For Camelot's Honor

by Sarah Zettel

  Elen thought of the man she had seen beside him the day he came back to her, the lean and frowning man who spoke with smooth and terse words while Geraint stood silent and watched. This stern and clerkish man had sent his brothers to safety while he faced down a sorcerous shade and a maddened sire?

  “Agravain has never said what happened, no matter how we … how Gawain, in truth, pressed him. He only said that he failed, and father was still mad and driven by the spirit that came to him, the spirit he was made to believe was our mother.”

  Geraint drew in a deep breath and let it out in a single gust that shuddered his whole frame. “This is what Morgaine is to me and to mine. This is what she means to my family. This is why I will fight her in whatever way I can and why her allies are forever my enemies.”

  Elen blinked, and tried to pull herself back from the depths of the tale. No, she told herself. It could not be. It was a lie. There was a lie in those steady, dark-blue eyes. There must be. He must lie.

  Why? said a soft voice in her mind. Why must he? When has he lied?

  He lied. He lied when he took her hand. He lied when he said he loved her. He lied because he was Morgaine’s kin and he must lie.

  But he looked at her, and he saw the thoughts that tumbled within her, and his gaze did not flinch and his face was calm, as it always was when he spoke from certainty. It was keen, watching close, looking for … looking for what?

  Why must he lie?

  Because the Little King said he must. Memory came back to her with a jolt. It was the Little King who had said so much. Gwiffert saw, even more than she did. Gwiffert knew. She must believe him. She wanted to believe, but still, Geraint did not lie.

  Pain took Elen. It rippled out from her throat and her wrist, flooding her stagnant blood and radiating out into her skin like fever. She must believe what she had heard, but she could not believe. Why could she not believe? Geraint was a man. Geraint could lie, but she could not see the lie in him. She could not see anything. She was blind, blind.

  An owl hooted somewhere. A winged shadow skimmed across the sky. An omen of death. Whose death? Hers? You are deathless, said the king in his garden, but she’d heard the owl there too. And seen it. No. Elen grasped her head. Her thoughts were coming too fast, making no sense. But she had seen the owl, and it was important.

  But where have I seen this thing? Where?

  “Elen?”

  “I saw it!” she cried to Geraint, demanding an answer to a question he could not possibly understand. “I saw it! Where?”

  “What did you see?” he asked softly, swiftly.

  “The owl. There was a black owl, there was a man and …” And I remember.

  The paintings. Memory became clear as glass, and the world became steady once more. The black owl was in the paintings in the great hall.

  Without a word she turned and ran, as if fleeing from Geraint. If he thought that, it did not matter. All that mattered was the great hall and its paintings, and that she could see.

  She ran into the center of the hall so bright with the light of its fires. The women hurried around her, not stopping to see her pivoting slowly, searching through the hundred images on the fantastically painted walls, until she found the one she wanted — the loop of blue ribbon where the owl flew. She stared at that false owl, watching its ebon wings flicker in the firelight. Its talons were outstretched, and dark lines trailed away behind it.

  Lines? Elen walked forward until her toes stubbed the edge of the dais. Lines? No.

  Jesses.

  Beside her, Geraint stood mute, falling back to silence, to watching, always watching, since the first time in her own house where he’d watched Urien, to this hall where they drank wine and broke bread with the Little King, and she wondered what was wrong.

  The black owl that hovered over the man’s head had jesses. It flew against a sky blue background wrapped in royal blue ribbons. It flew in daylight, the omen of death and murder, and it did so from a hunter’s gloved hand.

  She turned, and now each way she turned, she saw what was wrong, what she had failed to understand before. She saw that the white mare, the sign of the goddess Rhiannon, ran on a ribbon of gold, but she was pursued by a host of spearmen, and there was blood on her flanks.

  She saw that the white swine, the symbol of wisdom and plenty, was pursued by a black boar, and that in turn was pursued by a red swine, its mouth open, its dagger sharp teeth exposed. She had seen that swine in her dreams with all its packmates, running Geraint to death like dogs after a deer.

  She saw the branches of apples and blossoms that bordered the walls nearest the floor. She saw how the blossoms and the fruit shared the same branches, and how those branches were all of them broken in two.

  She saw it all now, and she understood. She knew why Gwiffert had been given the spear, and why the Lord could not take it from him. She knew why the Lady and the Lord sent her and Geraint here so soon after the birth of the child she had helped deliver. She knew why Gwiffert made his kingdom here in this other world and not in the mortal lands, which were the middle lands and had the loosest of boundaries, easily crossed by men or gods, or any other who so chose.

  She knew that she must believe Geraint lied, because she had shared the Little King’s food and looked into his eyes and known his touch, and he had told her to believe just that.

  She should have seen it before, in his gold hair, his pale skin and slanting eyes, in his lean bones and the way he could fascinate with a word or a look. For when they came across the bridge, or by their other ways, they came for more than aid or making. They came too for love, and there were children born of such love. Was he the Lord’s son, or the Lady’s? The Lord’s, she thought, for it was he who spoke of the giving of the spear. Gwiffert himself had said it once. The spear of my father, he said. It was not Manawyddan he was claiming descent from. It was the one who gave him the spear.

  Perhaps it had been meant to make him a great hero. Instead, it made him a monster.

  She should have known all these things, for the signs of them were all around her, but, he did not wish her to, and for such as he wishes had force, particularly in their own houses. But such deceptions could not stand before naked truth, and truth was what Geraint had given her.

  The truth was all that Geraint had ever given her.

  But now, here they stood in the hall of their true enemy, with his eyes and ears and power all around them. He had touched her with the force of his will and believed he held her in sway. What would he do if he found the sway was broken? What mark would the spear find if she spoke now of what she saw?

  But I must speak somehow. I must warn Geraint. She bit her lip. Words. It has all been a game of words since Urien first came. Words with power, words with double meanings. All the dance of words.

  “Nothing here has been as it seems,” she said slowly. “Nothing.”

  “Elen …” began Geraint.

  She did not allow him to go any further. “Since we came, I have been shown one thing when another was true.” She faced him, she looked into his eyes. See me, Geraint. You see so much, you watch so close. See me now. “What did you see in me when you kept your secrets, Geraint? Look hard! Did you see a fool to be swayed by your show?”

  “No.” His word was sure, but his face confused. “Never a fool.”

  “Did you think I would not find out the truth? Did you think I remain blind when the truth surrounds me?” She flung out her hands, letting her voice grow loud and warm as if with anger. “Your words were as thin as these images around us. Oh yes, I see, and all is cruel deception!!”

  “Then you do not believe …?” Was that comprehension she saw dawning in his visage? Did he begin to understand?

  “Oh, I believe,” she snapped back bitterly. “I believe the one who presented himself as my dearest friend is my bitterest enemy. I believe all I have been told is the exact opposite of what is true!” Listen to me. See me. Understand Geraint. Oh please, White Christ who watches him
, make him understand! “Blood will tell in all things. A deceiver’s child will be a deceiver, a demon’s a demon!”

  Geraint turned away, putting his back to her. Elen shook with fear and with hope. “Do you understand me, Sir Geraint, Lot’s son?”

  When he faced her again, his jaw was set and grim, but his eyes were keen. “Oh yes, my wife,” he said slowly, letting each word fall before he took up the next. “I understand you perfectly.”

  “Then take that understanding and go from here,” she said, her voice ice and stone.

  But he did not move. “And if I do go, what then?” He slurred the words into a sneer. “What will you do without me?”

  Oh my husband. I should have known a man who understand silence so well would have to understand words as well. “I will no more be bound as I have been,” she drew herself up tall. “I am stronger than even my gaoler knows, and I will be free. It is a crime that any should be so enslaved to one who knows only deceit. No one should remain in such chains, and I will not remain in mine!” Her hand trembled as she raised it, pointing toward the doors. “You have shown me what you are. Now go!”

  Geraint too drew himself up, making himself tall, showing himself for a moment all that he was, a true knight and the son of kings. Then, he strode away, his hands clenched in fists, his shoulders square and strong. He marched through the soaring archway, and was gone, and Elen was alone in the hall, surrounded by the symbols of death and blasphemy watching her.

  Even as she watched her husband leave, she heard the touch of bootsoles against the tiled floor behind her. She knew by the feel of his approaching heart that it was Gwiffert who came to stand there.

  “So, Elen,” he breathed. “What did he say for himself?”

  Elen did not have to force her eyes to blink back tears. She wanted to turn, to rake her nails down across Gwiffert’s cheeks, to grab him by the throat and snap his neck clean.

  Don’t turn. Don’t look at his eyes. Don’t look. “I did not truly know him before,” she answered, her voice strained by the strength of her feeling. “I was wrong in so many things.”

  His touch on her shoulder was warm and sweet as honey. His heartbeat strong and beckoning. “I will not let him hurt you, Elen.”

  She had to turn now. It would be strange if she did not. Don’t look up. She hung her head, letting her hair fall about her face to screen her from the king’s blue eyes. “What will you do?”

  “My people will all be in danger if I confront him openly before the battle.” You know the sense of this, the words told her. They caressed her cold skin, as warm as his touch, and even now, even when she looked at her own feet, she felt herself longing for his eyes. She wanted to look up and see him clearly, to feel more perfectly the meaning of his words.

  Remember. By the Mother Rhiannon, by Mother herself. I will remember what he is.

  She pulled his hand from her, clasping it tightly between her own. She looked up into his face, letting all her fear show. Let him think me broken over Geraint. Let him think me the wounded damsel. “Promise me you will act with honor,” she said, her voice strained and harsh with her pain. “Promise me that.”

  It was a gamble. It might not work, for the fae blood was only half his, and men might break such promises with ease, but it would be there, a weak shield, but it was more than nothing, and might just save him from a spear in the back before he had a chance to act for himself.

  Gently, he took his hand from between hers and brushed his fingers down her cheek. Her tears had spilled without her knowing it. The touch was fire, but it was also memory. Geraint had once touched her so. Remember that time too. Remember that truth. “Elen, he does not deserve honor.”

  Steeling herself, Elen reached up and touched his face. His skin was soft, his heartbeat strong. She felt light as featherdown, ready to blow away with whatever wind came next. “But you must not stoop so low. Please, Gwiffert.” His name was acid on her tongue and she shook again to speak it. “Promise me you will act with honor.”

  “Very well. I promise that I will do what I must with honor towards him.”

  “Thank you.” Thank you, Mothers All. She dropped her hand and she stepped back. It was easier to breathe with more room between them, easier to smile shyly, more natural to turn her head away, all the coy and bashful maiden. “You should go. He may come back, and he will wonder.”

  “It does not matter.” She heard the fond smile in those words. “Go back to your room, Elen. Rest yourself now. When I return, all will be made right.”

  Yes. Elen let her faint smile be all her answer to him. Yes. That much I promise you.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Geraint waded back into the mass of toil. The torches flared high, sending their sparks and smoke up to the stars. Men milled like ants underneath their lights, talking of a thousand things that suddenly made no sense. The only thing he understood clearly was that he had left Elen in the hall behind him, and that were he a true man he would turn and take her out of there if he had to break down the stones with his bare hands.

  Men were asking him questions. He could not hear them. He could not see them. A haze as thick as any glamour of the fae kept him from them.

  “Sir Geraint.”

  That much he heard. That much turned him around to see one face clearly. King Gwiffert, his spear resting on his shoulder stood behind him.

  Geraint was glad he was unarmed. In that moment he would have drawn his sword and cleaved the king’s skull in two, or he would have tried, and probably died himself, impaled on that spear for his troubles.

  Anger ebbed, allowing room for reason again.

  “Sir Geraint, the lady told me …” he paused, looking about him as if he just now noticed the yard full of busy men. “But not here perhaps.”

  “Majesty,” Geraint’s voice sounded thick in his ears, as if he spoke from exhaustion. “There is much yet to do.”

  “I know.” The king laid his free hand on Geraint’s arm. It was a familiar touch. It spoke of trust and friendship. How could a man lie so well with a touch? The same as with a look. The same as with a word. “But we must talk all the same. Come.”

  Dutifully, Geraint followed the Little King to a corner of the yard. He set his back to the wall so that they could speak without anyone coming on them unnoticed.

  King Gwiffert rested the butt of his spear on the toe of his boot. “Is it true?”

  As a grown man Geraint had never spoken of these things with anyone who did not share his blood. To speak of them to this blue-eyed king of the fortress of secrets seemed suddenly like heresy.

  “Who told her these things?” he asked instead, flexing his hands, looking for something to hold onto.

  King Gwiffert sighed. “Secrets have a way of being found out. It may even be that Morgaine or Urien first showed her the truth.”

  So this is how it will be done. You have separated us neatly, and now you will make yourself the friend of both. “And you? Morgaine is your enemy as well.” He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to watch how the king said it.

  He held the spear easily in both hands. He and Geraint were almost of a height, so he looked directly into Geraint’s eyes. “The enemy of my enemy shall be my friend. I need you in this fight.”

  The trust in those words touched Geraint’s pride. He wanted to hear more. No, he wanted to deserve more. “You do not fear I will betray you?”

  “Will you?”

  Geraint shook his head to break the grip of the king’s gaze. It did no good. He still yearned toward this man. This was how men felt toward Gawain, how heroes felt toward Arthur. They wished to please him, to be better than they were because he needed them to be. “No.”

  Gwiffert watched his busy yard for a long moment, as if thinking hard about what he had to say next. “Will you swear to that?”

  So. You will trap me with my own honor. “Yes.”

  Now the Little King watched him keenly. “By what, Sir Geraint? By what will you swear?” />
  At these words, Geraint knelt and laid his hand over his heart. “I swear before God most high and by Jesus Christ his son. I swear by my own right arm and the love I owe my king that I will betray no trust and do only what is honorable in the battle that is to come.”

  The Little King’s blue eyes glittered brightly. “Then I do believe you, Sir Geraint, and I do trust you.” He took his arm. “It is not only her blood in you.”

  Those words warmed him, that trust filled his heart with pride. They would do this thing. The men were well ordered, and come morning, he would lead at the side of his king.

  No, Geraint ground his teeth hard together. Arthur is my king. Remember that. Remember what vows you have made. Remember Elen left behind in this one’s tender keeping while she tries to break his kingdom open.

  These thoughts steadied him, dimming pride and all its glamour.

  God help me, he prayed as he walked with the Little King back into the thick of the laboring men, each one of them a prisoner of this place and this man. God help us all.

  Thankfully, the work was real and Geraint was able to hide himself behind it. Even for such a swift and tiny war, there were a thousand details to be marshalled and assembled, knowledgeable men to be consulted and given their orders. Scouts had to be readied and sent on ahead, for by now the false dawn brightened the horizon.

  But even while he gave his orders and watched over his men, Geraint’s mind was elsewhere. These around him were no danger. In truth, he itched to take Rhys and Taggart aside, to speak to them of what he now knew and tell them he would give them his help against their king. Could he urge them to turn against Gwiffert? Convince them to believe that he would defeat this creature who rode behind them all? No. Had he all the power of Arthur himself, there was no time for such things. It would take weeks of careful persuasion. These around him were slaves to the Little King. Dupes, prizes taken in war, victims of their chieftain’s cowardice. They lived in fear of the Grey Men.

  He saw that too. The hours of thought since he had left Elen showed him that much. The Grey Men were not weapons of war. They existed of terrify the helpless, or to convince the blind of the enemy’s evil. They worked by fear, by famine and by the threat that was ever in the grave “See, you will become like I am. So cower in the dark and pray to God to spare you this!”