by Sarah Zettel
Elen rubbed her arms, but it did no good. She was cold, inside and outside. Still, she did not make any move to return to the yard, much less the hall. She lingered in the damp and mist. She could breathe out here. She could see the sky and the land beneath it. She could not let herself be closed up in stone again. Not yet.
She paced beside the walls, breathing the fresh air deeply. Calonnau was sated now, and settled in some distant tree, viewing the land over with her sharp, predatory eyes. She would venture no further in the damp than she must. Elen found herself wishing the hawk would fly, so her mind could go with her. The illusion of freedom would be a fine thing now.
I am becoming used to this, she thought and worry settled heavily on her mind. How soon before I forget the way I used to be?
She did not know how long she stood there in the shadows, her mind swinging between that question and her fears for Geraint. She could order Calonnau to follow him, and watch where he went, but she was afraid of that as well. She was feared the more she made use of the hawk, the closer they would grow, and the harder it would be to remember that she wanted to be free.
“Lady Elen”
Elen jumped and turned. King Gwiffert stood beside her, a serving woman in tow. She carried a basket over her arm. The odor of fresh bread wafted from under its covering of rough cloth.
Elen swallowed, suddenly ravenously hungry. She began to kneel for formality, and the king stopped her with a gesture and nodded to the servant. She came forward and held the basket out at arm’s length to Elen with a respectful curtsey. Elen took it, and grateful she did not have to watch Gwiffert watching her, she gave all her attention to investigating its contents. There was fresh, warm bread, broken open and spread thick with new butter and honey. There were two winter apples, wrinkled and sweet, and a wedge of bright, white cheese.
“I had hoped if you would not break bread in my hall, you would consent eat in its shadow.”
Shame took hold. She could not have spoken disrespect more clearly than to have neglected to come to her host’s board.
“I am sorry, Majesty. I was … much distracted.”
He nodded, hearing what she had not said. “It is hard for one born in the open country to be so long in a house of stone.”
She smiled a little to hear her feelings so neatly described. “Forgive me.”
“There is no need.” The king returned her smile. “You will do me the favor of breaking your fast with me now.”
“Gladly, Majesty.”
Playing the role of hostess, Elen shared out the contents of the basket. If the bread was a little coarse, it was good and filling, and took the edge off of Elen’s cold. The apples were sweet, the cheese mild and refreshing. When they were finished, she gave the basket back to the serving woman, whom the king dismissed with a glance. When she had scurried off out of earshot, he rested his spear against his shoulder and looked up at the leaden sky.
“Where is your hawk?”
“She goes to hunt, Sir.” Elen said, trying to sound as if this were an everyday matter. She only just managed to keep her gaze from flickering toward the rooftop. “I cannot keep her sated with butchered meat for long.”
But despite her show of unconcern, Gwiffert’s eyes grew sharp and knowing. “Cannot keep yourself sated is what you mean, my lady,” he said softly.
Elen took an involuntary step backward. “No.”
But he shook his head, dismissing the word and the obvious lie behind it. “You are the one who longs for bloody death. And why not?” His words grew mocking now. “In every pigeon, every rabbit, there is your enemy.”
“Your Majesty judges me unfairly.” But he did not. That was a thing she had not been able to tell even Geraint. When Calonnau killed, when she felt the delight of the bones and the blood, she also felt her revenge completed, each and every time.
“I too have eyes, Sister.” A bright-edged chill filled King Gwiffert’s voice. No answer came to her, save the painful tightening of her wounded throat. The wind blew hard, and it was thick with the smell of rain.
“You learn to take refuge in silence, as does your man,” muttered Gwiffert. “How many sins such silence covers.”
He gripped the spear, his fist growing first red, then white. “You are bound to that hawk, and yet you will not speak of it to me. You come to my hall and eat my bread and offer deception in return.” This was what lay behind his offer of food. He knew it would shame her all the more to hear this charge so soon after she had broken bread with him. It was a wonder he’d brought no salt.
“No, Majesty, it is not so.” When did you learn this? she wondered. Why did you not speak last night?
Where did your sight take you after I left you?
There was no way to ask any of these questions.
“Not so?” repeated the king, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Then why will you not speak of your nature?” The question was sharp, and the accusation deserved. The fate of King Gwiffert and his folk hung in her hands as well as Geraint’s. He knew now that she was no natural thing, and it was not she who had not told him so.
This place does not know all our secrets. Her own words came back to her and her cold deepened. Was I wrong? He had gifts of sight, this little king. How much did he see? How well and how often?
But then, what man harboring two such strangers at such a time and such a place would not look to see what they were?
Around them, the mists were lifting. The sun’s warmth penetrated the clouds, burning away the fog of morning. Overhead, the guards called the all clear to each other. The king waited, twisting his spear where it rested on his shoulder, rolling it back and forth. Words came to Elen, slowly, haltingly. “It is not a thing of which I may speak easily. It was nothing I sought, but was forced on me by my enemies.”
Gwiffert nodded slowly, his face still grim. It came to Elen that he knew this much. He had wanted to see if she would lie. “And who are these enemies? You do not speak their names.”
“No.” Why do I not? Why not proclaim them far and wide? The answer came to her almost at once. Because I do not want this man to know more of me than he must.
But why? This time there was no answer. Her wrist hurt. Her throat hurt. Her head was beginning to ache. But why?
She shook herself. The king was waiting. She had been revealed. Honesty was the only defence remaining. “They are Urien the Bull and Morgaine the Sleepless, she who is also called Morgan the Fae.”
Surprise slackened Gwiffert’s face. “Morgaine? Morgaine did this thing to you?”
Elen nodded. “And more. I beg you,” the pleading word tasted strange on her tongue, but she spoke it regardless. “Do not ask me to tell you of that.”
“No … no …” he fell silent. “Morgaine,” he whispered the name now. He rested the spear on the toe of his boot. His hands turned its shaft between them, twisting it tightly.
“What do you know of Morgaine?”
“What does anyone truly know of Morgaine?” he shrugged, straightening and returning the spear to the crook of his arm. “I have seen her, and I have heard her. It is because I crossed her will that I am trapped here.”
“You crossed Morgaine?”
He laughed grimly. “Oh yes. The first of my many mistakes.”
She waited, her tongue pressed tightly against her teeth. The noises from the yard seemed suddenly very loud. She wanted to ask, but she could not ask. She must wait. If he wished to tell her, he would. She could not question her host to his shame. That bold she could not be.
The Little King kicked at the dirt with his boot heel, looking very young, even as he had standing in the moonlit garden. “How should I tell this story?” he mused. “Were I a bard, I would speak the tale of the coming of the king most fair. I would say it was when his father died, that Morgaine came the night after he had helped raise that king’s cairn and his hands were still raw from that work. A storm was rising, and she came. I would say he thought of ravens when he looked on her with her blac
k cloak and black hair … She said to that young boy that his father had made a bargain with her. She said that he had sworn that on the day of his death, she would have a levy of certain treasures that had come from old Rome. For the protection she had given his house, she said, but she would not say what that protection was.” He scowled at the ground, seeing the sorceress as she stood before him then, perhaps, perhaps seeing himself as he stood before her.
“And I would say how that foolish boy denied her.”
Elen said nothing. Neither did Gwiffert for a long time. It came to Elen that he was retreating from that youth whom he had seen so clearly in his memory, trying to remember again that he was man and king. “Oh yes, that new-made king was young and was lost in arrogance. Once he had spoken his folly, Morgaine said, ‘If you will not give it to me, you and all your house will vanish from the world.’”
Vanish from the world. Into this other world with its own hills and vallies and Grey Men. “This is her curse, then?”
“Her curse that brings the king to the Little Country.” He laughed once. “Her allies, you see, are not of the mortal world. It was after she said this that Jago began his wars. Perhaps he was hers too.”
“Why so …” but the rest of the question died away. She had meant to ask ‘why so terrible a vengeance for so small a thing? Why no bargain?’ The flash of the sword’s blade in the moonlight, the fury in Morgain’s eyes as she pronounced her sentence, these things were clear before her mind’s eye. Why so terrible a vengeance for so small a thing? Because to Morgaine, no denial of her will would be a small thing.
“Do you fear us?” she asked, wrapping her cloak more closely around her. “Now that you know we too come from Morgaine?”
“No more than before. If anything, it is good to know we have a common enemy.” He sighed. His fingers drummed the spear’s shaft gently. “And you may fear me not, Sister,” he said, his words soft but steady. “I made my promise to your man and I will keep it.”
The wind blew cool and heavy around them. Overhead, the sentries walked their narrow way. The shadow of the wall withdrew, just a little before the sun as it rose higher behind the clouds, and Gwiffert gazed down the green slope to the distant trees. Bees buzzed unconcerned among the clover flowers. Guards stood on watch while the men and women worked the terraced fields. All of them waited for the next attack and feared the direction from which it would come, including the king beside her.
“You will keep your promise, but you do not trust the one you gave it to,” said Elen, and she felt that this was the truth.
Gwiffert sighed. “No,” he admitted. “However much I want to. There are … there is …” he frowned. “How long are you and your man married?” he asked abruptly.
Memory of her double-edged wedding ceremony warred with the sudden sight of green forest. Calonnau’s sight flashed brightly before her own. The hawk perched in a tree, waiting for the time when prey would be most active, waiting for the swallows and the finches to take to the wing so she could soar and strike. She saw nothing of Geraint from where she was, and did not care, however much Elen might.
“It is but days.” She licked her lips. No. You don’t need to say any more. He does not need to know. But the king’s eyes were narrowing. Too late, Elen. He already suspects and he trusts little enough as it is.
She wanted him to trust her. They needed true alliance with him. There were too many ways a war chief might see a man killed in a fight. It was not an honorable thing, but all the world knew it happened. “It was done by Urien. I was given as an abducted bride, without my consent or my kin’s … Geraint knew not the law when he took me so.”
“Urien wed you to this man,” said the king slowly, as if he did not fully understand what she had told him.
Elen nodded. “Geraint was victor in a contest Urien staged, and I, to my shame, was the prize.”
Gwiffert considered this. In the distance, the little birds began to call from tall grass. Was she hearing with her own ears or with Calonnau’s? “Yet you esteem him,” said the king.
“I do, and more.” But the word love would not come to her lips. What holds me back?
“But he …” began Gwiffert. Whatever his thought might have been, he bit it off hard. His face was pinched, and growing white around the mouth with the effort to hold it back. “No. Forgive me.”
“For what?” She tried to speak lightly, and in some measure succeeded.
“Doubt. Fear.” He clutched the wooden shaft of his spear, for what cold comfort its runes and its power brought. “For living too much alone in too much danger.”
“You are surrounded by your people,” Elen reminded him, but the words sounded feather-light and frail.
He smiled sadly at this, and that sadness went straight through her, finding its echo within her. “Sister, I am alone. There is none of my family here. These folk I shelter are strangers, brought here to serve the pleasure of their captor. I am very much alone.”
Mother, dead on the stones. Yestin, dead the gods only knew where. Madyn dead in a stable. All the others scattered to the winds and the mercy of neighbors, and she here, trying to find a way to fight a war that might already have been lost. “I understand.”
“Even though you have your husband?”
She bowed her head. “Yes. Even so.” She had Geraint, and she had the goddess looking down from her high place, but standing here in the cold wind with the strange hall at her back, she knew it. It could never be the same as having mother and Yestin and the others she had known since birth, whose blood went back with hers to the time of Maius Smith and beyond.
“We are not meant to be alone, our people,” said Gwiffert softly, sadly. “We are meant to be with our own blood, our own people, on our lands. We are weak when we are separated from these things.”
Weak. Truly. She felt that weakness. She had felt it ever since she left her own country. She wrapped her arms around herself, gripping her elbows, for there was no touch but her own she could turn to for comfort.
As she thought this, she also thought she felt a trickle of warmth from Gwiffert, and that thought followed with the realisation that he had a heartbeat about him, a distant pulse, a high, faint drumming. It was beneath his breathing, beneath his skin. Now that she felt it, she wanted to draw nearer to him, to feel that warmth drive away her cold, to rest against that heartbeat and let it echo through her hollow breast.
Elen swung her thoughts hard away, and her eyes suddenly saw the world blur green, black and brown, shadow and light as Calonnau, disturbed by their mixed hungers, took wing.
“What is it?” asked the Little King.
There is no place for my mind to be, she thought for a wild frightened moment. She did not want it to be with Calonnau as she soared into the bright meadow, so alive with little birds calling to one another, each one prey. But nor did she want it back with this king, who was also a man, and whose heart called out to her emptiness.
But neither could she stand here silent. “Calonnau is flying,” she said. “She will hunt. Her hunting … it is not a pleasant thing.” Another lie. It is far too pleasant. It fills all my emptiness, and I want it to do so.
“Distract her then,” suggested King Gwiffert. “Send her to look for Sir Geraint.”
There would be anger if she did this, and a clash of wills, and she was tired of it. It would, though, be better than standing next to this man and feeling his warmth and words beguiling her while she also felt that awful delight that came with the kill.
So she stretched out her mind, and Calonnau fought, as Elen had known she would, but the hawk turned from her flight across the meadow. She climbed higher, and higher yet, the wind bearing up her light body and outstretched wings. Was it this that made Elen feel her own hollowness so strongly? How could the hawk be so light while it bore the burden of her heart? Perhaps her heart was gone now, dissolved into the bird’s wildness.
A ripple of movement crossed Calonnau’s vision to the east. She turned into
the wind, flapping her wings for more height, catching the warm currents, flying through the cold stillness. The cold within Elen became edged with pain, as if ice cut against her breast as the hawk flew further, and further yet.
She neared that ripple of movement. It spread out into a moving blot on the sloping meadow green. She saw flashes of silver and bronze that became, men running, frantic, like rabbits after a missed strike, but these did not scatter, they clustered ever more tightly together. She swooped low, and her ears, which were not so keen as her eyes, caught the shouts of men’s hoarse voices and the ring of metal on metal.
Geraint had gone in search of the enemy, he had found him.
She could make him out easily now mounted on Donatus, for all the horses and their riders around him made a sea of grey and silver. He had ridden into the thick of battle. His spear was gone and he had his sword out to swing down at the nearest enemy. The other man threw up his shield to meet the blow, but staggered underneath it, and Geraint raised his sword again.
Something flashed across the battle, too fast for even Calonnau to see, and a man just behind Geraint fell, his mouth wide open as he screamed. Elen saw the strange, straight branch that had flown to strike him down, and she screamed.
“What is it?” demanded a man’s voice. Man. Gwiffert. The king stood beside her, but she could not see him. Flash! Again, the slender thread of swiftness cut across the battle, this one landing harmless and quivering in the dirt, trampled swiftly underfoot by the surging of men and horses, but the flash came again, and Geraint turned suddenly, or that one would have been in his arm. She saw where they came from now. Two carts had been turned over to make a wall, and behind them two men in the half-helms took aim with their bows. Each had full quivers. Each could be profligate with their shooting. Neither paused in their work, but each nocked fresh arrows into their strings and loosed them again, and again men screamed.