by Sarah Zettel
It didn’t matter, the mystery of the thing. What mattered was she had been given it by its maker. It was hers now, to do with as she would.
She wasted no more time. The light of the Little King’s fetter showed her the door. All around her, the room seemed to be falling into shadow. She had the feeling as if it was melting back into the darkness that had made it. Dragging the terrible weight of the chain behind her, Elen waded toward the door. She did not look back. She did not want to see the chain stretching out into nothing but darkness.
Ahead of her stood the mouse-king and his wife and all their people. They surrounded her with their pounding hearts. They watched her with their black eyes. She felt weary beyond all measure. She said not one word to the god or goddess that Gwiffert’s art had made so small. She only turned her face toward the direction where the air was lighter and began to trudge forward.
They gathered behind her. They hoisted the great chain onto their shoulders, raising it up, taking what of the burden each of them could. In silent procession, they followed Elen as she led them out toward the open air.
The great club swung down yet again, catching the edge of Geraint’s shield, jarring his arm up to his shoulder. Geraint backed away again, circling. Rhyddid’s reach was beyond any Geraint had ever known. With each step, each feint, he cursed the loss of his spear. Some time ago, Rhyddid had caught it with his great club and snapped the shaft in two. Now it lay useless on the ground, somewhere. With only his sword left to him, distance was Geraint’s only hope. But Rhyddid knew his size and he knew himself. He had seen this tactic before, and he moved sparingly, letting Geraint wear himself out with his hopping around. Geraint would tire, he would slow down, and Rhyddid would be ready for him.
Another enemy might have grinned, might even have taunted, but the young king did his work in grim silence, watching Geraint, turning to keep his face always toward his foe, swinging at the nearest feints, but holding back otherwise. He would not be rushed. He saw that time was his friend, not Geraint’s. The day was growing hot, and sweat poured down Geraint’s face and made his hands slick. His throat was dry, his legs aching. The Great King saw all this, and he waited.
There was one thing he did not know. Geraint dodged left, then right. He took another blow, and his shield shivered, and he heard its wooden frame crack. It would break on the next blow. He backed away, circling again. Rhyddid turned, remorseless, fresh as if they had begun, balanced lightly on his huge feet.
He did not know that Arthur had learned sword craft against his tall foster brother before Sir Kai was lamed. Rhyddid did not know that Arthur insisted all the squires he took to train for the Table Round learn well at least one trick to even unequal heights.
But there would be one chance and once chance only. Geraint forced himself to breathe evenly. He blinked hard, clearing the stinging sweat from his eyes. If he failed here, with his shield set to break, he would die.
Geraint let his breath heave, shuddering his shoulders, making his jaw slack. He watched the Great King’s eyes narrow.
Geraint screamed, high, sharp and wild, the scream of the blue-stained men who hurled themselves at the sides of Din Eityn when he was a boy. He ran in, his sword raised as high as his arm could take it, already sweeping down to cut at the Great King’s jaw.
Rhyddid ducked his head, and brought up his club to block the blow. But Geraint saw the curve path of the weapon, and jerked his sword away, bringing it down behind while he swung up his shield. The shield took the blow, and failed, shattering, driving a sharp splinter into Geraint’s arm. But while he cried aloud with the pain, his sword stroke did not falter, and he sliced down on Rhyddid’s leg behind the knee. The Great King screamed, and the Great King fell, and Geraint slammed forward with all his weight, bearing the giant down to the ground. They hit the ground together, but Geraint recovered first, and he scrambled to his feet, kicking away the club. In the next breath, Geraint brought his sword up against Rhyddid’s neck.
They waited like that for a long moment. Geraint, panting, blood pouring down his shield arm, almost unable to believe the feint had worked; the Great King lying on his back, his own blood spilling onto the ground, feeling the edge of Geraint’s sword at his throat, knowing he was beaten, and knowing that beyond them, the Little King watched.
“Quickly,” he said in a thick and angry whisper. “Kill me. Condemn me not to his slavery.”
“You are a great knight. Knight to knight, slave to slave, trust me now.”
The green eyes looked into his. Geraint stepped back held out his bloody hand. “Trust me,” he said again. “I beg you.”
Rhyddid’s eyes flickered back and forth, seeing what? Memory? Of what?
Whatever it was it caused the Great King to reach up and take Geraint’s hand. Geraint braced his feet, leaning back, and in so doing, he helped his fallen enemy to stand.
From behind there came a furious scream and the sudden thunder of hoofbeats, and Geraint turned, sword arm up high.
And his blade knocked aside the spear of Manawyddan which flew straight for Rhyddid’s breast and his back, and sent it clattering to earth.
King Gwiffert’s scream of fury changed to one of anguish. He reined his horse up, both his hands empty for the first time since Geraint had seen him. It was as if the Little King had lost a limb. He leaned down to lunge for the spear, and Geraint, breathing hard from the fight and the fear, stepped into his path.
Even as his eyes met Gwiffert’s, the Little King began to change. His outstretched arm shrank and shrivelled. His skin turned brown and cracked like ancient parchment, pulling itself tight over his bones. Gold hair faded to white and his broad shoulders hunched up and his long neck drew in. So this was the ultimate power of the spear. As long as Gwiffert held it, he held all the long years of his life at bay.
Staggering, Geraint walked over to the fallen spear. His hand closed around it, and he lifted it up. He felt its power sing through him, and suddenly it was as if he had not fought at all. He was strong and straight, and whole and well. The blood was wet on his skin, but there was no wound beneath it. He raised the spear and levelled the tip of it at the Little King.
Gwiffert screamed again, wordless outrage, the shriek of a wild animal, he stood up in the stirrups as high as his bowed legs would let him. He flung out his arms and he screeched to the Heavens. Geraint threw the spear, straight and true, but he was too late. The Little King was gone, and his horse, the innocent beast, lay on the ground, bleeding from the great wound in its back, screaming in its bestial pain.
And the spear was again in Geraint’s hand.
“Where!” roared Geraint. “Where are you!”
“There is only one place,” murmured the Great King. Geraint stared. He had forgotten the giant. Without another word, he ran for Donatus and flung himself up into the saddle. He dug his heels into the horse’s side and sent it leaping forward. He left an army of slaves, he left another of free men, he left an enemy standing behind him, he abandoned all command and all sense. There was only speed now. Only a mad dash as fast as this elvish horse could run.
For the Little King had gone to ground, and Elen was down there with him.
The way back to the great hall was long. They had gone so deep, the burden they carried was so heavy, Elen’s body was crying out for rest. Her feet ached, her knees ached, her hands burned from the heat of the forge and from the press of the golden chain she cradled in them now. But she did not falter. She could not. She did not know what spells lay in the earth beneath the fortress, but she would not risk them smothering what was to come. She would do this thing in the clean and open air.
But her strength was ebbing, even as they grew closer. The folk behind her bore the burden bravely, dragging the bright chain with them, but their hearts were failing. She could feel it.
Around them, the paintings grew clear again, the monsters fought their painted battles, the cattle lowed and grazed, the orchards blossomed. Elen staggered, and staggered aga
in. Her hollow breast was falling in on itself. Her lungs strained against the ribs that caged them. She was too cold and she was too hot. She had nothing to hang onto, nothing but the chain, and the chain was dragging her to the ground.
Calonnau, she thought, casting her will out. Calonnau. Come to me. I need my heart. I need you.
She felt the hawk take wing. She felt the anger and the hunger, but also she felt her catch the wind that would bear her near. Elen took hold of this, and found the strength to walk on.
The world around Gwiffert blurred, as if he flew more than rode through it. The land was still his to command. Distance and time knew his will yet, if not as well as they once did. Gwiffert could feel the power ebbing from him, running from his body like blood from a mortal wound. He would not have his enchantment for much longer.
It was as well he would not need it. There had always been danger that either Geraint or Elen would be deceives. He had prepared for it, for Morgain’s warnings might be double-edge, but they were seldom wrong
He had left the gates open behind the army as they left. He did not want Geraint to see the way they were opened. More, he did not want to be denied entry to his own hall should his hold on the spear fail. His feeble hands pulled at the reins and his horse came to a halt in the middle of the yard. The remaining slaves stopped and marvelled to see the arrival of such a tiny, wizened man. He did not hesitate as he dismounted, but hobbled forward, into the foyer and from there to the great hall. All he passed stood and stared, but only for a moment, the lessons of their lifetime had been well learned. They had no orders about this thing, so they turned their faces away, lest they do something to anger their master. Oh no, not one of them would risk the anger of the Little King and stop this strange old man.
Panting hard from his exertions, Gwiffert mounted the stairs to the mews, half-pulling himself up by the rail. His own gasps nearly choked him, but he could not give himself any rest. He had felt the smith’s absence the moment he entered the hall, felt it like a knife in his belly. So, Geraint and Elen had together worked their deception. So she had the chain now and struggled to reach the open air. It didn’t matter. It was like her perception that she should take the chain to where the land he had shaped could see it. It was clever, and it would avail her nothing. He knew her weakness, hers and her man’s and he would use it now. After that, they would have much leisure to repent what they had done in his service.
With shaking, withered hands, Gwiffert pulled the key ring out from under his shirt. He selected the golden key and unlocked the door. The lock had never felt so stiff in his fingers before, never had it taken so much strength to pull the portal open.
It does not matter. It does not matter.
The familiar confines of the mews surrounded him, and he inhaled the scents of straw and fresh wind, gaining strength. On her perch, Blodwen looked at him and hooted, first in anger and then in querelous confusion.
“Yes, Blodwen, it is your master,” he said as he shuffled across the room. “Do not attend to my form now.” He lifted the owl from her perch. She hooted anxiously, but seemed to recognise something in his touch and his voice as he stroked her feathers, murmuring to her. “Yes, it is I. It is your king. All will soon be right, with your help, Blodwen. I need you now.”
He carried her gently to the windows, speaking to her all the while, reminding her who he was.
“There is a hawk, Blodwen. She comes here to her mistress. Bring her to me, Blodwen. Bring her to me.”
The owl hooted once more then raised its dusky wings and launched herself into the sky.
Gwiffert watched her through his rheumy eyes until she disappeared, her shadow merging with the forest. Now there was only one thing to do.
He ached. The weight of his years sat heavily across his shoulders. He’d had no time to accustom himself to it, and the wrongness of him distracted his mind and sent twitches and palsies down his muscles.
Soon, all will be right again, he told himself. Show them your strength. Show them it is not just your father’s gift that they should fear.
He rested his hands on the stone lintel. He reached out, feeling his way downward through the stones to the earth in which they were rooted, the strong earth that was both tool and traitor, the earth that like Blodwen still knew his touch, but unlike her was already restless in its obedience for it too well remembered the its other shape.
Not yet. Not yet. First, you will bring me Sir Geraint. Let him come, and let him come fast.
Gwiffert felt the earth obey and he lifted his hands away from the stones. He did not care how they shook with their weakness. He still smiled and so smiling he returned to the stairs. Elen was going to the yard. It would be rude of him as host not to meet her there.
Elen emerged at last into the fortress yard, her burden cradled close to her breast. The yard was full of people, but they all cowered in shadows and corners, unable or unwilling, perhaps, to understand that their master’s power had truly begun to break. The only one who stood before her was an ancient man. His pale skin was spotted brown with age and hanging loosely from his fine bones. His jaw stuck out past the tip of his nose. His lips shrivelled against his toothless gums. His eyes were all but white with cataracts. He hunched there in a leather corslet that was far too large for him. He had a gauntlet on one hand and he smiled up at her, a cheerful, black-gummed, mischeivious smile.
“Elen,” he said. “And what pretty present is this you bring me?”
She froze, understanding who stood before her now. Then her eye missed the spear, and she felt victory ring through her.
“Well you may be surprised,” chuckled Gwiffert as if it were all an excellent joke. “But it is good of you to bring me back what has been stolen.” He held out his skinny claw of a hand. “You will give that now to me.”
Elen rallied her wits. “You are are no more king here, Gwiffert pen Llied.”
The smile did not falter. “You think not? You think it was the spear that made me king? You see my empty hands,” he turned them up, “and you ask yourself ‘where is the spear?’ Better you ask yourself ‘where is my heart?’”
He spoke those words and Elen’s mind skittered away. She saw the world where Calonnau was, the trees below, the sky heavy with clouds above. She saw the undulations of the vallies and hills, and she saw the fortress walls. The hawk beat her wings and spread them, soaring on the gathered wind.
Pain struck. It slammed against the back of her neck, knocking Elen from her feet. Calonnau cried out in pure panic and Elen screamed where she was. She was on fire, she was torn apart. She fought, she flailed arms, wings, talons, hands, but it did no good the pain was only worse, and she was born down by a great weight until her breast pressed hard against the cruel ground. Blood poured down her back and head, Calonnau’s blood, her blood, Calonnau’s. Talons gouged her flesh.
“No, Blodwen. Bring her to me,” said Gwiffert.
The world tipped and spun, flesh separated from bone as the claws dug in deeper. Elen screamed until her back arched and the fingers on her left hand raked the sky. Her right still clutched the chain, but barely. Then she went limp doing nothing but feel the pain that would not end.
Through the haze and horror, she saw Gwiffert turn to the ones who had followed her. “Well, brave ones? Will you not run to help her? Will you not stand and fight me? Come! I am an old man!” He flung out his arms. “Which of you will be the first!”
“I will!”
Elen cried out again. Hoofbeats thundered through the gate. She could see nothing clearly. She saw Geraint only through a haze of green and brown and red. Geraint, Geraint tall on horseback reined Donatus up short. Geraint held the spear of Manawyddan in his hand. From her pain, he seemed a hundred miles away, but he was there. She pushed herself up onto her knees. Her right hand still held the chain. She still felt the unfinished link against her palm. She must not let go. She must not lose that.
“Kill me if you will, Sir Geraint,” The wizened king said ca
lmly. “But hear me first. My owl, my Blodwen, holds the hawk you so prettily call Calonnau. It is by my word she returns with the living bird. If I die, she will have no master. Her hunger is great, Sir Knight. When I am dead, what will keep her from tearing the hawk to pieces and feeding that hunger?”
Horror drew Geraint back. Elen saw the stones of the courtyard. The world turned and rushed forward. The Little King lifted his hand. The dull thud as she, Calonnau, she, hit the stones at his feet was almost unfelt under the blaze of the other pain tearing down her back. She collapsed onto the ground, and saw the hawk, broken and bloody, saw herself seeing the hawk, and Calonnau cried weakly.
Geraint drew his arm back to throw the spear, but Gwiffert was on his knees, neatly scooping up the hawk in his hand, for all he had the black owl while he did. It didn’t matter, he was well used to doing things one handed.
“Now then.” Gwiffert grinned, clutching the hawk to him. “Now then, she is mine, she is in my hand. My word shall heal her, and then what else is mine, eh? Give me the chain now, and give me the spear, and perhaps I will give her back to you. Give me the spear, Sir Geraint. Do not make me order your lovely wife to take it from you.”
Elen looked to Geraint, fear in her eyes and pain burning all through her. Remember your promise, she said across all that separated them. I love you. Remember that too.
“Elen, stand up,” said Gwiffert.
Elen felt the gaes descend, mute with need and fascination, she stood. The pain was beyond comprehension, but it did not matter. Her shaking hands clutched the chain, but she could not remember why. Only standing was important. Only standing.
Geraint.
Geraint hesitated no longer. Geraint did not look at her. The blue-eyed knight cast out his spear, and the spear flew true, and it split the breast of the hawk, and the pain split Elen in two and she screamed and the dying hawk screamed, and she held up her arms in wordless horrified prayer, for heart and breast, and all her unhealing wounds all were torn open.