Legion of Camelot
A tale of the
Legion of Super-Heroes
in the Age
of King Arthur
I:
The Sword in the Stone
The visit
Nothing could spoil Sir Brandius' good mood.
The day's hunting had gone well, the season's crops were looking good after all, and the boys were finally at an age where they were more help than nuisance.
Not even the cold rain, slowly getting heavier, was enough to spoil his humour. He smiled, thinking of all the times he cursed the island's clime, longing for the warmth of Rome, or of his homeland.
Today, even the gloom made him content. Perhaps an old Gaul can be at home in Britain, after all, he chuckled, as he dismounted. After all, it's only taken thirty years.
He unpacked the three hares he'd shot before allowing the servant boy to stable his horse. Luornu will make a fine stew of these, he thought.
The servant boy was still standing before him.
"Well? What is it?" he demanded.
"Y-You have a g-guest, milord," the boy managed.
Although new to Brandius' villa, the boy was not normally so meek as to stammer, and his master's good mood vanished at the prospect of whose company awaited him.
Mordru. The boy nodded, surprising Brandius, who hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud.
Walking toward his residence, his step quickened at the prospect of the old wizard and Luornu being alone together inside. The cold of the rain should have sizzled on his skin from the rage now boiling from within.
"Calm yourself, my old friend. I was merely admiring your ward's... embroidery."
Rather than calming her patron, Luornu could see that the sorcerer's taking the liberty to call him "old friend" infuriated the old knight – just as Mordru knew it would.
She prayed that Sir Brandius would not be baited into being a dishonourable host. Not with anger, nor with brash accusations a man of his station should be above. She watched him collect his anger before speaking.
"Why, my sole concern, my friend, is that you've detaining her from fetching my honored guest some wine and bread. It must have been a long journey indeed from Londinium."
Mordru's eyes gleamed like a veteran toying with new recruits in a game of throwing-stones — just before collecting all their wages.
Luornu scampered off in the direction of the kitchen.
"Come. Let us sit near the fire in the mean-time," said Brandius.
"Let us do so. We have many important matters to discuss," replied the guest. He continued, but was out of Luornu's earshot, as she entered the kitchen.
"Are you okay?" demanded her sister, in a loud whisper.
"You're not supposed to be here, Lu," she replied. "What if someone sees us together?"
"But the old man – I though he was going to-"
"He was trying to get Sir Brandius to do something improper. You know, like harboring two my supposedly dead sisters who Bishop Vidar would like to interrogate?"
She shoved Lu toward the secret doorway that led to the back gardens. "Now go!"
"Hey, Luornu! Where are you going?" called Rokk.
"Sir Brandius has a guest. I'm going to the garden to pick some berries to serve with his bread and cheese," replied the maiden, scurrying away.
"Luornu! Wait!" Rokk called again, but the lass had ducked around the corner already. "She acts very strange at times."
"You act very strange at times, I must say," jibed his foster-brother, Reep.
"At least I don't look like an elfling," Rokk shot back.
"Why, you little runt!" he shot back, playfully jabbing the younger boy.
Reep was very sensitive about his appearance. His mother, they say, was a Pict, and he had that tribe's unmistakable dark, otherworldly complexion and features, including slightly pointy ears — but with one exception, his head was completely hairless. Yet strangely, by fire or moonlight, he looked quite normal.
Raised as brothers, Rokk and Reep fought as brothers do — sometimes for spite or anger, and sometimes for sheer fun. It would latter occur to Reep that this fight was out of something else — habit.
Even in the moment, something told him this would be their last such boyish fight. He was two years Rokk's senior, and manly responsibilities would soon be placed upon his shoulders. Most likely, he would be expected to serve in the army, as his father before him had.
Rokk should have a couple more years, he thought. But something told him otherwise.
These thoughts came to Reep has he had Rokk pinned down, holding his arms to the ground, letting him giggle and kick and flail.
"Boys!" His father's voice snapped both of them to attention, and they stumbled to their feet.
The man beside him, Reep surmised, must be the guest Luornu mentioned. The long beard and robed first made him think he must be a priest or hermit, but no, there was something else about him.
He also looked vaguely familiar, like he had seen him as a very young boy.
The guest studied him. "Is this he? The hairless one?"
"No," replied his father. "That's my son, Reep."
"Greetings, sir," Reep tried.
"Hrmph," replied the guest, who was refocusing on Rokk. "Ah. Now he. He looks like a-"
The man stopped himself. Reep's father looked on, disapprovingly.
"You were a wee babe when I last saw you, boy. I am called Mordru," said the guest. He refocused on both of them. "Two fine young boys. Ready to prove themselves as men, eh?" he asked, with a chuckle of feigned interest.
"Ready to go to war, protect your homeland? Even now, Khundish raiders are landing on British soil," Mordru continued.
"Not Rokk. He's too young," interjected Reep's father.
"Nonsense. There'll be younger on the field with him. We need everyone," he turned to his host. "Everyone, Brandius. The War Council stands united on this — all boys over 12. As a knight yourself, you understand the stakes."
Khunds? thought Reep, still chewing it over. "So, the peace of Ambrosius is truly over?"
"It began dying the day it was brokered, boy. A Khund's word is only good until the next drink," Mordru sneered.
"Then I will be proud to fight under Ambrosius," Reep declared.
"You'll fight under the War Council. Ambrosius died a fortnight ago." Mordru almost seemed pleased with the fact.
Rokk and Reep looked to each other in disbelief, then to his father. Brandius' eyes told them it was true.
"You didn't tell us, father."
"I knew he was ill, and that it was only a matter of time."
"How soon will the three of you be ready?" asked Mordru.
"We'll leave with you in the morning," Reep's father answered.
"Then let us eat well tonight, for it is soldier's rations tomorrow and on," cackled the guest.
"You promise not to forget me?" Rokk asked.
"I forget nothing, you silly boy," Luornu answered.
"You forgot the berries." He saw confusion in her face. "The berries for Mordru. Yesterday in the garden you said you were getting berries to go with his bread and cheese."
"In the garden," she said, looking past him. "Oh, yes! I must have forgotten."
Rokk was slightly worried about her. This wasn't the first time she could not recall events or conversations she was part of. Moreover, those very incidents were the ones she seemed very nervous about at the time.
"I heard Khund blood is good for warding off ailments of the mind. I'll bring you some."
"Ughh! No thank you, mighty slayer of Khunds," she laughed.
Despite his brash talk, Luornu saw a tinge of uncertainty in his eyes. She hugged him. "You'll be fine. Just stab them before they stab you."
"He'll stab no one. You're only coming along to be my squire. You understand that, don't you, lad?" said Sir Brandius.
"Yes, sir." Rokk blushed at being redressed before Luornu. He was taken by her, and while she thought he was very sweet about it, she had no illusions. Her future included servitude, old maidhood — maybe the Convent if she remains lucky — but no knights in shining armour.
Sir Brandius turned to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. "You'll come with us to Corinium, and stay with the Sisters there." He looked questioningly at her.
"Yes, sir," she answers, also nodding to his unspoken question.
She placed her bag into the wagon, reaching under the canvass covering. Rokk, still standing nearby, heard someone sounding like Luornu say "Ow!" in a muffled voice. When he looked over, Luornu, looking embarrassed, said, "It's only a splinter."
Further raising Rokk's suspicion, she insisted on placing and arranging all of the wagon's cargo herself.
Many are called…
"You'll be sorry, boyo!"
The shout came from a hefty, weathered old northerner, probably from Eboracum. He was drunk, spoiling for a fight, and without a Khund in sight, had set his sights on a young Breton lad.
"I apologize for bumping into you. Now let us pass, and there'll be no trouble," Garth replied.
"Oh! 'There'll be no trouble!" mocked the man. "Laddie, you've found yourself some trouble. Now, are you man enough to use those swords, or are you just a pretty-boy out for show?"
"You'll be sorry," warned Garth's compatriot. "Even at his age, he's the best swordsman in all Lesser Britain."
"In all Lesser Britain, you say? Why then he's good enough to wipe my arse!" the man bellowed. "There's a reason they call it Lesser Britain!"
"You were warned," Garth quietly replied, drawing his sword.
The duel that followed was resolved quicker than the verbal portion had been, and it left Garth dissatisfied. Besting a drunken oaf was no challenge, and he was beginning to fear that his growing reputation might only lead to challenges from every sword that lacked a wit behind it.
"The lad moves like lightning," exclaimed one of the oaf's companions.
"Taranau," exclaimed a man, who to Garth's eyes appeared to be a nobleman.
He certainly caught Garth's attention. At home his people called him Taranaut, the local name for lightning.
"Good day to you," Garth greeted him.
"Good day, young knight. I am Marcus, duke of Cornwall. I could use another skilled arm among my officers."
"My thanks, but I am here with my brother Mekt's forces, from Lesser Britain."
"Ah. How is King Ban these days? I've not seen him in three summers, I fear," Marcus replied.
"They say those who pursue God's good works the best lose track of time. My father has been dead some five years now."
Garth had never seen anyone smile and scowl at the same time, yet Marcus managed to do so.
"Well. My condolences, although belatedly. If you'll forgive me, I must take my leave." Marcus and all but one of his aides departed.
"You know your way around blades far better than you do around people, my friend," his companion said.
"Take no heed," said the last of Marcus' men. "He turns cold faster than Cornish weather. Come, let us find ale to share." The fellow was scarcely older than Garth himself.
"I am Garth of Benwick, also known as Garth of the Lake."
"I am Thom, step-son of Duke Marcus. Come, let us talk."
But the Khunds had other plans. The sentries blew their horns, signaling that the horde of invaders had been spotted. Within minutes, the encampment was virtually empty.
The Khunds were very outnumbered, yes, but theirs was the side of experience.
Ambrosius' old guard was either dead, dying, or showing the strains of their ages on the battlefield. They were joined, for the most part, by lads barely sprouting their first facial hairs.
The Khundish horde, in contrast, was full of seasoned raiders, who, if not pillaging the shores of Caledonia, Britain or Gaul, were warring amongst themselves. They, too, were joined by young blood, but young men who grew up wielding swords and axes for survival — not some abstract threat, as the young lads of Britain regarded the Khunds.
This distinction was not lost on the young northerner warriors, like those of Lothian. In some ways they had more in common with the Khunds.
These southern boys fight as if it were a hobby, thought the eldest son of King Lot. Tis a wonder they've kept the welisc at bay this long.
In a single blow, he felled two large brutes. Nearby, a young man in Roman garb saw his sword knocked aside by a Khund downhill from him.
The boy knows nothing of warcraft. He should not be here, he thought, moving to intervene.
Before he could, though, another knight interceded, cutting the Khund in half. "Well, met, knight of Lothian," called the fellow, before turning and diving into a new fray.
"Well met indeed," noted the bemused northerner, knowing the fellow was well out of earshot. "Perhaps these southerners have something to offer after all, eh?"
The Roman boy looked at him, not comprehending the words.
"Pick up your sword," bellowed Lot's son. "And tell me what knight that was. Was it the Garth of Ban's court, of whom I have heard such renown?"
"No," said the Roman. "Twas a knight from Cornwall, based upon his crest, I'd wager."
Sir Thom of Lyoness, he thought, as he struck down another raider. Perhaps there are worthy rivals down here.
Three foes later, he swung around to find a forth, but no one stood near him.
The few Khunds he saw were fleeing, pursued by a band of those same boys he thought to ineffective to win.
Even so, the field was full of moaning wounded on both sides.
"Kill me," pleaded the Roman boy. He'd tried to keep an eye on him, but the boy had to do his part, too.
Surveying the boy's wounds, he saw too many deep torso cuts. A long night of bleeding was the longest he'd survive.
"I salute you, brother," he said, before granting the request.
He gave no such salutations when picking off any wounded Khunds.
"It was here on the plains of Camulodunum where Ambrosius last fought the Khunds, and it is here that we win today," proclaimed Sir Derek.
More merchant than warrior, Derek was once one of Ambrosius' favorites, and he capitalized on that to rebuild the Morgnus family's once-glorious status among proper Londinium society.
His fellow members of the War Council had doubted not that Derek's main interest in fighting Khunds was purely to safeguard his own trade — and that he might switch sides if he thought the Khunds could better fill his coffers.
"A glorious victory, indeed. May we cherish this day, and remember how to stand together when needed without quarreling amongst ourselves," agreed King Wynn of Cumbria, hoping to divert yet another pointless argument would make the best High King of Britain.
King Lot smiled, grateful that Wynn did his work for him. Surely his sons would collectively make Gawaine the favorite.
"Wise words," agreed Beren, the revered hierophant of the Druids. While not a member of the War Council, his counsel was held in high regard by Ambrosius, and thus none dared speak ill of him — none but Bishop Vidar, that is.
"Come, let us return to Sir Brandius' pavilion, where we may properly celebrate today's deeds," said Zendak, king of South Cymru.
They descended from the hill where they and other nobles and generals watched the battle, toward a large tent by a wooded glade along the river.
As they approached, the servants and squires alike were caught in such commotion that few noticed the return of their commanders.
"What's going on here!?" demanded Zendak, grabbing the first kitchen-boy he came across.
"The sword!" exclaimed the boy, too tongue-tied to do else but point.
As he wheeled to look, his fellow warlords were already caught agape.
Brandius' pavilion was deliberately set up adjacent to Ambrosius' rock. In his last war against the Khunds years ago, his wounds made some whisper about who would replace him.
He took his great sword Excalibur, and thrust it into the rock, proclaiming he who could remove it would succeed him as king.
Many had tried, but none had ever succeeded in the 20 years since then, even while an aging Ambrosius still lived. Not the strongest, nor the bravest, nor the purest of heart.
But today, the sword was gone.
"Who?" whispered Zendak, barely catching his breath. "Who shall be Uther's heir?"
"Where is Dyrk?" asked Derek. "Surely twas my son who must have pulled the sword. He outshines all others; only he could have done the deed."
"Nay," said Lot. "It would have taken a hearty northerner to have done the impossible. My son Gawaine is stronger and more noble than a dozen of these southern knights."
"Not so," said Duke Marcus. "It must have been my son, Thom."
"Cease your braggartly ways, good sirs," said Brandius, arriving from the field with his boys. "T'was my foster son, Rokk, who lifted the sword."
Indeed, the knight's foster son held the ancient runed blade.
"Impossible!"
"Trickery!"
"No whelp without royal blood..."
"Brandius was correct in calling for silence," said Mordru, having arrived unseen. "Those who hold their tongues may listen and learn. Let only the fools judge without hearing."
"Speak your piece, Mordru," said Wynn.
"Thirteen summers agone, I delivered young Rokk to Brandius' care at the direction of Ambrosius himself, with orders that none were to know, until the lad proved himself."
"You're saying this Rokk is Gwydion, Ambrosius' sole heir? Trickery, old Wizard! The child died an infant!" cried Lot.
"Trickery, yes. But as the high king's will. The one Bishop Vidar — then simply Father Vidar — buried was a peasant boy who died of the fever. Ambrosius had me spirit the boy away, that he might grow to manhood," Mordru replied. "He feared someone would again try to poison his son," he said, eyeing Lot.
Lot's wife Morgause was sister to Ambrosius' wife Igraine, making Lot's family very close to the throne. Only Igraine's daughter Mysa was closer, thought Zendak, also eyeing Lot.
"There is no proof that this child is Gwydion, or that he pulled the sword from the stone," a red-faced Lot charged.
"The boy can do it again," Mordru smiled triumphantly.
At the wizard's urging, an uncertain Rokk again placed the sword in the stone. Lot tried to pull it out again, and failed.
He was followed by several others, big and strong, those who claimed the most noble pedigree, and those reputedly pure of heart. All failed.
Zendak, who tried it himself once as a young buck, opted not to. He took a great deal of amusement at Derek's failed effort, though — and that Derek insisted on trying himself before letting his son try.
After all the kings, nobles, knights and all their sons who chose to make the effort failed, Rokk again pulled the sword from the stone, and held to overhead.
And when he again looked down, all those around him were kneeling.
The campfires were starting to ebb, while the smell of meade grew stronger.
Most of the men were far too inebriated to notice, but Reep knew who was missing. He limped up the hill, and found his brother and liege is silence, staring at the moonlit battlefield.
Reep sat beside him. In the dark, the sound of British warriors celebrating and toasting didn't sound so far different than the day's combat had. He could almost imagine they were listening to that battle continuing in the dark below them.
"Who's winning?" he asked, hoping Rokk imagined what he did.
"Mordru," Rokk replied. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he blurted. "I don't think any of this is right."
"How so?"
Rokk struggled for where to begin.
Out on the field, Sir Brandius' sword had broken, and he sent Rokk back to get a replacement.
At the pavilion, he found none - too many had been taken up already. A cloaked old man (one of the kitchen staff, Rokk surmised) told him there was an extra sword stuck into the stone.
"I'd never heard of Ambrosius' tale, Reep. Really, I didn't! I wouldn't have tried if I'd known."
"It's probably a good thing, then. We'd not otherwise known you're the king."
"But I'm not! I don't think the sword pulled out because of that!"
"Go on."
"Remember that time we were playing with father's armour, and you got stuck? I didn't pull the helmet off like you thought, not exactly."
"I don't understand."
Rokk sighed. "All right, then. Remember how much better I am fencing with a real sword than a wooden one? Or all the times I caught more fish than you — with metal hooks?"
Reep looked perplexed.
"I have a strange influence over metal. It's not much. It's very subtle, and gets weaker over distance... It hasn't helped my archery as much as my swordsmanship. I've always been ashamed of it. The priests warn us about sorcery."
Reep smiled. "How do you know Ambrosius didn't have this power, too? And was counting on you to use it to pull out Excalibur? Worry not about the priests. Ambrosius was a good man and a great king. You will be, too."
Rokk frowned. "But what if it's more of Mordru's trickery? I just can't believe it all. Verily, I can't."
"If Mordru had sole possession of magic, he'd be king for all time, and we'd be fighting him, not the Khunds. Do you think I'm evil?"
"No, Reep. Of course not."
"Look at me, then." Rokk focused on his foster brother, recognizing his voice, but not his face.
Under the moonlight, the boy next to him resembled Derek's son Dyrk far more than the Reep he'd known.
"Reep! What madness is this?"
"Wait a moment," Reep replied. The facade of Dyrk faded, to be replaced by that of King Wynn.
"I understand this not!" Rokk proclaimed. "Stop this at once!"
"Yes, my liege," Reep replied, only half jesting. "See? You are not the only one with freakish aspects. I can make my face resemble others. And as your gifts are limited to metal, mine are ineffectual in sunlight. You thought you jest, but I am part changeling after all."
Rokk took several minutes to digest this news.
"Bishop Vidar would have you killed as a demon," he said at last.
"Most likely. And you, too, if you weren't king."
Studying Rokk's face, Reep saw realization seep into his brother's face.
Rokk stood, and walked over the ridge, where the remaining campfires illuminated him.
"I guess someone should rule Britain with justice, then, and keep both the Khunds and the Bishop Vidars from doing their harms."
Lot's eldest son walked through the camp as the first light of dawn was washing onto the eastern sky.
Most were asleep or passed out. A few were still up, drinking or gambling or just talking. And, of course, a few sentries kept their watch.
The kitchen staff was awake, preparing the morning's porridge.
Some of the camp women still stumbled about, looking for the lad of which they'd heard.
They approached the young warrior. "Are you... him? My lord?" asked one. Some of them grimaced at the very wounds of which he held the most pride.
"I am not the one who claims to be our king," he said with a sneer. I could honestly tell them I am the new king's cousin and kinsman, he realized, but for once, he had no yearning for this sort of woman.
He strolled on, trying to think of all the wenches he'd wooed, all the court ladies he'd charmed, all the peasant girls he's dazzled.
But no. He was a man haunted by another sort of lady.
Luckily, thinking about his new liege provided a means of distraction.
He strolled on, into the small thatch of woods beyond Brandius' pavilion.
Excalibur was once again placed into its rock for safekeeping, and Brandius' two boys were asleep, wrapped in their cloaks nearby.
I could kill you, little cousin. Father would most certainly approve.
He held the pummel of his sword for an eternity, staring at the boy, too young for even a whisker on his chin.
He turned his gaze toward Excalibur. Like many, he had tried to pull the sword that afternoon, to no avail.
For sport, he tried once again, and was not surprised when he failed.
Certainly the boy is the old wizard's choice for the throne. Does he fancy that the lad will be easier to control? Or is Brandius in on the deed?
Father was Uther's most loyal vassal. Yet here we are, the villains, if we try to stop Mordru from cheating us out of our rightful inheritance.
Damn him! Damn them all!
He slowly, quietly pulled his sword, and held it above the sleeping Rokk.
But he couldn't.
I'm not that much my father, he thought at first, then tried to erase the thought from his head, hating himself for the unspoken disloyalty.
He devised a better excuse. What if I'm playing into Mordru's hands?
"Well, young cousin. We shall see what kind of king you can be, after all," he whispered, walking away.
Reep relaxed the grip on his dagger, but remained awake.
Family plots
The way that the barge moved silently across the water, not even scuffing or bristling the reeds, never ceased to amaze Jecka, even though she'd experienced it regularly for more than half her young life.
The barge was rowed by four accomplished priestesses-in-training, under her supervision, just as she had once had to row under another priestess' gaze, with no concession granted due to her title.
One could not row the Crossing without knowing precisely where to turn, and when. A boat would become lost in other realms, or, at best, find itself overturned on the shores near Glastonbury, where the priestess' link to the outer world lies.
To row the Crossing, a priestess needed to learn all four parts with precision. Other than supervision, Jecka's role, she believed, was to make it appear to visitors that she was the one guiding the barge along the route, and distract visitors from the simple truth that the rowers' held their fate in their oars.
The mists along the route thicken, and one loses site of the shores immediately. The bells of Glastonbury then fade, and one is enshrouded entirely by mist. One cannot see or hear the water through the crucial channel, until one suddenly arrives at Avalon, on the Priestess Island's shore.
Jecka thought she would not normally need to go through the motions and rituals associated with the Passage, given that their sole passenger was Beren. If he wanted to usurp the Priestess' secrets, he'd have done so long ago.
And is it not a wonder he has not? she thought. While she bore no grudge against the old Druid, she was tiring of anything she perceived as illusions — and lately, that was almost everything.
She questioned, also, why Beren would come by barge to Avalon, when most of the Druids go directly to the Druid Isle through the Grove Path in Cymru? Did he not want his fellow Druids to know he visits the priestesses?
Just as the mists gave way, the barge landed, and several junior students tied it to the mooring posts, while others placed the gang plank down.
And as the barge party came ashore, the mists were gone as if they'd never been. Beren and the oar crew uttered a small prayer, but to Jecka, it was just another illusion.
"Greetings, Lord Druid Beren, my old friend. Welcome back to Avalon," said Lady Kiwa, leading a procession of maidens.
"My lady!" beamed Beren. "Would that I never had to bother with the outside world, and could spend my days in your company!"
"Flatterer!" Kiwa returned.
Jecka tuned out their further flowery greetings. More illusions, she scowled.
With Beren settled in the visitor's cottage, Jecka went about her duties, overseeing trainees doing the various rituals she had learned, over and over. As one of the eldest maiden priestesses, these duties largely fell to her.
Mysa, you should be here. This is your path, not mine, she thought. The girl that had been almost her sister was gone, though, and Kiwa had simply expected Jecka to step into Mysa's place.
And now there was talk of a new king — one that Kiwa would want to hold the strings to. And Jecka suspected she was lined up to be one of those strings.
Her father, Voxv of North Cymru, was an old but beloved ruler, and he was respected second only to Uther Ambrosius. Her hand would immediately strengthen the new king's position.
It's not going to happen that way, 'My Lady' she snarled, internally.
"Why not?" asked the maiden whose weaving she was half-heartedly inspecting.
Jecka looked at her. Has this girl seen my very thoughts?
"Yes. Yes, I have," she replied. "I didn't mean to, but very intense thoughts are hard to block out."
"Does Kiwa know of your gift?" Jecka asked. Even the senior priestesses, who have trained their whole lifetimes, had rarely developed such skill, Jecka knew.
"No. The lady Mysa implored me not to tell. I know not why," the girl responded. "I guess I shouldn't have told you that."
"It's all right. Mysa was a good friend of mine. Is a good friend of mine."
"Mysa said she'd come back for me. I don't really understand why you're upset, though. If Kiwa wanted to marry me off to the new high king, I'd be grateful."
"Really! Well, my dear, I think we can be of help to each other," Jecka replied.
Jecka made it through her day with a much better mind. All she had to do was convince Kiwa to let her take young Imra to Londinium. And as she expected, she was summoned to have her evening meal with Kiwa and Beren. When asked, she apologized convincingly for her foul mood of late. She acted surprised when they told her of their plans to marry her to the young king. She accepted the role with honor, and asked only to bring Imra along as her handmaiden.
"Why not?" scoffed Kiwa. "The girl's proven useless for the priestess life, and is always romancing about court intrigues. Her father sent her to us, I suspect, to also be rid of her. Take her with you, with my blessing."
"You're too kind, my Lady," gushed Jecka, as she exited.
Kiwa and Beren sat in silence, smiling at each other.
"My Lady, you still weave webs inside intricate webs."
"My dear Beren, is there any other kind worth spinning?"
"My liege and dear nephew!"
His greeting was as gregarious as it was insincere. Rokk smiled, trying to hide his wince. "Greetings, Uncle Lot."
"Salutations, King Lot, Son of Auley," offered Sir Brandius. "Is that-?"
"-My wife, Morgause, my kinsmen." Lot interrupted. "Your mother's own sister," he said, emphasizing this to Rokk.
"My lady," Rokk took and kissed her hand, as she kneeled before him.
Standing, she spoke. "I have not seen you since you were a baby, nephew. And to think we all mourned for naught for a peasant boy all those years ago — a complete stranger! My heart is gladdened all the more that you are here, alive, and a fine young man!"
To Rokk's surprise, she took the liberty of hugging him. "Long may you reign!" she said afterward.
May I be dead before night, Rokk translated. Too many had warned him that his kin were likely responsible for his attempted poisoning as an infant — not that he recalled, of course.
"Are my cousins here, too?" Rokk asked. He'd heard much of his heroic kinsman Gawaine, and a measure of good word of his brothers as well.
"The youngest two are back in Lothian, too young for such a long journey. Agravaine you will meet at tonight's feast, while Gawaine is running an errand. He will be back for the coronation," Lot replied.
And what sort of errand? Rokk wanted to say, but thought wiser of it.
"How goes things, lad? Is king-craft all you thought it would be?" Lot said, slapping the youth on the shoulder, following his wife's lead in assuming family privilege with the high king.
"Meetings and politicking and verbal arm-twisting," Rokk answered, fairly candidly. "I will be at war with one half of Britain if I try to please the other half, it seems."
Lot turned coldly serious. "Truer words you've never spoken in your lifetime, I wager, and I never lose my bets. Promise them nothing. Listen to the factions, but avoid choosing between them like your life depends on it. It may."
All four stood silently. Rokk was for the first time impressed that Lot seemed sincere, honest — and helpful?! Brandius, too, appeared to be taken aback, and eyed Lot with uncertainty. Lot continued his gaze, perhaps wondering if he'd said too much, while Morgause looked from one to the other, before finally speaking.
"Perhaps there will be better opportunities to give counsel, husband. Our nephew no doubt has more dignitaries to meet before the feast," she said.
"Bishop Vidar!" Rokk suddenly remembered. "I must beg your leave, my uncle and aunt."
"Beg nothing. You are the king," Lot laughed as Rokk and Brandius departed.
The old Roman garrison that had suddenly been turned into the high king's convening hall was crowded enough that Reep could observe much of this exchange merely by standing still. In the hall candlelight, he looked like just another messenger reviewing his orders. While initially annoyed that he'd lost his opportunity to brief his father and foster-brother, word of Gawaine's "errand" caught his suspicion. This matched what the young Druid had told him, and he liked it not one bit.
Gawaine pulled his reins, ordering his steed to a stop. In a move smoother than his rough-and-tumble appearance would suggest, he dismounted with one simple, fluid motion — even as the horse had not finished its halt.
The robed figure before him was clearly a female. A noblewoman, perhaps, or else a priestess. "Greetings, Sir Gawaine," the lady spoke.
"And to you," he smiled. Looking around, he continued. "I'd imagined there would be a larger contingent to meet me. You are brave, to meet me here alone. I dare say there are some knights who should not be so trusted."
"But not you?"
"It is true that some would include me among such knights, yes. But you have naught to fear from me," he said, stowing his sword on his horse and removing his helm. "I apologize if my disfigurement ills you, my lady."
"You are a warrior. You need not explain," she answered. Through her veil, Gawaine imagined that she smiled.
"I have the blade," she said. She opened a small chest, and from it removed a thick wad of cloth. She slowly unraveled it, and deep inside was a small hand blade, dazzled with gems and decorated with a strange bonelike substance Gawaine was not familiar with. She opened a second package, which contained a small scabbard for the blade. "A Druidic ritual blade recovered from the ruins of Mona. Hundreds of souls still cry for vengeance. Can you hear them?"
Gawaine indicated he could not. The one voice that haunts me could drown them all out, he thought.
She approached, handing blade and scabbard to him. "I trust you know what to do with this?"
"Oh course," he involuntarily smiled.
"Will you require any poisons? I have--"
"-Nothing I need," the knight sneered. "If Beren wants poison, he can procure his own."
Gawaine rode off, not a bit satisfied with himself. He spurred his horse on, racing across the fields and eventually alongside a river. He pushed faster and faster, as if he was seeking to outrun something. He again pulled the reins, coming again to a stop, and he and beast sat at standstill beside the river, staring forward and not moving a muscle.
After a while, he dismounted, pulled of his helmet, and wiped moisture from his eyes. He took the blade and scabbard, and tossed it into the river. "Druids, find your own vengeance. Mother, find your own assassin. The 'Dark Stranger' will use me not! I'll be party to none of it!" he shouted. A swan on the river spied him cautiously.
He collapsed on the bank, and stared at the glistening blade. Poutily, he stood, and waded into the river, kicking his feet, so silt and pebbles would cover it. But as he did so, he had the strange feeling someone was watching.
You've done right, love, a female voice told him.
Reassured as to who — or what — was observing him, he rode on, eventually making camp beneath a large, ancient oak tree. For once, sleep came easily. But several hours behind him, the lad who had actually been watching him had retrieved the blade from the waters, and was making his way back to a secluded camp.
Mysa awoke halfway though the night in a start, half expecting thunder and lightning to besiege the shack.
But all was quiet. Looking around, she saw her escort had returned, and was fast asleep. She smiled at the irony. The third member of her ensemble had not yet returned, it appeared.
Donning her cloak, she went outside. The first hues of blue were hugging the eastern horizon. The woods were oddly silent. No creatures stirred, no insects chirped, nor did any breeze caress the forest canopy.
Do I yet dream? Mysa asked herself.
You do, a voice told her.
"Imra."
Yes.
No one was in sight, though.
"Where are you?"
Verulamium, en route to Londinium.
"You've left Avalon?" Mysa couldn't believe it.
I'm escorting Jecka. She's to marry the high king. My time on Avalon may be done, but I still perform my duties.
Mysa felt a rebuke among her words. The dreamscape was shifting.
"Imra, I'm sorry. But I just couldn't-"
You and the gods may know your reasons. I truly don't care. You were needed. You failed us. We've adapted without you, Imra replied, now standing beside her.
They were on the Tor, overlooking all the hilly isles collectively called Avalon. It was a bright summer day, as it had the last time they met face-to-face.
"What was expected of me, no one should do. It was wrong!" Mysa exclaimed. Imra's reaction was one of pity.
Poor Mysa. How long must you make yourself the victim? Do you ever hear your own words?
"Do you!?" Suddenly it was Mordru questioning her, and the Tor erupted with soot and ash. All of Avalon was running and hiding, finding no safety from the wizard, who was suddenly sapping all of Avalon's magicks for himself.
A giant, he was almost as tall as the Tor itself. But someone within the Tor, an old legend reborn, was breaking out. One last hope.
"One last hope," Mysa told herself, waking in a cold sweat.
It was morning, and her escort was awake, roasting a small fish over the campfire.
"Bad dreams?" he asked.
Mysa shuddered. She'd never had her sister or mother's gift of sight, yet she knew there was truth to what she'd seen.
"If only they were that simple," she answered, holding herself and rocking forward and back. Sometimes she would yearn for Avalon's insulation, but she never before feared for it.