"You mean if the Saxons do not kill me."
"I mean what I tell you," Kyner replies, losing patience. "I am entrusting you—"
"Entrusting or punishing?" Arthor thrusts his face closer, challenging the older man. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Punishing?" Kyner clasps his hands on his hips to keep from shaking sense into the youth. "You think I am punishing you? For what? For what happened at Mousehole? I have forgiven you for behaving so shamefully. You fought bravely and well that night. No, I am not punishing you. I am entrusting you with a dangerous and important mission."
"If this is so important, then why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"The word came at dawn by herald," the chieftain answers, edging his voice angrily. "The acknowledgment was sent before you came from the barracks."
"You could have sent for me."
"I am the chieftain, Arthor, and I am telling you now, you will return the Saxon to his tribe."
"Why did you have to send for me?" Arthor asks, veins ticking at the sides of his neck. "Why couldn't I have been with you, like Cei, like the others? Why must I live in the barracks?"
"You know why."
"Because I am a son of war, a mongrel and bastard half-breed."
Kyner's heavy mustache blows outward with a ponderous sigh. "Arthor, you shame me with your anger, your bitterness. Be who God made you."
Arthor's face mottles with the heat of his emotion. "God made me a mongrel. Why should I not behave like one? The war of Saxons and Celts goes on inside my own body. I cannot be one or the other. What am I then?"
Kyner answers flatly, "You are a soul—a Christian soul, Arthor. Your anger disgraces God."
"Why has God done this to me?" He opens his arms to the crucifix. "Why?"
"You ask why of God—you ask why of me." Kyner jabs a blunt finger at the infuriated adolescent. "You are insolent, Arthor. Accept your place in the world, where God has put you. Stop this foolish rebellion against yourself."
"How am I to accept my place when you have taken that from me?"
"I?" Kyner's pale eyes widen with surprise. "Your anger puts nonsense in your mouth, boy."
"You found me in the forest. You took me from where my mother left me to die."
"So?" A frown clenches the chieftain's brows. "Was I supposed to have left you there?"
"Yes! My mother intended for me to die. Why did you deny me that?"
Kyner shakes his head, stunned. "I—I am a Christian. Each soul is precious to me. I saved you for Jesus."
"Jesus!" Arthor spins away and comes back, nostrils flaring. "Then you should have given me to one of your Christian thralls to rear. I'd have known no better. Why did you keep me for yourself?"
Kyner stares mutely, confused. "I found you. God placed you in my care."
"Then why don't you care for me?"
Softly he answers, "I do."
"By having me eat and sleep in the servants' barracks? By making me serve Cei?"
Kyner shakes off his bewilderment and declares, "You lack all humility. That is your sin, Arthor."
"Humility? I should be grateful to fight for you in battle and serve you and your household at home?"
"Yes!"
"But you reared me as a chieftain's son," he rejoins with an almost pleadful whine. "The same tutors who taught Cei taught me. The same priests who led Cei to Our Savior, led me. We visited the same courts with you. We prayed at the same shrines, conversed with the same philosophers. I am as well learned as any chieftain's son. Yet you and the others treat me as a vassal."
"Enough!" The chieftain slashes his hands between them and speaks in a loud voice: "Cei is my born son and a Celt. You are my found son and lucky to be alive at all. You should be grateful for the life you have instead of whining because you are unhappy with your station in life. I won't have it, do you hear me?"
Arthor steps back a pace, and his shoulders slump. "I have kept my silence in the past."
Kyner nods. "You have. I am disappointed now to learn that these are the thoughts you brood upon. You are an arrogant ingrate, Arthor. I am ashamed of you. Yet I am a Christian, and I believe in forgiveness."
Arthor hangs his head and glowers. "I do not ask your forgiveness."
"You do not need to," Kyner says in a strict voice. "I forgive you anyway. You are my found son. Nothing can change that. God has bound us, and your bitterness cannot separate us."
Arthor peers up at the latticed shadows among the rafters. When he lowers his gaze, his broad face stares quietly, almost drowsily, at his stepfather. "You have treated me well, Kyner, for what I am. I will do as you say and return the hostage to his tribe."
"Good." The chieftain huffs with relief. "This is important to me, to the whole clan. You know who that hostage is. He has served us well by forcing his deadly father to inform on other Saxon tribes. Many of our people's lives have been spared, because we used this murderer wisely. Now, it is midsummer, and we must return him as we agreed. He must be returned—whole—before Aelle leaves our kingdom. That is why I need you to do this. I know you will get him to Aelle safely. I cannot say the same for Cei. Much as I love him, he is not half the warrior you are. And if we fail to return Aelle’s son—if he is hurt or killed—Aelle's fury will be unappeasable. Do you understand? This mission is vital to the well-being of our people. Many lives are at risk. You must not fail."
The outpouring of a lifetime of rage has left Arthor feeling as soaked in solitude as a stone, and he speaks numbly, "Perhaps, then, you should return him yourself."
Kyner's deeply seamed face darkens. "If I did not have the entire clan in my care on the journey ahead, I would. Aelle is not to be misjudged, and I am wary about sending even you. But you are my iron hammer, Arthor. For all your wrath and cruelty, I have learned to rely on you in the fury of battle when a man's mettle most clearly defines him. You can be trusted."
"I will do as you say, lord." Arthor speaks woodenly. "I will return the hostage to his tribe. But I will not meet you at Camelot. And I will not return to White Thorn—or ever again to the clan."
Kyner shakes his head with such adamancy it barely moves. "You will return."
"No. I will make my own way in the world. I will be my own master."
"You speak from impudence, Arthor."
"I speak from what I am."
Kyner practically snarls. "You are insolent. I say you will return. And you will."
Arthor's eyes harden. "I will not."
Kyner puts his big hands on Arthor's shoulders and, unable to restrain himself anymore, shakes Arthor so hard that the boy's jaws clack.
Arthor's arms shoot up between them, knocking Kyner's wrathful hands away, and he shouts, "Go ahead then, strike me!" He pushes at Kyner's bulky mass but doesn't budge him. "Come on, old man!" He shoves harder at the immense, squat, and deadly warrior.
Ringing a silver note from the scabbard, Kyner's sword emerges. "I will not strike you," he whispers, and turns the broad blade of the Bulgar saber between them.
Arthor's stare winces at the sight of Short-Life unsheathed before him, rays of reflected light like quartz vertices in the air. His jaw sags, and his legs feel like smoke. His sudden fear makes his anger flare even hotter, and he says in words that rise from far inside his burning chest, "Then kill me."
"I am not going to kill you," Kyner speaks gently. "Take this."
A rival heartbeat knocks from somewhere behind Arthor's eyes, so loud he is not sure he has heard the old man. "What?"
"Take it." Kyner grabs Arthor's limp hand and forcibly places Short-Life in his grip, squeezing his fist until the boy's grasp takes hold.
"What are you doing?" Confusion drains all anger into sudden cold.
"I am giving you Short-Life," Kyner answers, "to protect you on your journey—and to assure that you return."
Arthor gives his stepfather a smoldering look. "I don't want your sword. I don't want anything more of yours."
"You are worthy of this blade," Kyner says
, removing his sword strap and scabbard and bending to secure them around Arthor's waist.
The young man swipes the chieftain's hands away. "Keep your sword, Kyner. I have my own."
"Not like this one," Kyner says, grabbing the boy's arm and holding it up so that the broad blade is close to their faces. "Look at it, boy. It has the heft to cut through bone. You'll be alone out there in the wild woods. Alone with wolves and roving gangs. You'll want a strong sword, one that won't break against any shield. Take it!"
Arthor stands still, numb with rage, as Kyner secures the scabbard strap about his waist. "You'll never see this sword again, old man."
Kyner snaps the clasp into place and straightens. "I've had this sword since I was your age. I won it in battle on the Catalaunian Plains in Gaul when the Christian Celts fought with the Visigoths and the Roman troops of Flavius Aetius against Attila and his Huns. It is my battle-soul. It will protect you."
"I will protect myself." Arthor extends the sword haft toward his stepfather. "Keep your battle-soul."
"I will keep it," Kyner says, "in your hands. Return it to me at Camelot when your mission is done."
Arthor grits his teeth so tightly his jaws pulse. "So be it then." He glares at the sword in his hand, the fire of opal in its steel shining hard in his eyes, and he slams the blade into its scabbard. "Short-Life goes with me—and you'll not see this saber again."
"I will see it again," Kyner replies with certainty, saying directly into the boy's golden eyes, slowly and forcefully, "I will see it again, because you will return it to me at Camelot. You will obey me—because you are my son."
"I—I—" Arthor stammers, flaring with anger. "I am not your son, Kyner. Have you heard nothing I've said?"
"You rage against life." Kyner, veteran of fifty years of murderous battles, shrugs the pain away. "How can I blame you? You are right to want better for yourself. I want to give that to you. I want to give you peace. But this battle-sword is all I have for you."
Arthor feels all the angry words that he could say burgeoning inside him with a dull roar. He clamps his jaw tightly, determined to say no more. He will simply go—and not come back. That determination calms him, and he turns and stalks out of the church into the summer morning.
"Aelle awaits you in the oak forest north of Hammer's Throw," the chieftain instructs as easily as though no fury had passed between them. He describes the best routes across the countryside as they traverse the range toward the waiting caravan.
Cei has already mounted and waits at the head of the cortege, staring in smug satisfaction at Arthor's grim face—till he notices Short-Life at the foundling's side, and his features pale in surprise.
Fen also sits mounted, hands bound, staring up into the alders. The dark diamonds of his eyes watch bees swagger on the breeze and clouds traveling in silence on the paths of dream. Then he spies Arthor. Raptly, he observes the tall youth with the broad shoulders and lion's breadth of bone between his long, amber eyes. When their gazes meet under the trees, shadows pause.
"Return his son to Aelle, and our agreement with the Thunderers is complete," Kyner tells Arthor. "The Saxon warlord has sworn a blood oath that you will be respected and left unharmed. Be wary, Arthor. I do not need to tell you of the treacheries of our enemies."
Arthor looks away from the Saxon's blue stare, and the breeze stirs again, glimmering through the branches with emeralds and topazes.
Thralls bring the horses of the chieftain and his son. Hung from the saddle of Arthor's palfrey is his helmet, his shield with the Virgin's image, and his sword. He removes the sheathed weapon and passes it to Kyner. "Here. By this, remember I was once your ward." When Kyner takes the weapon, Arthor turns away quickly, mounts, and stares down coldly at the old warrior. "The hostage will be returned. I swear that before the Blessed Mother. I swear that—and nothing more."
Kyner steps back. "Go with God, Arthor. We will meet again in Camelot."
Arthor shakes his head ruefully and rides off, turning slightly only to be sure that Fen follows.
Kyner holds up Arthor's sword in its scabbard and watches sadly as the young man and his hostage ride out of White Thorn. "Go with God, Arthor," he says again, soft as a prayer.
Chapter 9: The Viper-Priest
Melania feels as fluid as poured water. The lamia possess her—and she possesses them. Released from their black silver urn by the wildwood gang who have ambushed her, the lamia would have ripped her flesh from her skeleton had she not grasped the guardian band in the same instant that they seized her. A moment sooner and she could have driven them back into the urn.
Now, they circle her like particles of fire. They chew on her but they cannot eat her because of the guardian band. But those mortals who get close enough, they shred, rip, tear into carrion.
She travels through the wild places, far from people. The lamia do not touch the animals. They prefer human flesh.
Even plagued by her demons, her brow wears a stamp of determination. She will find her ancestral treasure buried on the island of Britannia four centuries ago. And the gold will go back to Aquitania with her and buy the mercenaries she needs to save her estate. She will do this, no matter the lamia, no matter the pain.
The skin of her face shines with the gift of blood that the lamia cannot touch. They circle her angrily, arms folded around and through each other. The purple velour of their manes, the wet leather of their snouts smears in the air with their mad circling. Firepoints glint where they are and stiffen to shadows where they are not.
How long can they live without eating?
She wonders this but never finds out, for no matter how careful she is to stay in the forests and on the high trails, people find her. Sometimes they are drovers searching for their cattle. She gallops from them, bends low over her horse's withers, and covers her ears—and still she hears their screams. Sometimes they are brigands stalking her. Then she stops her horse and simply watches as the lamia yank the leering faces from their skulls.
Many times she has tried to drive the lamia back into the urn. She has held the container by its sphinx handles and scooped the air where they glitter, but they swirl away. When she brandishes the lodestone knife that can kill them, they hide in her hair and lick the salt from her neck.
This hurts her, because it draws the salt from her blood. It makes her head pound and her flesh slick and feverish. To stop them, she bangs the knife against the silver serpents of the urn. Disturbed, they fly off a short way and glower at her. One sits in a tree branch, wings folded, furious-looking as an eagle or the bronze eidolon on a Roman consul's staff. The other writhes in the dirt, flat as a shadow but dazzling with hues—vermilion, gold, green, striped like a zebra, freckled like a leopard.
Melania lives off summer—eating berries and nuts, drinking stream water. With the ease of smoke, she moves from day to day, always northward, seeking her treasure.
To cross the channel to Britannia, Melania rides along the bluffs above the rocky coast until she locates a fishing village. And she waits. She will not endanger the people. At night, she leaves her horse in exchange for a small boat and rows out under the star-wrinkled night before hoisting the craft's single sail.
Melania abandons the boat in Britain on a cliffside beach under dragon's-tail clouds and a fiery dawn. All she takes with her are her shabby clothes and the weapons she needs to control the lamia— the empty urn, the magnetic dagger, and the silver throat band that keeps the lamia, who have already penetrated her aura, from possessing her flesh.
The lamia beat at her eggskull. They want to kill her. Only the guardian band dims their strength. All they can do is hurt her. To mute the pain, she chews willow bark and poplar roots as her great-grandmother taught her, and doggedly walks north and west toward the inter-fingering hills that hide her treasure.
Lithe as a flame, Melania scampers through primordial forests. The lamia, for all their hurting, charge her with a peculiar lightness. She partakes of their energy. When they kill, sh
e is stronger. Yet, she despises this strength. She wants no innocent blood on her hands, and she ignores the sulfurous headaches and stays away from the hamlets and the wet, mulchy smell of turned earth.
When she reaches the place of hidden treasure in an oak grove outside the black stone walls that enclose the City of the Legions, she is exhausted. The lamia have not eaten since she arrived on the island. Someone must die for her to carry the strength that will easily budge the stones and the black earth hiding her gold.
But she will not visit the City of the Legions. She will not walk the rutted dirt roads. Bewitched by the painful hungers of the lamia, she digs slowly with her bare hands. When sheep bells tinkle, she flees into the forest and waits for the shepherd to pass. The lamia seethe, too weak to hurt her more than she can bear.
Five days later, Melania completes her digging and finds the treasure cache—empty. Her heart's small immensity nearly explodes with grief.
She stares at the empty socket under the lisping oaks and stares and stares until the details take on magical intensity: the tree roots flare like wicks. The stones are not dead.
The wizard Merlin took the gold coins from our grasp seventeen summers ago. The lamia make the stones speak in a voice like bending iron. The gold bought greatness for the Aurelianus brothers. And with greatness came death. There is no more.
The voice of the unsayable passes. Melania's hands clutch at the gold pieces of sunlight let down by the leafy canopy. The lamia laugh, hungry and sick.
Melania pulls the lode-knife from her belt, and the lamia press close to her skin, hot and prickly, and they beg her to stab at them. Her hand wavers. If she slays herself, the lamia will spurt free of the guardian band's hold. They will range across the countryside, ripping the hearts from young children, their favorite delicacy.
She puts the knife away and staggers into the forest, bound for nowhere. Sluggish as freezing water, her movements catch on everything around her—her hair and clothes snaggle among brambles, and her mind glares blank as snow. In the night, she hunkers over the urn and watches it glow green. The braided snakes on the orphic egg slither.
The Eagle and the Sword (The Perilous Order of Camelot Book 2) Page 10