lord Matholyn merely sighed and sank into a chair by the table.<br /><br />"Dona forgive me for selecting an intelligent man to be my steward! I had hoped you would accept my words and be done with it." He looked up. "Sir Baigent, your service to me has been as constant as the coming of the tides, the rising of the moon, and the arrival of the winter ice. I can ask this of no other man." He stood again and paced a bit, clearly gathering his words. A clatter arose from outside, in the common room; they could hear the innkeeper's wife bellowing angrily. The world went on as ever, even as the matters of powers and kings and usurpers were discussed in the next room. At last Lord Matholyn spoke.<br /><br />"Kings live and die, wars come and go. Realms are built and lost and built again. But perhaps something lasting can be gained on the plain of the Giants' Dance. The return of the Promised King will define this moment in all the ages to come. Nine Bards ages hence will still sing of it. What happens on the fields of battle near Bedwyn, whose blade finally strikes Cwerith down -- none of that will ever be anything more than details to be written in books by monks and kept safe in Tintagel's rooms of stone. But this, Sir Baigent, this thing I ask of you -- it is the finest thing that could ever be asked of anyone." He swung around to face his knight one more time. "Don't you see, Baigent? I can't ask this of anyone else but you. To do so would demean it, and make it less than what it is."<br /><br />Gwyn's eyes filled with tears. What manner of age was this, that Lords were reduced to begging the men in their service. Gwyn stepped back silently, away from the drama playing out now between these two men who now seemed totally alone in the room, as if there were no one else there to hear them.<br /><br />"I am no cleric," Sir Baigent finally said. "I share the feeling of Sir Jules. All this talk of prophecies fulfilled, Druid magic, Kings returning -- it is all nothing to me. I forge fate by the edge of a sword, because it is all I have. I have seen none of your signs. This deed should be yours. You brought her this far; you should be the one to see it done."<br /><br />"Were I a younger man I might do so," Lord Matholyn replied. "But as we have seen from the maps, the journey will be hard. I have not been at this sort of thing in many years. My sense of reckoning is duller than yours, as is my ability to survive in the wild. This is a task for a younger man, not one who has grown soft in his elder years. It must be you, Sir Baigent."<br /><br />Now the knight stepped forward, toward his Lord. "You should have been there," he said.<br /><br />Lord Matholyn stiffened, and his face turned crimson as Sir Baigent stared him directly in the eye. "Do not say such things," he said.<br /><br />"You should have been there," Sir Baigent repeated. "You should never have left Camyrdin, and neither should I. It was our duty to be there, with Sir Trincemore and Murron of the Arrows; with Father Halddon and Yliane the Fish-Queen; with Dongorth and with Sir Peryn. It was our duty."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn smashed his fist down upon the table. The impact toppled the jug of wine, spilling its contents across the table. "Do not speak to me of duty!" Lord Matholyn shouted. His voice was thunderous with rage, rage that filled the room and seemed to actually make the candles flicker. Everyone there recoiled -- everyone, that is, but Sir Baigent, who stood perfectly still. "I have thought of nothing else since Cunaddyr told me what happened," Matholyn continued. "Do you think I have not, you poisonous dog? Do you think to accuse me of abandoning my people? Do you?" He waited for no answer; instead he took one look at Sir Baigent and delivered a powerful backhanded blow to the knight's cheek. Sir Baigent's head snapped around and he staggered backward, but then he simply turned back to face his Lord.<br /><br />"We were not there, <i>My Lord</i>." He poured as much biting sarcasm as he could into those last two words. His cheek was already bright red from where Lord Matholyn had struck him. He ignored it. "No matter what the reason, you and I were not there. When Cwerith and his armies came we were not there. We were on Tintagel, indulging some mystery-lore and chasing after a legend. We still live, because we were <i>not there</i>."<br /><br />"Yes, we do," Lord Matholyn said. "And had we been there, we would be dead or the prisoners of Cwerith. He would be drinking the foul ale of Gwynedd from a cup fashioned from my skull, and he would have used your blade to strike Peryn's head from his shoulders."<br /><br />"Then so it should have been," Sir Baigent said. "It was our duty to be there. There will never be absolution for what we have done."<br /><br />"You stubborn fool!" Lord Matholyn shook his head. "That is the problem with men of arms: they think that dying at battle is always preferable to living. Do you understand nothing of what has been said here? We have been given something, Baigent. We have been given opportunity to avenge those who need avenging, to save all of Prydein from the same fate." He stepped forward, just inches away from Sir Baigent. "I do not seek absolution, and neither should you. Dona will give it to us only if our actions from this day be just. We must make what we can of what we have been given -- and what we are to be given in the days to come. In the end, what more power can any man claim, be he Lord or servant?"<br /><br />Sir Baigent bowed his head, and Lord Matholyn, calm again as quick as he had been to anger, laid a hand on the knight's shoulder. "Peryn would have done this thing," Lord Matholyn said. Sir Baigent glanced up sharply.<br /><br />"You would now invoke the dead in your cause?" he said. "Why not, then? You lost no brother."<br /><br />And there it was. A brother had died in the pyres of Camyrdin; another was questioning how to live. Gwyn bowed her head, and tears fell free to the floor.<br /><br />"I lost thousands of brothers," Lord Matholyn said. "And sisters, and sons and daughters. Your claim to grief is no greater than mine. We carry our losses with us, but they are only the first losses. There will be so many more. There will be more Camyrdins, and the blood of a thousand Sir Peryns will redden the fields of Prydein -- the fields where nothing grows. I do not invoke Peryn's name lightly, Baigent. Do this for me, and for him."<br /><br />Sir Baigent turned away then from his lord and looked directly on Gwyn. She held his gaze a long time without moving, and she wondered what he saw there, and what she could find in his eyes. Was he searching for some hint of whatever the others -- Brother Llyad, Llawann -- had seen in her? Or was he merely looking on the person for whom he was being asked to forsake the war which was as rightly his as anyone's?<br /><br />Still staring at Gwyn, Sir Baigent rubbed his cheek. "It shall be as you command, Lord Matholyn," he said. "I will see her to the Giants' Dance before Midsummer Night."<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Two hours later the tiny company gathered at Briston's eastern gate. Brother Llyad and Gwyn both mounted their steeds. Already sitting on his horse, Sir Baigent wore a simple cloak over his mail shirt. He had removed from his garments all devices that would identify him as a man of Camyrdin, but had refused to take a different blade even though his own sword bore the device of Camyrdin on the pommel. "I will not trust my life to an untested weapon," he said when Brother Llyad asked him about it. "If we are to ride into danger, it will be with a blade whose handle I know and whose edge I trust."<br /><br />Brother Malcolm stood on the ground by Gwyn's horse. "You have extra strings for your bow?"<br /><br />"Yes," Gwyn replied. "The Duke was able to provide us with that much, even though he thinks we go on an errand of foolery."<br /><br />"He wants to believe, Gwyn."<br /><br />She looked down at him and saw something new in his eyes. "I have not asked you if you believed, Brother."<br /><br />"I know," he said, returning to the gently chiding tone she knew so well. "I had wondered if you would ever think to ask me that -- but then, a thinking Adept would already know the answer, wouldn't she?" He smiled, and she returned it. It was her first true smile since leaving Tintagel. In just those few days sadness had come to the forefront of everything. "Will you send word to Father Damogan?"<br /><br />"I don't know," he replied. "I have no more of Mother Parsint's birds to send back to Tintagel, and I would feel odd putting word of such events on paper for a simple messenger to bear. But tidings have their way of reaching him that we do not know."<br /><br />Gwyn nodded. It was true, that; Father Damogan did indeed tend to know things that had happened before word could possibly have reached him. She had often wondered how it was so, but it was not the place of an Adept to ask such questions.<br /><br />He reached up and took her hand. "Be well, Gwynwhyfar. May Dona guide you with a true hand."<br /><br />"And may her light shine upon your path, Brother Malcolm." She leaned down and kissed his cheek. She thought she saw tears in his eyes, but he turned away too quickly for her to be sure.<br /><br />They could now hear a rider approaching. From around the bend Estren appeared, completely packed and ready for the journey. He sat upon his dappled mare, harp slung behind his back and his own sword -- a plain, unadorned blade -- fastened to his saddle.<br /><br />"Forgive my tardiness, my friends," he said. "My horse was unwilling to take the saddle this morning." He took a deep breath and let it out. "This is truly a morning made for travel: the sun is high, the air is cold, the horse is restless, and my harp is strung. The road cries out for us, my friends!"<br /><br />"I hope you are as skilled with that blade as you are with your harp," Sir Baigent said.<br /><br />"I am no warrior, but I have had cause to defend myself in the past," Estren said. "And there are many songs that tell of deeds of gallantry done by men who are not knights. Fear not, Sir Baigent: you will find my blade sharp and my arm strong."<br /><br />"Very well," Sir Baigent said. "Though you might also consider not constantly speaking like a poet." He swung his steed around to face Lord Matholyn, who sat still on his own horse. Somehow, Gwyn thought, the onetime Lord of Camyrdin looked smaller than he had when he had come to Tintagel.<br /><br />"Cunaddyr has sent no one to see us off?" Sir Baigent said sardonically.<br /><br />"He has sent me," Lord Matholyn replied. "He is a good man. He will be a fine ally. He will never bend the knee to King Cwerith." He gestured to the large red mark on Sir Baigent's cheek. "You might find that bruise of use after all. It makes you look like you have recently been in a fight."<br /><br />"I am likely to look that way soon enough, bruise or no," Sir Baigent replied. He rubbed the mark again. "You might be interested to know that it stings still. For a man grown old and feeble in his hall and council chamber, you still deliver a good blow."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn gave a wry chuckle. "Would that I have given it to a man more deserving," he said. "I hope you will not judge me for what I did in a moment of anger."<br /><br />"How could I, since such moments are so many?" Sir Baigent said. Lord Matholyn blinked at him, and only then realized that the knight had made a jape. Such as it was.<br /><br />Sir Baigent held out his hand. Lord Matholyn sidled over and clasped it.<br /><br />"Go with speed, Sir Baigent. Follow Dona's light and you will succeed."<br /><br />Sir Baigent only nodded at that. Lord Matholyn looked then at Gwyn. To her utter amazement, he bowed to her. She blushed almost immediately, not having any idea how to respond.<br /><br />"May her light shine upon your path, my Lady. I pray that you are the Welcomer. The need is great."<br /><br />"And may her light guide you, Lord Matholyn," she found herself replying. "I will pray for a great many things, not the least of which will be you and your people." The words come easier each day, she thought. I might have made a fine Sister, after all. Now I wonder, now, if I ever will.<br /><br />Lord Matholyn turned and cantered away, without another word. Sir Baigent watched his Lord disappear around the bend and then turned to face his new companions.<br /><br />"The pace will be difficult, and we cannot often stop to rest," he said. "I hope you are prepared for a hard journey, My Lady. And you, Brother. As for you, Estren -- I would prefer no songs for a while." With that he swung his horse around and led them through the East Briston Gate and onto the road.<br /><br />Gwyn reached up to her left arm and massaged the wound there, under the fresh bandage. The pain had lessened a great deal, and in her bags she had a small pot of herbal salve one of the Duke's healers had been able to spare. She prayed that no more blood would be shed on this journey, but even as she said the prayer she realized how unlikely that was. There would be blood. She knew it as surely as she knew anything at all.<br /><br />No one but the gatekeeper was there to watch them as the company headed into the east.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9799113.post-1111342997500513582005-03-20T10:16:00.000-08:002005-03-20T10:31:28.023-08:00Chapter SixKing Cwerith of Gwynedd turned the stone over and over in his hand. Its smooth coolness pleased him. It could have come from any of the rocky seashores of Gwynedd, perhaps even the very beach which the balcony of his personal chambers in Caer Mastagg overlooked. Or perhaps it had been worn smooth over centuries at the bottom of one of the mountain streams that welled from the springs in the peaks between Gwynedd and Camyrdin and before winding down to the sea. It could have come from a thousand places -- but it did not. Cwerith had picked it up within the former walls of Caer Camyrdin as he had walked through the city whose destruction he had decreed. He had picked it up at random amidst the bodies and charred rubble, selecting it for no particular reason from the thousands of other stones just like it that paved that city's streets. He wondered as he rubbed its contours with his thumb if Matholyn himself had ever trod upon this stone. The stone was so unremarkable, so ordinary; and yet Cwerith would carry it all the remaining days of his life. It was a token of the conquest that his father had been denied and that his brother -- the strong one, the beautiful one -- had not lived to carry out. Cellamma had been denied the throne by treachery, and Celenast had been denied it by the fever. Cwerith often wondered by whose grace it was that he -- small and sickly Cwerith -- had survived the disease that had ravaged Gwynedd while Celenast ap Cellamma, the fine and strong, had been struck down. Most said it had been the Goddess, but Cassion had scoffed at that. It was <I>another</I> power, the outcast Priest had said.<br /><br />"It was the servants of the Goddess who denied your father, My Liege," Cassion had said. "And Dona's strength is waning. Give your service to another, and all you desire will be yours."<br /><br />Thus it had fallen to him, to feeble Cwerith, to seize the destiny of Gwynedd. Cassion had showed him the way, and for that Cwerith would forever be in the outcast Priest's debt. "Will you serve him, Your Grace?" Cassion had asked. "And so doing, take the throne that should have been Gwynedd's long ago?"<br /><br />"I will," Cwerith had said whilst in the throes of the ecstasy that Cassion had shown him to his delight and everlasting shame though he kept it secret from all, especially Lord Varing.<br /><br />And now he had begun. One should never wait to accomplish what one desires, his father had once said. Very well. It shall be done. Cwerith gazed at the stone, imagining that he could still smell the smoke from the fires of Caer Camyrdin on its surface. A pleasant thought, even though it was in truth the smoke from his own cookfires.<br /><br />The air that night was still, and the smoke from hundreds of cookfires hung over the camp in a gray haze. Everywhere the voices of Cwerith's army were raised in the songs of the great heroes of Gwynedd's past and the great lords of Caer Mastagg. His men were proud, and they were right to be. They had, after all, won a great victory three days before, the first for Gwynedd in many years. Of course, there were no songs yet about their wonderful conquest of Camyrdin, and surely the Nine Bards of Prydein would <I>never</I> sing the praises of Gwynedd, sworn as they were to the weakening Goddess and her old, doddering High King. The men had to sing the old songs because there were no new ones...but soon that would change. There <I>would</I> be new songs now, songs about King Cwerith the Great, King Cwerith the Hammer, King Cwerith the Magnificent who raised humble Gwynedd to glory as High King of all Prydein. Oh yes, there would be new songs, sung throughout all the land under which the banner of Prydein flew.<br /><br />That day they had forded the Severn and swung southeastward. In mere days they would be at the gates of Bedwyn to demand the surrender and fealty of Duke Cunaddyr, who was known to be an ally of Lord Matholyn and a sworn supporter of King Irlaris. Cwerith would have preferred to put Bedwyn to the torch as he had Caer Camyrdin, but in this too Cassion had educated him to higher wisdom.<br /><br />"You will need allies," Cassion had said. "With Duncan you will have great strength, but with others you will be as unstoppable as the waves. And you are not merely after a throne; you are spreading the word of the forgotten God. You must give the men of Prydein a chance to believe, and believe they will, when they see your strength before them."<br /><br />"You are wise, Priest," Cwerith had said, just before Cassion had drawn the silver blade across the King's skin for a fresh anointing. And then the outcast Priest had sipped the blood, and turned to the unfortunate crone who had been ensnared by Cassion's underlings. She had been drugged and her teeth had been removed...all the better for what was to follow....<br /><br /><I>Cunaddyr will have the chance to join us</I>, King Cwerith thought. <I>But I doubt he will bend the knee. He is a fool, and Bedwyn will burn anyhow.</I> The thought of so much death saddened him a little; but thrones were often bought with blood, so why should his be any different? And in any event the rest of Prydein would eventually come to realize that Cwerith had had little choice, that Caer Camyrdin and Bedwyn had chosen their deaths themselves. Finally, in the end, Londia herself would fall. Irlaris would succumb to the weakness that had long gnawed at him, or perhaps the people of Londia would see the banners of Cwerith on the horizon and, recognizing them for the devices of the true King, toss Irlaris's body over the walls and throw open the gates. Cwerith smiled at the thought as he looked out over his camp. Of course, it wouldn't be exactly like that -- King Duncan would reach Londia first, after all -- but <I>he</I> would rule Prydein.<br /><br />"Lord Varing approaches!" one of his guards called out. Cwerith glanced down the path and saw Varing hiking up the rise toward his tent. Cwerith turned away from the flap and returned to his seat, where he pulled on his cloak before sitting down. Varing entered just as he pulled the cloak over his arms, concealing the scars from Cassion's blood-lettings. The eunuch did not need to know <I>everything</I>.<br /><br />"A good evening to you, Your Highness," Lord Varing said after bowing.<br /><br />"And to you, Varing," King Cwerith said without inflection. "What news?"<br /><br />"A company of men approaches from the northeast," Varing said. They bear the flag of the High King, along with what appears to be a crude copy of your own device."<br /><br />"Really," King Cwerith said. "How interesting. Do we know who it is?"<br /><br />"Possibly Baron Gaddamar, one of the local lords. He holds lands five leagues distant, a small holding to be sure. He was sworn of late to Lord Matholyn."<br /><br />King Cwerith snorted. "An unlieged lordling seeks favor with his liege's conqueror, then? My father used to say that blood, blades and ash are the true coin of loyalty." He shrugged. "I will give them audience. See that they are brought to me."<br /><br />"Yes, Your Highness." Lord Varing departed, and Cwerith went back to looking over his army, which it seemed was about to gain its first new allies. He could not help but smile.<br /><br />A short while later Lord Varing returned with the new arrivals. Leading them was an aged man of bent frame, and he was followed by seven younger men who ranged from manhood to the youngest who was barely old enough to fit his feet into his horse's stirrups. Each of these men wore chain armor and cloaks which at first glance appeared very fine, but upon closer inspection were not fine at all. The armor was dull and rusty in spots, and there many links missing from the suits; the cloaks were threadbare and patched. Nevertheless, the old man who led this party walked as straight as his bent frame would permit, his head held as high as was possible.<br /><br />"Your Highness," Lord Varing said, "may I present Baron Gaddamar ap Gaddrach, Lord of the Lower Severn Valley."<br /><br />The old man stepped closer to the torchlight and bowed slightly. "Greetings, My Liege," he said in a raspy voice. "It grieves me that the honor of coming before the High King of Prydein is only mine so late in my life. I hope you will forgive me that I do not kneel; I fear that these old bones of mine would never straighten again." He spread his hands in over-elaborate apology and bowed again, clearly exaggerating the pain the motion caused him. "I come to pledge to you my unfailing service and that of my sons."<br /><br />King Cwerith looked over the man and his sons. They all shared the same black curly hair, the same flat nose, the same wide mouth, and the same air of general simplicity. The only real difference was that the Baron's hair had gone white.<br /><br />"Handsome men," King Cwerith said. "Do they take after their mother?"<br /><br />The Baron grinned, and even in the dim torchlight Cwerith could see that at least three of his teeth were rotten. "I should hope not, since the seven were given me by four women."<br /><br />King Cwerith smiled dryly at that. Gaddamar's sons stood perfectly still, but three of them turned a pleasant shade of crimson at the Baron's words. "Impressive," King Cwerith said as he reached for a cup of wine. "So, you were late a liegeman of Lord Matholyn?"<br /><br />"In truth, I was," Baron Gaddamar said. "I judged him a decent lord, it must be said. But these are hard times, and his realm appears to have passed." His smile was bland now.<br /><br /><I>Scum</I>, Cwerith thought. <I>A craven who sits out the battle and then opens his arms for the victor. The only difference between him and a common whore is what is between his legs.</I><br /><br />Lord Varing cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Your leave, My Lord?" A rider had just come bearing news. After a curt nod from King Cwerith, Lord Varing took the stepped outside the tent to confer with the man. Cwerith turned back to the Baron.<br /><br />"I know something about the loyalties Lord Matholyn demanded," he said. "He would have required you to swear fealty to Irlaris as well. What of your oath to him?"<br /><br />The Baron shrugged. "Irlaris is old."<br /><br />"So are you." King Cwerith's eyes held the Baron's in an icy gaze.<br /><br />"That I am," Baron Gaddamar admitted. "But I still have the strength of my sons behind me. Irlaris is growing weaker with each passing day, and now the land itself is having trouble shaking the winter from its bones. Irlaris has had fifty-six years. It is time for a new King, a <I>strong</I> King, and yours is the only strength now showing, My Liege." Again that damned shallow bow.<br /><br />"And if others show their strength?" King Cwerith asked.<br /><br />"How can the strength of any other man compare to that of the rightful High King of Prydein? Surely the favor of the Goddess will be yours."<br /><br />King Cwerith sipped the wine. "Yes, the Goddess...." His voice trailed off as Lord Varing returned from his conference with the rider.<br /><br />"I beg your pardon, Your Highness," Varing said, "but a group of scouts sent by Duke Cunaddyr has been shadowing our movements."<br /><br />King Cwerith grimaced. "Who discovered them?" he asked, though he already knew the answer to that question by the expression of distaste on Lord Varing's face before he answered.<br /><br />"It was Cassion's men," Lord Varing said. "Three escaped, but two were taken. Will you want them questioned?"<br /><br />"They are scouts? Nothing more?"<br /><br />"It seems so, Your Highness."<br /><br />"Then we will not question them," King Cwerith said. "Mere scouts are not likely to have any information that would be useful. We already know where Duke Cunaddyr is, and we know that he will find it very difficult reaching Bedwyn before we do. Nothing else these men can tell us is likely to be of any import. Cassion may do with them as he wills."<br /><br />"I believe he expected that you would be of such mind," Lord Varing said, his foul expression becoming deeper. "He is now preparing the men for use as an offering."<br /><br />Cwerith snorted. "I hope he doesn't get too much blood on his robes, unlike the last offering he made." He chuckled at the memory. The last offering had been unusually messy, and the sight of Cassion covered in the blood of his offering had given Cwerith his first true laugh in quite some time.<br /><br />Baron Gaddamar cleared his throat. "Forgive me, Your Highness," he said. "Who is this Cassion?"<br /><br />"He is my Priest," King Cwerith replied.<br /><br />"A Priest?" The Baron blinked. "What manner of offering is he preparing? The Goddess does not--" His voice trailed off in bewilderment. No Priest of Dona would do such a thing. Dona was the Mother of Life. Blood offerings were unheard of in centuries -- except for the Druids, of course.<br /><br />King Cwerith turned away from the Baron and looked down into his cup of wine. "The Goddess is not the only power, Baron Gaddamar. Some are as old as she, and some are even older. And some are stronger."<br /><br />Now the Baron paled visibly. "My Liege….you can't mean--"<br /><br />"Why not?" King Cwerith snapped. "The land withers and Kings die. Should we take the Goddess's strength to be permanent, if the fruits of her power are not?"<br /><br />"This is <I>blasphemous!</I>" one of Gaddamar's sons blurted out. The Baron, at an utter loss for words, looked from King Cwerith to Lord Varing, and back again.<br /><br />"Have care, boy." King Cwerith's smile was tight and cold. "I do not lightly tolerate impudence." He stood and clasped his hands behind his back. "Our allegiance to Gods and Goddesses is no different from the fealty we swear to Kings and Lords. We go where the strength lies. Isn't that true, my good Baron?"<br /><br />Baron Gaddamar could only give one slack-jawed nod in reply.<br /><br />"Perhaps," King Cwerith said, "it would do you well to see the celebrations first-hand. Varing, bring my horse. I will take the Baron and his sons to see what Cassion can buy with freshly offered blood."<br /><br />"Yes, Your Highness." Varing left, and King Cwerith turned back to the Baron.<br /><br />"I assume you have a Priest in your service," he said.<br /><br />"A Priestess, actually," the Baron said weakly. "She ministered the First Blessing to each of my sons. She has been with me for many years."<br /><br />"Dismiss her," King Cwerith said. "She will be of no further use to you."<br /><br />"My Liege--"<br /><br />King Cwerith cut him off with a single gesture, holding up his hand. Then he glanced at the Baron's sons. "Have I said how the God prefers handsome blood?" he asked.<br /><br />Baron Gaddamar opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. The easy strength, the conniving assurance, was gone. "I will dismiss her," he said. "It shall be as you command, My Liege." And he sank to one knee, his limbs having suddenly found new suppleness.<br /><br />"I welcome you to my service, Baron Gaddamar. May your loyalty be unwavering and true." He held out his hand, and the Baron kissed his ring.<br /><br />It was all Cwerith could do not to order this man's execution on the spot. <I>It is as I thought. He is a craven dog who will dance to any piper's tune.</I> He turned and, donning his cloak, felt the same sense of thrill that he always felt when he went to watch one of Cassion's bloodlettings. And perhaps, as was occasionally the case, the blood would be his own....<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />Every spare bed, cot, or bench in Briston had been claimed by one or more members of Duke Cunaddyr's army, so Gwyn, Brother Malcolm, and Brother Llyad were forced to lodge that evening in the Innkeeper's personal stableyard. Space had been found for Lord Matholyn and his men, since one did not make a habit of placing a fellow ruler in a stableyard for the evening, but there was simply no room for the others. Sir Baigent, though, was uneasy with the three others having to sleep alone in the stables, and so he took his blanket and roll and joined them. Gwyn felt much more at ease knowing that the knight was quartered with them. Duke Cunaddyr had promised them that they would be undisturbed, but she knew of the tendencies of men-at-arms to become aroused and she did not wish to experience those tendencies firsthand.<br /><br />It was a three-walled building, with the horses tied to railings against the rear wall of the enclosure. The only steeds quartered here, other than their own, were those of Duke Cunaddyr himself and his highest entourage: very fine horses indeed. There was plenty of room to be found amongst the piles of hay, and even though the night was cold, there was a certain coziness to the place. Now they were smoothing down the stall in which they would rest, moving some of the hay to one side so that there would be enough room. They spread their blankets out on the hay, and in minutes the two clerics all asleep. Gwyn, though, couldn't sleep at all. As she laid down on the hay and pulled her blanket up over her she realized how amazingly exhausted she was, and still she could not sleep. It was not the quartering that bothered her. Too much had happened, to many strange thoughts were running through her mind. Just two nights before she had settled in to bed in her chamber on Tintagel, and just two nights before the affairs of Kings and Lords and the Fair Folk and the Goddess had seemed a world away.<br /><br />Sir Baigent also remained awake a while after the others had dropped off, sitting with his back against the side of the stall in which they were sleeping. Gwyn's heart ached for him. Losing her father had been terribly painful, a loss which in many ways she still felt to this very day, nearly ten years later. Today Sir Baigent had lost everyone he knew, and Gwyn could barely guess at the pain in his heart for such a loss. He shed no tears; he merely sat still, listening for a time to the distant sounds of Cunaddyr's men passing the time in their camp: drunken songs, laughter, arguments, snoring, and the shifting of the horses. The world marched on, even as people and cities died. Gwyn wished that there was something that she could say, but even as she wished it she knew that there were no words she could offer that might address what was in Sir Baigent's heart. She ended up saying a silent prayer to Dona to bring him peace. Finally, she too put down her head and went to sleep.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br /><I>Gwyn stood in a field, surrounded by a dense fog; but even so she knew where she was. She was on her father's homestead, and in the distance she heard the familiar sea.<br /><br />"Father!" she called out. Her voice vanished into the fog, with no echo -- as if she had said nothing at all.<br /><br />As she stood rooted to that one spot the fog began to dissipate into the morning sky. But there was still no sun -- just low-hanging gray clouds that cast a ghostly pall on the world. Gwyn was between the cottage and the sea, watching as her father emerged from the front door and walk onto the path that led from the door to the sea where his boat was beached. He carried a large bundle in his arms.<br /><br />"Father!" Gwyn cried - but he gave no indication at all that he had heard her. She ran to the path but he only walked on without so much as glancing at her. He was young again -- younger than she ever remembered seeing him -- but he was sad, and Gwyn saw now that the bundle in his arms was a woman wrapped in a woolen blanket. He walked on by, down to the sea.<br /><br />"Father!" she cried again. "Father, please!" But still he could not hear her, and down he went to the side of the sea. She took a few steps after him, but then the fog closed about her again and she felt the distance between her and her father become as wide as a gulf - no, wider than that: as wide as the sea itself. And for the briefest of seconds, before the world was gone behind the fog, Gwyn heard from behind, back at the cottage, the crying of a babe.<br /><br />After a very long time during which all she could hear was the wind and the waves, the fog lifted again. She turned again toward the cottage and saw that it was now rundown and decaying, as though it had not been lived in for many years. Gwyn stepped toward it, but she could not bring herself to come within twenty or so paces of what had been her home before her father had died and Brother Malcolm had come to take her to Tintagel. Instead she turned and walked down toward the sea, but again she had to stop. There was the spot on the beach where she and Brother Malcolm had watched as three strong men pushed a wooden boat into the water, with her father's sleeping body aboard. The tide had carried it out quickly and she had watched it until it had disappeared completely from view and some time after. She stood for a long time, pondering the great gray expanse of the sea; and then the fog returned - but before it closed about her completely, she thought she saw a woman emerging from beneath the surface of the water.</I><br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />"Mother!"<br /><br />Gwyn woke with a start and sat up. When she rubbed her eyes she saw that the meadow by the sea was gone, replaced by the walls of a horse-stall in Briston, and around her were sleeping animals and three men. A chill ran through her as she recalled the dream. She had never dreamed of her mother before.<br /><br />She wondered how many hours had gone by. Sir Baigent had finally fallen asleep and the torch in the wall-sconce above had burned down to that point where it simply blew forth a single, lonely wisp of smoke. She listened to the sounds outside where some of the Duke's men were still carousing. Even now, two drunken soldiers were stumbling past the stable entrance, no doubt heading for some other game or bottle. These two men raised their voices in the most horrid song she had ever heard, and only after they had stammered through a complete verse did she recognize the tune as "I'll Be Coming Home My Lady", one of the more popular songs of the day.<br /><br />As the two drunkards moved along, away from the stable, Gwyn became aware of a new sound: a rustling through the hay in the stall next to theirs. Someone was in the stable with them. She froze, but the rustling next door came no closer and became no louder. As she listened for many minutes, she became a little less afraid and decided to see who had decided to take lodging with them. She pulled on her boots as silently as she could and then stood up, taking care to keep her head down, below the wall of the stall which only came up to her shoulders. Moving slowly, very slowly, she stepped across the hay, past the sleeping Sir Baigent and then onto the wooden floor of the stable where there was no hay. Once there she stopped in her tracks and listened. After a moment there was more rustling, and she then began to creep down the corridor to the entrance to the stall next door. Very carefully she placed one toe after another, trying to keep from making any sound at all. The rustling in the hay was nearly drowned out by the rushing blood in her ears. At one point she stepped on a husk of wheat or a few grains of oat, and the resulting crunch was perhaps the loudest sound she had ever heard in her life. She held still for as long as she dared before her legs began to ache, so hard was she straining for complete silence. Moving again, she took one step and then another and then still another -- when the board underneath her foot let out a long, slow <I>creeeeek</I>. In a heartbeat she felt her blood rush to her cheeks and she froze in place, now listening hard for any sign that whoever was in the stall next door had heard. Finally she heard the rustling start again, and she resumed her careful movement toward the entrance which was just three steps away. She was close, very close.<br /><br />Someone else, though, was closer. As she was lifting her foot from the floor in another step, there was the rasp of a steel blade being ripped from its scabbard. Before she knew what was happening, Sir Baigent had bounded over the wall into the stall next door. She could hear him shouting at whoever it was.<br /><br />"You make too much noise, fool!" he was hollering. "What are you doing in here with us? Into the light! Let us have a look at you!" As she watched, the intruder lurched right past her and slammed into the wall opposite the door, and with a grunt dropped to the floor. Now Sir Baigent emerged from the stall, sword in one hand and a freshly lit torch in the other. "Get up, lout! Show your face!"<br /><br />"Forgive me, Sir Knight," the intruder said. "I meant no trespass." He lifted his face, and Sir Baigent's jaw dropped.<br /><br />"<I>Estren</I>?"<br /><br />"You remember my name," the man said with a grateful smile. "I am surprised; it was only one night that we were camped together at the Crossroads."<br /><br />"You'll find I have a far better memory than most," Sir Baigent said. "I doubt I will soon forget you skulking about in these stables." Nevertheless, he lowered his blade.<br /><br />Brother Malcolm and Brother Llyad had awoken at last and came now, having lit two torches; in the fresh light Gwyn could now get a good look at the man who stood before them. He was taller than she, and slightly taller even than Sir Baigent, but he was nowhere near as powerfully muscled as the knight. His features were fine and his long sandy hair was braided into a thin knot which he wore looped over his left shoulder. Gwyn glanced down at his cloak and saw that it was made of a very distinctive patchwork coloring -- a coloring that most in Prydein knew well and revered. She gaped as she realized that standing here before her, in this dirty stable, was one of the Nine Bards of Prydein. He shrugged at the companions.<br /><br />"My name is Estren," he said. "I am a harper, and I came in here to get some sleep after providing some diversion for the men here. Had I realized that you were already here, I would have made quieter entry. Forgive me my restlessness."<br /><br />"You're not any mere harper," Brother Malcolm said as his wits returned, as they were always slow to do after a hasty awakening. "Your cloak gives that much away. You are one of the Nine."<br /><br />"That he is," Sir Baigent said as he returned his blade to its scabbard.<br /><br />"Aye," Estren said. "Though I would never call any harper a <I>mere</I> harper; it is, after all, the noblest of the Bardic instruments. Of course, should you ever meet Drudwas -- that sad, deluded piper -- you might hear an argument on that point."<br /><br />"Surely the Duke would provide you with accomodation befitting a Bard of Prydein," Sir Baigent said. "What are you doing creeping about in these stables?"<br /><br />"I am a Bard, Sir Knight," he replied. He dusted himself off and rubbing his jaw, which was sporting a mark that would be a nasty bruise come morning. "I have slept so long in straw and hay that a mattress or cot seems as a luxury to me. Even when I lodge with a King, I always request quartering in the stables. A Bard must never become accustomed to fine trappings, lest the wish to wander become instead the wish for permanence, and that part of the soul that makes him or her a Bard die, never to be reborn." <br /><br />Gwyn raised her eyebrows. Clearly Estren had given that very answer to that very question many times.<br /><br />The bard stood up, still rubbing his jaw. "This was a longer night for me than most," he said. "Any later and I fear you would have ended all of my nights without giving me benefit of questioning."<br /><br />Gwyn turned to Sir Baigent. "How do you know one of the Bards of Prydein?" she asked. The closest she had ever come to seeing a Bard was her ill-fated expedition with Dana when she had been younger and more foolish.<br /><br />"I have met five of the Nine over the years," Sir Baigent said. "Being seneschal to a Lord has that benefit, although two of those have died since then. As for this one, some months ago I led an expedition to the Sea Country." A clouded look passed over him. "On our first night out we encountered this man at the Crossroads. There, while we camped, he sang for us."<br /><br />"That is among the greatest of fortunes," Brother Malcolm said. "No Bard has visited Tintagel in twelve years -- although there <I>was</I> one in a nearby village some time ago." He glanced at Gwyn, and she turned red at the reminder of the escapade.<br /><br />"We are the keepers of the history of Prydein," Estren said. "We have to be where the history is being shaped, if we are to properly bear witness to its passing. Lyonesse has been dormant for many years, many more than twelve." He sighed. "For my part, though, I admit that we have been lax in attending to all the peoples of Prydein. I have always said that our purpose is also to share the history with the people, perhaps even more so now that dark times are coming. And it has always been that the people that shape history to its greatest tend to arrive from precisely the places we tend to ignore."<br /><br /><I>Moreso than you know,</I> Gwyn thought.<br /><br />"The Bardic commitment is difficult," Estren went on. "And even though we might not come often enough to demonstrate our admiration in person, Tintagel has no greater ally in purpose than the Nine Bards, for your mission is, in its way, the same as ours."<br /><br /><I>And I thought Brother Denys had a silver tongue,</I> Gwyn thought.<br /><br />Estren turned to Sir Baigent. "I sang for you, that night at the Crossroads; and you said afterward that if our paths ever crossed again you would give me leave to sing again. Do you still hold that offer open?"<br /><br />Sir Baigent stiffened, and a pained expression came to his face. "Have you written a new lyric?" he asked, his voice now raw and soft.<br /><br />Estren nodded. "Its writing taxed my heart and wrung tears from eyes that I thought had no more tears to give. But I saw what transpired, and thus writing fell to me."<br /><br />Sir Baigent glanced at the others, his gaze lingering on Gwyn, before replying. "Estren of the Nine Bards, I would hear your song." The formal words were the standard ones for requesting song from one of the Nine. Estren nodded and fetched his harp and a milking stool from his stall. The others settled onto beds of straw to listen to the Bard's offering.<br /><br />"I was in the hills above Caer Camyrdin when Cwerith's armies came. This is the way that I saw it."<br /><br />He plucked out a simple melody on the harp and then repeated it, adding lush harmony on that second time the like of which Gwyn had never before heard. His fingers floated across the strings, never appearing to actually touch them, as he played a tune of terrible sadness. And yet there was no despair in that sadness, only the melancholy of things lost. Finally Estren lifted his voice above the tones of the harp, singing in his strong clear tenor of the fall of Caer Camyrdin. Sir Baigent bowed his head.<br /><br />The song told of how the armies came with the setting of the sun, and how Caer Camyrdin looked as if it were bathed in fire from Estren's vantage point in the hills, overlooking the city and the Severn and the sea beyond. He sang of how the city sent a party of riders to parley with King Cwerith, and then the song took a dark turn as he sang of how Cwerith's men set upon the messengers and slew them. Then he sang of horns, terrible horns that rang across the field as the King of Caer Mastagg gave the order for the charge. The song became darker and darker as it told of the fall, one by one, of the towers of Caer Camyrdin and the setting of the fires that eventually swept across the city. Each time Gwyn thought that the song could not become more hard to bear, it did. Passion left Estren's voice when he sang about the way Cwerith's men hunted down the survivors and killed them all. He sang of the refugees that escaped, so terribly few in number. The song sounded very old, as Bardic songs usually do; Gwyn had to remind herself more than once that the events Estren was describing had happened just days before. It was, in the end, the saddest lament Gwyn had ever heard. Estren ended the song on an unresolved chord, the notes of which hung in the air. When they had at last faded away he set the harp aside and said to no one in particular, "I somehow have the sense that the song is unfinished."<br /><br />Sir Baigent stood and gave the formal response to a Bardic performance. "You do us honor with your words and tones," he said. Then he turned and went alone back to their horse-stall. The others slept in Estren's stall for that night, leaving the knight alone. Gwyn thought that he should not be alone just now, but still she couldn't bring herself to go to him. She would not know what to say, and certainly he would find no comfort in the words of an Adept of Tintagel anyway. She rolled over and dropped off to sleep, and when she awoke the next morning she remembered none of her dreams.<br /><br /><center>***</center><p><br />She awoke to a gentle shaking, and she pushed the hand away. "It's too early," she muttered.<br /><br />"It is not early enough." It was Brother Malcolm's voice, whispering directly into her ear. "It is time to ask for the Morning Blessing."<br /><br /><I>The Morning Blessing? Am I back on Tintagel? Was it all a dream?</I> As Gwyn rolled over a sharp piece of straw dug into her backside, and she realized that it was quite real. Brother Malcolm stood above her, and next to him was Brother Llyad. She rose and brushed straw from her clothes. The Bard was still asleep, and Sir Baigent's snoring could be heard in the stall next door. Gwyn shuddered to think of what his dreams that night must have been like.<br /><br />"Come," Brother Malcolm said, gesturing for her to follow. He led them to the stall nearest the front of the stable, where they knelt amidst the straw and two horses to recite the Morning Blessing. Gwyn could hear horns and great activity outside, and she realized that last night there had been six horses here, not two.<br /><br />"What is happening?" she asked.<br /><br />"It sounds like the Duke is preparing to march," Brother Malcolm answered.<br /><br />"With Camyrdin taken," Brother Llyad said, "Cwerith's next target will be Bedwyn."<br /><br />"Such things are not our concern," Brother Malcolm replied. "Not at this moment, anyway. Let us say the Blessing." He lifted his head to the ceiling, and Gwyn followed suit along with Brother Llyad. <I>"Merciful Goddess, hear us this day...."</I> Thus they recited the Morning Blessing. When they were finished they returned to the stalls to find that Sir Baigent and Estren were awake.<br /><br />"Good morning, friends," Brother Malcolm said. "I hope your sleep was restful."<br /><br />"Sleep will not be restful for some time," Sir Baigent said gruffly. Gwyn could see in the knight none of the confidence and humor of before, when he had attacked the wolves in the glen and bound her wound which suddenly ached anew this morning. His eyes were almost lifeless now, and he seemed to have aged overnight. Which, in truth, he had.<br /><br />"I see the Duke is getting ready to return to Bedwyn," Estren observed.<br /><br />"That he is," Sir Baigent said as he fastened his swordbelt. "We should go before we are sent for."<br /><br />With that, he turned and walked briskly out of the stable, clearly expecting them to follow although he did not so much as look back to see if they had done so. The companions had to walk very quickly to avoid losing him in the crowd.<br /><br />As they exited the stable, Gwyn now saw more of what was happening within the town. The center square was now a loading area where dozens of wagons were being loaded with supplies: barrels of food and water, blankets, tent-poles, and then weapons: swords, spears, pikes, clubs, hammers, flails, scythes; there was one wagon filled to capacity with nothing but thousands of arrows. Any implement of war imaginable could be found there, many freshly forged. That smithy had been busy indeed. When each wagon was fully loaded its driver would put the whip to his team of draft-horses and the wagon would pull away, heading for the road and making way for the next in line. There were also hundreds of soldiers about preparing for march, and in the morning light Gwyn could look through the spaces between the buildings to the fields beyond the town's edge where thousands of men were breaking camp.<br /><br />"Is the Duke's entire army here?" Gwyn asked.<br /><br />"A good portion of it is," Sir Baigent replied. "What he has been able to amass in the time allowed him, in any event. There are still many of his liegemen, mostly to the east and south of Bedwyn, who are not here. And with Duncan coming from the east, who knows if those lords will ever come to the Duke's banner."<br /><br />He led them to the inn and into the storeroom-turned-council chamber, where the Duke was holding heated tactical discussions with Sir Jules and four others over a number of maps spread across the table. Lord Matholyn was also there, standing silently in the background. One of the other men was the coal-eyed cleric who had been there the night before; the others were new arrivals who were obviously scouts freshly returned with news: they had not bothered to change from the clothes which they had worn to ride into town with, their boots were muddy, their hair unkempt, and their faces bore three days' growth of beard. As they entered, the Duke and his minions looked up.<br /><br />"Good morning to you all," Duke Cunaddyr said. "Did you rest well?"<br /><br />"Well enough," Sir Baigent answered. "It turns out that we had a stable-mate. He gave us entertainment." He indicated Estren, who had settled down onto a stool in the corner. There was not even the slightest trace of a smile on Sir Baigent's face. Lord Matholyn lowered his eyes, and the Duke nodded.<br /><br />"I see," said the Duke. "I think I know what song he performed. I grieve that he had to compose it."<br /><br />There was a brief and uncomfortable silence then, which was broken when Lord Matholyn stepped forward and indicated the three riders.<br /><br />"The Duke sent five men to scout Cwerith's movements. These three returned last night after you quit our company."<br /><br />"The other two?" Sir Baigent asked.<br /><br />Matholyn shook his head. "Captured. There is little question that they are dead now. They would have had little information for Cwerith to torture out of them."<br /><br />He brought them to the table and gestured to the maps, the sight of which suddenly reminded Gwyn of Dana and the long nights she had spent helping her friend with map-lore while her friend helped her with herbistry. How could memories mere days old seem so far away, so distant?<br /><br />Lord Matholyn selected a map and pointed at it. "Cwerith has forded the Severn," he said. "He is moving southeast into Duke Cunaddyr's realm. There is little doubt: Cwerith is making for Bedwyn, and he has taken much of the land between us and Duke Cunaddyr's city."<br /><br />"Taken?" Sir Jules snorted. "Had given to him, more likely. The promise of gold and lands will turn the loyalties of most piddling lords, and the lords of that particular region are more piddling than most."<br /><br />"Not all of them, Jules," Duke Cunaddyr said. "More than a few are still here, ready to bleed and die."<br /><br />"And what of those who are not?" Sir Jules asked. Gwyn saw he was not a man who backed away from a quarrel.<br /><br />"They will be treated accordingly, when next we meet." The Duke looked up at the three exhausted scouts. "Go, men, and find what refreshment you can. I regret that I can only reward your efforts with march and war."<br /><br />"As you command, Your Grace," one of them said. The others muttered the same, and then the three men dragged themselves out of the room. When they were gone, Lord Matholyn spoke.<br /><br />"We have been cut off from Bedwyn and any aid from High King Irlaris. After Bedwyn, Cwerith will move on Londia and Irlaris himself where he will be met by that Caledonian whoreson Duncan." He straightened and squared his shoulders. "Tomorrow we march for Bedwyn ourselves."<br /><br />"I don't understand," Gwyn blurted out. "Why won't the High King go to battle?"<br /><br />"He is old and weak," Sir Jules said.<br /><br />"Have a care, Jules," the Duke said severely. "He is still High King."<br /><br />"Until he dies, and he has no sons to take his place. It is well-known that his wife our Queen was barren, and he refused to take another."<br /><br />"What are you saying?" Lord Matholyn asked.<br /><br />"Merely that this war would have happened anyway when the High King died," Sir Jules said. "I'm not a learned monk -- nor am I a pretty Adept -- but I know enough history to know what happens when a King dies without heir."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn looked at Gwyn. "The answer to that concern might well surprise you, Jules," Matholyn said.<br /><br />Gwyn's eyes widened. She glanced at the Priest, whose black eyes were narrowly studying her. <I>He suspects.</I><br /><br />"Excuse me," Brother Llyad interjected. "Did you not just say that we are cut off from Bedwyn? If we march there, how will we do so without directly confronting King Cwerith?"<br /><br />"The sea," Gwyn said. She already knew the answer without looking at the map. It was the only answer that sufficed.<br /><br />"Don't lose this one, Brothers," the Duke said, pointing at Gwyn. "She is more perceptive than most, and she has the right of it. We will march south and east until we reach the sea, and then on to Bornmuth. Once there we will board ships and sail up the River Test into Bedwyn." He nodded in satisfaction at the plan and smiled at Sir Jules. "And even if we reach Bedwyn after Cwerith does, at least he will not--" and then he stopped suddenly, his face turning red.<br /><br />"He will not find it so easily taken as Caer Camyrdin," Lord Matholyn finished the thought. "Bedwyn will have warning. Your city knows that Cwerith is coming, and your city will have her Lord there when her citizens need him."<br /><br />"What happened at Camyrdin was not your fault, Matholyn ap Macholugh." The Duke's voice was soft. "Had you been there, we would have sung your laments in truth instead of in fear of truth."<br /><br />"It was my place and my duty to be there," Lord Matholyn replied.<br /><br />Gwyn glanced at Sir Baigent, whose expression was like stone. <I>To survive a war is not always a blessing,</I> it was written in the Intonations of Orrynne. Gwyn had never understood that saying. Not until now.<br /><br />It was Brother Llyad who stepped forward and broke the silence. "Do not be so quick to take unfair blame, My Lord," he said. "You had reason to come to Tintagel."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn again looked at Gwyn, and as a lump formed in her throat she was surprised to see a grim smile on his face. "Yes, Brother, I suppose I did. And that reason may be the most important of all."<br /><br />"What do I not know?" Duke Cunaddyr asked. "Why <I>were</I> you are Tintagel? You surely didn't go there out of a sense of longing for the grounds of your childhood days."<br /><br />"No one relishes their childhood days on Tintagel, unless their wits are dulled by the salt air," Matholyn said. "No, I went there because there have been signs."<br /><br />Gwyn heard a sharp, in-drawn breath from the coal-eyed cleric.<br /><br />"Signs," the Duke echoed.<br /><br />"Have care, Your Grace," the cleric said, finally speaking for the first time in a voice that was falsely commanding. "I fear that Lord Matholyn's thinking may have been influenced by some of the more mystical of Dona's followers."<br /><br />Lord Matholyn scowled. "You have always been a <I>practical</I> man, Terryn."<br /><br />"<I>Father</I> Terryn," the Priest corrected. "I have achieved the Order of the Staff since we last spoke." The Order of the Staff was the highest rank within Dona's Priesthood; Father Damogan was also one of its members. Strangely, this man -- Father Terryn -- did not have his staff of office with him, nor was it even visible anywhere in the room. She heard Brother Malcolm clear his throat beside her, and she hastily joined him and Brother Llyad in bowing before this new Lord Priest.<br /><br />"May you walk your path with the blessing of Dona, Father," Brother Malcolm said.<br /><br />"And may her light shine your way," Father Terryn replied. "I have never been to Tintagel, alas. But I am familiar with the thinking that transpires there."<br /><br />"Then perhaps you might illuminate me, Terryn," Duke Cunaddyr said. "You know that I have not made any true effort to study into the clerical matters."<br /><br />"And your refusal thus has gone against all of my counsel," Father Terryn said, making no effort at all to soften his chiding of his lord. "I have heard other Priests mention the same 'signs' to which Lord Matholyn now refers. He clearly believes that these events herald the arrival of the Promised King."<br /><br />Gwyn expected an outburst of some kind, but none followed. Duke Cunaddyr gaped at Father Terryn's words, and even Sir Jules -- who might have been counted on to give a clever witticism -- remained silent.Kelly Sedingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10704114189919711467noreply@blogger.com