For Camelot's Honor

by Sarah Zettel

  “Mother …” How to ask? It might be better to just let it be, but she couldn’t. They had to spend the night here. She needed to know where she was, and with whom. “Mother, are you a seer?”

  “Mother Morwith is many things.” The old woman grinned her leering, gap-toothed grin. “As are you, I think, my girl.”

  Elen looked into the depths of her cup. The liquid was black, with only the barest reflection of the firelight flickering across its surface. “More than I would be if I had my way.”

  “And you think it is the High King who can bring you relief from all these things, hmmm, my girl?”

  Elen found she was completely prepared to hear Mother Morwith speak of her destination. Prophecy was all around her, and magic. She smelled it in the smoke and felt it in the touch of the shadows. “It was his embassy that brought this down. It is his duty to revenge the wrong done.”

  “Are you sure? Are you sure there is no one closer at hand?”

  Elen paused. Her insides felt cold and hard, as if her bones had turned to iron. She dared look in the woman’s eyes, her black, deep, youthful eyes. She knew if she chose, she could see many things in those eyes. Looking in those eyes would be like scrying in a forest pool. They reached for her, compelling her to come close. But Elen did not move. She was stone, she was iron. She would not be called or culled so easily.

  “Do you say there is such a one?” Elen asked quietly.

  Mother Morwith nodded once, not in answer, it seemed, but in satisfaction that Elen remained unmoved. “Perhaps. It would depend.”

  Careful, careful, Elen’s heart warned her. This is a place where words can bind. This woman could be anyone, any of the gods, any of the spirits. She might even be one of the dead. Be very, very careful.

  Elen set her cup aside. The click of wood against wood sounded very loud.

  “Upon what would it depend, Grandmother?” She suddenly felt no desire to speak the woman’s name, nor to call her ‘mother.’ It was a false name, a disguise. She would not give it any more substance than it already had.

  “On many things,” said her hostess archly. “On loyalty, on price, on promises.”

  “Whose loyalty?” shot back Elen. “What price and which promises?”

  “Oh, that too depends, my girl.” The crone smiled. “That depends very much indeed.”

  Elen felt her head begin to ache. She was fast becoming tired. Her reserves of strength were still very low, and she wanted nothing more than to stretch out on this dirt floor with only her cloak for blanket and pillow and fall into sleep, blessed, blessed sleep.

  “Grandmother,” she said, pulling her cloak more tightly around herself, as if the thick wool could fend off the touch of the shadows. “If you offer me help, I thank you, deeply and from the bottom of my heart. But I cannot make any promises until my journey is complete.”

  The old woman shook her head slowly. “Arthur will not hear you.”

  “I will make him hear,” answered Elen evenly.

  “He will not hear you,” Mother Morwith said again. “For you, his hall is as far away as the stars. Your voice will not reach his ears.”

  Elen swallowed. How can you know? How can you even believe you know such a thing? What are you? “Do you speak prophecy to me, Grandmother?”

  “I speak truth, daughter, and you know that I do.”

  “Then tell me, Grandmother, what would you have me do?” Elen threw her arms out wide. “My mother’s blood stains my skin even now. I have no strong friends to whom I can take my blood feud. What am I to do but go to the enemies of my enemy?”

  At this, Mother Morwith only smiled. “You do have friends,” she said softly, certainly. “Old friends, strong friends. Friends of well and hill, twilight and moonrise. You know them. You could turn to them.”

  The darkness wrapped around her. Elen felt it at her back, reaching around her throat. It would bind her tight if she did not move soon. She bowed her head, trying to make herself smaller. “My curses are weak as ashes.”

  “No.” She spoke the word mildly, perhaps a bit reprovingly. “Urien has powerful protection, that is all. But there are ways around it. You could learn.”

  Elen lifted her head and felt her mouth tighten into a mirthless smile. “Who would teach me? You?”

  But the old woman with her young black eyes smiled back more kindly, and more wisely. “Perhaps.”

  She meant it. Elen could feel that with every heartbeat. “Would you teach me the death of Urien? Would you teach me the rebuilding of my home?”

  “I would teach you power, and the use of it,” the woman answered. “I would teach you the rightful destiny of yourself, your land and the people of your land.”

  Elen stared into those young, black eyes in the old, old face. Power again, power to twist sight and sound, power to do so much more. Real power, such as she saw in her mother a few times in her life, such as she knew lay asleep in her blood, waiting for knowledge and for need. There was a name for the power which she saw, and perhaps she could even find it if she looked hard. But could she grasp its hand? Could she accept what this woman promised and bide her time for her revenge?

  Could she abandon Yestin to his own fate? Yestin and all the others who survived in the cold hills, or in the fetters of slavery?

  No. “Grandmother, I do not want destiny. I do not want truth or power or hidden friends. I want Urien to die and I want to reclaim my home and bury my family.”

  Mother Morwith drew back. The shadows gathered about her, blurring the lines of her body. “Beware, Elen, Adara’s daughter. You are walking on the edge of the precipice. Put your foot wrong now and you will plummet from that height and it is your death you will be taught.”

  Elen stood. “Grandmother, I thank you for your offer. But I am young, and my hate burns hot. I will go to Arthur. I will make him hear me. Perhaps you are right, perhaps he will not listen. If he turns his back on me, then will I come back to you, and learn all you have to teach so that I can tear down Camelot and use its stones to make Urien’s cairn.” She spoke without anger, only with deadly certainty.

  “There are doors that cannot be entered twice, Elen. You should know this. Turn away this hospitality, and you turn away the days that might have been yours.”

  The air thickened as the woman spoke, growing close and hard to breathe. Fear took hold of Elen’s heart, damping down the fire of anger. The black eyes watched her, waiting. They were filled with power, those eyes, and promises yet ungiven.

  The next thing I do will be the true thing, thought Elen over the pounding of her heart filled her ears. If I do not relent, I will be lost.

  So be it. “Grandmother, I thank you for your words of caution, for the food and shelter you have offered me, but I will go.”

  “No,” said the old woman. “You will not.”

  She straightened and the shawl slid from her shoulders. As it slithered to the floor, the disguise fell away, and the shrunken old woman grew tall. Her white hair turned black. Her face grew round and fresh, not young, but not so old either. Only her eyes did not change.

  Elen’s throat closed shut around her breath. She stumbled backwards, raising her hand automatically, making the old sign to avert ill-will.

  The woman smiled. “Oh, Elen, I would have taught you far better than that.”

  Her eyes glittered and she stretched out her hand. Elen could go back no further. It was as if her back pressed against a stone wall.

  The woman crooked her fingers. “Come here.”

  Elen moved, without thought or hesitation. She stood before the woman, her heart pounding with fear, the blood roaring in her veins, and she was unable to move, unable even to scream.

  “Now, then.” She looked Elen up and down, measuring her as if she were fitting a garment. “What shall we do with one who will not listen to those who are wiser than she?”

  Who are you? The question battered at Elen’s frantic mind. What are you?

  This younger woman tapped her
chin just as the old woman had done, making a great show of considering. Elen pushed at the boundaries of her own mind, trying to force her will to her limbs, to her throat. Who are you?

  A memory flickered through the storm of her thoughts. Mother sitting by the fire, Elen at her side, Bevan was playing the harp softly, singing, no reciting …

  “And Morgaine the black-eyed goddess spoke, and she said “My curse be on him then, and he shall be brought low at my word …”

  Morgaine? Was this she? Morgan the Fae? But she dwelt far in the mountains to the north, up past the Beautiful Lake. What would bring her down here?

  Arthur, and the threat of Arthur coming, crossing the bridge Pont Cymryd held.

  “I think you must be taught obedience, Elen.”

  I think you know what I have been taught. Desperate in her fear and her anger, Elen dug deep into her mind for the formulas her mother had taught her. Morgaine. Morgaine. I deny you. Morgaine, your eye shall no more light on me. Morgaine, your will shall no more hold onto me.

  Elen felt her tongue loosen. She had it. This was Morgaine before her and her name had power, even here, even now. Elen gathered her will and wits, and put all the force of her fear into her words.

  Morgaine opened her mouth and lifted her hand.

  “Morgaine!” Elen whispered. “I avert your will! I break your word. By the white mare and the raven, I defy you, Morgaine!”

  She could move. She could think. She could run and she did. She fled into the night, away from Morgaine’s black eyes and the power of her voice.

  “Madyn! Madyn!” she screamed.

  But Madyn did not come.

  There was just enough moonlight to show her the gate in the rickety fence. Elen grabbed up her hems in one hand and ran, heart pounding, ears singing. She had to get away, get beyond the circle of the fence. It marked a boundary of power, she was sure. She had to get to Madyn and the ponies. His knife was steel, it would cut through the boundary …

  A wall of blackness reared up in front of her. Elen fell back, throwing her hands up. The wall became a man who swept his foot forward and kicked her legs out from under her. Elen fell to the ground, rolled and scrambled frantically to get out of the way, but moonlight flashed on steel. The man had drawn a sword, and he circled her easily, daring her to try to run past him.

  Then she saw his face and her breath froze in her lungs.

  Urien.

  Urien, whole and unharmed stood before her, his teeth bared, flashing like the blade of his sword as he laughed. “Why are you so surprised to see me, Elen? I was expecting you,” he said mildly as he lifted his arm to sheath the sword. Moonlight flashed on gold, and Elen’s heart clenched tight.

  That was Yestin’s sword he held. Not the bright gift, but the older blade. Their father’s blade. The one he had been wearing when she left him, that he would never give up unless, unless …

  “Ah, so you’ve taken care of the cubling then, my lord.”

  Lord? Shaking, Elen got to her feet. Morgaine glided across the yard to stand at Urien’s side. Oh, by all the gods! Urien’s unknown lady was Morgaine? Elen’s mind reeled. Taken care of the cubling … he carried Yestin’s sword ….

  “Did you truly think I would let you leave here?” Morgaine asked coldly. Elen could not clearly see her face. The sorceress was a shadow that spoke like a queen. “After you offered to give a foothold in these my lands to my enemies? After you struck my lover down?”

  Elen’s heart hammered against her ribs. Her mind screamed her brother’s name. It occurred to her, distantly, that Madyn must be dead as well. He’d come to protect her, and she’d brought him to his death. Her eyes darted left then right, searching for some route of escape, but there was none. Morgaine’s house was at her back. Urien and his stolen sword were before her. All she had were her bare hands, and she could barely see which way to go.

  “You betrayed me,” she whispered hoarsely to the sorceress. “I was your guest. I ate your bread and salt, and you deliver me to my enemy.”

  Morgaine’s face hardened, and she made no answer, but neither did she make any move.

  Elen swallowed and tried to slow her heart beat. It was but a moment to come, after all. Only a crossing. “Kill me then,” she said, and her voice was harsh. “Let my life’s blood flow and know I will curse you both with my dying breath for the murder you’ve done.” Murder of my mother, murder of my brother. Oh, Yestin!

  “No, little girl,” said Morgaine smoothly. “I have said you will learn obedience, and it shall be so.”

  Morgaine held out her hand to Urien, and Urien drew Yestin’s sword, handing its hilt to the sorceress. She raised the blade high. Elen staggered backward, lifting her own hand to ward off whatever blow was to come. Morgaine was before her in a single stride. The sorceress knocked her feeble gesture aside and tapped Elen’s forehead with the sword hilt. Elen collapsed to the ground as if she had been struck a mighty blow. She huddled, dazed, on the cold earth while Morgaine and Urien towered over her. Morgaine began to sing. Her voice was high and eerie in the moonlight, calling out across the whole of the land in some language Elen could not understand. Despite that, the words cut straight through her, pinning her to the ground, robbing her blood and heart of all strength, leaving only water and dust and fear inside her.

  A high, keening cry sounded over Morgaine’s song and the sorceress lifted her wrist. A merlin hawk, a bird that should not have flown at all in night’s darkness, lighted easily on her naked wrist, fluffing its feathers, waiting her word.

  Morgaine’s song grew low and crooning. She set the bird on her shoulder. Its talons must have pierced her skin, but if there was pain, she gave no sign. The bird sat on its living perch, still and patient.

  Morgaine raised the silver blade. Swiftly, she stabbed downward.

  The sword plunged into Elen’s breast, and pain cut through the whole of her soul. Elen screamed, for fear, for pain, for death, for the blood pouring hot and red from her riven body she screamed.

  “Hush, child,” Morgaine bent over her, laying the gory sword aside. “It is but the work of a moment.”

  She laid her long fingers against Elen’s mouth and Elen could scream no more. Throat and breath were frozen. She could only feel the burning pain, the pouring blood. She could only watch as Morgaine took that same hand and reached into the gaping wound, and pulled Elen’s heart free.

  She held it up to the moonlight for a moment, red and beating in her hand. Elen’s mind swirled and tried to swoon, but Morgaine’s workings denied her even that release. There was only the pain and the horror. Her heart, her heart beat in the sorceress’s hands. She did not die, she should die, she could not live, it was too much, too much pain, too much fear …

  With a word, Morgaine coaxed the hawk from her shoulder. Gently, lovingly, she pressed Elen’s heart against its feathered breast, and the bird’s body absorbed Elen’s heart into itself, and left not even a trace of blood to show what had been done.

  At that same moment, Elen felt her own wound close, her flesh and bone reforming, melding back into their proper configuration. The pain ebbed away, leaving only a hollowness in the center of her chest and a weak, dry feeling, as if she were waking from a long illness.

  “Sit up,” said Morgaine.

  Elen sat up. She did it without thinking.

  “Kneel.”

  Elen knelt, again without thinking. The words went to the hollow place where her heart used to be, and from there to blood and sinew, to will and soul. It was imperative that she kneel. The touch of the hard ground was a blessing, for it was the place she must be. Her hands must be crossed just so. Each finger had to lay exactly in her lap.

  “I am giving you this hawk, my lord,” said Morgaine over her head. “As you have seen, it holds the little girl’s heart. Whosoever is its master, is hers. She will do whatever he bids her do.”

  To hear her doom spoken so clearly sent a fresh shaft of fear through Elen’s distracted mind. Her head lifted itself
, and for a moment she was afraid she might begin to plead with them.

  Urien held the hawk now on his naked hand. As Elen looked at it, it seemed to her she could hear the sound of its heart, her heart, beating in its breast. It beat fast and light, like the sound of a drum played for dancing. It called for her. She wanted to reach for it, but that would be wrong. She must kneel. She must reach for her heart. The twin needs clutched her so tightly it felt as if she would be torn in two.

  Urien stroked the hawk’s neck. The bird’s ruffled feathers settled, and Elen felt the tension in her own shoulders ease. She had not thought there could be any new horror to this, but now the ache of it overtook her, for Urien’s touch soothed the hawk, and it soothed her as well.

  Her mouth moved. “Let me die,” she heard herself whisper. “I will die silent. There will be no curse. Let me die.”

  Urien sighed. “Believe what you will, but I am sorry things must come to this. Yours was a proud house and I would have taken your mother willingly as friend and ally. Alas, it was not to be and I could not permit her to endanger us all. Perhaps in time you will come to understand this.

  “In the meantime, however, you are of use to me. Marriage to you is a good for barter I cannot waste. But I agree with my lady, first you must learn to obey.

  “Wait.”

  With that word, Elen’s eyes were drawn to the earth. She saw that the silvered grass was fascinating in its perfection, each blade limned with moonlight, sheltering the bare patches of earth that could be seen as pure darkness, turning the whole into a vast and complex puzzle to fill the mind. The hawk had dropped a small feather and it lay over the grass, white and black in the darkness. What color would it be when morning came? She must wait to see. She must wait forever. It was right. It was good.

  She heard the footsteps as Morgaine and Urien left her. She heard the hawk creel softly and a wail escaped her own throat, but she did not move. To move would be anathema. How could she move away from the perfection of the grass in front of her? The way this blade slanted, and that blade had been kink ed. There was a message there, for her alone, and she must understand it. If she could only understand the runes written in the grass, then all things would become clear. She must wait and understand.