Shriek?
“There he ish!” A woman’s voice shrilled. “Right there! That’sh the one I told you—”
Song and babble died away.
A man roared, “I demand my rights! I demand my rights now and instantly, from the King!”
***
Late at night I leave the mages’ hut and make my way home through narrow, twisting, ill-smelling streets. I carry no lamp. To my Fey eyes this half-moon darkness is like twilight; and lightless, I am close to invisible to the few quarrelling, drink-fogged Humans I pass. This is as well; for in little Ranna’s gown, and at this hour, I might draw those stragglers as a doe draws dogs.
I come home to Percival’s chamber in the long barracks behind King’s Hall, knowing what I must do, and almost pleased to do it. Almost excited.
Niviene explained to me the “rights” which aggrieved Sir Agrain demanded.
In windy morning light, he told Arthur and the whole of Arthur’s Dun that Sir Percival had forced a way into his tent, stolen his goods, and despoiled his food and wife. For this, he must be let kill Sir Percival. He has the right.
Percival shook his golden head. He insisted he had not forced entrance, the tent was open; he agreed that he had eaten and drunk, uninvited, because he was hungry and thirsty. He had removed a coverlet, because he was cold. But he strongly, forcefully, and truly denied despoiling any wife.
(The wife, meantime, kept crying out, pointing at him and fainting behind her concealing veils.)
King Arthur looked gravely from one Knight to the other. I thought any moment he would say, “Well, no great harm’s been done. You are both Knights of the Round Table, and good men don’t grow in gardens. Embrace now, Good Men, and be friends.”
He said, “Noon tomorrow. Tournament Field.”
Niviene explained. “He had no choice, Lili. This is the rule in such cases.”
“You’re saying that crowd that loved to see Percy knighted will now watch him be killed!” (Not if I could get him away this night!)
“Not in cold blood.”
“Cold blood?”
“Percy will defend himself. He will win, and kill Sir Agrain.”
“And the crowd won’t mind that either.”
“Right.”
“Why don’t I get him out of here. I have some Grand Mushroom in my pouch. I could—”
“He would never, never forgive you.” That’s true.
“Niviene! I must be sure Percy wins!”
Then Niviene told me how to be sure.
Here I hurry down our street toward our door.
Each of these Knights’ chambers opens into the street by its own door. Someone has found ours.
A figure muffled in cloak and veil hesitates before our door. It lifts a hand to the door-string; but at that instant I slip in between hand and door.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
The figure springs backward as though a serpent had risen before her; for it is a she, that I see by pale moonlight. Good thing she does not screech and wake the street!
I whisper again, “Who would wake Sir Percival at this hour? And the night before his fateful combat!”
She lifts a corner of her veil to peer down at me. “I know you…” she mutters.
“But I don’t know you.”
“Oh, you musht! You were there in the crowd when Shir Agrain and I rode up, and I shaid—”
“Ah. Yes. You yelled, ‘That’s him! That’s the one!’ Now I know you.”
Aha! The Goddess brought this one to me just in time!
She cocks her head, shrugs delicately. “I shaw you there. But I never thought you were…with him.”
“Hush.” I don’t want anyone wakened, alerted. If I know Percival, even on this night he lies drunk with sleep, not to be waked but by a lightning strike. But this barracks is a wasp nest, full of chambers. Anyone might hear us.
I take hold of her wrist and draw her out into the street. “Let’s find a corner where we can talk.” My eyes rove the narrow street.
“Didn’t come here to talk…” I’ve heard that before.
Down at the corner is a small ale-shop booth.
I know what you came for, Lady, just in time for me. All I need do now is let you take him.
But first, let me know more about you. For all I know, you carry a Bee Sting in your pocket.
I lead her, captive by her delicate wrist, into the ale-shop booth. We sit down together on a customers’ bench. We whisper and murmur. (Sometimes I catch myself finger-talking, as I would do with one of my own folk.)
She says, “You shee, it’sh like this. Shir Pershival came into my tent, Shir Agrain’s tent, when he wash away. Shir Agrain wash away. And I wash there.”
“I know that.”
“Oh, yesh, you heard all that thish morning! Let me go on, then.” She wiggles, settling herself more comfortably. “When my Lord came back he found everything eaten and my ringsh gone, and the coverlet gone. And he wash very angry.”
“Mmmm?”
“And he shaid, ‘What more is gone, Lady?’ You know what he meant.”
“Mmmm?”
“And he beat me.”
“What?”
“Shee, he thought I had lain willingly with Shir Pershival. Only then he wasn’t Shir—”
“But you never lay with him at all.” Willingly or not.
“No, I shertainly never did! But how do you know that?”
“Why, because I was there.”
“You?” She leans closer, studying me through her veil. “Come to think, he had shomeone with him…a boy.”
“Me. That was me.”
“Indeed!” She looks me up and down, down and up. “You aren’t a boy now!”
“But you say, he beat you. Why did he do that?”
She clucks softly like a hen. “Well, you know, I belong to him. And he thought I had…” It’s little Ranna, all over again. I seem to hear her whisper, “If my father knew…(shudder!) What good would I be to him then?”
What good is this lady to Sir Agrain? Whatever good she had for him, it’s lost.
She whispers, “I wouldn’t mind if it wash only that one time—”
“Hush!” I grip her wrist again. She falls silent immediately. A good thing, because that regular thump-thump around the corner is a detachment of guards, coming this way.
She gasps, “Oh!” And shrinks down on the bench.
“Be still. They won’t see us…”
I raise a mist of invisibility around us. Coldly it drifts between us and the four men who march past. They swing their lanterns to light alleys and corners, and into our booth. They tramp on, past the barracks and around the next corner.
The lady draws breath and dives straight back into her story. “I wouldn’t mind if it wash jusht that one time. One hash to expect that.” One does? “But he won’t believe me. He beatsh me every day. Look.”
She draws her veil off her face.
That thin, once-cool face is bruised all down the right side. The right eye is swollen shut. The lower lip hangs flabby, revealing knocked-out teeth.
My stomach drops inside me.
Weakly, I repeat her words. “Every day?”
“That’sh why, when I shaw Shir Pershival with the King, I cried upon him.”
“You what?”
“I shrieked, ‘That’sh him!’ Sho he would fight Shir Agrain, and prove I never lay with him. And then I thought…” She lets her veil drop. I am grateful. “I thought, why shouldn’t I really do it? He won’t believe I was virtuoush. Sho, why be virtuoush?”
Wordless, I shrug.
“Beshides, you know, when Shir Pershival took my ringsh he wash lovely! Shoup-kettle helmet and all, he wash perfectly lovely! I almosht wished then…But now he’sh knighted and armed, all right and tidy, why n
ow he’sh a God! A veritable God! And you know, in the dark, he won’t shee me. He won’t notish—”
I draw deep breath. “Listen,” I say, stemming her flood of words. “He’s mine. You can’t have him. I won’t let you.” Why not? It would certainly simplify my task! “But we can stop these beatings.”
“We can?”
“Like this.”
On the spot, I invent a short spell. “Devil take your arms, my Lord, cut your hands off like a sword!”
“Holy Mother! If I shaid that—”
“Not aloud. You only have to think it. And mean it.” But has this lady the Power to actualize thought?
“A charm will strengthen it…Wait, I must have something here…” I’m feeling in my pouch. Knife, handy thong, herbs…
I don’t carry much in the way of material magic; my magic is in my head, safe from harm and loss…Aha! This light, soft touch tingles fingers and soul. I draw out…Percival’s teal feather!
He picked it up from the snow grail, itself a natural, melting charm, and gave it to me for safekeeping.
He has not asked for it back. Too soft, too airy for his keen purpose, it has melted right out of his mind.
“Here. Keep this safe, but within reach. Hold it when you say your spell.”
“Thish little feather?” Behind the veil, the bruised eyes boggle.
“Thish little feather will add weight to your Power.”
“Power?” With a light breath she ruffles the feather.
Briefly, my Spirit touches hers. Bounces off hers. Convinced, I tell her, “You have more Power than you think. Look at you! What other lady in this dun would wander these dark streets alone, without a lantern?”
A grin flashes behind the veil. “You!”
“Ah. But then, I’m no lady.”
I leave her. One moment I sit beside her, thigh to thigh. Next moment I am gone. Let her ponder that. Then let her leave my Percival alone, and keep her magic feather tenderly. It’s all I can give her.
***
Percival sleeps in our wide, warm bed. On the bedside chest the lamp still burns. His green-blue aura wafts about him, gentle as his sleeping breath.
I sink down on the bed and study him—my new Knight, my old friend.
What does the Goddess think of Percival?
If I were She, Lady of Life, Percival would be my favorite son!
Bright and big he is, it’s true; impossible to hide; heavy-footed as his great, red horse. But strong! From the deep insides of him gushes a magic fountain of strength, ever renewed. That lady called him “a veritable God.” And such he is, to Humans. What need has a God to hide, vanish, and sneak like a Fey?
We misjudged our Percy, back in the forest. “You can’t go fishing with him…the fish think his hair is the sun, and hide away.” We judged him as one of us…which he never was.
As I protected him then, so I would protect him now.
Morning comes soon, and the combat.
If he would use Bee Sting, his favorite weapon, Percy would win for sure. But he has not carried Bee Sting since we came here to Arthur’s Dun. Says it’s not a knightly weapon.
Look how far he has come, from his forest oak-nest to this hard-won bed! From Alanna’s soup-kettle helmet to the red armor carefully stacked in the corner. He must not stop now, cut down by a vicious, undeserved fury! By a cruel, knighted fool!
My Percy must win this combat.
After that, we must find that Holy Grail he’s after. Then Percy will have fulfilled himself and his Quest.
And if the price for Percy’s quest is my own quest, if I must give up my Power so that he can win his Power, then, Lady Goddess, so be it.
I draw Victory up out of my gown. I let her dangle between us, twirl softly, reflect golden light. Hound on trail…wind in sail.
I pull down the coverlet and lay two gentle, suddenly hungry hands upon my Percy, hands like lightning bolts, charged with the Power of so many nights’ imaginings! My Percy awakes.
***
Last night, by last lamplight, I lifted Victory from my neck. Lying beside panting Percy, I took up his left hand and pushed the ring firmly onto his third finger. It fit perfectly.
Idly, he raised his hand, looked at the ring with dazed eyes. “What is this?”
“A charm,” I told him coolly, as though it mattered little. “Her name is Victory.”
He studied her. “Dark, it is. No shine.”
“It shines within. Wear it from now on, Percival.”
“Oh. Goddamn! You mean, wear it for you?”
“For me?” Curious, I turned my head on the pillow to watch him push Victory around his finger. His new, crimson aura, fading now, expanded with every touch to the ring. Well would Victory serve my victorious Percy! (I suppose my own ringless aura must have shrunk, even as his expanded.)
I asked him, “What good would that do me?”
“So I’d remember you. If we should ever part.”
What a fool Human notion! “No, Percival. She is for yourself. To bring you Power.”
“Power. Only one kind of Power I want now!” He turned to me, reached for me.
But found me not. I was out of bed, pretending preparations for the morning. “Rest now,” I told him, busily fussing in a corner. “You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”
“You’re right, Lili.” Thinking of the morrow, he smiled a smile of pure confidence, stretched out comfortably on his back, and was instantly asleep.
I looked again on his dear face, newly relaxed, newly warm; and I rejoiced. Not made of ice now!
According to Merlin, Percy’s Quest should now be almost in his grasp.
My own Heart Quest was probably lost, flickering last, pitiful flames, like this lamp.
Well I knew what I had done. Well I knew what the Goddess had done. She had told me. And She had given me a task. For Her sake I would now have to leave Percival behind, alone; yet not truly alone; for I had given him Victory.
I blew out the light.
Now, this morning, I face a stiff, winter breeze at ringside. A much larger crowd than yesterday’s has gathered to watch the combat. Behind me all manner of Humans push and jostle, curse and laugh. Too small to defend my space, I manage to stay in front by dodging, vanishing, and reappearing, like a snake in high grass.
Ranna’s heavy gown and my “invisible” cloak serve well in this bitter wind. From upwind I smell warm bread and those little honeycakes Percival loves. Sales must be brisk as this breeze, which rushes away honey-smell and crowd-smell!
Men have paced off the combat ring in brown, snow-speckled grass. They have pushed back the crowd and left the space empty.
Lo, here strides a big Knight into the ring, sword and shield at the ready. Red cuirass and greaves, helmet and shield proclaim him my Percival. A murmur of appreciation runs through the crowd. And the crowd does not even glimpse his wide, orange aura edged in red! I see it almost clearly in windy gray light.
Sir Agrain comes in from the other side. His shield is half blue, half orange. His small, dark red aura clings close. Smaller than Percival, he must be far better practiced with the sword. He stands well away from Percival.
The crowd’s murmur rises a notch. Some of these same folk watched my Percival knighted yesterday. Then they waited in awed, reverent silence. Merry, now, they wait to see him kill or be killed.
Across the ring last night’s bruised lady, heavily veiled, droops near Agrain’s handful of men. I wonder what happened to her last night. Did she not use the teal feather?
Horns blow. King Arthur and the Queen approach through the parting crowd. Close behind them come Lancelot and Gawain. Their four mingled auras rise straight and high above the crowd, bright smoke on a brisk day.
Servants place cushioned benches in the front row. The haughty four seat themselves and sp
read their embroidered cloaks.
In the center of the ring a herald blows a horn, then shouts into wind and crowd-chatter. Only the combatants on each side of him can hear his words. I think he tells them combat rules.
Once more he lifts and blows his horn.
And now the crowd hushes.
The herald steps nimbly away. For the first time the combatants face each other. Swords screech out of scabbards.
Agrain lifts and lowers his sword like a signal to Percival. Quickly, Percival lifts and lowers his sword.
The crowd stands almost silent, with only a rustle here, a mutter there.
Percival and Agrain raise swords and shields, lift feet, and come at each other, swinging.
On his gloved finger, Percival wears Victory. Wind in sail…His heart is hot, no ice crumb left there. Should he stumble; should Agrain’s practiced skill begin to weaken him, here I stand ready, spell on tongue, Power gathered in clenched fists. I came here to see Percival victorious, and this I will see.
Swords clang on shields.
Agrain’s bloodred aura expands.
The Knights circle each other like fighting dogs. They advance, retreat, strike, ward, high, low, left, right.
Agrain’s red aura fills the great circle.
Should I cast a spell?
Contained Power shakes my fists at my sides.
Truly, I am not sure that red aura is all Agrain’s. Percival’s aura has reddened as well; and now the two auras writhe together, attack, and retreat in air, like the Knights below them.
Percival wears Victory.
I need to know if he can win alone, with only her help.
Because I must leave him.
I clasp Powered hands tightly under my chin. Bite my tongue, that wants to shout the spell.
Blow upon ringing blow, Agrain beats Percival back.
A small moan runs through the crowd, as a small thought may run through a distracted mind. Percival is the crowd’s man—at least while he still swings a sword.
Back and back he steps, back he bends beneath steady blows. Now he could stumble.
My fists fly up before me, ready to open, to cast forth Power upon Percival. My mouth opens to cry out Power.
But wait! Wait till he actually stumbles. See if he can—
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