His lips pressed against her cheek…and that was all.
Confused, she searched his face as he pulled back, to understand what the silent touch of his lips meant. She couldn’t read anything in his eyes or his face. There was no guidance there. No hints of what he was feeling.
He turned and slipped out of the lean-to. The end of the cart faced away from the center of the Corneus camp. If Rawn stayed low, no one would notice him leaving her ramshackle shelter.
Mair shivered and clutched the furs even closer.
Confusion stayed with her for the rest of the day. It was the last day of the march to Venta Belgarum and the jocularity which usually gripped the army as they neared home was even more pronounced than usual. Shouts and teasing, ribald observations, jostling, slapping of shoulders and backs, were rife. Barely anyone stayed in their position within the ranks, except for the tight core of officers around Arthur.
Discipline was lax, for they were nearly home, in the heart of Britain where Saxons would not dare try to penetrate.
Mair drank well-watered wine and kept her hood up, to shade her eyes from the unforgiving sun, which made them ache. Her headache eased as the day wound on, while the ache in her chest increased.
Rawn was somewhere behind her in the long tail of the army. She could not fall back to find him. It would send out too public a signal.
Because of the breaking and reformation of the ranks as they rode along the solid, enduring Roman road, Mair found herself just behind the senior officers as they came over the low crest and saw Venta Belgarum before them.
Venta Belgarum had been one of Rome’s greatest cities in Britain. Now, even though the Roman legions had departed, the people who remained thrived behind the stout walls. Britons had adapted the Roman buildings to suit their ways.
Uther, the High King of Britain, had used Venta Belgarum as his capital and for that reason, Arthur refused to step inside the city. “I am not the High King and this is not yet my city,” he told the city leaders while standing at the big gates, his red hair glinting in the sun. Mair had seen the exchange for herself and knew it to be true.
Instead, Arthur’s army had built a nearly permanent camp outside the city walls. Temporary buildings and facilities had sprung up around them, spreading across the plain.
This was home. For now.
Because Mair rode so closely on the heels of Arthur and his lieutenants, she saw Arthur raise in his saddle and peer at the field where the army camp spread. Then he swore. “Merlin is already here. He did beat me home.”
The horses cantered into the camp, eager to stop and rest. A thick stream of people emerged from the town gates, warned by the thunder of their arrival. They came to greet the returning army, for news of the victory had already spread via runners and messengers and travelers moving ahead of the army.
The melee in the camp as the riders dismounted and greeted friends and family was a common one. The carts were pulled around to be unloaded, while voices rose in joy. Mair had been part of many returns, although there was no one to greet her, for her family rode with her.
Because Mair did not want to speak to her brothers right now—or Rawn, or perhaps, especially Rawn—she deliberately avoided the Corneus section of the camp and moved in the opposite direction. She dismounted carefully, her head giving a warning thud, and took Leolin’s lead. She could walk around the edges of the camp, take care of Leolin and avoid the Corneus tent that way.
The jostling and her unusual direction put her right by the command tent. As she patted Leolin’s neck and reached for the reins, she saw the beautiful, ethereal Lady of the Lake emerge from the tent and drew in a shocked breath, for Nimue looked…faded.
Mair had only seen the tall, exceedingly slender woman once or twice, for she and her acolytes and followers lived apart, even here in the midst of Arthur’s army. They followed their own routines and practices, centered upon the slow-moving waters of the river, where their big tent was located. Arthur seemed to value Nimue’s guidance almost as much as he did Merlin’s.
Nimue always glowed, to Mair’s eyes. Her hair was almost as white as Mair’s and her skin, too. She favored white clothes, including cloaks in the softest and finest of wools. Perhaps the glow was a trick of the light playing against her white features.
That trick, if it was simply an effect, was not present now. Nimue appeared as ordinary as anyone else, despite the white cloak and even though the sun was still high enough in the sky to shine directly upon the group standing at the front of the tent. Vivian was not a part of the group, Mair realized, with a little start of surprise. Vivian, who was dark to Nimue’s light, her partner as well as her second in command, was rarely far from Nimue’s side, yet she was absent now.
Arthur took off his riding gauntlets and tilted his head to take in Merlin and Nimue as they barred his way into the tent. “Tell me,” he said simply.
Merlin looked at Nimue.
Nimue didn’t shift or move in any way. Even her hands, which were bony and frail, stayed by her sides. Yet, abruptly, the shimmering light gathered around her. Her face glowed with passion. “We have found it, Arthur.” Her voice was low and controlled, but it rang out, nevertheless.
Mair shivered at the sound of it. Her breath halted, for it seemed that whatever “it” was, the thing was of critical importance to Arthur and Britain. She didn’t know why she was so certain of it, yet the knowledge sat squarely in her mind and heart.
Arthur grew still. “It?” he said softly.
“The sign you have been waiting for,” Merlin said. “It has come.” Merlin did not speak loudly, either, yet it seemed everyone in the camp heard him. Mair was not the only one to come to a complete standstill, her attention rivetted upon the pair at the command tent. An unnatural hush held the camp in its grip. Not even the horses shifted or blew.
Arthur squeezed the gauntlets in his hand. “It is here?”
“Segontium,” Nimue said. Her voice was strained. “No one can take the sword from its resting place but he who is heir to Macsen Wleddig and rightwise born High King of Britain. That man must take the sword and use it as Macsen Wleddig himself once did, to unite Britain and hold it against those who would take our lands.”
“You, Arthur,” Merlin said. His voice carried in the utter stillness. “You are that man and your time has come.”
Chapter Eleven
It was a wild ride to Segontium.
Cai ordered those who accompanied Arthur to ride as lightly as possible, for the company would not wait for stragglers. They carried with them everything they needed, including their food, for Cai would not countenance taking carts and wagons. “We will ride through the mountains and hills and byways the hill folk of old used,” Cai bawled, as he moved through the camp, selecting the company to go to Segontium. “They used their feet. We’ll likely be using ours, too, in the higher passes. Take only what you can carry.”
Mair caught Cai’s attention and asked her question, while Cai looked down at her with a patient expression. He lifted his brow. “Come with us? Why? Bedivere will represent Corneus.”
“He is one of Arthur’s companions. Did he not tell you I am to return to Corneus and control the duchy in his stead?” Mair replied. “If you truly want one member of every tribe, clan and kingdom to be present when Arthur takes the sword, then I should be there.”
Cai crossed his arms, the big muscles and sinews flexing. He seemed amused. “It will not be an easy ride.”
Mair nodded. “I have been in every campaign since Arthur became War Duke. I know how to ride light and fast.”
Cai’s brows came together. “Is there a reason you don’t want to stay in Venta Belgarum and rest?”
Mair’s heart jumped. “It isn’t that at all,” she said quickly. “I know I must be there to see it. I don’t know why. It is simply a feeling.”
“Aye, there’s a lot of that going around today,” Cai said. “Very well. Be warned, this is no campaign trail we’ll be riding. You’ll
yearn for a cushion when we’re done.”
“I understand,” Mair assured him and hurried to prepare Leolin and repack her saddle bags.
It wasn’t until Venta Belgarum laid a half-day of the mad dash behind them that Mair spotted Rawn among the riders at the back of the file and realized her mistake. Rawn was there to represent Brocéliande. They had not left him in Venta Belgarum at all.
The hard riding kept Rawn at an arm’s length, anyway. After the first day, Mair lost interest in anything but staying in her saddle and staying awake. They rode far into the night and only stopped when riders were dropping from their saddles with weariness.
Then they would rest upon the stony ground for a few hours, while Merlin paced or stared into the flames of the single great fire beside which everyone shivered. Merlin led them through high trails and hidden paths only he and the hill folk knew well. The byways would cut days off their journey. It would also ensure their passage went unnoticed by any Saxon spies monitoring the roads.
Often, the path they followed was so narrow, they moved in single file. Occasionally, even that path passed through clefts and crevasses so slender, they were forced to unsaddle their horses and lead them through on foot, while carrying their bulky saddle bags over their own shoulders.
It was a cold, miserable journey. Mair was too tired to care. No thoughts plagued her, except a longing to stop and lay her head down for a while.
On the last night before reaching Segontium, they were high among the peaks where the snow lingered all year round. The fire was built high and sentries set, for the howl of the great gray wolves who lived in these peaks was close and unsettling.
Mair shivered beneath the leather sheet and wished she had thought to bring her sleeping furs with her. Her cloak, which was thick wool and often was too warm around her neck and shoulders, now felt as insubstantial as the gossamer wings of a dragonfly. Cold ate into her bones.
Men crowded close to each other for warmth. No one would dare that familiarity with her. Mair was one of only two women in the company, Nimue being the other. Nimue did not seem to notice the cold at all. She sat at the fire as Merlin did, seeing things in the flames no one else could.
When Rawn dropped his furs over her, slipped beneath the leather and settled behind her, Mair stiffened.
He touched her lips.
Silence.
His mouth pressed close to her ear. “You must stay warm,” he breathed.
His body was hot against hers. He arranged her so every inch of her back and legs was against him. His arm came over her middle and tucked her firmly against his chest.
For long minutes, great shivers wracked her, as the true depth of her chill against his heat registered. Then the shivering diminished and sleep dropped over her.
She woke at dawn, to find her head and face were covered by Rawn’s cloak, shielding her from the sunlight which might have woken her. Carefully, Mair eased back a fold of the cloak, and learned why he had removed his cloak and laid it over them during the night.
The entire camp was a blanket of crisp, white, dry snow beneath which the riders were huddled, indistinct shapes. Even the fire was a slushy mound of ashes.
As she peered out, Merlin dropped the last of the wood they had carried up from the plains, far below, onto the dead fire. He straightened and looked at the wood for a moment. His hand lifted, the tips of his fingers pointing at it.
The wood burst into flame, crackling cheerfully, making the wet earth beneath sizzle.
Merlin’s gaze met Mair’s. He brought his long finger to his lips and one eye fluttered closed in a barely-there wink.
THE YEW TREE LOOKED TO be many hundreds of years old. It was gnarled, the trunk branched and wider than some houses. Up here, above the town itself, the wind which tugged at their cloaks was ladened with the scent of the sea. It might have been cold to some, but after the night in the high mountain pass, Mair was warmer than she had been for days.
The company—just over one hundred riders, all of them representing the clans, tribes and kingdoms of Lesser and Greater Britain, plus Arthur’s companions—stood before the yew tree and the great stone doorway into the earth itself.
“Everyone must stay in the light, where they can see for themselves Arthur’s entry into the chamber and his return with the sword,” Merlin said. “The first chamber is sacrosanct. The inner chamber will bring death to anyone but Arthur.”
Arthur examined the stone doorway. His throat worked.
“You are the heir of Macsen Wleddig,” Nimue told him. “You may pass through and touch the sword. No one else can.”
Merlin stepped aside. “The way is clear, Arthur. Nimue will follow you down.”
Mair looked at the white woman, startled. Had Merlin not just said that to enter the inner chamber would bring death?
Nimue picked up the hem of her robe and followed Arthur down the steps. She was a pale and insignificant figure behind his broad shoulders. They stepped through the door and disappeared.
A mutter ran around the assembled men. Mair detected wariness in their voices. They were fighting men and leaders. They did not fear battle or death upon the field. They were courageous in the face of overwhelming enemies. Yet talk of gods and magic unsettled them. More than one man made powerful signs against magic behind their backs, or openly, and few of them were the Christian sign.
Merlin’s eyes narrowed as he measured their fear.
Mair raised her voice. “Merlin, what is the name of the sword?”
He glanced at her, startled. It was a novelty for Merlin look anything but calm. “Its name?”
Mair shrugged. “This is a great sword, wielded by Macsen Wleddig himself. All great swords have names. My own is Cuallguoled.” It meant quick death in the old tongue. She rested her hand on the hilt. “This was my mother’s sword. The name came with it. It has served me well.”
The men nodded. This was a subject the men could understand and had an interest in. The genealogy of swords and the naming of them was a serious matter.
“Yes, the sword must be named,” someone said firmly.
Mair could tell by Merlin’s expression that until this moment he had not thought of the sword at all. It was still a symbol in his mind. A thing by which Arthur would signal to the world his birthright.
“What is the sword’s name, Merlin?” King Mark asked in his gravelly voice.
Merlin stared at the ground, his focus shifting inward. Then he lifted his chin. “Caledfwlch,” he intoned, in a way which told Mair he was reciting from something he had read or heard. He had dipped into ancient memories to find the name.
Silence.
“What does it mean?” someone asked.
“In the old tongue, great cleaver,” Merlin replied. He looked bemused, as if this pragmatic conversation about names and heritages of weapons upon the very doorstep of a magical place was far too pedestrian. Perhaps even unholy.
Yet the men were energized and interested. They repeated the name and the meaning among themselves, considering it.
“Great cleaver. It isn’t exactly…well, regal, is it?” Leodegrance said, his tone doubtful.
Lancelot snorted. “Neither is the wielder,” he murmured, his voice low enough that few of the men would hear it. Mair happened to be standing close enough to catch the irreverent observation.
Bricius lifted his voice. “Merlin, you speak the languages of the world. What would be the right way to say the name, so it isn’t some ancient swear word?”
Laughter sounded.
Merlin relaxed. Languages was something he did understand. “In Latin, it would be rendered…” He paused, considering. “Caliburn,” he finished.
Everyone considered the name.
“It’s…soft,” Cai said, sounding disgusted.
“Worse, it’s Roman,” Gawain growled.
An air of disapproval moved around the group standing before the yew tree.
“In Lesser Britain,” Rawn said, his voice rising, “we wou
ld not use ‘caliburn’. In Breton, it becomes…” He paused, frowning, sorting out root words and meanings. “Excalibur,” he finished.
“Excalibur,” many voices repeated.
Excalibur.
Mair shivered, noticing the chill in the air for the first time that day. Then Merlin shifted his shoulders and shuddered, too. His eyes changed to an obsidian, complete black. He was focused within. “Excalibur,” he said, his tone flat in confirmation. “Yes, that is the name it will be known by.”
From the stone doorway, a shadow flickered. Movement.
Then Arthur appeared. He looked grave as he climbed the stairs and moved out into the spring grasses, where his men waited. Behind him came Nimue. She had removed her cloak and laid it across her arms. Resting on the pure white cloak was the sword.
It was to Mair’s eyes one of the greatest swords she had ever seen. It had nothing to do with its heritage. The sword itself was a thing of beauty, a weapon of silver and gold and light itself. The blade was bright, as if it had been honed only today. It shone, catching the bright sun.
A great red jewel glittered at the pommel, the only color in the sword. Fine gold and silver wire wrapped the hilt, securing the suede and providing grip. The blade itself was of finest forged metal. Running down the length of the blade was ancient lettering, angular and deep.
A soft sigh of approval and pleasure sounded as everyone spotted the sword in Nimue’s arms.
Lancelot drew his sword and thrust it up into the air. “Excalibur!” he shouted.
With a ring of metal, everyone followed his lead, including Mair. There was no thought in it. It was a shout of acknowledgement and approval and it burst from her lungs with a power which left her winded. “Excalibur!”
“Arthur! Excalibur!” Lancelot cried.
Instantly, a hundred voices joined him. “Arthur! Excalibur! Arthur! Excalibur!”
Arthur listened, his gaze shifting from one face to the next.
Merlin touched his shoulder and pointed to the sword.
Nimue shifted and offered the hilt to Arthur.
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