III:
From Three, a Legion
***
Kingmakers
"...would please us greatly to continue the peace," said King Zaryan of Kent. "Not even your esteemed father, the great Ambrosius, unwove Vortigern's treaty."
The ruler of Khundish Britain spoke before King Rokk and a small audience of his advisors: Reep, Brandius and Garth, the latter of which had already acquired the warrior's respect of many Khunds, despite his youth. And unseen, one other observed the talks.
"We fought on the side of the Pendragon time and time again against any invader — even Khundish. Kent will stand with Britain, if Britain will stand with Kent," Zaryan concluded.
"Well spoken, Zaryan. I will gladly say that I have no wish for war between our peoples. Yet many still question why your folk would turn against your own kin? This makes no sense to my Celtic subjects, who place kin above all," Rokk replied.
"My liege, the Khunds of Kent have now been here for three generations. We were born on this isle. We are British, with no more connection to Khundia than..."
She had heard about as much as she could stand.
It was fascinating to eavesdrop on negotiations between kings, but enough was enough. She had warmed to Rokk despite herself, but Zaryan was a Khund first, and thus was less trustworthy than Morgause — or even her mother.
Her withdrawal from the king's hall was as undetectable as her entrance had been. While most of Ambrosius' palace in Londinium needed a good summer's worth of sweat and toil to again become a seat of governance, the young high king had seen to it that he at least had a proper chamber to host dignitaries and peers.
Restless, she wandered down the hall, listening into various conversations, noting the faces that were becoming familiar. Yet where had her true love ventured off to? Verily, he was nowhere to be seen.
She eventually drifted out of the palace by way of the old Roman garrison that now housed Rokk's knights. En route, she saw Brandius and Reep escorting Zaryan back to his encampment — safely outside of city walls. She in turn, opted to enter the garrison. The guards paid her no notice on entry.
In the common room, Sirs Thom and Dyrk played six-stones and drank ales, boasting of deeds and conquests. She had little interest in either, and wandered down the corridor. Ahead, the voices of a young man and woman ricocheted down the stony hall.
"How could you say that of me, my love?" Garth sounded hurt.
"I know much of boyish love. It lasts only until the next pretty face," Mysa laughed. "Last eve was a treasure, I'm sure, but I can't have my brother's best knight at my door, else the entire court be scandalized!"
"Then marry me!" Garth pleaded, but Mysa again laughed.
Best knight? Their observer scowled. They can think that only because Gawaine has yet to earn his king's favour. Infuriated, she continued on, leaving the couple to their silly games.
Few were out on Londinium's streets, as the city guard had closed them to all but the nobles and military before tomorrow's ceremony. Patrols did not even lift their heads as she passed by.
Circling the citadel, she again wandered past the front Ambrosius' palace, an imposing Roman structure with the pillars to prove itself. Crews had been working day and night to make it ready for the new king, and to host its share of the coronation celebrations on the morrow.
After the palace came a row of nobles' houses, where those who gained Ambrosius' favour built their own tributes to the dwellings of the Eternal City itself.
Continuing on toward the Basilica, she saw the arrival of the priest who is replacing Vidar. He looked not remarkable at all, a countryish man who should seem more at home behind a plow or at a smithy than in robes. And even more strangely, his eyes darted around cautiously, before ushering three cloaked girls into his rectory.
Well, now. This one has more applaudable secrets than Vidar had, the observer concluded.
Reversing direction, she now followed Londinium's artery, Prima Gate, west, where she passed by the Mithraeum, the temple of the Roman warrior-cult. One of the many kings in town for the coronation was exiting.
"Your daughter will make a most excellent high queen, my liege," said a fawning knight at his side. She'd seen this ilk before in Eboracum — all smiles to your face, all knives to your back.
"She shall. You know, she talks of naught else," the old man agreed.
The father of this Guinevere is a follower of Mithras? Or is this more of the strange Druidic plot?
She tagged along.
They proceeded along the street until reaching one of the grand mercantile residences, where a row of escorts lining the entry stairs greeted them.
Atop the stairs were two young women, adorned as royalty.
Truly both are beautiful. Yet which is Guinevere?
"My daughters!" the king warmly greeted them.
The fawning knight, whom the king had called Pharoxx, looked confused.
"My father and liege," replied the younger of the two. She looked nervous to unseen eyes.
The maidens descended to meet their king and exchange further pleasantries.
In addition to the entourage, the stealthy observer noticed Garth had wandered upon the scene, and his eyes seemed transfixed upon the younger daughter.
Mysa was right. This 'best knight' has the conviction of a mangy cat. Would that he serves his king better than he does his lady! she thought, smug in knowing who was truly a better knight.
Disgusted, she departed this vignette, and turned south, entering the Temple district, where she was surprised to see Rokk and Reep walking toward the Druidic shrine.
"Are you sure about this?" Reep asked.
"No. But if Beren is out to kill me, I'd rather know tonight than in the midst of battle," Rokk replied.
She passed ahead of them, and entered the temple, marveling that Druids would need even a simple building. Yet this is Londinium — it's hard to have a private grove in a city this size.
But once inside the atrium, there it was — a sizeable courtyard fully gardened into a grove, with an ominous large ceremonial stone in its center.
If Beren intends harm to the king, I must serve as witness, be it sacrilege or not.
Finding a quiet corner, she watched as Druid after Druid entered from side chambers, as well as Beren himself. Rokk entered alone, and was ushered away for a ritual bathing. As the moon rose in the sky, the ritual began, officiated by Beren himself.
The ceremonial blade he wielded looked very familiar — the same jeweled dagger Gawaine had thrown into the river!
They are assassins! I must find Gawaine! she thought, fleeing the scene. Where are you?
She closer her eyes and let herself be spirited away.
She was out of the city altogether, in a small village a half-day out she recognized from the original trip south.
"My love! Where are thou?"
"Not now!" Gawaine bellowed, trading sword plows with a villain she recognized not, wearing armours of Irish or Cornish style.
Even if I interrupt, he'll not make it to Londinium in time, even if his chariot has the fastest horses on this isle.
But then she noticed that Gawaine was not alone. Little Saihlough had gone with him — could this be the Dark Stranger he fought?
Saihlough winked at her. She sees me!
"Come, little faerie. We have a king to save!"
***
Garth was quite pleased with himself.
He was pleased with the garb that Sir Brandius' aides had picked out, pleased that he negotiated the maddening streets and made it to the Basilica with an hour to spare — and that he successfully avoided Mysa.
I must find out who that princess was. Until then, let Mysa keep busy tending to the details of her brother's court.
In a complete contrast from last night, he doubted there was a single square foot of all Londinium not occupied by human eyes this day. Has even Rome ever seen such a glorious day?
The priest, a Father Marla, was going over details with Sir Brandius, Sir Derek and others, leaving Garth with little to do but await his liege and best friend.
Few had been allowed inside the vestry, and he found himself with no one to talk to. Not even Reep, he realized. Where are those brothers?
"My lord?" A young woman's voice uttered.
He looked up to see his princess from the last evening.
"...," he managed. Never before at a lack of words with maidens, he suddenly felt paralyzed.
"My lord and liege, I swear I shall make you a good wife, and a queen you may be proud of," she said, kneeling before him.
Garth continued to be tongue-tied, just as Rokk walked in.
"Garth! You have found a woman who truly worships you," he laughed.
"Rokk! My king! I-I..." Garth nervously managed.
The maiden looked up. "You're not-?" She looked back and forth between the gaping Garth and the bemused Rokk.
"My liege! Forgive me! I thought..." Imra instead bowed before him.
"Please! None of that!" Rokk exclaimed. "For a lady such as yourself to be let into the vestries, why, you must be—" Rokk's smile froze.
"Princess Guinevere, my lord." Imra's face reddened at knowingly lying to her king and future husband.
She's Guinevere. Garth's heart sank.
"My lady! I wish that we had time to talk, but we must talk to Father Marla about the details of the Coronation. You, I gather, shall be at my side."
"Yes, of course," she replied.
Minutes later, they stood on a large dais specially erected in front of the Basilica, with thousands looking on. None of them had ever seen such a crowd, let along been the center of such attention.
Brandius and Father Marla stood across the dais with Reep and Mysa, explaining their roles to them. A handful of city guards and deacons lined the back row against the basilica wall. Slowly, Beren and the various kings came up, forming a line in front of them.
The many lords and knights enjoyed privileged locations immediately to the front of the crowd. Garth-half-noticed Dyrk, Thom, James, Agravaine, and a host of others whose names he had yet to master.
But his mind was elsewhere, on a maiden who looked fidgety and uncomfortable, and not just by the earlier faux pas.
What could possibly be wrong on a day like this? Garth wondered. The sun was warm and bright. Brandius and Derek shared greetings with the other older knights of Ambrosius' day. Having finished talking with Father Marla, a smiling Rokk was approaching him. Good cheer emanated from the crowd…
But Guinevere was looking around as if—
"Assassins," she whispered.
Garth was certain he'd misheard her. She must have said—
"Assassins!" She shouted. "They're going to kill Sir Brandius!"
Garth and Rokk shot each other a look, each drawing swords before her words were completely absorbed. They turned to see two city guardsmen holding daggers, approaching quickly and menacingly.
While most nobles and older knights were still trying to ascribe meaning to the young princess' words, Rokk and Garth had already engaged the backstabbers. Although out-powered, sword-to-dagger, the duo used the young warriors' lack of experience against them, and nearly reached their quarry.
But the contest was never in any doubt. Rokk's foe, having parried the king's blade aside, saw an opening to stab Brandius in his gut — but found his blade arm drawn instead back to the young king's sword. His dagger quickly knocked aside, a sharp pain to his side preceded a sense of lightness and the sound of water gushing. Colours danced across his eyes, and he felt an odd, almost sweet nausea as the dais rose to greet him.
Garth's foe fared little better. He turned to face the knight in time to parry one blow, but Garth's sword paradoxically moved far quicker than his otherwise lithe, agile dagger. His arm and thigh screamed in agony after blade strokes he couldn't even see. Falling to his knees, it was almost a relief when he felt a spasm shiver up from his neck, just before he saw the final stroke descend toward his shoulders.
Several noble ladies at the front of the crowd screamed as a head rolled off the dais. Knights and city guardsmen scrambled to catch up, to feign a sense of control after having missed the action.
It took more than an hour to calm the crowd, remove the bodies and be reasonably certain security was restored before the ceremony could begin anew.
And all the while, Garth pondered. Why Sir Brandius? There's something else going on here.
***
"Simply amazing, by damn."
"Well, that certainly expands our repertoire of extraordinary gifts," Reep said. "Even more, looking at the one Garth wounded."
"How so, son?"
"The wound was... charred. Apparently Garth's lightning-quick swordplay may be a measure more than metaphor."
"Well, he's in good company, then," Rokk smiled, looking down at the hall of feasting guests. He took a quick head-count of the young knights gathered with extraordinary feats attributed to them, and wondered how many more were in the general populace.
"Mayhap we shall have an entire legion of knights with freakish gifts," he said at last.
"You'd play the fool not to," Brandius replied. "I taught you better of Tacitus' writings than to ignore such an advantage. Why, such a legion would be remembered for 3,000 years!"
Hidden in the stonework above them, Saihlough smiled. This shall be fun!
She met the young king by intruding in and interrupting Rokk's royal anointment by the Druids the night before, it was true. But once he and the Druids realized she meant no ill, the row was over. He thanked her for her concern, and took a liking her — the first of the Fair Folk he had ever laid eyes upon. And she in turn took a liking to him; human kings are particularly amusing, she recalled.
Rokk was also grateful the little faerie had not burst in during the priestess ritual that followed the Druidic one.
Hearing murmurs from the conversations below, Rokk realized that his long absence was being noticed. "I must rejoin the feast. Father, promise me you'll stay safe?"
"Bah! I'll not hide, for assassins can just as easily strike a quiet library as a crowded hall. And I'll not miss this celebration, not even for Rome restored to her former glory!"
As the trio returned to the feast, Reep realized that Gawaine was still missing. Rokk's most celebrated cousin has made himself scarce, and now snubs even the coronation?
Reep recalled the 'knife conspiracy' L'ile had set up at his request, when last he suspected Gawaine's loyalties. Had the knight indeed passed the test — or merely seen through it?
"Why did they go after my father?" Reep whispered to himself, disliking an unanswered question.
"Dubhghall," Saihlough answered, although out of Reep's earshot. "One king-maker's vengeance against another."
***
Imra was neither accustomed to all eyes being on her — constantly — nor at having to work at maintaining a lie.
She hated herself for it.
All the men — young and old — wanted her, and all the women — again, young and old — envied her.
"You're doing fine," Jecka whispered, as they moved through the crowd.
"She needs you not, to know that," Voxv reprimanded. "She's become quite capable in your absence."
Pharoxx glowered, like a wild boar, caged, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness.
"Father, you know I adore you," Imra began.
"Of course, Gwen," he doted.
"If I haven't already taxed your benevolent humour once to often, I might ask of you one additional gift."
"Anything that is mine, or than I can make mine, is yours. You know that," he replied. "So what can I give my precious daughter on the day of her betrothal?"
"I would like very much, if you an see it in your heart, to see you and Jecka reconciled. I love you both, and it hurts me to see you at odds."
"Forgive Jecka? After what she did! No. No, I can't."
"But why? A childhood error, it was. Yet no irreparable ill came of it; here I am. And Jecka is now a grown woman — not that same little girl who—"
"I cannot." Tears were welling up in Voxv's eyes.
Privy to more than his words, Imra realized that part of Voxv saw through his own illusions — and she almost gave it enough strength to blow her cover wide open before him.
And part of her wished for it.
Pharoxx grinned at her, as if he knew just how close she had come.
Jecka had remained entirely quiet, so as not to betray neither her hope nor her despair.
I'm sorry, Jecka. I tried.
They entered the chambers where Father Marla waited with Rokk and his kin.
She greeted those she knew, and was introduced to his uncle Lot and aunt Morgause as well. With serpents like these, Rokk will need every good soul he can at his side, she thought.
And nervously, she greeted Rokk. Why, he's just as nervous, yet without secrets like mine. If only we could talk before this ceremony.
It's just a betrothal ceremony. There's still time to talk before the wedding.
And then she noticed Pharoxx talking chummily with Lot...
***
"I told you, it's Dubhghall!" Saihlough exclaimed.
Sir Thom scrutinized the body with skepticism. "This 'Dark Stranger' some of you were so concerned with was naught but an old man?"
"Do not scoff. I know old men that are deadlier than any of us combined," said L'ile.
Reep tried to tune out his companions. His thoughts were on the conversation between cousins in the room beyond, where Rokk and his heavily scarred kinsman were at last sharing words.
"If you believe me not, or cannot trust me, then I shall go to Lothian, and bother you nevermore," Gawaine told the king.
"It's all a bit much to take in," Rokk said. "Why... Why don't you start again, at the beginning?"
"After the battle with the Khunds, I was approached by two groups, both expressing interest in assassination. I had no interest in killing you, but I felt obligated to find out what they had to say — before a true assassin did. The one group, the Druidic conspiracy, you tell me was but a test. I knew that not, yet hurled their magick dagger into a river of my own accord, rather than see it used against you.
"But before that, I was approached by the Dark Stranger, promising me the throne if I helped him. A-And he promised that my beloved would be returned to me."
"He has a hostage?" Rokk asked.
"No. No, he doesn't. She is — dead, or close to it. But he said he could revive her. I hoped to trick him, save my love without harming you.
"I talked it over with my mother, Queen Morgause, and she agreed I should meet both parties and hear them out."
I've no doubt she did, Rokk thought.
Gawaine continued. "After deciding not to continue, I began hunting these people. Finding one trail cold, I sought the other. With the sidhe's help, I found and fought Dubhghall's men, and Dubhghall himself."
"Why did you not come to me, cousin?"
"I wanted to redeem myself first."
"By bringing me the body of an old man that means nothing to me."
Gawaine turned his heard to the left, paused for a moment, and then sighed.
"What?" Rokk looked at him, wondering what his kinsman was reacting to.
"My love tells me that Saihlough believes Sir Brandius would know the man."
Two weeks ago, I'd have considered him a madman. Rokk thought, recalling the female apparition Saihlough said had led her to try to interrupt the Druids.
"Very well." Rokk opened the doors to the outer chamber. "Reep, would you summon our father?"
The collection in the outer room had grown. The Greek scholar, L'ile, Mysa, Dyrk, Gawaine's brother Agravaine and Wynn's son James had all joined Garth and the others since the interrogation began.
"While we wait, pray tell us how you received those scars," Rokk said.
"There is a great glen that crosses northern Caledonia, and within that glen, a dark lake, inhabited by dragons. I fought one such dragon, who swallowed me whole, and chewed on me for an interval before swallowing. I had to slay it from the inside," he said, matter-of-factly.
This knight makes dragon-slaying sound routine, Garth thought. Either he's tougher than I, or as honest as his parents.
"My father could use your help," James said. "Our kingdom, Cumbria, is also plagued by a mighty lake dragon, and father has made it his life's quest to be rid of it. Father has already gone home in response to a new sighting."
"Dragon's blood has made you stronger," Saihlough quietly remarked.
"Yes, yes, it has. I am much stronger, and have been able to do things that make no sense to me," Gawaine said.
He'll fit right in, then, if we can trust him, Rokk thought.
"Telling my story to father's court, the Christians among them likened my tale to that of their Jonah. I am no good Christian, but I feel the need to rename myself," Gawaine said, looking at Rokk, "To remake myself as part of Rokk's court, not of Lothian."
"Worry you not that your sire will take it as an insult, tossing aside his name for you?" Rokk asked.
"If he is sincere in his oath of loyalty, he should have no ills. And if he has treachery in his heart, than I fully renounce him, and will say so before any court in his land."
He's serious, Imra told Rokk, measuring the knight unseen from an upstairs parlor. He truly regrets being caught up in his parents' deception.
Reep returned with Brandius, who exclaimed at the sight of Dubhghall. "Why. It's Doyle!"
"Who's Doyle?"
"One of Vortigern's bastards from Eriu. He sought to rally the Khunds of Kent against Ambrosius, and prevent the alliance that won the peace," Brandius replied.
"So this Doyle was able to ally with L'ile's Dark Circle, and obtain the secrets of persuasion, to again rile up Roman against Pict, Celt against Kentish Khund," Querl surmised.
"Not my Dark Circle," L'ile rebutted. "And targeting Brandius gave Doyle revenge for past grievances, while undermining King Rokk's ability to govern."
"Far better to portray a young, weak king than create a martyr that could further unite the peoples of this isle!" Reep agreed.
"Precisely," Querl concurred.
The group talked until the hours of fast-breaking on how to ferret out this Dark Circle, until one by one the warriors drifted away to rest.
"Dubhghall and I certainly had bad blood," Brandius confided in Reep on their way back to their rooms. "In addition to the politicks of state, we were both rivals with your mother."
Strange Visitor
Three days of coronation festival had its share of competitions, as young knights from all around Britain and Lesser Britain — and some from beyond — sought to impress the young king.
Garth, Thom and Jonah proved to be the top three, and the only three who could best their liege at swordplay; Garth trumped all in racing steeds and chariots.
With his mounted maneuvers, Garth also succeeded in convincing Rokk that his cavalry concept was sound; all the morseo with Querl's new invention – rider's straps with small protrusions, allowing riders more control and stability whilst riding, and the ability to prod their mounts with small but noticeable shocks; for the first time horse warriors would not need to fight chariot-to-chariot or dismount before combat. Yet despite Garth's impassioned argument, the young king still found himself smiling, thinking of the jests he and Thom shared at his friend's expense.
Rokk humbly excused his own defeats of other knights, saying they held back, "so as not to wound their king," while magnanimously praising the three who beat him, saying, "I'd rather have as trusted allies any who beat me."
But Rokk and several of the knights were perplexed at Sir James' strange, bulky armour and tunics, to which he laughed, saying his attire may be ill-suited to friendly combat, but has served him well in real warfare.
"I hope so," said Thom, noting James failed to defeat all opponents but one — a short, silent lad who refused to remove his helmet.
The lad, dubbed 'Sir Prize' by King Rokk, wished to remain anonymous until he proves himself as a knight, said Father Marla, who vouched for the lad's good character. The king, of course, indulged the lad's wish, noting, "He yet has far to go."
Rokk was much more impressed with the two brothers, Balin and Balan. They proved formidable fighters, each besting all but Rokk and Jonah, but succumbed so easily to their king that he jestingly questioned their efforts.
Like Marla's lad, these two always wore their own iron helmets, saying as Orkneymen, their appearances would be unsettling to gentlefolk.
"I don't like them," whispered Saihlough to Jonah. He resolved to keep eyes upon them. Perhaps he kept too many eyes on them, the faerie later thought, watching Lot's eldest be bested — and even made to look a bit foolish — by Dyrk.
The young Morgnus won most of his battles, but beating the mighty Gawaine took many by surprise. Rather than the rage he once would have shown, Jonah made sport of his embarrassment and commended the fellow's skill and ingenuity.
Lothian's sons would have the last laugh, however, as second-eldest Agravaine avenged Jonah's honour by learning from his brother's loss — and seeing the limits of Dyrk's skills.
What Dyrk knows, he knows well, thought Lot's second son, But what he doesn't shall be his downfall.
Reep, his injury from the plains of Camulodunum still unhealed, was content to play spectator, see the palace set in order, and aid L'ile in setting up reconnaissance and scouting teams. The summer was barely under way, and it was only a matter of time before the Khunds returned in numbers.
Thus far, only small bands had been seen, and easily fended off by local lords and kings. They're up to something, Reep sensed. It's only a matter of time.
Rokk's official seneschal, Reep had plenty of duties, everything from strategy to supervising palace staff, making sure all the guests' needs were tended to.
And his staff was being kept busy. Imra, Jecka, the ladies of Voxv's court, Mysa, Morgause, and most any noble woman who could get a word in edgewise plotted and schemed the pending nuptials, all while cheering on (or otherwise paying partial heed to) the menfolk's contests. Garth, of course, was a particular favorite of most of the ladies.
Would that he were high king, Imra caught herself staring at Garth on the field. If Jecka saw, she said nothing.
Mysa, who had surmised why Garth was ignoring her, had initially been amused the young man's fickle heart — but noticing the glances between the knight and her brother's fiancée, now feared the worst.
They are yet young. May they grow past these fleeting emotions else a kingdom dies stillborn.
Mysa's own relationship with Imra, while initially warm with reunion, was already taking an awkward turn — Imra was no longer the pupil and underling, and perhaps saw her one-time friend and mentor as a threat, or reminder of past subservience she would no longer be a part of.
Concerned with more concrete dangers, Rokk kept an extra eye on Brandius. It was true that no more would-be assassins had struck, and the madness seemed to have run its course among the public, yet the young king was not ready to surrender his foster-father due to neglect.
He was gladdened by Luornu's arrival, yet she also seemed far distant — as if she and he had become strangers in the two short months since they hugged their good-byes.
"You have nothing to fear. Vidar has been sent to Rome," he assured her. But whatever demons plagued her seemed to be growing worse.
Rokk considered asking for Imra's aide, but then thought the wiser of it. The most invasive of tools must be the last to be taken off the shelf, he thought. Especially amongst those one cares for.
His train of thought was interrupted, however, when L'ile and Reep sought him out.
"It's the Khunds," L'ile blurted out. "Or rather what's left of some. Camulodunum's coastal patrols have found the remains of three raiding boats on the Trinovantes shores."
"Did they run afoul of sea dragons? Or was it a storm?" Rokk asked.
"If what they say is true of a woman scorned, then aye, perhaps it was a storm," replied the young Druid. "It was the Ulsterwoman that Zendak and Beren have told me of."
"I would very much like to meet this woman," Rokk smiled. "Verily, she would be most welcome among my knights and companions."
"If she lives, you may ask her," L'ile replied.
"She was struck down?"
"Nay. At least, it appears not. I have taken the liberty to dispatch our best healers. And Querl."
"Poison, then," Rokk conjectured. "You acted wisely," he told L'ile.
"Reep, my brother, would you have my steed readied? I would ride to Trinovantes myself."
"To escape your wedding day?" his brother chided.
"Nay," Rokk laughed. "If any Khund survived, and knew the Ulsterwoman was ill, I'd hate to see vengeance taken in my kingdom."
"My lord, I beg of thee. Take a company of knights at your side," L'ile implored.
"With the city patrols on hand, I have extra swords if I need them. Nay, Tis a simple matter I can handle myself."
Yet on arrival at the stables, Marla's mysterious silent knight awaited, ready for travel. "Ready for a quest, lad?" Rokk laughed. "Very well, then, Sir Prize, we must away."
***
"And whose scarf did you carry into tournament?"
The question was intended innocently enough, but to Thom, it was another twist of the knife. "None, I'm sorry to say," he told the couple as they strolled through the summer dusk. The streets were quiet; many were feasting, either in the halls of privilege or at the campfires that surrounded Londinium like a sea of fire-flies.
"I'm sorry to have missed your very first tourney here at Rokk's court," Marcus smiled. "But my bride brings tidings of greater import."
En route to Cornwall those half-dozen weeks ago, Thom had heard Nura's sometimes-prophetic mutterings, but still wasn't sure what to make of them. Even so, he trusted her, and gave her words heavy credence.
"So you have said. But what is this urgency?"
"I… have only seen a portion of it. But I know who we must see to glean the full visage," she said, trying not to look him in the eye. "I know only that you must aide King Rokk, if he is to see his throne again."
They made their way to the Druidic shrine in Londinium. "Greetings, Duke Marcus, Lady Nura, Sir Thom," said the guard.
"King Marcus," Thom's step-father corrected. "And Queen Nura," he added, almost as an after thought.
Both Thom's and the Druid's eyebrows raised at the last. Does father now usurp Mysa's claim to Cornwall? He has been but the regent all these years. Has Rokk given him the land, or is he already challenging the high king?
"Lady Kiwa expects you, and she has a message for you," the guard said at last, letting them pass.
So Nura was right. The Lady of Avalon does have the other half of the puzzle for us, Thom thought.
***
"It's a game our friend Querl brought with him. Apparently, it's quite the rage in the East," L'ile said. "You throw two six-sided stones, and based on the outcome, you move all your tiles from one triangle to another around the board," he continued, tying to keep up with Reep's fast pace. "But if one tile lies alone on a triangle, and your opponent lands on it—"
"Sounds like a splendid diversion, should I ever have an afternoon free again." They reached the kitchens on the lower level. "I spend so much time down here, I should change my title to 'Kitchen Staff Supervisor,'" Reep joked.
"But how many kitchen staff supervisors also oversee security forces?" asked L'ile. "I've only ever heard of one, in the legendary land of Palnu."
Reep picked up a piece of cheese. "I've been so busy, I've not eaten since fast-breaking." He was shocked to find L'ile grabbing his arm, preventing him from eating.
"I smell Wyrmweed," L'ile said sternly, forcing his friend to drop the cheese. "A deadly poison from Scythia."
"Yes, it is," replied one of the kitchen staff, chewing and swallowing a morsel himself. "A slab of veal from the north was also poisoned.
"Amateur job, I must say. Smells like poison, and it tastes too salty," he said, helping himself to more veal.
"L'ile, meet Tenzil, our new beefeater."
"A madman, that he knowingly consumes fouled meats!"
"Nay," replied Tenzil. "A man cursed by the Faerie Queen to eat but never be sated, to taste but never enjoy, to consume any poisons but never ail."
"What better poison-tester could one wish for?" Reep beamed.
"Who indeed?" L'ile agreed. "You are knowledgeable about many poisons?"
"I know poison when I taste it, and often upon smell. And I'm fairly good at judging plant from mineral, powder from liquid, and pox from poison, even after the beast has swallowed it."
"We may need your help, then," L'ile told him. "It's been two days. The king must be en route home by now," he said to Reep.
"Then you, too, think the Ulsterwoman was poisoned?" Reep asked.
"Aye, It does seem likely," L'ile answered, before shifting his attention to the beefeater. "Good sir, once the guests' evening meal is ready, would you join me on an errand?"
The Elf Queen
The rain was getting harder.
Querl had accepted that Britain would be a far rainier place than any Mediterranean city he ever called home, but never imagined how rainy, damp and chilly a place it could be - even approaching midsummer.
Yet he dared not light a fire.
His cloak, along with three of the four others gathered from his late Druid escorts, made a fine enough tent, easily enough camouflaged with branches and weeds. Every so often, he'd hear the shouts of his pursuers, yet none have ventured even remotely close to his encampment.
Luckily you are far to ill too give voice to your pain, he thought, as if speaking to his guest.
She was tall, even by the standards of these northerners. During her better times, she muttered words in Gaelic, which her Greek caretaker knew far too little of to understand — even if she'd ever spoken coherently.
At least the Druids' herbcraft took measures to better your condition, he observed, feeling her forehead. You may not die this eve after all.
Lightning flashed, followed closely behind by a fearsome thunderclap. The voices outside became more distant, as the hunters, too, no doubt sought shelter.
The makeshift tent, now soaked and never seamlessly watertight, was beginning to let a noticeable amount of moisture though.
Our one chance to outrun these fiends. But only a madman would try to travel through this. A lightning flash again illuminated the young woman. He stroked her cheek. Aye, only a madman.
He rolled his charge over on her back, before unrolling a fifth Druidic cloak, one that was more bloodstained than the others, and set it over her, clipping it in place to her belt using an extra cloak clasp.
Sitting beside her, he then lifted her over his shoulder, gradually rising to his feet with her balanced in place. Despite a few stumbles, he managed to pull it off.
My thanks to the lady that she wears no armour.
He had previously carried her several hundred feet, with great strain, yet she now seemed lighter. What madness is this? But I should reserve my complaint for another hour.
Stepping out into the driving rain, he made little headway, and after a minute's effort realized he wasn't certain which way to even go.
I should follow the stream away from the sea. From there, I go straight until I hit a road.
He could make out the stream's edge, now bloating outward into the lower woodlands. If the storm worsened, his own tent would be engulfed before long, he noted, bolstering his decision to move on.
About 30 feet en route, he had to rest, and leaned against a tree, his female cargo still providing his sole rain-block. She did not a good job; he was drenched, and it was getting harder to see.
As rested as he could get, he repeated his efforts, knowing only that he was moving against the stream's current ...which must be uphill... taking breathers every 20 to 30 feet.
He'd lost track of his progress, or even how many breaks he'd taken, and the experience was beginning to blur into a swath of wetness, nasal congestion, light-headedness and the rhythm of the merciless rain. And then he lost consciousness...
…Querl awoke hearing horses, and immediately assumed the worst. He reached for a stick, a stone — anything, to defend himself, and sat up, amazed to find himself holding a sword in his hand.
The two riders looked nothing like the barbarians he'd faced and evaded (yesterday?). They were fair of complexion and hair, with young, hairless faces, and fine, glistening armour. And they rode silvery horses.
"Who art thou, and how did you come upon the Claidhim Lugh?" one demanded.
"Clay-um Lou?" Querl was perplexed, but relatively certain he was awake. "You mean her?" From their reactions, he guessed they didn't mean her.
The speaker dismounted. "In the name of my lady, I ask you again! Who are you?"
"I am Querl of Colu, sometimes called Brainius V." He was growing to hate the name, but if they'd heard of him and were to be impressed, it would be with that name.
"And how did you gain the Claidhim Lugh?" he continued.
He'll not believe that I know not. "My lady entrusted it to me for safekeeping." He gestured to his Amazonian companion, still asleep.
"Wake her, that she may vouch for you."
"I cannot. I believe she's been poisoned. Now I believe it's your turn. Who are you, and where are we?"
"You are in Annwyn Annowre. We are the gatekeepers, Maigh and Dewphe, and we will now escort you to meet our mistress."
"Then make yourselves useful and see that my lady is transported." He knew he'd carried her, but strangely felt not weary at all. Still, no sense in repeating the effort, when two fine horses were here.
He also noticed he and the lady were both bone dry, and although the day was bright, there was no sun to be seen.
Realizing they waited for him, he said, "Lead on, Maigh, Dewphe."
***
"Yes, so they were Khunds. What of it?" Marcus wiped his blade clean, pleased that he was still fit enough to face a worthy foe one-on-one.
"Look at their weapons, their tunics, father. See how different they are from the already dead bodies of the Khundish raiders we found along the shore? How much better their armour is? All British items."
"What's your point, lad? Khunds have long raided Britain and taken such goods." Marcus was losing patience.
"Aye. Those raiders mix and match, it's true. A Frankish sword, a Gallic helm, a British shield. But these are entire outfitted in British equipment — and unlike raider's mismatched booty, each's wares seemed fairly well tailored to the wearer," Thom concluded.
"If you accuse the Kentish treaty lands of treachery, you'd better have stronger arguments to make," warned his father.
Thom nodded.
Marcus turned his attention to his wife. "What of this Irish hussy you saw?"
"She was taken by the green man into Sidhe," Nura replied. She bristled at the implied insult. Although Cornish in origins, she grew up in Eiru.
Marcus rolled his eyes. "The Romans were right in dealing with those little—"
"Father!"
Marcus was surprised. Thom was not one to reproach his lord and father, but the young man was gesturing for him to silence himself.
"If we are near a sidhe dwelling, tis best not to be insulting." Thom turned to his new step-mother, trying not to look into her eyes. "Is she in the same realm Lady Kiwa said King Rokk was in? How do we get there?"
"'We' do not. You follow the path of flat stones in yonder stream," she pointed toward a small ridge, deeper in the forest. "That is the route the others went."
Marcus nodded. He had no intentions of entering their realm again. He smiled, that his bride's Sight could be crisp enough to anticipate that his son would take this trip alone.
"We'll guard the entrance," he announced, coming across less reassuring to his son than he intended.
The three crossed the ridge, stopping only to examine some pieces of cloth that lay beneath a pile of twigs, branches and weeds. There was also a smooth stone, with an Irish Druidic rune on it. Marcus kept that for himself — and for Nura, of course. Finding no bodies, they proceeded to the stream.
"Lad!" called Marcus. His son turned quizzically. "You'd better hand us any iron you may have on you?"
"It would make a bad impression, wouldn't it?" Thom smiled.
Once the task was complete, he stepped to the first flat stone, and turned to ask Nura, "How will I know when I'm there?"
"You'll know," she told him, smiling.
Without thinking, he let himself make eye contact with her, and they found themselves staring soul-to-soul — again. Her polite distance and his avoidance of her were cast off like masques hurled aside at the end of a carnival, and nothing else in the world mattered but—
"Get on with it, boy!" barked Marcus.
"Y-Yes, of course. Farewell," he smiled politely, as did Nura. The carnival masques returned, it seemed, albeit without the freedom from inhibitions that such fests allow.
Thom stepped from stone to stone, counting first a dozen, then two dozen, amazed that there would be so many stepable flat stones in a row. "How many do you think there are?" he called back.
Receiving no answer, he turned around, only to see a huge glistening sea behind him, deep blue waters with ripples that glittered like gems. The waves, smelling more like rose pedals than salt, lapped gently aw the stones beneath his feet.
Looking forward again, he had three steps to go before a pure platinum-sand beach awaited him. A variety of winged creatures, mostly small, drifted between the thick, mighty trees beyond the beach.
Once on the shore, he saw a path lead into the woods. Although the beach was pristine, the path beyond had plenty of recent footprints — human, equestrian and other.
"This must be the way, even if the way is an ambush," he concluded, entering the woods.
Back at his starting point, Marcus was still amused by his boy. "I think he's taken a liking to you," he jibed.
"Yes, he has."
"A pity. A young man's heart can create so much sadness, so needlessly."
"Yes. It can only end badly," Nura agreed, turning her head to hide a tear.
***
Querl awoke starving.
He looked at the tray of food before him, but then looked away. He knew enough legend not to eat food in the Faerie realms, else be bound there for years. He didn't necessarily fully believe the tales, but this isle of Britain seemed out to prove him wrong about everything.
Querl again tested the door to his room. Still locked. Curses. He paced around, feeling antsy, as if he was missing something important.
Better find some action else I lose my wits to my hunger, he thought, annoyed at his helplessness.
He was in a tower; of that much he was certain. What little he could hear of the outside world did not amount to much…
Until now — the definite sounds of swordplay and angry voices!
Querl nearly injured himself yesterday trying to squeeze through the widow bars far enough to see the courtyard below, but now the sound of combat inspired him to try again.
He lifted himself up to the lone, high window, delicately balancing in the thin ledge between bars and gravity. There was but one tempting gap between bars wide enough to get his head through, although there were still sharp spikes to avoid, designed to discourage the effort.
Querl rubbed his scar along his cheek and neck from yesterday in recognition of this before slowly, carefully attempting it again.
It worked! Comfortable it was not, but he could clearly see King Rokk below, fighting Maigh and Dewphe, and not fairing too well. He felt better about his own defeat, even wielding a "magic" sword.
Just as he saw another figure charging out of the woods at the king, he slipped, slicing his upper right ear and part of his head on a spike as he bumped on bars, ledge and soon after, the floor of his cell.
"Noooooo!" he called on the way down, both at his own fall, and an attempt to warn the king of the interloper.
And I am useless to him up here, he thought, checking how deep the gash was this time.
He ripped yet another length of his outer tunic and held it against his head. For better or worse, King Rokk fights alone.
Alone.
He wondered what had become of the Irish woman. Had their "hostess" harmed her? With uncharacteristic anger, he hurled himself again at the door, again straining his lithe frame.
Lying on the floor panting, he flailed around to regain his bandage, disturbed the amount of blood now pooling.
"If I die, it shall not be on this floor!" he shouted at the evil door, knowing full well he was irrationally ranting — a trait he despised. What was wrong with him?
The door suddenly exploded backward, adding another to Querl's collection of bruises, winging him as it hurled toward the far wall.
Several splinters of wood rained down as well, remnants of the barricade that had held the door fast.
He looked up, to see the Ulsterwoman standing tall, who in turn looked surprised to see him on the floor.
She said something incomprehensible in Gaelic before lifting him. Despite his cry of pain, she carried him off toward the stairwell, stroking his cheek as he had done to her back at the tent.
"Rokk... The king needs you help," he told her. She smiled at him, uncomprehending, continuing down the stairs as he passed out.
***
"Have you anything to say, lady?"
Thom had never seen Rokk so angry; the high king was quivering with anger as he said the words.
The woman looked up at him. "I love you," she said, and recognizing something in the way she looked at Rokk, Thom believed her.
Rokk slapped her face. "You... DARE... say that to ME?"
"My liege..." Thom began.
"DON'T—" Rokk snapped, redder than an August sunset. "You know not what she has done, Thom. She must die. She will die."
"Let us be done with this," she continued, "My love."
"If my knight were willing to execute you, I would deny you the privilege of execution by my hand," Rokk said. Hearing nothing from Thom, he continued. "Lie still, and this may hurt you less."
Ambrosius' heir drew Excalibur. It looked battered and ragged, as if it had been used to fend off every Khund that ever lived. How has my king's sword become thus in only a week? Thom gaped.
Rokk swung steadily, and Annowre's head bounced thrice before rolling to a stop. The sap-like bright red fluid that the Fae have for blood flowed like a syrup, rather than the splattering that similar human wounds create.
Rokk took several deep breaths, whispering, "It's over. Thank Iesous. It's finally over." He walked to the parlour's doorway, and out onto a balcony. He stood there and stared.
Thom joined him.
"There." Rokk pointed. "You go 70 paces into the woods, and there's a rocky outcropping. A burrow of rabbits dwells just beyond, and there is other fine hunting.
"There." He pointed in another direction. "Beyond yonder berry bush, a trail can lead you either to a river of wine, the ruins of an old hill-fort, or the Shimmering Village. You can take the same path every day, and reach dozens, maybe hundreds of places. It is different each time."
"How do you know this?" Thom was having trouble believing Rokk could have seen so much of this realm in so few days.
"There." Rokk pointed to a hill rising over the forest canopy. "The hill is not always there. Sometimes it is plush with game, while others it is blighted. I once found a band of little faerie musicians there — akin to dear Saihlough's people. They sang a song of hope and love. That was so long ago..." He was almost in tears.
Thom counted the days since the king's departure from Londinium, and began worrying for his king's mind. Then he recalled where they were.
"H-How long? Have you been here?"
"I lost count of the months." He turned to Thom, looking the knight squarely in the eyes. "Tell me, how fares Britain? Who rules in my stead? Gawaine?"
"You... You haven't been gone long enough for the question to be posed. I saw you last one week ago, the day after your coronation."
"The day after... last week." The information soaked into Rokk.
"Every day. Every day I would wake, having forgotten I was not in my own castle. I would go into the woods and hunt. I would meet two of my knights — sometimes you, many times Garth, Ga— Jonah, any of them. All of them. They would betray me, Thom. They would turn on me when they'd gain my back, and beat me senseless. They'd bring me before Annowre, who would again ask me to lie with her.
"And only then I'd remember all the times it happened before, and I'd spit at her. And over it would begin the next day. But yesterday, Thom. Yesterday, I cursed her. I cursed her, and all of Faeriekind. What have I done?
"S-She in turn ordered my death. Her two manservants were to kill me, when you stopped them. In truth, I thought you another traitor when I saw you charge."
Rokk wept openly now, and Thom held him. "Saihlough," Rokk blubbered. "What have I done, Thom? Have I betrayed Britain's oldest peoples?"
Even now, he concerns himself with Britain, not his own torments, Thom marveled. "Then we shall endeavour to have this curse lifted," he assured this king.
Nura foresaw no curse, he reminded himself. Yet.
***
I failed him.
That's all the knight could think, standing on the ridge, watching the reunion of the various figures.
King Rokk greeted Marcus, while his beautiful young queen talked with the tallest woman the knight had ever seen, both speaking in what sounded like Gaelic.
L'ile and Tenzil tended to Querl, while Sir Thom looked on, ready to offer his aid.
Only Thom had approached the knight Rokk had dubbed Sir Prize, reassuring that following Rokk's last orders to keep watch was the right thing to do. Thom even joked that he would rather be Sir Prize himself — to be less recognized at court! The knight's vow of silence limited the conversation, of course, and Thom drifted back to Querl's group, occasionally stealing glances at Marcus' bride.
Even as a guard, I missed the arrival of Thom's group while I hunted for food. They must think me a complete coward.
Rokk was making much of the three gifts the tall Ulsterwoman, Laoraighll, had brought: Three artifacts said to have been brought to Eiru by the legendary Tuatha de Danaan: Claidhim Lugh (the sword of the craftsman god Lugh), the Spear of Victory, and the Cauldron of the Gods. A fourth item, a "Stone of Virtue" was apparently lost during her illness.
She, already a renowned warrior, did this to prove her worth, the knight pondered.
Prove her worth.
Rokk had tied up with one conversation after another, but finally found a moment to approach the quiet knight, to make assurances that more valourous duties would come about.
But when he turned, the knight was gone.
Lightning and Magicks
Beren accepted the wrapped package with a bow. "It shall be done, my liege," he said.
"With discretion," Rokk added.
Beren smiled. "Of course."
The king and his companions made their way back to Londinium, navigating the woodland path by torchlight.
"I don't like it," said Balan. "Why, there are plenty of Christians who would—"
"—do a fine job," Rokk agreed. "Yet it is a magickal sword. I know not that an ordinary craftsman — no matter what his faith — is up to the task."
Mordru nodded. "Only Avalon has the skills and the spells to repair Excalibur."
"A Christian king should not need sorcery!" Balan declared.
"Ambrosius' own priests gave their blessings onto the Pendragon's sword, as has Father Marla," Thom noted. "Surely you believe their blessings carry more might than a few spells?"
"The sword, I worry not of. I worry that my king is BEING ENSNARED BY HEATHEN SORCERERS!" the Orkneyman boomed.
"Hold your tongue!" Rokk snarled. "Balan, you would do well to remember that the only evil sorceries we have seen so far were those of your Bishop Vidar!"
"But—"
"I said, HOLD YOUR TONGUE!"
Pausing to make the point, Rokk continued. "It is not by my choice that sorcery is afoot — by pagan or Christian. Vidar is proof, my friend, that who is good and who is evil is NOT determined by one's faith. Is it?"
He stared at Balan, but the knight refused to concede.
Your soul must be saved, my king. One way or another.
***
The rider charged straight at her, and leveled his lance, ready to run her though.
Although still unused to this new style of combat, he urged his horse onward, building yet more speed, massing more force with which to assail his target.
The Ulsterwoman smiled.
Her arms were poised, ready and waiting...
…The lance was within seconds of impact...
…She was ready...
…But the rider suddenly shifted the lance, aiming not at her heart, but her thigh.
She was quick, it was true, and tried to change her intercept, but all she could do was deflect the weapon, not snare it.
The rider passed, still holding his weapon, he slowed, and came to a stop at the end of the field.
"Chugainn!" she called, challenging him to try again. "Féadann tú é a dhéanamh má thugann tú faoi."
The rider again leveled his lance, and prodded his mount in her direction again.
She expects trickery this time, he thought. Why then, she must have it.
The lance again was aimed at her heart...
…She rubbed her palms with her fingers in anticipation...
…Watching for any signs of what trick he would try this time...
The lance remained straight on.
She grabbed it, thrusting its point into the ground, expecting the rider to be dislodged from his mount, just as the others were ---
-- but there was no extra weight or resistance!
Slightly imbalanced, she regathered her wits to see the rider that let go of the lance, and had drawn his sword!
With no time to move, the flat of the blade cracked upon her arm, knocking her to the ground.
"Bithiúnach!"
From the pavilion, a battered and bruised assortment of warriors cheered. Each of their humiliating losses were being avenged at last, it seemed.
The rider dismounted, approaching on foot.
"Amadán," she sneered. "Tabhairt faoi!"
Her opponent's sword kept at her like an unrelenting swarm of wasps, yet she evaded his thrusts, ducking, leaping and virtually dancing around him.
She gave as good as he did — her foot or fists coming as close to connecting as his swordplay did to her.
Until a glancing blow knocked the fellow over. If that's a veritable miss, I'd rather not feel her full strength, he marveled.
She could have easily finished him off, but waited for him stand. He could see she was enjoying this.
"Arís eile!" She gestured for him to stand and resume.
He picked up his sword, and they resumed the dance — albeit slower — each now accepting the other as an equal, and eyeing each other for weaknesses or openings.
"Firinscneach?" she taunted.
Just as well I don't understand, he thought.
Hoping she had adjusted to a slower rhythm, he began a new assault, trying a pattern he'd practiced but never had opportunity to try on an opponent.
With his blood pumping so loud he could hear his heart, he took satisfaction at his opponent's surprise, as she began backing away from him.
Finding himself in a state of keen euphoria, he realized he was swinging the sword faster than he could see ---
--And there was a blinding flash.
"Splanc thintrí!" She was as surprised as he.
She was knocked backwards by the blast. The other knights ran out from the pavilion, and all gaped at the smoking hole under where Garth's sword had been. A snake-like pool of molten metal drained into the hole.
Garth stared at his hands — now exposed. Most of his gloves had burned away, and what was left was charred.
But his hands were largely unscathed.
"Taranaut!" he whispered to himself. "So it wasn't just a dream."
"Garth! What happened?!" called Rokk.
"Taranaut." His sole word hung in the air, awaiting explanation, but Garth just walked away, leaving a legion of gaping mouths in his wake.
***
"So it's not lightning?"
"Not exactly," Querl answered. "Lightning, my people believe, is a result of too much energy—" seeing the lack of comprehension, he sighed, and revised his approach. "Too much... fire, accumulating in the clouds above. Just as the clouds grow big and dark from holding too much water, and let loose as rain, many times they also weight too heavily with... this type of fire, and let this loose, too, as lightning.
"Thus, lightning by definition is, well, a transfer of fire from clouds back to the earth. Sir Garth is not a cloud, therefore he produces no lightning."
L'ile and Reep nodded, absorbing the theory.
The scientist turned to King Rokk.
"You've said before that Sir Garth 'moves as quick as lightning?'"
"Yes. He's even earned nick-names for it: Taranau, here in Britain; Taranaut in Lesser Britain; and Laounschliet among the Kentish Khunds.
"His swordwork indeed has created what appear to be small flashes of lightning."
"Bet never before an actual discharge of en-- fire."
"No."
Garth, still silent, nodded in agreement, but looked away sharply.
Querl returned to facing them all again.
"I believe this lightning-like effect, then, results from the speed of his sword, based on the information at hand." Eyeing Garth, he continued. "You yourself said you'd never swung your sword so fast."
Garth nodded.
"Then I'd advise against it, unless you wish to melt another sword."
Seeing his audience was still perplexed, he continued. "When you were children, did any of you take a running fall on a floor-rug?" He saw enough nods to continue. "The rug was neither sharp nor on fire, yet you received a wound not unlike a burn, yes?"
More nods. "A similar concept here. Speed contributing to a burn without fire, but a greater speed and a greater burn."
"If Garth were to wield Claidhim Lugh, the sword of the craftsman god, would it not be impervious to Garth's lig--eh, fire?" Thom asked.
"Rokk awarded it to you for your service," Garth returned. "I could not accept the sword that you so clearly deserve."
"Moreover, would you really want to risk such an important gift by so testing it?" Querl asked.
"So as long as Garth doesn't reach that speed again, all is well?" Rokk asked.
"So it appears," Querl nodded.
"Then I may go to Iberia after all!" Garth exclaimed, smiling for the first time since the incident.
"Bring back 40 fine steeds, my friend. And such tutelage as we shall need."
"My liege, it shall be my pleasure!"
Garth almost ran from the room, full of enthusiasm.
Seeing Querl's raised eyebrow, Rokk added, "Sir Brandius shall accompany him, should any Iberians be dismissive of a young knight."
"I also seek a boon," Querl asked. "You have asked me to devise and improve your weaponry. I have some ideas to try, but I need some of your bowyers and fletchers."
"Then you shall have them. If you will pardon us, I have a meeting with our Irish women."
Rokk and Thom departed.
"Are you really certain it's not lightning? I say if you'd seen it you may think differently," Reep said.
"As certain as I can without having seen it up close."
"But what caused it?" L'ile asked.
"While it's certainly not your power of persuasion, a secret you Druids still cling to, I am theorizing that this very island is now the epicentre of... for lack of a better word, a 'magical storm.'"
"Go on." L'ile was clearly intrigued.
"Eras in which... impossible tales attributed to gods, wizards or magical creatures often seem unbelievable centuries later. My own Greece, for instance, had its era, just as the tales the Christians tell of miracles and winged beings with swords I'd previously dismissed as nonsense.
"But now that I'm observing such events here in Britain — occurrences that I would have deemed impossible last month, I now theorize that magic may indeed be like the clouds — but clouds we do not always see, and thus cannot differentiate the dry, cloudless droughts from days of light cloud cover — the two types I believe most of the world usually sees.
"And like a seacoast, certain areas are rainier than others, usually as drizzle, while certain areas may be more prone to light magic, if I may continue my comparison."
"So you see Britain as being in the centre of a storm," L'ile concluded.
"Exactly."
"There's one thing I don't get," the young Druid said. "You say until now, you believed not in magic or gods or faeries, but yet you belong to the Cult of Isis?"
"We do not... worship gods the way, say, Mithras' flock, or the Christians do. Isis... is a way to place the spirit of reason and intellect into a human form. She's a conceptual muse for inspiration, a desire to put a face on something otherwise faceless, if that makes sense. Like a ship crew calling their boat 'she,' while knowing it is not female in the animal sense. Reason is the substance, the name and face is just a way to personalize her."
L'ile nodded. You're not so far from Druidism as you say.
Reep saw it was time to lighten the conversation. "So show us this back-gamming of which you have spoken."
"Back-gammon. Yes, of course. It's quite the rage in Persia and Araby..."
***
Morgause despaired.
All my plans are for naught. Gawaine hates me, and Agravaine will follow his lead. Gaheris and Gareth are yet too young. While young Rokk plays out his fantasies, Britain is truly doomed. Even now, the Khund is at the door.
She lit the candles, lit the incense, and locked the door. Her maidwoman had already given her the ritual bath. The moon was full, and the mushrooms were harvested and blessed properly.
She was ready in all ways but one.
Do I do right? I can end the sham marriage with but a word, but is that the right way to proceed? Her growing contempt for her nephew was building. Little things out of place convinced her that his spies had been in her quarters.
Lady of Twilight, I cannot make the decision, I leave it with you. I shall be your vessel, your hand. So it shall be.
She began the ritual, reconstructing from memory her lessons as a youth in Avalon.
Outside, the ravens gathered...
... The Goddess walked down the hall.
All she saw were little boys, barely tested in battle. They will learn, and soon. Won't you, my children?
"Rokk tells me Laoraighll has done extensive scouting — on Khundish soil—" The young Druid stopped. "My lady," he greeted, seeing only the queen whose guise she wore.
The green man beside him followed suit, and she returned the proper greeting. These city folk may know the Greek's complexion is explicable, but how would the country-folk react to seeing their Green Man? Oh, such sport could be had...
She continued down the hall.
"Hello, mother." An emerald dragon disguised as the queen's eldest stood before her.
"You scorn me, but you will yet be the undoing of that which you most cherish." She turned to the apparition shimmering at his side, the remnant of the tart from Eboracum her son so fondly mourns.
"And you shall be his undoing, lingering here, not going on to the Summer Lands."
The two stood speechless as she went on her way.
Looking out at the courtyard, the guard and knights were shouting and suddenly fleeing indoors at the sudden swarming of ravens.
"Tis a poor omen," exclaimed a larger of the louts. Even pretty young James was ensnared by fear. What little it takes to get children to hide in the cellars.
"Morrigan!"
She turned to face her caller. It was the Cornish woman strong with the Sight.
"You may call me that, if you wish. But neither of us are today in Eiru. Call me Cailleach, as we are in Britain. Or Hecate. I always liked the rhythm of that name. But whatever you call me, be prepared to face the consequences."
"I beg of you to leave that woman. She is not yours to take!"
"Oh, but she gave herself freely, and asked a boon of me. Would you stand between a Goddess and her task? But I pledge thee that neither your husband, sister nor pretty boy shall be harmed by my hand. But you knew that already, Elaine."
Nura retreated, her strength to challenge the Lady shattered.
The Goddess was having fun. There was potential here, to make sport with warriors as she hadn't done in some six centuries. Not since Craebh Ruadh and the Hound...
But I've given the lad time enough. We shall snare your Rokk with his own right arm, my Morgause.
She retraced the route back to Morgause's apartments.
Thrusting open the door, the changeling was there. In a panic, he'd thrown on the face of one who carried the authority to be here, his foster-brother. The goddess could see through him. But I pick and choose what I shall let Morgause recollect.
"So, my good and noble nephew. What brings you to visit me?" She seductively put her arm on his shoulder, and started playing with his illusionary hair.
"M-My aunt!"
"Oh, hush now. We're royalty. There are some... wonderful traditions to observe. Did you not know? There are things a young king must... know before his wedding day." Her other hand played with his chest, finding the way past his tunic.
"I-I have already—"
"Enjoyed the wenches? Perhaps. But it takes a real noblewoman to properly instruct her king." She playfully kissed his cheek, but let her mouth linger near his.
"You are a real king, aren't you? Not some changeling Mordru conjured up?"
I've got him now. His loyalty to protecting Rokk ends his protests, thought the Goddess. And mayhap Morgause can think... more fondly of her king.
Keeping Secrets
"Tale non audivimus nec fuisse credimus
5 in terrarum spatio a mundi principio.
Tale numquam factum est sed neque futurum est."
"What does she sing, Guinevere?" asked Laoraighll, whose exposure to the Latin of Britain and Rokk's court was limited at best.
As Nura was not present, translation fell to Imra.
"She's telling the children the story of Torachi."
"The Frankish bandit-king?"
"The same. She's telling them how, while setting out to raid Colonia, he wound up fighting Khunds, unintentionally saving the city's Jewes, who the city guard had abandoned." Imra whispered, so as not to intrude upon Mysa's delicate harp-playing.
"I'd heard that he perished in Colonia," Laoraighll nodded.
"But he didn't. At least, so the bards tell us. The rabbis — the priests of the Jewes — found him dying, cut in half. Believing they found their champion, they went to their most secret magicks, the Qabalah.
"They set out building a man of clay — a golem, as they call it, which they would fuse to their dying 'hero.' It worked — he was healed, but half-man, half-golem. He killed them for their generosity, and terrorized all of Colonia: Roman, Frank, Jewe and Khundish invader alike."
The Ulsterwoman whistled in appreciation. "If true, he must be a ferocious creature indeed."
Joining them to hear the tale's conclusion, Nura nodded in agreement.
"Are there many in Ulster as mighty as you?" asked Imra.
"Nay. I'm the first in generations to have the power of The Hound. The knavish bard Ossian was the last before me that I know of, some three centuries agone. The Hound's strength does not flow often."
What hound? Imra was about to ask, but Mysa was concluding the song, and she looked directly at Imra.
I've done as you requested. You will meet my brother this very after-noon.
Very good. My thanks, Mysa. It then struck Imra. Has Rokk already found out? Does he suspect?
I have volunteered nothing. But yes, I believe he suspects, Mysa replied.
The knot in Imra's stomach tightened. I have delayed this far too long. Leaving Laoraighll in Mysa's capable hands, she departed. Mysa is hiding something, she told herself, trying to drown out the thought.
Bumping into Sir Garth in the hall, she apologized in Gaelic, still used to talking to the Ulsterwoman.
She laughed at his confusion, and began anew in Latin. "I'm sorry. I have been almost solely speaking with Laoraighll all morning long."
"Think nothing of it. But you are obviously in a hurry..."
"No! Oh, no. I solely need to catch some airs. Would you join me, sir knight?"
"It would be my honor, lady."
They strolled out of the palace, down along the river.
"I'm not keeping you from seeing Mysa, am I?" Imra suspected her favorite knight was seeing her fiancé's sister, and that suited her just fine. Better that he should look elsewhere than me.
Garth was clearly embarrassed by her question. He struggled for words, but she leaped to his rescue. "It is all right. Tis better that all Londinium not believe you disinterested in the ladies. As you speak more of steeds than maidens these days, idle tongues might wonder!" she jibed.
Reddened, he laughed with her anyway. Growing serious in the silence that followed, he blurted, "I love her not."
"You are this kingdom's best knight, and the king's own sister would be a good match indeed. This is statecraft, not love. Why else thinks you that I—"
She turned away. I've said too much.
"Guinevere, I—" He said, but she shook loose from the hand he'd put on her shoulder.
"I must wish you good travels to Iberia. You leave after the wedding?" The subject changed as smoothly as a summer snowstorm.
"Aye," he said. Perhaps before.
***
"So. Have you discovered the answer to the secrets of the universe, then?"
The old man chuckled. "I have yet to find the question."
He reached out for a hug. "How are you, my dear?"
Mysa hesitated, but hugged him anyway. "Well enough."
"Come! Sit and talk with me." His room was dark and cramped, full of papers, drawings, and jars of everything ranging from dead frogs to faerie dust to glistening pebbles.
"So. You have come to court. At your bidding — or Kiwa's?"
"I have left Avalon. I am no longer Kiwa's puppet."
"The two are not mutually exclusive. There is the Teacher's Isle—"
"I work with Beren at times, but between Druids, Priestesses, and the Teachers, I have had enough of Avalon's manipulations of Britain!"
"So you come to the court of the high king?" he laughed. "You'll find no intrigues and manipulations here, nooo!" he mocked.
She threw a scroll at him. "Would you make yourself invisible, like L'ile!"
"You came to see me, my dear," he reminded her.
Mysa smiled. Despite their distance, she still saw the laughter in his heart that no one else did. And she in turn, drew out that part as no one else did.
"I saw her. Kiwa. She was here for coronation, and will remain for the wedding, no doubt," she said. "She was polite, of course. We spoke pleasantries, but I... I, who knew her so well, once... I could not... read her. How she now feels about me."
"You left her. She feels betrayed, and keeps you at the distance she reserves for strangers and kings."
Mysa nodded. "I'd have rather seen scorn in her eyes, though, or have her reproach me."
"She'll do neither. You are no maiden priestess-in-training."
"I suppose not. But it hurts, Mordru! She was more mother to me than Igraine ever was! A-And now..." She hugged him, letting the tears flow.
"We all make our choices, my love," he said at last. "You chose to come to me, not your Sir Garth."
"Art thou jealous?" She hoped he was.
"You help keep two foolish young hearts from destroying a kingdom. How can I reproach you that? And," he paused, caressing her face and toying with her braids, "having a younger lover has its charms, doesn't it?"
"It does, you old goat!"
"And Rokk gets his queen, the young mind-mage from the Teacher's Isle."
"You know?"
"I remember the real Guinevere's death — I had accompanied Voxv home from South Cymru. Of course I knew. But how will your brother react?"
"We'll know soon enough. They're talking as we speak." Mysa's heart went out to her friend. She cuddled closer to the wizard.
"Before the wedding? Brave girl."
"And to think, Kiwa wanted Jecka to be high queen."
"Why dost ye think that?" Mordru asked.
"Well, it was Jecka's idea to switch—" She stopped herself with realization. "It was Kiwa! She brought Imra from the Teachers' Isle, knowing Jecka would use her! But why—"
"To get Jecka's cooperation," he answered. "It had to seem—"
"—Like Jecka's own idea! Brilliant. Devious... And exactly why I left!" She shifted in his arms, pulling her face closer to his.
But self-doubt crossed her face. "Did I truly leave Avalon of my own accord, or did she again choose my path for me?"
"Live your life, Mysa. Find your path. You can't second-guess every decision based on what you think Kiwa is up to. In the end, you give her more power over you."
She was warm and safe in his arms. With him stroking her hair, she could stay here forever...
"There is another alternative open to you, my good wife," he said gingerly, "Oppose Kiwa. Take Avalon for yourself! Support Rokk's reign by making Avalon his ally, not his mistress! End Kiwa's game before it grows out of control!"
Dare I? At that moment, she searched her soul, and found not one reason not to...
***
"So... You knew all along?"
Rokk nodded. "Well, not all along. Reep, L'ile and I pieced it together.
"I knew, recalling the assassination attempt, that you were no villain. But at the same time, I needed to hear it all from you."
"A test, then," she said. While a weight had been lifted, it seemed the satisfaction was tainted somehow.
"Yes. I make no apologies for that," Rokk met her gaze. "Which secret outweighs the other, maintaining a deception or letting that deception play itself out?"
He said it without malice. For that, at least, she was thankful.
"So. What now?"
"We marry at midsummer, as planned. If you continue to be kind and honest with me, you'll find me a good husband, I should imagine. If not..."
Unconsciously, Imra held her breathe. The room seemed very cold.
"We shall not be the first pair of strangers to maintain a fiction of a marriage for the sake of statecraft. And if you provide me sons, we can live well separately in peace."
"And if I cannot?"
"...We shall see."
She did not need her gift to see what he meant. Once he'd proven himself to the vassal kings, he needed not the goodwill of Voxv, and could replace her with a bride of his choice. She shivered — partly out of fear, but part of exhilaration— she and Garth could—
He was staring at her, she suddenly realized.
"I swear before you here and now that I shall tell you no lies," she declared, not certain why she uttered her words, or the need to further prove herself. "I may not be royalty of the house of Voxv, but I count royal lineage from Avalon itself."
Rokk smiled for the first time since the conversation began.
"Well, then, my lady," he took her hand, kissing it. "There may be hope for us yet."
***
Laurentia sat in the tub, thinking it over.
"What if Lu was right?" she said.
"How do you mean?"
"Well, I mean, ever since the fire and everything else thst's happened, two of us have been struggling to stay out of sight, while you played kitchen-maid to Sir Brandius."
"Bishop Vidar and his minions think that the two of you died in the fire. I say let them think so," said Luornu. "Tis better than them seeking our blood as sorceresses, and his minions yet lurk."
"Agreed. But rather than hide away, what if we went our separate ways for a while? You stay at court, Lu chases her dream... maybe I'll go to Rome."
"What?"
"I've heard Princess Jecka say that once her sister Guinevere has settled in as high queen, she will go to Rome. Maybe I shall go with her," Laurentia declared. "I should like to see the world."
Luornu shivered. "But what shall I do without the both of you?"
"Aye, you'll still worry like a mother-hen. But you do that anyway," her sister teased.
She rose from the tub, fetching a towel. "You could try to enjoy court life without worrying what your sisters are doing."
"Perhaps." Luornu saw wisdom in her words, but still held fear in her heart. "You heard what the priest of Apollo said, though. We are one soul in three bodies."
"Forget Regulus! Forget Vidar! Forget any priest-kind -- What have they done else try to control us?"
Laurentia was right, Luornu knew. She hugged her sister, and helped her dress. "Father Marla has been kind, you must say."
"Aye," Laurentia acknowledged. "He's still a priest, though, and sooner or later, he may turn on us."
Luornu doubted that. She couldn't imagine that at all.
The two walked toward the kitchens, where breads and stew were roasting for the evening meal. Only in Father Marla's parsonage could the identical sisters walk around together. They checked on the evening foods.
"Let me introduce Carolus, a Frankish lad who shall soon be King Rokk's court jester."
"Father Marla?"
"All is a-right, ladies. Carolus is trustworthy."
"Beside," added Carolus, "Who would take merit from the words of a jester?" He kissed their hands.
Over dinner, the sisters learned that Carolus had yet to prove his place as jester — and had to do so to entertain the guests at the wedding feast.
The young man, quite rotund, had a keen air of humour about him, and kept Marla and the sisters laughing through the meal — without even delving into his actual routine.
At their urging — and his own desire to have more practice — he donned a costume that made him look even wider and rounder, and his routine of humour, deprecation of self and others, and his bouncing style of dance had them all hurting from laughter well into the evening.
Far away, deep in the woods, Lu felt pain in her sides, and feared for her sisters' safety.
***
"Are you ready to go?"
"I suppose." Jonah didn't sound very convincing, as he untied the boat from its moorings. "Is this really necessary?"
Marla put his hand on the knight's shoulder. "King Rokk believes you are sincere in your oath to him, but there are those who counsel him who have their doubts. Let us settle the matter once and for all. Eh, lad?"
This priest could make a sick child drink the foulest potions. Jonah couldn't help smiling. Rokk has chosen wisely in his advisors. What is one more quest?
As the boat made its way down the Thames, two princesses watched their departure, but only one could be seen.
"I miss him already."
" Be patient, Tinya. He will be back soon enough," Imra told her.
"Aye. I still don't see why I can't go—"
"Part of the test, as you well know. It shall be just Jonah and Marla. You are stuck solely with me for company, else Jonah be given yet another quest if you interfere."
Tinya scowled. "I know. I just don't see why. He's proven himself over and over."
"And after this test, none can possibly give question; no one at court, nor any evil tongues throughout the land." Imra reached out to Tinya, but her hand went through the maiden's.
"And," the soon-to-be-queen continued, "It is about time you had someone to share woman-talk with."
"I've never been the girl-talk sort," Tinya said, still adjusting that someone besides her lover could see her.
"Maybe it will do you good, then. Tell me, what is the court at Eboracum like?"