Sword Stone Table

by Sword Stone Table- Old Legends, New Voices (retail) (epub)

  The weariness in the king’s answer pained Yusuf. If the wound to a stranger was deep, how could it be borne by those who held him beloved?

  A mirror hung at one end of the hall, and the king moved to face it. He studied his listless reflection, the fraying gray mane, the eyes without ambition.

  “I have grown dispirited in the years of my decline.” His eyes met his queen’s in the mirror. “Although I should not blame you, I do. I thought I had earned your devotion.”

  “As I thought I had earned yours. Yet on every campaign you led away from home, you found yourself a Camille.”

  The king waved this away.

  “Then you sought to repay me. You meant to do me injury.”

  Bitterly Guinevere said, “I did not know I held that power. All it took for your loss of faith was for your swan to glide away. I cannot demonstrate chastity again to win back your belief.”

  She glared at Lancelot, a rare beauty in her fury.

  “The lies you tell will come back on your head. And as for you, my lord, send me to my kin, or to anywhere else you choose.”

  “You choose.” The king had already dismissed her. “As long as I need not look upon you again.”

  The ice in Guinevere’s eyes burned the Qadi where he stood as she turned her anger on him.

  “You ruled against me because I spared you my blushes and did not tremble at your lust. So much for a man’s justice, no matter his name or creed.”

  She whirled around and made for the door, her long hair flying like a banner.

  Yusuf felt only pity.

  “Follow her,” the king said. “Speak to her. Console her if you can.”

  Yusuf was taken aback. Could the king still consider his wife’s sensitivities in light of her infidelity? Or was he conscious that his own conduct would not withstand further scrutiny?

  Yusuf gave a courteous bow, wishing now that he’d declined the invitation to intrude upon the sorrow of the king.

  The queen ripped the pin from her gown and flung it at Yusuf, even as courtiers whispered in the stone passageway.

  “You were always disposed to believe them over me.” She flung out a hand at the brooch, which had landed at his feet. “Take it as a memento of your victory.”

  Yusuf gathered up the pin. Without touching her, he shepherded her to a bench in the gardens where rumormongers would not hear.

  Her face had flooded with humiliated color, her bony fists were clenched in her lap; he could almost believe her a woman mortally harmed.

  “The truth was victorious, not I.”

  “So you judge me.” Her icy composure was lost, her voice throbbing with rage.

  “I was brought here to judge you, after all.”

  “You fell under Arthur’s spell!” she accused him. “And under Lancelot’s, as well.”

  He did not join her on the bench, but his dark head was inclined to hers.

  “Would you rather I had fallen under yours?”

  For a moment he thought she would fly at him, raking his beard with her nails. But like the queen she was, she collected herself, gathering her poise about her like a cloak. Speaking to herself, she said, “I am to be sent away.”

  “You have caused a great king pain.” An observation, not a judgment.

  She tilted her head up, the cold eyes meeting his, searching for a truth he could not fathom.

  “What of the pain he caused me with his indiscretions? Does that not signify in the world governed by men?”

  Holding her gaze, he said, “You accuse your husband of disloyalty in return?”

  “He began this,” she said quietly. “My actions are a wound to his heart, a wound he feels deeply, yet he gives no thought to my pain or to my loss of…”

  She changed her mind about confiding in him, the words trailing away.

  “Yes?” he prompted. “Your loss of face, perhaps?”

  She shook her head, trapped despite herself by the desire to justify her course.

  “My loss of innocence.” She waved one hand to indicate the court. “I believed in this—all of this. The chivalrous court of Camelot, the honorable king, with justice and plenitude for all. But there was no justice for me.”

  Yusuf could not dispute it. He fell back on pragmatism.

  “Such are the ways of men, my queen.”

  She flared up at once. “Am I meant to meekly accept them? Am I meant to swallow my pain while the king indulges his? My heart was a fallow field, susceptible to Lancelot’s advances.”

  At the mention of Lancelot, Yusuf’s thoughts became grim. He turned her earlier words regarding men’s lusts back on her.

  “I doubt it was your heart that spurred your dalliance with Lancelot.”

  He heard the sharp intake of her breath, but she turned her face away, the line of her jaw trembling.

  After a moment, she said, “I had heard that the court of the Caliph rivaled Camelot in grace. I did not think the Saracens vulgar.”

  When he had nothing to say to this, she continued, “I was trying to be just to myself.”

  Yusuf was shaken by the Qur’anic echo. Made knowingly or as an arrow in the dark?

  Playing his part as Qadi, though he was thinking of her as a man thinks of a woman, he said, “In doing so, you have only harmed yourself.”

  She came to her feet, surprising him by grasping his hand and closing his fingers around the gemstone pin. Just as swiftly, she released him.

  Her ice-blue eyes swimming with tears, she told him, “At least this time, the injury was of my choosing.”

  She would have left him then, without another word, but he detained her with a hand on her arm, returning her pin to her palm.

  “Then that must be your consolation.”

  Their eyes met and held, the silence between them deep and dangerous.

  She wrenched her hand away, discarding the brilliant swan.

  Her lip curling, she said, “I hope your princess savages your heart.”

  * * *

  —

  Ayaan and the Qadi had left the isle of Avalon and were riding through the night side by side, their cloaks dampened by the ever-present mist, the moon as sallow as their thoughts.

  Ayaan let out a whistle. “I cannot quite grasp at the truth, my lord. From how piously she spoke, I could swear the queen was wrongly accused by both husband and knight. Yet why would a knight like Lancelot otherwise condemn himself?”

  “You thought the queen innocent?”

  Ayaan jerked on the reins of his mount, bringing it to a halt.

  “Didn’t you?”

  The Qadi reined in as well, his knees urging his horse.

  “I thought her ruined, her heart as bitter as an orchard under frost.”

  This quieted Ayaan, whose love for women ran deep, his tenderness awakened by a glance.

  “She was so small and proud. It took courage to wear the pin when every member of the court sat in judgment and her favored knights turned away.”

  “Ayaan,” the Qadi said patiently. “The queen betrayed herself at every turn. The court spoke of her keenness for admiration, Lancelot’s gallantries exceeded even the most tolerant rules of chivalry, and a king who had little time for his wife was dismayed by her conduct with his knights.”

  “Isn’t that how these Franks define their courtly love? With these little courtesies?”

  “Was it courtesy that saw her lose the brooch pinned to her favorite gown?”

  Suspicion began to tick through Ayaan’s thoughts. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “Very little,” the Qadi said dryly. “Apart from Lancelot’s confirmation, I spoke to the queen’s maid. There was a taint of bitterness to the queen’s protestations. I found myself unconvinced, just as I found her receptive to my earlier advances.” He petted his r
estless mount, subduing it into silence. “Guinevere was twice spurned, once by her husband, once again by her lover. Remember that Lancelot spoke of her entreaties. He came to his senses swiftly; it was Guinevere who fell.”

  Ayaan stared at him, agape. “Qadi, how do you know this?”

  A smile touched the Qadi’s lips. “I am observant, my son, that is all. The queen was quick to imagine intimacy between us. She is starved for physical affection. When Lancelot discarded her, she took her grievance to the maid to whom he’d done the same.”

  By now, Ayaan was goggle-eyed. “The women conspired together?”

  “Altogether more convincing if the brooch was found by a maid—her name is Lisette—who was reluctant to accuse her. Guinevere gave it to Lisette. The rest was a fait accompli, to use a phrase of the Franks.”

  “My lord, why? The shame to the queen was dire!”

  The Qadi touched his heels to the flanks of his mount.

  “For the king who had rejected her fidelity by betraying her first and for the knight whose ardor proved false—she refused to accept that their days would end in glory, even if she had to spite herself.” He shook his head to himself, murmuring a prayer on the wind. “Were it not for my respect for the king of Camelot, my heart would suffer for this queen.”

  But this was more than Ayaan could comprehend.

  “An adulteress? A brazen, bare-faced liar?”

  “Ah, but you see,” the Qadi explained, “she was driven to it by the king’s disloyalty. As for the chivalry of the knights of the Round Table and their notions of courtly love, when measured against her reality, they left her woman’s heart cold. I blame her for causing a great king pain, but I do not fault her for holding him to the ideals he proclaimed.” He was lost for a moment in private reflection. “He harmed her; she injured him in turn.”

  “Will he send her away for good, Qadi?”

  Yusuf nodded, appreciating Lubna’s hostility to his ardent pursuit a little better. Perhaps every woman sensed betrayal in the lingering glances of men.

  “What will be the outcome of this trial, my lord?”

  Ayaan sounded forlorn, yet still Yusuf gave him the truth.

  “This king will pass into legend, his knights will scatter to the winds, and one day soon, Camelot will be no more.”

  “All for the love of a queen,” Ayaan murmured under the deepening twilight.

  Yusuf glanced at him briefly.

  “All for an injury the great King Arthur chose to inflict on himself.”

  Their horses picked up the pace, and the riders left Camelot behind.

  * * *

  —

  Author’s note: My very sincere thanks to Dr. Paul Cobb for suggesting the fabulous title of this story, and to Dr. Cobb and Dr. Stephennie Mulder for their pertinent advice on terminology and on the history of al-Andalus. And my deepest gratitude to Dr. Abigail Balbale, who took the time and the care to correct my mistakes on the historical period. The rest must be laid at the door of imagination.

  Passing Fair and Young

  Roshani Chokshi

  MYTH

  They told me it is dangerous to be passing fair and young, but I think they meant it is dangerous to be a woman unclaimed.

  I was lovely enough to draw attention should I walk alone but not lovely enough to demand constant protection. I was too young to bear children but old enough that a man might try anyway.

  My mother noticed the traces of myth on my skin the day I turned fifteen.

  I could not see it on myself. But later, when it was too late for me, I would see that smear of iridescence across my son’s brow. When I kissed him, I could taste it on my tongue: snow and ghosts and sugar. My first taste of myth was impossible and familiar, like the forgotten flavor of my mother’s heartbeat when I slept inside her womb.

  But I did not know those things at fifteen.

  “What will happen to me?” I asked my mother.

  My mother touched my face. “You have a choice before you, as I once did.”

  “A choice to do what?” I pressed.

  She sighed. We were in her quarters, a place untouched by my father, whom men called the Fisher King. My mother’s quarters were warm but scentless. She had no scent. Only after she died did I bother to wonder whether that was part of the bargain she struck when she was presented with her options. That she leave no trace behind, not even the perfume of her skin.

  “I do not know how to read such things, but I know someone who does, and I shall summon her on the eve of your eighteenth birthday,” she said. “For now, go…go and learn what makes you happy.”

  I did not appreciate back then the choice my mother was giving me, but I understand it now. How can anyone make a choice when they do not know themselves? I knew myself only a little in those days. I knew I liked solitude and the quiet wonder of the gardens, where the alchemy of roots and sunshine pulled forth roses from the winter thaw. I liked that I could be part of something greater than myself, though I did not know that was what it was back then.

  I liked the company of girls my age, where we would huddle in the darkened corners of a banquet and spy on lovers’ trysting or wonder at what it might be like to be a woman who inspired ballads both terrible and beautiful.

  I liked laughter. I liked, truthfully, to notice but not be noticed.

  I did not like the weight of others’ eyes.

  It made my skin feel too tight, even then.

  As I left my mother’s room, I paused at the doorway. My mother had her back turned to me, gazing out the stone window which looked out over the castle gardens.

  “Mother, what was your choice?”

  For a moment, I saw my mother as she must have appeared in her youth. Long limbed like me, with skin the color of a fawn’s rich pelt, for my mother came from a land of spice and sand. There were crescents around her mouth and furrows between her eyes. Her face held the shadow of long-faded poetry.

  “They told me I could know a love like no other. They told me I could live forever on the lips of bards and minstrels. They told me my bones would become a ballad and my blood would turn to the golden ichor that belongs to immortal gods,” she said. “But they told me it would be violent and brief.” She took a deep breath, trailing her brown fingers down her neck as though feeling for the pulse of that life not lived. “Then they told me I could choose, instead, a life in exile, cast far from my father’s home. They told me I could become forgotten and nameless but that I would have a chance at contentment and, though it would not shake the earth, a different kind of love.”

  At this, she smiled warmly at me, and I felt guilt at her warmth. I have often wondered if she resented me and if only love for me kept too much bitterness at bay. If I am being honest, I felt jealous, too, of the man or woman who would have been her great immortal love, for I wished to be enough and knew that I was not.

  “I feel, sometimes, the phantom ache of another life,” she said. “Sometimes I dream of orchards and the taste of pomegranates, though I have not eaten one in years. Sometimes I dream in a language I have not spoken in decades. But that is nothing but the ghosts of choices made, and I would rather keep the company of those ghosts than others.”

  I knew this meant she loved me, and I was pleased.

  “Now go,” said my mother from her perch by the window. “Go and be lighthearted.”

  I left her then, flying down the stairs as though I could outrun whatever terrible choices would soon catch hold of me. I ran into the sunshine, and I put all thought of myths and resentment from my mind until I was eighteen. I caught her watching me in the garden from her bedroom window, but she never said a thing, and each time I caught her, she would move discreetly into the shadows.

  It did not occur to me until years later, when I had my own child and watched him from my room, that thi
s was an act of love. I did not want him to feel trapped by my watchful gaze.

  I wanted him to feel free, even though he was tangled up in the sticky silken threads of legends long before I pushed him into this world.

  Here was my gift to my son and my mother’s gift to me: to watch from afar and not disturb, to cast light out into the darkness and hope my child’s ear would lift to it like a hungry seedling craving the bright afternoon.

  I am still not sure what my mother wished for me to know.

  Or whether she simply wanted me to know she was there.

  MAIDEN

  When I was eighteen, the woman whom men called Morgan le Fay came to read my myth marks.

  My mother had made a pretense of a pilgrimage to pull me away from my father’s court. It was the first time I had left Corbenic, and I was entranced by the sight of my home dwindling through the curtains of our carriage. I watched my father’s castle, saw the turret that tipped curiously toward the sea, the silver seagrass that sounded like chiming bells. Though I could not see it, I knew my garden was there, too. And as it grew smaller and smaller, I saw the entirety of my life shrink to the size of something I might fit in my pocket.

  “Terrifying, isn’t it?” asked my mother beside me. “For something so important to us to turn out so…small.”

  She moved from the window, settling into her cushions.

  I said nothing as I looked away from Corbenic. I did not agree with my mother. I did not find it terrifying at all, but comforting. The world was vast enough; I did not wish to compete with it. If I could keep this small corner of joy unnoticed and out of sight…then perhaps I might just be happy.

  In a castle choked with weeds and ivy, I was told to strip off my clothes and step into a bath. The bathtub was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Its clawed feet were carved from bone, and the shape reminded me of a half-bloomed rose with petals of finely beaten gold. The water was so hot that a tremor ran up my spine, and my hands shook on the lip of the tub.

  “You must bear it, Elaine,” said my mother.