It was hard for Uther to focus, as late into the night as dinner was, but Zosia's cheerful voice telling her father of her ride to the river was a pleasant diversion from the dinner he felt too exhausted to eat. Uther was fond of a hunt, but Lord Inthorn was quite a vigorous hunter for a man of his age, and Uther had not anticipated being shown up by the old man on his own birthday. It didn't sting like it might have, as he was too impressed to be bitter. Uther watched the candles flickering and thought back to the sweet kiss Zosia had placed on his cheek before she'd ridden off that morning. How tempted he'd been to turn his head and touch his lips to hers.
The door to the hall opened and a rider hurried toward the table, a bit breathless, and he stopped short of the table only when he looked at Uther.
"My lord," he said, only halfway across the long stone floor from the door to the table. "My lady. Sire. I bring news from the siege."
They each sat still, staring at the man, until Inthorn stood and said, "What news, then?"
"The negotiations between Hengist and Prince Ambrose were a trap," the man said. "The prince is dead. Hengist claims victory over Camelot."
There was a stunned silence, and Uther realized he was now truly alone in the world. His brother would never send for him. It barely felt real, this news, this entire rewriting of his history and destiny.
"The citadel has fallen?" Zosia said, as if she didn't quite believe the words herself.
"Not as yet, my lady," the rider said. "The Lord of Tintagel is holding off the siege at present, but many believe it is a matter of time."
"Thank you for your news," Inthorn said. He motioned forward a servant. "Take this man to quarters and help him be warm and comfortable. Provide whatever he needs."
The servant bowed, and the two left the room, closing the door behind them. Only then did Inthorn sit, and Zosia look across the table to Uther.
"Don't you dare," she whispered.
Uther said nothing, but he didn't have to. She knew that he was thinking of riding out to sneak back in, to take the throne and give Gorlois's father something to rally the people behind. It would seem Uther's silence was worse than his confirming, because Zosia looked outraged and stood, taking her leave for the night. She kissed her father's cheek and swept out of the room without looking back.
Uther leaned back in his chair when he and Inthorn were alone, and he didn't dare look at the old man.
Inthorn held out the bread plate, but Uther shook his head at it.
"She's right, you know," Inthorn whispered. "To leave now would be foolish, would put your brother's plan to dust."
Ambrose was the fool, Uther wanted to say, but he couldn't. He stared at the table and willed it to show his brother's face one last time. Ambrose always believed there were solutions, always believed his plans were good. Usually he was right, but to get himself killed in his efforts for peace…
"My people need a leader," Uther whispered.
"So you would ride off in the dead of night," Inthorn said sternly, "pray that you are not struck down by bandits, pray that Hengist's men don't notice your arrival, and slip into the castle where they're almost certainly low on food and medicine and other supplies to do…what, exactly?"
"So I should sit here and do nothing while my people die in my name?" Uther said, feeling his anger raising with every word.
"A siege is not a thing easily dispersed," Inthorn said, "especially from inside the walls. Your best chance of breaking the wave of Hengist's men is to crash them against the rocks of your walls from the outside."
"So give me men to dash them with!"
"I do not have enough men!" Inthorn said. The old man never raised his voice, and the sound of it was so forceful, so startling, that Uther felt suddenly quite small. "You would need an army greater than what I can raise for you if you can be assured of success, and no man in his right mind is going to give his men to the service of a child to go against the likes of Hengist."
"I am not a child," Uther said, although he was aware of how petulant that sounded.
Inthorn sat back and cut his potatoes while still looking at Uther, amused.
"You are sixteen," he said, much more genial than he'd been a moment before. "I assure you, whatever it feels like, that is not the age of a man yet. When you have the patience to wait for the right moment, you will be ready to be king. You have the safety of my hospitality until then, and when the time is right, you will have every effort I can give you. In the meantime, Uther, enjoy the right to be a child for a bit longer. You may find you don't want to lose that innocence quite so quickly if you really take a moment to savor it."
Uther stood and bowed his head. Inthorn bowed his in return.
"I thank you for your wisdom," he said. The words were heavy on his tongue, but he tried to mean them.
A man didn't stay as powerful and respected as Inthorn without being right an awful lot of the time. Uther would do as he asked, would bide his time, would lay his plan. In the meantime, he couldn't feel too bitter at a little more time in Zosia's company.
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"It can't be over," Marcial whispered when he and Gorlois sat by the fire together, watching the flames flicker. Gorlois passed a glass of wine, which Marcial accepted gratefully.
"It isn't over," Gorlois said. In the light of the fire, his features arranged in the defiant expression looked quite fitting his aristocratic status, almost regal in themselves. "My father is holding the citadel for Uther, when he can come. If it takes years, it takes years, but it is not over. Hengist does not sit on the throne, and there will be a Pendragon over Camelot again."
Marcial drained his cup and set it aside. He slipped off his boots and set them closer to the fire. He felt like he should be doing something to help, as Gorlois's father was, but he was also glad they were at Tintagel and far away from the worst of the fighting. Did that make him a coward? He couldn't decide.
Uther would not be ready to be king so soon, Marcial thought. And every fortnight, word came from Malgrave that his mother was asking for him to return home. Every fortnight, Marcial sent word back to Malgrave that he would not leave Gorlois's side until the worst had passed. And things only seemed to grow worse.
No word had come this fortnight, and Gorlois thought this was a sign that his mother had accepted his choice, but Marcial knew better. Her silence reeked of despair and disappointment.
"We should go to bed," Gorlois said after draining his own cup of wine. "That is, if you still want to ride tomorrow."
"Of course," Marcial said.
Gorlois had wanted to go for a ride to a nearby lake to hold a private wake for Ambrose. Marcial didn't feel that need that Gorlois did, but he felt Gorlois couldn't be safe on his own, not while his father continued to defy Hengist. Marcial would not let Gorlois fall, even if he had to give his own life, for he felt his friend was a key to bringing peace back to the land.
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"Where were you this morning?" Marzena asked Vivienne when they sat alone in their cell.
"What do you mean?" Vivienne said.
She didn't think she'd gone anywhere, although she was unusually cold, and her night dress was wet. Perhaps she'd gone walking in her sleep, although she didn't recall any nightmares.
Marzena held a finger to her lips, then came over to Vivienne's bed after checking outside their cell.
"You've been leaving almost every morning before the sun," Marzena whispered. "Do you not remember?"
"I must be sleep-walking," Vivienne said.
Her voice was unconcerned, and she felt unconcerned, although a part of her found that odd. Should she not feel more than mild confusion over such a conversation?
Marzena gave her a long, hard look, and then suddenly her face broke into a smile, and she said, "I see. That explains it. Never mind, then, forget I said it. Zanna said I might be able to visit home if I keep progressing at this rate. Have they mentioned home to you?"
"No," Vivienne said, trying not to feel jealous of Marzena's favor with the Priestesses. Nimueh mentioned the night before that Marzena had already been gifted a spellbook with the hidden secrets of the Priestesses to learn in private. Nimueh wasn't supposed to know, and in theory they each would have their own book in the right time.
"I miss Zosia terribly," Marzena said. "I can't imagine she's taking all the news out of Camelot well. She and Uther seemed quite close when the Pendragons visited Carneath."
"Uther?" Vivienne whispered, puzzled. The name had a familiarity that she hadn't felt associated with it before. A trickle of concern washed over her, but it washed away just as quickly. "I'm sure she'll be glad to see you too."
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Uther watched Zosia sleep on the recamier, her book open across her lap. She was so beautiful awake, confident and lively and delicate but strong. But in sleep, there was a fragility that was perhaps more beautiful, a tenderness and openness that made her vulnerable and finite in a way she never seemed in wakefulness.
There was not much space beside her, but he perched on the edge of the seat and brushed a bit of her hair off her face. She startled and slapped away his hand while still half-asleep, and if she'd had a knife with her, he had no doubt it would have been pricking his throat.
"Don't scare me like that," she said, and he couldn't help but smile.
"Apologies," he said. "But you know nothing would ever get close enough to harm you here."
"One can never be too careful," she said, closing her book and setting it aside. Uther caught her wrist and pulled her hand to his lips.
"I would never allow it," he said.
She groaned and sat up.
"If this is your way of saying goodbye," she said harshly, "you'd have been better off leaving while I was asleep."
"You wouldn't want that," he said. "If I'd done that, you'd have spent weeks cursing me for stealing away in the night without saying goodbye. Relax, Zo, I'm not leaving," he added quickly, because she looked like she might hit him.
Her face softened, and they stared at each other. Only the occasional crackling of the fire marked the time passing.
Finally, she whispered, "You're really staying?"
He was tempted to vow never to leave her, and he would have meant every word, but he knew that was a dangerous thing to say in the swell of the moment with her face so close. Instead, he nodded and caressed her delicate fingers with his thumb.
Her hand relaxed in his, and she smiled at him so brilliantly, so beautifully. Perhaps Inthorn was right. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to stay, to linger, to…to…
Her free hand caressed his jaw, and he inhaled a ragged breath at her touch.
"Then I suppose I'll have to think of lots of ways to make the decision worthwhile," she said.
"Zo, please," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Please, don't tease me."
Her finger traced up his jaw to his ear, drawing along the shell of the ear so delicately he could almost imagine it was a light breeze.
"You don't like it when I tease you?" she said, all her amusement audible.
"I adore it when you tease me," he said, daring to look at her again. "But it's agony."
She laughed, and he couldn't even be mad at her, so aroused and entranced he was by her closeness. Nothing was so befuddling as her presence, not even too many glasses of wine. She leaned in close as if to kiss him, and he waited, eager and hungry for their lips to touch. He could feel her breath on his mouth, could hear his pulse thundering in his ears, and it was surely just a matter of moments before…before…
She laughed again and slipped off the recamier, trailing her hand over his shoulders so that he would watch her leave the room. Uther sat, fighting the many urges of his body which told him he needed to follow her, to pin her to a wall and take the kisses she was always dangling over his head, to kiss her until the teasing was a distant memory and all that there was left between them was the eager, hungry kisses that plagued his dreams.
But he couldn't. Inthorn would kill him if he found out. Zosia wouldn't appreciate her game being cut short. And there was a particular, if torturous pleasure in the teasing, in the chase. He knew the kiss was all the sweeter for the lingering promise of it.
Yes, staying in Carneath a while longer would not be so bad, he thought, trying to calm his pulse. That is, provided he didn't die here from Zosia's merciless game.
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In the hours just after dawn, Marcial and Gorlois dismounted their horses and looked out over the lake. If Marcial had known how far the journey would be, he might have thought twice before agreeing to the ride.
The light was that peculiar kind of light that only came in morning, the kind that signaled possibilities and new birth. Marcial rarely was awake early enough to see it, but as much as he would never have wished to be awake at such an hour, he did find the air and light of morning to be invigorating.
"Hengist will pay for this," Gorlois whispered. "Someday. Constans would have made a good enough king, sure, but Ambrose was still a boy. And you know if Uther were still in Camelot, he'd be dead too."
Marcial knew that it was likely, but he said nothing. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the familiar seclusion of a quiet forest and lake. He knew what Gorlois would say next before he said it, but that didn't make it any less powerful to hear.
"When the time comes," Gorlois whispered, "I will fight at Uther's side to right this. It could be a year or it could be twenty, but I will be there."
Marcial didn't get the sense that he was expected to speak, which was just as well. It wasn't that he didn't want to help, or to set things right, but he wasn't sure what good could come of it, handing the last of the Pendragons to Hengist for the slaughter. But perhaps he would be proven wrong.
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The sound of humming drew Uther down the corridor to where Zosia was sitting in the sun, reading in the center of the corridor. Her maid, a plain girl by the name of Elsa, bowed her head at his approach and looked to Zosia for direction. Zosia then lazily looked around at Uther and smiled.
"Come sit with me," she said, raising a hand to Uther.
It seemed foolish, sitting in the middle of the corridor, but saying no to her felt impossible. He sat beside her and kissed her hand.
"How is your reading, my lady?" he said.
"Exceedingly dull," she said. "This is one of those tales of chivalry. It's monstrous."
"Monstrous?" he said, smiling. "How so?"
She showed him the page, where a knight was scaling a wall to profess his admiration for a fair lady. Uther thought girls were supposed to like such things, but as Zosia described the story, he could hear her disdain drip from every word.
"He never even asked her if she wanted his attentions," she said. "Ridiculous."
Uther felt a strange sensation like a hand closing around his windpipe.
"But surely the courteousness of his affections is not in her returning them, but in him offering them with pureness of heart."
"Who teaches you such rubbish?" she said with a warm laugh. "To be pursued without interest is exhausting, Uther. Trust me."
He looked down at the drawing again, and it was true, one could not be sure the thoughts of the lady at having her wall scaled. But the conversation left him quite unsure of where he stood with Zosia. He thought that her teasing was a sign that his admiration was welcome, even encouraged, but what if…what if that was not the case? What if she was simply looking for amusement? She had never expressly stated any affection for him, nothing like what he'd occasionally said to her when he was sure no one could overhear.
Uther wanted to smooth her hand in his, wished that Elsa was not around. They were too young to marry, true, but if he could have even a small assurance of her affections his mind would be greatly put at ease. Instead, he watched her return her attention to the book, and he admired her in silence, enjoying the sun on her hair, the curve of her neck, and that sheer confidence she had that her every opinion and thought was right.
"You'd better go change if you're to go riding with my father this afternoon," she said after he wasn't sure how long.
"I had quite forgotten," he admitted. He kissed her hand again. "I hope the tale improves, my lady."
"It won't," she said as he walked away. He thought he ought to say something, but then she started to laugh. He continued walking, smiling, and wishing he had the courage to just ask.
A/N:
So Uther is the last man standing, as it were, Marzena notices something is not quite right with her friend, and Gorlois and Marcial are keeping their pulse on current events from far, far away.
-C