II:
Deceiving Appearances
Bishop to king three
"I'm telling you, Bishop Vidar made many strong points." Sir Brandius was on the verge of anger.
Only weeks ago, Rokk would have sought shelter from his foster-father when he carried such a weather about him, but even a new king learns to weigh these ires differently.
Rokk slowly sipped his wine as collected his thoughts. King he was, but that did not mean he was about to treat the only father he'd known like a stable-boy. He returned his goblet to Sir Derek's table, letting the sound echo down the room's length before speaking.
The merchant-knight's dining room had become the de facto conference site for the young king's most sensitive strategy sessions. It was a splendid old steading in the heart of Londinium — one could slip inside from the busy streets mid-day, or through the servant's doors at the back alleys by night.
"Britain is a land of Romans, Celts and even Picts," Rokk countered. "A realm of fisher, farmer, tribesman and city-folk. We have fellow believers in Christ, followers of the old ways, and even Druids and cults of Isis." He paused to make sure Brandius was listening. He saw his elder was still between eruptions, and eyed him squarely.
"I mean to be king of ALL Britain, and to rule all with justice," he concluded with measure and conviction, seeking to be firm but not disrespectful of the man who'd raised him for 12 of his 14 years.
"Then do so, but do so as a Christian king of a Christian land!" an exasperated Brandius demanded.
"I cannot and will not rule a man's conscious," Rokk stood firmly.
"And just who put that nonsense into your head?" bellowed Brandius, now fully red-faced, pounding on the banquet table.
"You did."
Brandius froze in place, perplexed.
"What of Luornu?" asked Reep. He'd cannily let Rokk lead his own defense; he didn't want anyone — even his own father — questioning whether Rokk needed another's wit to stand his ground.
"Hrmp?"
"Luornu's... situation? If you're suddenly so devout to Vidar, what about her?" his son continued, rising from the table. Reep involuntarily winced; his leg injuries were not healing as Beren said they should.
"Well, obviously I can't..." Brandius' focus and conviction faltered. Hadn't he sheltered the girls from Vidar himself? "Lord, what's become of me?"
Rokk's eyes narrowed. "Vidar is very... persuasive, isn't he? Even I had a hard time debating him, while you ate up every word."
"I suppose he's a credit to his faith," Brandius managed.
"The faith you taught me was of a humble carpenter teaching justice and brotherly love. That same carpenter in Vidar's church would be smiting the vendors and wagerers, if you see my analogy."
Brandius looked bitter. "What are you saying, boy?"
"Reep and I have been discussing... unusual gifts, be they from devils or from God. I think Vidar has an unnatural gift of persuasion," the young king said.
"You're accusing the top clergyman in all of Britain of sorcery, then? Strong words for a new king against a trusted and respected man," his foster-father countered.
"You never cared for him before," Reep said.
"Shall we fetch Luornu for him, then? Or Father Marla? If I recall some of your conversations, I'm sure your new friend Vidar would quite be interested in them," Rokk added.
"By damn, what has that fiend done to me!?" Brandius pummeled his head. "He's a menace."
"Indeed. But whilst bedeviled, you did say one truth. We can't just accuse the church's highest holy-man in Britain with hexes and sorcery, especially when the likes of Mordru and Beren are about," Reep offered.
"Aye, for now, this stays with us. Reep, keep an eye on him, if you would. Father, you need to see Beren, and seek a potion or charm against Vidar's spell. Mayhap you can pose as one charmed, and earn his confidence," Rokk concluded. "Tis a wonder I was unafflicted. I shall—"
He stopped himself.
It suddenly occurred to him that Mordru was likely responsible for his immunity. But how did he know that? Was Mordru pitting them against Vidar? Or did it go deeper? "I shall see Mordru."
Reep and Brandius looked skeptical, but deferred to their king's judgment.
The road from Corinium to Londinium was crowded, but not so much that Sir Garth failed to recognize a friend.
"Sir Thomas! It is good to see you again!" he cried, fastening his horse's pace to catch up.
"Good day to you, Sir Garth," Thom managed, with a small amount of attempted good cheer.
Garth saw the red around his eyes and somber look. "What ails you, friend?"
"I have met my heart's desire, and she will be mine never."
"Have hope, friend! Love is truly a wondrous thing! Your love—"
"—Has married my father," Thom shot back, with a snarl. "I had the duty to escort the lady Nura from Eiru. Twas love at first sight for us both.
"Yet duty prevailed, and I took her back. To Cornwall. Where my father now calls her his bride," he continued. "What fool am I."
Garth knew this was not the time to encourage Thom with tales of the maidens awaiting them in Londinium. No, the young man needed something to fight. Or someone.
Garth slapped a glove across Thom's face.
Thom looked dumbfounded.
"I challenge thee, Sir Dour of Illheart, to reclaim thine honour in a duel!"
What madness is this? Thom's face read.
"Come on! En garde!"
Thom was about to yank the reins and pull away.
"What? The legendary Sir Thomas of Lyoness fleeing a challenge?" Garth mocked.
Their fellow travelers were all watching with rapt attention.
Thom smiled grimly, and dismounted. Garth followed suit.
Thom began the duel half-heartedly, but Garth gave little quarter, batting him with the flat of his sword.
Murmurs in the growing crowd triggered Thom's innate competitive edge, and he gave back as good as he got.
The duel would last two hours, and end in a draw. Garth's ploy had worked, and Thom's attentions were driven from his miseries, at least for now.
Tales their audience retold would soon portray the isle's two best warriors as pure equals and good friends, who fought from sunrise to sunset just to test each other.
Who was the 'dark stranger?' she wondered.
Her conveyance was dark, and the road was bumpy. The glow of faerie dust gave enough light to examine her treasure, however.
She lay down upon it, half expecting to be scorched. But no, it was cool to the touch, and contained no metal whatsoever. That pleased her. "That's right. I have touched it before. I picked it up, silly!"
The embedded gems were each bigger than her head. She stretched out her arms, and was barely wider than its upper end. She could also balance her feet on its long, slender body.
"They could tie me to this like they say happened to the one-god that the scowlers worship," she laughed. "Tis the right shape."
The bumping came to a stop, and her conveyance was thrust around without warning. She was tossed about, eventually landing on her petite wings.
And then the top opened. She could see Mysa's head looming above her.
"Saihlough? We're about to enter the city. Please keep quiet," she said.
Saihlough giggled. Most folks who beg cooperation from the Fae regret it, but she liked Mysa. She'd try not to me toooo mischievous.
As Mysa was passing the city guard post, the little sprite exclaimed, "Dubhghall!"
The guards looked at Mysa. "Just a sneeze," she told them. Finding a quiet spot, she again opened the bag. "What did you say?"
"Dubhghall!" answered Saihlough. "He's the dark stranger!"
Dyrk was wary.
"But Bishop Vidar is a good man. Why should I?"
"There's something strange going on, son, and I don't want you being ensnared by sorcery. If our new king can only count on one peer to be of keen mind, I want him to be you," Derek countered. "Now drink."
"Why is this potion not sorcery? Surely its maker is demon kind?"
"That is not a 'magical' potion. It is an elixir, made from herbs, roots and minerals that each have natural properties," said the Morgnus family's guest. "Combined, their properties help strengthen the mind against—"
"—It still sounds like magicks," countered Dyrk. But drink it he did. "Gah! I think a potion would probably taste better."
"Wash it down with some wine, son," Derek gestured for his servant to bring more wine. "Would you like some, Brainius V?"
"Call me Querl, please. And yes, I would like some wine."
Dyrk had swigged his down and thrust his chalice out for more. "One to get rid of the taste, and another for health," he said. "Tell me, B—, er, Querl, why do you look as you do?"
"A hereditary ailment common in my village. We are a rather isolated outpost, Colu, settled by Athens at its height. Lost and left alone, we have continued the scientific inquiries of our forbearers. The rather unfortunate drawback to out isolation is a rather jaundiced complexion, I'm afraid."
"I must beg pardon for asking," Dyrk said, gauging his father's face.
"Dyrk! Querl is our guest," Derek reprimanded. "And friend," he added, toasting the Greek lad.
Querl accepted the honor, but Derek could see something was bothering the lad.
"What is it, son?"
"Well, you and I have seen the effect of Vidar's influence on the mob this afternoon. While he has obviously long been a charismatic figure, it seems to be a recent development, this mind-magnetism. I'm trying to theorize how it came about."
"Magick," Dyrk answered.
"Well, that explains it all." Querl's sarcasm was not lost on Derek, at least.
Suddenly, something caught the scientist's eye.
"My flask of formula is much emptier now than before I poured Dyrk's serum," he commented, eyeing the wine-servant. "No, not him..."
"A pitcher of water left alone will sometimes lose its volume," Derek offered. "Perhaps the same—?"
"—No," protested Querl. "It's almost as if someone entered unseen, while we conversed, and took—
"Look!" he blurted. "A footprint on the carpet!"
"Ow!" Dyrk uttered, as Querl grabbed at his sandal without warning. Checking his own, Derek's, and the servant's, none had any such mud.
"I told you," Dyrk continued. "Magick."
"Near as I can tell, the fewer people around, the stronger his influence."
"Go on," Rokk urged.
"There are definite similarities between three incidents. Your and father's meeting with him, Wynn and Zendak's meeting this very morn, and an... incident two days ago, when two men attacked some Pictish merchants in the street, calling them 'heathens' and such," said Reep. "Sir Derek and some of his men witnessed this themselves.
"A small riot ensued, and the men later swore to the city guard that they had no idea why they did it – they'd only been riled up after talking to a monk at the marketplace. The monk—"
"—Matches Vidar's description," Rokk guessed.
Reep nodded and continued. "But Derek himself is the only one who can vouch it was Vidar himself.
"And there's more. Sporadic incidents of one or two religious fanatics running amok ever since Ambrosius' death — all churchgoers or other frequenters of the Basilica Forum area of the city."
"And now every nobleman in Britain is gathered here in Londinium. All ripe targets," Rokk grimaced.
"Also of note," Reep continued. "Vidar's sermons are getting more and more rabble-rousing. I think he's trying to use his abilities on larger groups, but not generally succeeding."
"How small a group does he need?"
"I would guess two to five, depending on the wills of those involved. Luckily, nobles are a fairly stubborn lot. I'd say two or three of those." Reep considered his interruption of Vidar's meeting with the two kings confirmation of this theory.
"Mordru guessed as much. He's heard of such influences before, in Vortigern's time," Rokk mused. "Do Wynn and Zendak stand with us, then?"
"As are Sir Derek and his retainers," Reep confirmed. "And Beren and the Druids."
Rokk turned to Brandius. "Spread the word to those you trust, father. No one is to accept a private audience with Vidar. No groups of less than... five, to be safe."
He read his stepfather's concerns on his face. "We can't accuse Vidar, of course, but we can't risk losing allies. Who knows who he's already talked to."
"The local lords and nobles. Those of the trucial Kentish kingdoms, too. And Mekt of Benwick, I'd wager," Reep said. "Many of the other nobles are still gathering from the farther lands."
"Then luck is on our side," Rokk said, silently impressed with how his foster-brother has adapted from his playmate and sometimes-tormentor to spy and strategist. "We have time—"
"—To tell each arriving noble not to trust the man who's going to place a crown on your head?" Brandius posited.
Reep nodded at his father's words.
"Then what do we do?" Rokk demanded.
The three men stood in silence.
"Announce a plague. Quarantine the city?" Reep suggested.
"And when there is no plague?" Rokk countered.
"Have him be 'summoned' to Rome, perhaps?" Brandius offered.
It can't be that simple, Rokk thought, but he could not poke a hole in the plan. Especially with time against them.
He looked up and saw Reep's devilish grin.
"Send for Father Marla, father," Rokk said, now grinning as well. "Tis a shame the good bishop shall miss my coronation, but I'd rather be crowned by a cleric I can trust.
"Reep, you may have the face of a priest, but we'll need to garb you as well," he continued. Reep's tutelage under Father Marla would have taught him enough that he could credibly pose as a papal courier, and draft the appropriate scrolls.
I must send word to my kinswoman, Thay. Her husband, Senator Festus, will see to it Vidar is handled properly, Brandius thought.
Rokk was elated to find the solution to the Vidar problem, and it now appeared that his sole headache was juggling nobles long enough to be coronated.
The following day would bring its own headaches, however.
Gawaine had to dismount to chase his foe through the crowd.
"Stand aside!" He shouted at the various merchants, minor dignitaries and sight-seers hoping to catch a glimpse of their young king.
Gods. Has every country family in all Britain brought their homely daughters to Londinium in hopes of catching the high king's eye? he thought, dodging between peasants of wide girth.
His quarry had struck down just such as peasant girl, calling her a "godless heathen peasant harlot." They were in the quickly growing pavilion and tent city growing up outside Londinium's walls for the coming festivities, and thus beyond city guards' eyes.
"Halt!" He called to his quarry, without success.
The varlet cut an entry into a pavilion, and ducked in. Gawaine followed, chasing him out through the proper exit way, with both prey and hunter startling the merchant family dwelling inside.
Out in the makeshift 'streets' between rows of tents, the chase resumed, with bystanders stepping aside with haste.
All but one, that is.
Airborne, Gawaine's chin hit the sandy ground first. He collected himself to face his attacker.
"You."
The intervener wore a green helmet and tunic over his armor. He spoke not, only raising his sword.
Gawaine stood and matched his move, bitterly recalling the cost of their last encounter.
After a few moments of sizing each other up, his opponent faked a thrust. Gawaine reacted poorly, and his foe scored first blood, a gash along his arm.
I am allowing my anger to think for me, he realized. This is no blundering Khund I face.
Rejoining the battle, the two locked swords. Each struggled to find an edge, and while a mighty kick from the northerner dislodged them, his silent foe quickly recovered.
"Why are you here?" he shouted. "To plague me? Or do the Dark Stranger's bidding? Speak, villain!"
The man in green again stood, resuming combat stance.
The two barraged each other with blade-work, neither able to score a decisive blow. The sound of horses led the knight to flee, from one tent and through three more. Gawaine gave chase, only to run into a crowded makeshift market square.
"Gone! Damn him. He'll yet pay," he vowed. "For you, my love. He'll pay."
He followed the sound of the horse to another clearing between pavilions, where Rokk and a red-haired peer had beaten his original quarry.
"Well, thanks for that," he murmured, approaching.
"I say the scoundrel should die!" he heard Rokk's companion say.
"Mayhap. We shall hear his case on the morrow. I suspect twas yet another case of sorcery that made him do it. There's been a veritable plague of people acting as not themselves."
Sorcery? Aye, I have heard as much about as much from the events of three days agone. My cousin is wise to not rush to judge. I'd have yet killed the man, Gawaine thought. He is a fair man.
Realizing he'd been avoiding meeting his cousin, Gawaine approached, ready to remedy this.
Rokk turned. "Ah, guard captain. Haul this man to the stockade. I shall deal with him after my coronation. Come, Garth." He quickly turned away, arm over his fellow's shoulder, continuing the conversation as they walked away.
He let the city guard follow Rokk's command, dwelling on the meeting.
Do I regret not trying to befriend my kinsman earlier? Perhaps. Yet I cannot blame him for keeping good company in the legendary Sir Garth, either.
Retracing his route back to his steed, the young knight decided to was too late to regret his jealousies for Rokk or Garth.
He vowed that he must stop the Dark Stranger himself — and prove his worth, to himself and his king.
And let no green knight stand in his way!
Mysa of the Faeries
"You know what we need? I've heard of an Ulsterwoman with the strength of twenty, who stands a full head taller than the tallest Northman. They say she fights off Khund and Northman alike — with her bare hands!" Thom joked, taking a swig of his ale.
The three lads laughed.
"With an army of such, I can well afford to worry less about keeping the local kings happy," Rokk grinned. "While my upbringing was Roman, who teach that war-craft is solely for men, I have learned much about the warrior-women of the Celts. Perhaps we can recruit this Ulsterwoman."
"Nay," said Garth, whose face showed which of the trio was trying to be serious. "I have seen the warriors of Iberia fight from horseback. Not the mangy ponies we have here, but beautiful, magical steeds from the warmer lands, bred by people who have made an art of it.
"Give me gold and leave to purchase, say, 40 of these, and I in turn will create a fine fighting force that will prove themselves worth 4,000 foot soldiers," he said.
"Forty Ulsterwomen will be cheaper. I know, I've had a few," Thom jibed, and even Garth had to join his friends in roaring at this.
But not the one you wanted most, Garth responded in his head, but did not wish to renew his friend's melancholy.
"Let us consider, then. What if we put 40 Ulsterwomen on 40 horses?" Rokk posited.
"Mares, I hope. I wouldn't trust an Ulsterwoman around stallions," Garth shot back, outwitting the other two, for once. He relished finally earning his friends' appreciative laughter.
Rokk looked up from his ale, only to see Reep waiting impatiently.
"A moment, my friends. I must speak with my brother," he said, departing the table.
The two walked down the hall, whispering until they exited into the courtyard.
"Well?"
"I have confirmed Vidar's departure. Derek's son Dyrk saw to it himself. Yet we have three new reports of strange behavior. Perhaps I was not wrong in saying a plague was about," Reep reported.
"Perhaps. Derek brags about his new retainer, a silentist, I think he said. Supposed to be quite knowledgeable about medicine and nature, yet believes not in magicks. He was the one who supposedly made Dyrk proofed against Vidar's spells. I'd like you to see what he may say," Rokk said.
"Ah, the scientist. One of the Druids has mentioned him," Reep said. "I'll go to him at once."
"Good." Rokk sensed something else was on Reep's mind. "What else?"
"Well, the Princess Guinevere of North Cymru has arrived. She's staying at the convent."
Rokk felt his legs quiver under him, and let out a long breath. "I'd sooner face a Khund horde single-handedly than contemplate marriage to a lady I've never seen. I swear, old kings are worse than village crones with their match-making."
"Ah, but a match by village crone can't secure the loyalty of all the western and northern kings," Reep reminded him.
Rokk thought about Luornu. He missed her. "Has—?"
"—She'll be here, too, probably by evening," Reep guessed the question. "She's traveling with Father Marla."
"Good," he said. "I trust that's all?"
"Well, no. There's a woman who claims to be your sister here to see you."
"My sister?" Rokk couldn't believe it. "I have no-- She must be a madwoman or a liar!" He was slightly angry at either prospect.
"Beren vouches for her."
"The Druids again! Perhaps I give them too much of my ear. I shall see what Morgause thinks. Even her lies can be more transparent than a Druid's truths!" he exclaimed, storming off.
The door opened slowly.
She sat very still on the chair near the fireplace. She didn't even look at him right away, slowly, almost imperceptibly turning her head, as if imitating his opening of the door.
He tried to smile, but knew he must be looking very sheepishly.
"So. You must be. My-. The Lady Mysa." He winced. That couldn't have sounded any more awkward if he'd tried.
"Gwydion," she whispered, and a face that had struggled not to tremble now warmed into a smile. "It truly is you."
"I am sorry, but I don't remember you."
"No, you would not. I'm not surprised. You were a babe of less than two years."
They both began speaking simultaneously, and each stopped short in reaction, bending over to yield the conversation to the other. Mysa, with more years at personal politics, eventually coaxed him to speak.
"What was our mother like?"
"She was tall. Red-haired, like me, but much more beautiful. Truly a woman two kings would make war over," she said, proudly.
"You must have hated Ambrosius."
Mysa was taken aback. "Why, no. I admit, as a girl, when being punished, I would tell myself that my father would have treated me better, but in truth, both were sons of Rome, who had no use or care for daughters. Uther — your Ambrosius — did try to like me, I recall. To please my mother. Our mother."
"It still rings odd to my ears to hear Ambrosius, last of the Roman commanders, to be called Uther the Pendragon by the Celts." Rokk was warming to her.
"Oh, he was the Pendragon. He stood down his soldiers, and traveled alone to follow the old rituals of Avalon, to truly be high king of all Britain. Willingly. And all the peoples of the Old Ways embraced him. The Celts. The Picts. The Faerie."
"The faerie?" Rokk was genuinely surprised. "There truly are such beings?"
"Oh, yes. Some are closer than you might believe," she smiled.
"So, I, too, must go to Avalon to win over these peoples? Like Amb- uh, Uther did? Is that why you are here?"
"No. I am here to reunite with my brother and congratulate him on his coronation. Uther made the pledges for himself and his line to come. You need only to renew that pledge, if you choose. But that's for you to take up with Beren. I," she paused for emphasis, "Would like nothing more than enjoy the company of my long-lost brother."
While by no means ugly, she was not nearly as appealing as many of the nobles' daughters were. But her charming smile and friendly green eyes did make Rokk, dealing with both adolescence and suddenly having the eye of seemingly all women-kind, to somewhat regret that she was kin.
They talked into the night, mostly with Mysa telling family stories he was too young to remember. With the aid of wine, she recalled and sung his favorite lullaby as an infant, a song about a great knight of olde who loved a Faerie queen.
"I remember!" he said, the last few vestiges of doubt fading. "I remember..."
And he did remember. A young red-haired girl holding him, cradling him, singing that song... a red-haired woman tending him while he was sick and hurting... the same woman rushing out to greet a man on horse.
"Ambrosius," he whispered, recalling the face. NO! It's got to be a lie, he thought, imagining that same face with a decade and a half of the stresses of power added to it.
Mysa, who was holding him and singing softly, lost in her own memories, immediately noticed him stiffen up. "Gwydion? What's wrong?"
"It can not be true," blurted the young man, wiping the heavy tears from his face. "Verily, It can't!"
For the second time that eve, he stormed out, with the intent of forcing truth from newfound family.
Mysa gently made her way through the garrison halls. She had not yet been introduced to the staff and guards as the king's brother.
Would that he still believes that truth, she thought, given their conversation's ending. The thought of little Gwydion not only rejecting her — but also thinking her a charlatan — hurt her deeply.
She crossed the palace guards' dining hall, in order to continue her search in the western wing.
"Mysa of the Faeries," casually called out a man sitting alone in the almost-dark hall. The fire was burning low, and he moved so little he almost blended into the support columns.
"Who is there?" she responded, cautiously but demanding. What man in Londinium would taunt her by her childhood nickname?
The man stood, somewhat wobbly. Clearly he was drunk. Mysa considered running, or calling for help, but her recalled her uncertain status inside the king's walls.
He stepped closer, and she got a better look at him. "Lancelot?"
He laughed. "That was Kiwa's name for me. I am Garth. Pleasesed to meet your acquaintance," he mocked, and bowing, almost fell over.
Mysa couldn't help laughing at him. "Lanc— Garth, you are drunk!"
"Yes I am," he said, as she helped him steady himself. "But in the morning I'll be sober, and you'll still be," he looked her in the eyes, "beautiful."
Mysa, flattered by the youth's desires for her, again laughed. "Come, my boy. Let me help you to your bed."
"We can't go to my bed," he slurred his words.
"Why not?"
"Itsa bar'rect. A barrits-- a playsh where men sleep."
"And you are a man, yes?"
"But you're not." As his words were sinking in, he sloppily tried to kiss her. She evaded his mouth, and used his unbalanced state to step away while he grabbed for a column to support him.
"You think I'm going to share my bed with you?"
"Mysa. I've adored you since I was a boy." He reached out for her, one arm still holding the column.
"You're still a boy." She couldn't help but chuckle at her besotten suitor.
"Yeah, but." He in turn started laughing for reasons that escaped her. "But I'm a biiig boy now."
"Goodnight, Garth." She started to walk away when the sentries could be heard coming down the hall. Were they coming for her?
I've done worse, she thought, realizing there was nowhere to hide. She sat on the bench and pulled Garth close to her.
The sentries passed without pausing, speaking only to comment on Sir Garth's ability to draw ladies from out of thin air.
After they were gone, she considered asking Garth to stop. But it had been too long since a dashing young man had nibbled her there, caressed her theeerre.
Ohhh.
Hiding in plain sight
"Guinevere was my sister, you must understand."
The "was" was not lost on Imra.
"I was the elder, and thus responsible for her.
"It was midwinter, and father was off at Zendak's court. Zendak was then a young man, and had not long been king, and needed father's aid in settling a dispute with the wee folk.
"You see, the Faerie of South Cymru claimed exclusive fishing rights to the Silurian coast, claiming they had defend against sea dragons—"
Jecka realized she was diverting herself. She sighed.
"No matter. As little girls raised by a doting king are wont to do, we evaded our nannies and went out for play.
"It was just an empty snow-covered field with a pond. But to two little princesses, it was a field full of elves, prancing unicorns, handsome knights and merchant fairs full of goods from the far-off Constantinople and the Persias.
"We would play and hold imaginary court until too we became too cold, and we'd sneak back to the castle, satisfied than none knew of our adventures, or our special field.
"Looking back, any fool could have followed our footprints — and did. I knew not enough of the family Art to hide our way. Our nannies were wise enough to pretend to let us escape them, only to keep a watchful eye from the hedge-rows.
"Usually.
"But one d-day..." Her voice quivered, and she took a moment to steady herself before continuing.
"I know not what caused our nannies to be distracted, to not be there. It could have been anything. Directing a messenger, dealing with a castle issue... It does not matter, I suppose. The fact remains is that for once we were as alone as we believed ourselves to be. In our games, I suppose, we lost our sense of the lay of the snow-covered field."
She turned to face Imra, with a pleading look in her watering eyes. "The ice was too thin!" She began weeping. "I didn't know we'd strayed so close to the pond!"
Imra held her close, letter her sob. "Truly, I didn't know," Jecka continued.
"You didn't know," Imra reassured her. "You were just a child."
Later (was it ten minutes? an hour?), Jecka found the words to continue.
"Father, as you may imagine, was quite appalled, and I never again held favour in his eyes again. And he was only too happy to have me sent to Avalon. Better than the convent, I suppose.
"A-And to make matters worse, his mind snapped. He couldn't believe she was gone. He'd speak of her, first, as if she were ill and bed-ridden, but would recover.
"While in Avalon, I received word he believed her healthy and well, and would talk into thin air as if she still lived. The castle staff covered for him — he was and is much beloved — and my cousin Pharoxx encourages his madness, so he will gain the throne."
"So the other nobles don't know Guinevere is dead?" asked Imra.
"No. My family is adept at preserving their illusions. Probably why I despise lies and deception so much.
"Kiwa knows I can well play the part of Guinevere — to all but father. She expects me to be Avalon's puppet.
"And Pharoxx also counts on me. He knows I can play the part, and he controls me, too. He can blow my deception at any time, which will make me look even more evil to father — evil enough to disinherit, to name Pharoxx as his heir.
"There is only one way out. One way to have a high queen who is neither under Pharoxx' whim nor Kiwa's. A queen who will be an asset to King Rokk, not a liability."
"What do we do?"
"My illusions will make someone else be Guinevere — someone who actually wants to be high queen. All of my father's staff will vouch for her — they are with me on this. They hate Pharoxx even more than I do."
"But how do we fool King Voxv?" Imra truly hadn't gotten it yet.
"Why, we will create a Princess Guinevere who is adapt at the arts of the mind, who can both influence father's perception and be privy to the delusionary conversations and events that only he recalls."
Imra's face went white.
"Come on, now. You did say you wanted to be queen."
"You still haven't said it isn't so," Rokk stared at his most disliked benefactor.
Mordru grinned. So he does have the eye and the wit to be a good king. He may even make a fine wizard, if he applied himself.
"No, I haven't," he said at last. "Very well. I am not Ambrosius."
"But you look like him," Rokk continued his stare.
"Is that such a slight?" Seeing Rokk was not abating, he continued, for the first time returning Rokk's stare with equal intensity. "If he had any... disreputable twin, Ambrosius, as you may imagine, would not favour it being widely known.
"Ambrosius and I took every pain to keep any similarities hidden, be they coincidental or familial. He shaved Roman-style, while I allowed my face to become thicker than Perilous Forest itself. Ambrosius refused to have his broken nose properly healed, that it not be compared to mine other than the standard Roman pronouncement. And I used tricks learned from thespians, jesters and bards to add differences where there were none.
"I can speak naught else, or I would break an oath I swore to Ambrosius."
Rokk soaked up the wizard's words, not quite sure if he believed them.
The man that the woman (his mother?) rushed so eagerly toward had a beard, and no broken nose. IF a two-year- old's recollection could be trusted, he reminded himself.
Leaving out the last doubt, he challenged Mordru with this memory.
"I have never seen Ambrosius as you describe," he said. "If that's the extent of your memory, I fear I've run out of assistance to you."
Rokk paused before exiting.
"One more thing, wizard. The madnesses continue, although Vidar is gone. When last we talked, you seemed sure that he was the cause."
"Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps these are just mad times," the wizard said, dismissively. "I truly know not what contagion is afoot."
Rokk realized that he believed him, and wondered (feared?) if he was actually warming to the sorcerer.
In the hall, it struck him that Mordru, like Reep, at least partly considered the madness a pox, but Rokk couldn't strike the feeling that someone was behind it.
I should ask Reep what Derek's scholar had to say. But the hour was late, and he had the halls alone to himself and his thoughts.
Reep joined his hosts in breaking their fasts on the terrace. Sir Derek's country villa was magnificent, a veritable palace atop a hill near Londinium.
A plate of smoked fish, sliced fruits, bread and cheese had been set out by the servants. Reep ate sparingly, else miss a chance to enter the conversation due to a stuffed mouth.
"What you say is impossible," Querl said, slightly irritated.
"Not so. I grant that it may seem improbable, but I assure you. I have walked through a Khundish horde without being seen," replied the target of Querl's ire.
"Surely his visit to this very estate several weeks agone is proof enough," Derek interjected.
"Nay. We must have been distracted, like the charlatan-games the tribes of Little Egypt run on the very streets of Constantinople," Querl replied. "You belie yourself with failure to demonstrate your claims, when asked this very morn. One cannot become invisible!" he concluded, pounding his fist on the table.
"Easy, friend," Dyrk grabbed his arm.
"My apologies." The Greek was slightly embarrassed at his own behaviour.
"I think what our friend is saying is that when he wishes to be unseen no one sees him," Reep said. "Not that he turns invisible."
Querl raised an eyebrow.
"We cannot see, say, Bishop Vidar, but he has not turned invisible. We merely can't see him because he's not here."
"But—"
"Please. Let me continue. And if Bishop Vidar was here, we might still not see him. He could be disguised as a green — er — Greek philosopher, he could be hiding behind yonder tree, we could be so caught up in debate that we overlook him, or we don't want to see him."
"What?"
"Think. No doubt we can all think of a case where people wanted to believe something so much that they genuinely believe it they saw it? Perhaps it's the same. Though a combination of disguise and... persuasion, not unlike Bishop Vidar's, I maintain that our friend can remain unseen if he chooses."
Reep quickly realized he was gesturing toward an empty seat.
Querl's eyes bulged. "While we all focused on Reep's words—"
"—He vanished himself! Bravo!" Dyrk interrupted.
"Which he could not do whilst we watched him," Querl concluded. "Reep, you have won your point. I concede!"
"Druid! You can return yourself!" Derek called out, not knowing which way to direct his words.
"Let us all watch that hawk," Reep suggested, "and allow him venue to do so."
"Behind our backs," Dyrk murmured in jest.
"I do feel rude calling him naught but 'Druid.' Have you a name, lad?" inquired Derek, hoping for a verbal sign before he turning to see if the vacant chair was again occupied.
"My name is sworn to secrecy. You may call me by my home, the island of the far north," replied the now-seen fellow.
L'ile Norge, thought Derek, as the table returned to facing toward each other. He looks not like a Northman, though.
"So. Your persuasion argument also supports the madness has its roots in the mind, not a plague," Querl said, resuming the conversation. "I believe our error was assuming that Vidar was the sole person responsible."
"Who else, then?" Reep asked.
Querl continued. "If Druids are capable of—"
"Mind your tongue!" L'ile warned.
Reep intervened. "Methinks he only meant that if one group had mastered it—"
"—That another may. Exactly," Querl said. Looking to L'ile, he asked, "Is there any who might have stolen Druidic secrets?"
"None! The penalty is death, unless..."
"Go on."
"There is a sect of Druids of which I have recently learned. They consider themselves the avengers of a massacre of Druids that took place centuries ago, on the north Cymru island of Mona.
"They were the sole group not to join Uther's alliance, and indeed worked to undermine it. Mayhap this dark circle is now also targeting King Rokk."
Is this the same north island the lad himself comes from? But if so, why would the conspirator lay forth all his secrets? Querl wondered.
The whole debate of persuasion, misdirection and hiding in plain sight still left Querl with the feeling that there was more to L'ile's words than he said...
