by Sarah Zettel
Elen’s stomach turned at the thought of the pain such branding must have caused.
Geraint did not pause for such matters. He drew his knife and held it to the man’s cheek, right below his ear. “I have no time for quizzing. I know not whether you are mortal man, but I know you can be hurt. Tell me who you serve, or you will have much more to regret than the pain in your arm.”
There was no menace in Geraint as he spoke these words, only cold promise. Elen swallowed, but held the spear still. She thought she could feel the man’s heartbeat making the shaft quiver like a harpstring. She gripped it tight and grit her teeth.
The captive ran his tongue over his lips. “My king is the lord of the hidden country and the narrow way. If you know him not, you will soon. You should fear the Great King.”
“Names and riddles again,” muttered Geraint. He looked to Elen. “Whoever he is, their lord will soon know what has happened here. I lost this one’s captain.”
Elen could only shake her head. “He knew before we were coming Geraint. This was all a ruse.” She risked a glance away from their captive. The last of the fog had lifted, and now she could see the empty meadow. The cottages and burnt fields had vanished with the mists, leaving behind only the tall grass, the silent lake, and a fringe of young forest. Elen was not surprised. “The old ones were here to make sure we stopped. These two were sent to make sure we went no farther.”
“I know,” said Geraint ruefully.
“You saw?” It was as she was walking with the old woman that Elen had seen what was amiss. The illusion had been complete, except the brightening day showed no shadow under the woman’s feet.
“Not soon enough,” muttered Geraint ruefully. He pressed the edge of his knife more closely to the flesh of their captive. “You spoke of the Great King, villain. Do you know the one called the Little King?”
This man between them was more than mist and expectation. Perspiration sprang out on his face. Yes, he feared both spear and knife.
The captive made to shake his head, but stopped as he felt the movement brush skin against blade. Then he smiled, a death’s head grin.
“Kill me, then,” he said. “My king will raise me up whole and perfect again.”
Geraint pulled his head back, for the first time showing surprise. “You are a Christian knight?”
Horse Helm laughed, and there was a high edge to the sound. “I spit on your weak Christ. He swears some strange future day of fantastical beasts shall come and then you shall rise from ashes. My king will raise me up before I am even laid in the grave.”
The sealed knot on his brow seemed to glow whitely in Elen’s sight as he spoke these words, and cold worry settled over her mind. Geraint’s brows knit tightly together, but rather than try to answer this boast, he looked up at Elen.
“Elen,” said Geraint without looking up or letting his knife stir from its place. “Can your gifts make him speak?”
Elen considered. There were rumors, things her mother had spoken of late at night, of magics that were grey and black and had more than a little poison in their purposes. There was too the second of the three gifts mother’s spirit had bestowed on her. “It can be done.” If it must.
This declaration took all the boast from their captive and the blood drained from his face, leaving him pale. “No,” he whispered. “You cannot make me.” But that was spoken in hope, not in belief and his dark eyes were filling fast with fear.
Of his lord or my husband? She felt her eyes narrow. Both, and the Little King is a third. What warrior finds himself with so much to fear?
Geraint shrugged. “You will speak, villain, now or later, by pain or by enchantment.”
The captive’s eyes flickered from Geraint to Elen and back again. His jaw moved back and forth and in the silence of the day, Elen could hear his teeth grind together. “You would truly go to the country where the Little King dwells?”
“Yes.”
He clutched his arm more closely to his torso. Elen’s hands tightened their grip on his spear. “More fool you. I will show you the way.”
While Elen held the spear ready, Geraint relieved the captive of his arms and made him strip off his corslet. This, Geraint claimed along with the helmet and the grieves on his legs and guards on his arms. He dressed himself in the armor. The fit was tight for their captive was a slender man. For all that, Geraint seemed to relax a little more with each piece of armor he put on.
As if he’s found his own skin again.
Geraint belted on the captive’s sword. The grey cloak he offered to Elen, who accepted it gratefully and clasped it about her shoulders sinking into the warmth of the dry wool.
Geraint trussed the man’s good arm behind him with rope from the saddlebag while Elen rigged a sling with one of their precious bandages for the broken one. Geraint mounted Donatus and took up the spear as Elen passed it to him, and Elen knew that for the first time since the welcoming banquet she saw Geraint whole and complete. He was a knight, a warrior on horseback. She had not thought what it was to be deprived of the tools to which he was so much trained.
All the while Horse Helm watched them with his dark eyes and said not a word.
Elen sheathed Horse Helm’s knife at her waist and reclaimed Calonnau to her wrist, despite the bird’s shrill protests. She mounted the captive man’s dapple grey horse, which was of better blood than her little brown, and moreover had a real saddle. With Geraint levelling the spear at his back, Horse Helm trudged up the valley way. Elen rode behind, leading the spare horse and carrying Calonnau on her gauntleted wrist.
They came to the place where the hills bent and bulged, making a corner as neat as any on a highway built by men. The captive stopped there. He seemed to hesitate, but then he looked back at Geraint. To Elen’s surprise, a smile twisted on his lips. The captive leaned forward until his mouth was almost kissing the slope before him. He whispered a single word three times, and straightened.
With a sound like thunder, the hillside shuddered. The ground trembled. The horses screamed and danced. Calonnau screeched and tried to fly. Elen fought to keep her seat and some control over bird and horse.
The hill split open, a gaping black hole tearing through the wholesome green. A moment later, sunlight and warmth poured through the cleft, as through an open door.
Geraint looked back to Elen, silently asking if she were ready to do this, and Elen, who had crossed knowingly into the fae’s lands, found herself afraid. Premonition surged through her. There was danger beyond this doorway, danger of loss beyond death. She knew it and she could not keep that knowing from her eyes as she looked back at her husband.
There must be another way. They did not say this was the only way.
But there is no time to find another way.
So Elen nodded to show her readiness, and Geraint prodded their captive with the point of his spear. The man walked forward into the cleft, and Geraint followed him, and Elen followed her husband.
It was like walking through a ragged archway. It was dark and smelled of earth. The floor beneath them sloped down sharply, causing the horses to balk, and then step cautiously. Roots as thick as Elen’s thumb dangled overhead. Then, they stepped out into the fresh sunshine of a summer afternoon with a broad green meadow sloping down before them.
Behind them, without a sound, the passage slipped shut, leaving only the wild hillside.
Whatever this place was, there was no returning by that route.
The captive giggled. Elen’s head whipped around and she stared at him. He threw back his head and laughed to the sky, shaking in his mirth.
“You think you have come with open eyes,” he gasped. “You think yourselves wise and clever. You know nothing of my lord. You are his already and you know it not.” The man laughed even louder, and his laughter echoed off the hills.
Then, he was gone, melted away like ice, and the ropes they used to bind him fell on the ground in a useless heap.
Elen stared. Geraint made a gestu
re she had seen only rarely. He crossed himself.
“Are we in the place of the good neighbors?” he asked.
Elen shook her head. “There is the sun in the sky, and there are shadows around us.”
“Aye,” muttered Geraint. “That is the very truth.”
Elen smiled with dark amusement at the double meaning. “What would you that we do?”
Geraint sighed and scanned the way westward. “Will you send up Calonnau?” he asked. “Let us see what she sees.”
Elen nodded. Calonnau was itching to fly anyway, urged on by the sight of the clear sky after so long in the rain, and she was more than ready to spy out a wayward rabbit or pigeon. Elen wondered if she were moved by her hunger, or Elen’s own. It seemed it had been a hundred years since Elen had eaten a decent meal.
Whatever the reason, the hawk took gladly to the sky. Trees and meadows passed under her. She saw narrow vallies and ragged, stony hills. She saw red deer, and foxes, bears lumbering through glens, wolves sleeping the day away in their packs. She saw a stream of brown trout, and she saw a huddle of huts in the middle of cleared fields, but there was nothing in those fields better than mice.
With some difficulty, Elen pulled herself back from the hawk’s eyes.
“There’s a village,” said Elen. “Due west of here. A few hours ride, perhaps.”
Geraint glanced up at the sun. It was an hour past noon, perhaps two. Already Elen felt like it had been a whole day. She was weary and she was hungry. They’d had only bread since the morning and the beer was not going to last much longer, and these might be the least of their worries.
“And between there and here?” Geraint asked.
“Wilderness only.”
Geraint lapsed back into silence. Elen did not blame him. She did not like this place where a man of flesh and bone could vanish from in front of their eyes. She did not like ignoring the premonitions she felt so strongly.
Nervous, Elen tried to call Calonnau back to her, but the hawk had decided that if mice were what was nearest, mice would be enough. She dove and she struck, and the sickening delight coursed through Elen and she tasted blood and as she did, she realized what else she had seen and horror rocked her backwards.
The mouse, the creature Calonnau was even now tearing to bits, the mouse had no front paws. Rather, it had a human’s hands.
“Elen!” Geraint caught her, steadying her. “What is it?”
But Elen could not answer him. She pushed away, stumbling past the horses and was abruptly, violently sick. While she wretched, Calonnau finished her meal and launched herself again to look for fresh game.
Geraint knelt beside Elen, waiting for her spell to pass. He handed her a twist of grass to wipe her face. His eyes begged her to tell him what she had seen, and she did. Without a word, he folded her in his embrace.
“It is your heart within her, Elen,” he held her close. “Your heart.”
My heart but her desire. Elen swallowed. It does no good. Helplessness pooled inside her, but anger poured in behind it.
Call her back. Call her down. You can do this thing. It is your heart. Whatever has been done to you, you remain yourself. You are Adara’s daughter and you will not let your heart run wild.
She squeezed Geraint’s hands and stood. She raised her gauntleted wrist and stretched out her will. You will return. You will return now.
Anger surged through Calonnau. She fought, as she fought the jesses, but she wheeled on her wingtip, and soon Elen saw the hawk’s shape approaching from the bright blue sky. She landed heavily on the gauntlet and scolded as Elen caught up the jesses again.
Endure, she said silently to the hawk, using the word Geraint had used for her. I will find a way to free us both as soon as I can.
But such promises meant nothing to the wild creature before her, and Elen felt only Calonnau’s anger in return.
The light was dimming quickly. There was was no going further this day. They set their camp beside a broad stream. Geraint saw to the horses, removed most of his armor and took a thong, a crust of bread and a loop of fine wire worried out of her belt to try to catch them some fish. Elen could not bring herself to use Calonnau for hunting, not here, not now. She made a makeshift perch of Donatus’s high-sided saddle and lashed the jesses down. Calonnau grumbled, snapped and complained. Elen ignored her as best she could and went to kindle a fire.
Geraint was successful in his efforts and brought back three silver trout. One they gave to Calonnau who tore into it greedily. The remainder they cleaned and gutted and roasted on a flat stone. They were dull without salt, but they were filling and made a decent meal rounded out with the last of the bread and beer, and such fruits as Elen had been able to find on the bushes growing nearby on the hillside.
But even as she sat beside the fire, and picked at the last of her own meal, Elen felt Calonnau swallow the raw fish guts and felt their warmth and the satisfaction of them that was greater than even her own pleasure at the cooked food before her. Elen shuddered again. She turned away when she saw Geraint watching her. She did not want to see the growing distaste in him for the feelings she could not govern.
I should never have told him how it was. I should never have tried him so far so soon.
It seemed, however, she had misjudged the thoughts in his mind. Instead of pulling away, he reached out and touched her hand. “It is not easy, having a part of yourself over which there is no control,” he said carefully. “My father was a good man, but he could be brutal in war. Cold mad, some said. When mother … left us, he was driven more and more into that part of himself, until it was not just in battle that he was so mad.” His gaze drifted toward the sky. Gauging the weather, or simply not wanting to look at her? “When I held my knife to that man, I felt my father’s madness in myself. No matter whether he spoke or not, I wanted to cut him, I wanted him punished for my pain, and even more for yours.
“I do not take what you are lightly, Elen,” he said. “But nor am I ignorant of the power within to turn it aside.”
“You have none to blame for who you are,” she muttered. She was being churlish and she knew it. She did not wish to be so, but she was exhausted and frightened and she did not want to be either of those things either.
“Do I not?” murmured Geraint. “Had I neither father nor mother, nor brothers, nor aunt, nor uncle, what you say might be true. But I have all these things and more besides.”
“There is no one without blood or past, but I am under gaes, and I know not what compulsion may be laid on me next.” There was the root of the fear. There was what drove her to ask such a boon of him as she had in the morning. Was it only this morning?
“And yet even so, you freed yourself,” Geraint said gently. “Your heart that was taken from you is yours again. Your enemies are for the time confounded. No.” He stared straight ahead of him, remembering something long past. “I have heard the priests say otherwise, but I believe God always leaves a choice.” Then, very softly so that she barely heard him, he murmured. “I must believe.”
What does that mean, Geraint? she wondered, but she let him lapse into his silence. This was hard for him. It was a hard way to give comfort, to show weakness and worry. It went against pride. Yet he did this for her, to show how he understood.
“It is the fear that is worst,” she whispered. Honesty for honesty. It was the only way to repay him for what he now offered her. “I fear for myself, but also for you. What will I do to you, or cause you to have to do? You have already faced death to save me.”
Now he smiled, and it was his true, quiet smile that was so new and so familiar at the same time. “All I have done, I have chosen to do, and I choose gladly.” His expression turned to mocking pride. “If nothing else, the story I will have to tell when next I sit at the Round Table will earn me a verse from the poets, and such a one as not even Gawain’s name has been put to.” He put on a face of such stern and noble vanity that Elen laughed loud and long.
Elen watched him
as he settled back into his attitude of calm and serious study. She tried to imagine life with this man. She tried to imagine the years stretching ahead, the work, the sharing, children … but it was beyond her power. She could not even imagine the shape tomorrow would take. That pained her. She wanted to see that future, to have that premonition singing in her stilled blood, but it would not come.
“I wish you could have known my mother, Geraint,” she said suddenly. “I believe she would have liked you.”
“From what I saw that night, I know I would have liked her.”
“Your mother is gone?” she asked curiously.
Pain flickered across his face. “Yes.”
“I am sorry for it.”
“So am I.”
“And your father?”
“He lives,” Geraint sighed. “Though perhaps he should not.”
I should not press. It may be too much yet. There are years ahead for us to know one another. And yet … “What is his madness that you spoke of?”
“Many things, but the worst of it is murder.”
Elen’s tongue froze.
He watched the way straight ahead of him, seeing past the dark meadow and grasses waving in the night breeze, the approaching edge of the wood, and the steeply rising land. What his eyes looked on was black and bitter, and he spoke haltingly. “I had a sister once. She … there was a man, and then there was to be a babe. When she would not name who was the father, our father threw her from the ramparts of Din Eityn.”
“I am sorry, Geraint.” The words felt feather light. They would blow away without touching him at all.
“This is the blood that runs in me and my brothers,” he went on grimly. “We each one of us fight it as we can. Gawain, he became so noble, so proud, that the blood rage could never touch him. Gareth … he’s done it by denying our father, I think. He’s seized on another to show him how to be a man. I hope he’s been wise in his choice.” He shook his head. “And then, Agravain … He became cold and hard. I doubt not he’d take out his own heart if he could. But then, he’s the one of us who must go back there. When father dies, he’s the heir of Gododdin.”