As we climbed the stair into the fortress, Igrane asked me, “My dear, what did you ever do to dear Merlin that he has fallen into such a deep … snit?”
“I think I didn’t die when he wanted me to,” I said bitterly. I had just been both complimented and snubbed. I wasn’t sure which one was more important. I was almost dropping with exhaustion.
When the women conducted me upstairs, I was hoping to get to bed, but they undressed me. I didn’t like this. At home I sleep with Kyra, and we have a curtain. She wove it. The wool is gray and blue, but it has salmon on it—pink, red, and silver, as they are when they come upstream to breed. The salmon is a symbol of fertility and chastity to the Painted People, since they love only at the appointed time but then have many children.
But anyway, Kyra and I give each other privacy when we dress. Not these women. When they got my clothes off, they had to look at me and talk about what they saw.
“He’s right,” Igrane said. “She is a child yet.” They lifted me on the bed and … looked! “A virgin, also.”
One of them touched my cheek. She sighed. “Rose petals.” Another touched my breast and laughed. “Rose hips.”
I scrambled off the bed and made a break for my clothes, but Igrane caught me by the shoulders and wrapped a white linen mantle around me.
“No, you need a bath.”
“I will be more than happy to take one. Now, stop pawing me,” I said firmly.
Igrane pointed at my clothes. “Burn them.”
“No,” I shouted. “Those are my good riding pants. See, the seat is leather and the knees and ankles, too.”
Igrane sniffed. “They can be laundered?”
“Yes,” I said.
“The shirt?”
“Well, it is sort of—”
She tossed it aside. “The shoes?” she said. Her hand touched the laces. Then she jumped back, gazing at her fingers as though she had thrust them into a fire.
“I got them in the halls of Dis,” I said. “They were a pledge of friendship and fealty. Leave them alone.”
“Dis,” she mused. “Dis. Merlin takes you seriously. Now I can see why.” She studied the crude leather things on the floor. “Don’t worry, we won’t touch them. No one would want to. Now, go bathe and wash your hair.”
I did, but I took my shoes with me. The bath was a Roman one, modified a little, perhaps for the climate. The spring water was heated by a hypocaust. It had a pool—marble, round and white—and the water in it was clear. Rose petals floated on the surface.
“Of all the flowers,” Igrane said to me, “I love the rose best.”
Igrane would. It is the goddess’s flower. She became a bird and danced with the serpent wind, or some say a dragon, and conceived the cosmic egg. Then she placed it in a nest of rose petals, though how she got the roses when there was no earth for them to grow in always bothered me. I had pointed this out to Kyra, and she told me to stop criticizing or she wouldn’t tell me any more stories. So I’d shut up, and Dugald and the Gray Watcher had laughed at both of us.
I was still wrapped in the mantle, so I didn’t notice the chill until I took it off. The room was round, but the walls weren’t solid, and the sea wind blew through them. I saw they were simply alabaster screens. Six pillars supported the pavilion roof, and each held an alabaster lamp that made the white marble of the pillars, screens, floor, and the pool shine brilliantly in its light. The only color in the room was a band of mosaic on the floor that fringed the pool. Pictured there were roses, vervain, oak—the leaf, female flower, and acorn—and the same for the ash, the rowan, the hawthorn, holly, hazel, cedar, beech, and birch. And last, the mushroom and the mistletoe. And I understood what the steps for the dance must be when I put my foot on the vervain.
The sacrifice was on the altar, ready to be poured into the trench: oil, fruit, wine, and last but not the least, a sleeping child. The thick scent of verbena filled the air in the smoke rising from the fire, ready to chase away the smell of blood.
I jerked my foot back.
Igrane was alone. Her women had departed. She was looking at me from under her long eyelashes.
“I wondered if you would feel it,” she said.
“I didn’t have to feel it,” I said. “I saw it.”
“Yes, yes, I can understand just why Merlin is afraid of you. Go around. There is an opening in the circle. It is never wise to close such a thing.”
I did and sat down in the pool.
“My women will help you bathe,” she said.
“No, thank you. I have been taking my own baths for some years now.”
“Pert,” she said.
“I was called that in the halls of Dis,” I replied. So she went away.
There was soap, heavy with myrrh, surprisingly rough. I scrubbed myself with it. She left the white mantle and a nightgown on a chair in the corner. When I rose from the pool, the sea wind struck me and the flames flickered in the alabaster lamps. The water was hot, and the cold, moist sea breeze felt good. I studied the circle and went to the cedar. I put my foot on it, and the circle of light in the pavilion fell away, and I was part of the clean wind. I breathed deep the air of freedom and thought of the Gray Watcher and found myself in our house, our steading.
It was late and the fire was banked to coals. Dugald and Kyra were asleep, but the Gray Watcher and Black Leg were curled together at the fire pit. The Gray Watcher must have felt my presence, because he opened his eyes and lifted his head. Black Leg must have felt him move and did the same. The four mirrored moons of their eyes stared up at me.
“I am well,” I whispered, “and will return.”
Black Leg flicked his ears forward, then back. He said, “So! We wondered.” He didn’t say anything about worrying, but then, you can’t say that in wolf.
I said, “Love,” which is not often said in wolf but means a lot when it is.
He answered, “Always.”
I pulled away from the cedar and stood drenched in sorrow and cold in the night wind. Then I hurried to the chair, dressed, and went to bed.
I was surprised. I had the bed all to myself. It didn’t feel right. No one ever sleeps alone by choice, but I was so tired I knew nothing after I lay down. When I woke, I found myself still alone. Someone had left a tunic and trousers on the chair. They were very fine white linen, the standard dress for all children and young adults. I slipped them on and began to explore.
The next room was filled with the sort of things one finds in the workrooms of those who are given over to natural philosophy. I know, because Dugald tended to collect them also. Books, both in scroll form and bound. A shelf of stained bottles and clay flasks; these were labeled in Greek. I knew the alphabet but couldn’t read the language for the simple reason that Dugald could not obtain any books in Greek.
Dried oddities—a sealed glass box of dried bats, a four-armed starfish, dried vipers. I recoiled from these as if stung. A live black cat eyed me suspiciously, and when I addressed it in cat, its fur stood on end and it ran. The end of the room opened out onto a terrace garden, like the one the Gray Watcher described to me; and as he had said, the white roses were trained against the wall.
Against another wall was a couch. It was filled with pillows. I wasn’t sure if it was really a couch or a bed. It was covered by black silk—or I thought it was black silk until I drew close to it and saw the midnight stars glowing at me through the darkness. I eased away from the couch. Near the door to the terrace stood an oval mirror. I could see myself moving through the room in its surface. It watched me. I know, because the position of its legs had changed since I’d entered the room. I could see where they had moved by traces in the dust on the stone floor.
It and I had a little dance. I would move to a position where it couldn’t track my reflection, but when I looked away and then back, I would see my shape reflected there once more. Yes, I thought. It moves. Definitely it moves. Then I drew close and studied myself in the glass. I did notice the couch was not refle
cted at all. To the mirror’s eye, the only thing present was a stone wall.
I shivered. No, I would not care to sit on that couch. The mirror was on a swivel in its iron frame. It had two sides, but when I reached down to try to turn it, I encountered resistance. Perhaps it didn’t turn that way, so I reached for the top. Same problem.
I faced away and looked out over the sea, sparkling in the sun. From here you couldn’t see the lower part of the island, only the water and small, puffy clouds floating against the horizon. Then, very quickly, I stepped around the mirror. It tried to turn and block my view, show me only the reflecting glass, but it wasn’t strong enough to stop my push. When I pushed it back, then, as if accepting the situation, it remained quiet and its surface reflected only what I had seen gazing through the window—water, sunlight, drifting clouds, and sky. For a moment I was puzzled, and then thought, Why?—yes!
“Silver Mane,” I said, and within a moment I saw the silver-crested dragon and his wife. They were following a drifting kelp bed off the coast and feeding on small fish, crabs, and squid in the kelp forest. They looked happy lazing along in the sun.
“The island,” I whispered, and found myself looking upon it from the beach.
The anchorite’s hut had survived, but inside I could see the bed turned on its side and a layer of clean sand on the floor; and I knew that, had I remained there at the height of the storm, I would have drowned.
“Dugald,” I said, and he presented himself to me, standing in our house.
He saw me, too, and gasped. Kyra looked up. She was tending the fire.
“Thank God,” she said.
Dugald shook his fist at me. “Where have you got to?” he asked.
“Tintigal. I’m with Igrane. This is her mirror.”
“Mirror, my withered ass,” he said. “She is a sorceress, trained in all the worst sorts of black magic.”
“You old fool,” Kyra said. “Stop berating the child. Aren’t you at least glad to see she’s safe?”
He looked shamefaced. “I suppose so,” he admitted grudgingly.
“I think Arthur is going to make me an offer, but it won’t be marriage.”
“What?” he screeched. “A lady of your rank? Don’t you dare say yes, you hear me? Don’t you dare.”
I shrugged. “Well, at least you ought to be pleased that I’m no longer thinking of selling myself at the Beltane fair.”
Dugald let out a yell, but that was all I heard, because the mirror clouded over, and I saw Igrane appear.
“You are precocious, aren’t you? Found the mirror and already know how to use it.”
“I’m sorry. Should I not have?”
“No,” she said. “I could have sealed it off, had I feared tampering. Was that Dugald I heard grouching and complaining?”
“Yes.”
“He and Merlin both are the most contentious men; but of the two, I like Dugald better. Merlin is malicious, not to mention downright dangerous.” Then she came in with a tray. She brought me wine. I was not familiar with it, so I did not care for the taste. To me it was bitter, though the barley malt beer the coastal people drank to keep out the cold would probably have been a barbarous, vile mixture to her. There were other things on the tray I did approve of: fresh baked flat breads; eggs in a sauce of onions, garlic, pepper, and spices; cheese and oat porridge with milk and butter.
The divan in her study was a place to sit down. She lifted the star-covered mantle that covered it.
“A wondrous thing, that,” I said.
Igrane laughed and spun the silken thing about her. She vanished. I mean, she really vanished. Not blended into the background, not made herself more difficult to notice—which was one of the glamour tricks Dugald taught me—she vanished. I stood openmouthed, staring at the place where she’d been standing only a moment before. Then she reappeared, laughing, and began to fold the scarf.
“I was demonstrating it for a friend the other night,” she said. “Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s been in my family for … for … uncounted years. It will work for the women of my blood. A pretty toy,” she said. “That’s how I got Arthur. I wore it the night I went seeking Uther Pendragon.”
“The story goes,” I said, “that he and your husband, the Cornish king, quarreled over you and that Merlin disguised Uther as your husband, and he lay with you and got you with child, all unknowing that he was not your lawful husband.”
“Oh, the great fellowship of the bards. A stinking, stupid war between two fools who should have known better, and they turn it into immortal romance. But, my dear, men don’t fight over women. Never. Women simply aren’t important enough. They fight over money and power.”
“So Dugald says.”
“Dugald is wise,” she told me. “At least, in that respect he is. “I am Cornwall,” she said. “Do you know what that means?”
I did and said so.
“Good. Dugald hasn’t neglected your education. When Gerlos married me, he attained the sovereignty of Cornwall, but he must—for one night at least—yield me up to the high king. He had designs on the position of high king himself and wouldn’t, so I languished here—which, by the way, didn’t bother me at all—while those two bulls locked horns. But the intimations that I must lie with Uther wouldn’t let me rest.” She paused for a moment.
“Sometimes, not often, all the oracles say the same thing. Do you know what I mean?”
I did, and nodded.
“The future is read in many ways: from the fall of sticks, the beach patterns of sea foam left by a full-moon tide, the flight of birds, the deformity of the young of domestic animals, and last, but not least, in the entrails of a man drugged with mistletoe and gutted by a bronze and gold knife. He is left to struggle in the dust and the future read in his writhings. Most oracles don’t agree with each other. One says, or is interpreted to say, one thing.” She shrugged. “And then another a few days later says something else. I read that to mean you’re on your own. I think the gods must, at times, grow weary of being continually annoyed by boorish men and even more foolish women.
“But sometimes, in matters of great import, they all say one thing, and they say it over and over again. So it was when the spirits were consulted over whether I should lie with Uther. My duty is to my people.” She frowned and seemed sad for a moment. “So I contacted Merlin. My husband found out and had me guarded—a nuisance. But he knew nothing of my mantle, so I wrapped it around myself and went to Merlin. He conducted me to Uther.
“When my husband found out, he flew into a rage, then fell into despair. He died in the next battle. Some say he didn’t defend himself.” Her brow furrowed. She pointed to the divan. I could see it quite well in the mirror now. It seemed the mantle hid completely whatever it covered.
“Sit down and eat your breakfast,” she said. She must have noticed I was munching the bread even while we were talking. I walked over, put down the tray, and began eating.
“Nine months later, I bore a child,” she said almost sadly. “Since Gerlos and I hadn’t lain together in some time, there was no question about whose child it was. Uther married me and added Cornwall to his considerable possessions, along with me. But still I have never been happy with Uther. Indeed, we hardly know each other. I remain here while he occupies himself with his numerous concubines; and once I was happy with Gerlos, before he was bitten by the bug of greed and ambition. But my advisers told me the country could not stand too much more war.”
I understood perfectly what she was talking about, and I understood that it was the reason I was here. You see, that is why my distinguished ancestress raised the standard of revolt among a conquered and resigned people. When the Roman came to her to claim her husband’s kingdom at her lord’s death, she understood it was her duty to lie with him. But when he and his men polluted her two daughters, he committed sacrilege. Not simply sacrilege, but sacrilege of the worst kind. The Roman was greedy. All he could think of was how great a man he could become if he took the Iceni gol
d to Rome. As it was, it cost him his life.
Folly and willful blindness overcame his judgment, for even the Romans know women bring sovereignty to a ruler and put weapons in a man’s hands. As they say, a woman is a temple; and so, they must understand, it has always been so and always will.
I ate, drank the wine—for I resolved to cultivate a taste for it, since it was the mark of a noble house among the Britons—and listened politely to Igrane’s instructions about how a well-brought-up girl should behave at the banquet they were having tonight to celebrate my betrothal to Arthur. You see, among them it was a foregone conclusion that I would become one of his concubines. I wondered who Uther, Igrane, and Merlin had picked out to become Arthur’s wife and queen, but my acceptance of him would please the ruling families of Ireland, Dalraida, Somerset. I was marked by magic, as Igrane was.
“Most of the women among the ruling families have something of this sort,” she said, indicating the scarf. “I imagine the distinguished ancestress and foundress of your line had something that simply reeked of raw power, as this does. Some treasure that helped her to succeed against the Romans.”
“I wonder what it was?” I asked.
“Who knows?” Igrane answered, shaking her head. “Whatever it might have been, it was lost in the savage bloodletting surrounding her when she died, as was entirely proper, by her own hand.”
I knew Arthur would be coming, so I finished my food and then hurried back to my bed to put on my shoes. Igrane gave a start when she saw them, for they were greatly changed from the battered, dark leather foot covering they had been the night before. Now they were white, soft, pliable, sporting gold trim and long laces that I wrapped on my legs to below the knee.
He remembers me, I thought, my friend, for we became friends, the servant of Dis. Then I saw Arthur come up the stairs. By day, he was even more handsome than he had been by torchlight. He was accompanied by two of his friends. He introduced them to me.
“This is my brother, Cai.”
The boy smiled. He looked a year or two older than Arthur. He was dark, with rather fine brown hair. He had an otherworldly look, and I realized why when he took my hand—I felt the sea.
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