Dark Moon of Avalon

by Anna Elliott

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Isolde said.

  Eurig was silent a long moment, staring down at the floor, though Isolde knew that whatever he saw, it wasn’t the rough wooden planks under their feet. Then he lifted his head, meeting Isolde’s gaze. “I wasn’t always outlaw. I was a man once—with a home. A wife. A son. Not that there’s much of that left in me now. But—” He stopped. His shyness had all but fallen away, and for a moment, another man entirely seemed to look out through his gentle brown eyes. Then, in a flash it was gone, leaving him homely, lumpish, balding, and awkward of speech once more. He hunched his shoulders. “Well, just wanted you to know, that’s all.”

  “Why do you stay?” Isolde asked. But that was another pointless question. Eurig—and for all she knew, the entire rest of the band—stayed because they must believe they could do nothing else. Men like Fidach’s, broken men, were those disgraced by outliving their lord on the field of battle. Or breaking an oath of allegiance. Or escaped criminals or slaves.

  Almost as though he’d read her thoughts, Eurig said, with a wry twist to his mouth, “Why do I stay? Because there’s nothing else for me. Men like us”—he made a gesture that included himself and Piye—“not like we’re going to walk into some lordling’s hall and have him welcome us with open arms. Not without his noticing this, one fine day.” Eurig pushed back the sleeve of his tunic, turning his arm to show his inner wrist. Two lines, crossed at the center, stood out black against the paler skin. A brand, the mark given for murder. “Or this.” Eurig leaned forward, pulling down the neck of his tunic so that Isolde saw the brand on his neck. A dark, smooth oval. The same mark of slavery Trystan bore.

  She said nothing, but Eurig, watching her face, nodded as though in confirmation. His voice changed, slightly, becoming somehow grimmer and hard. “Aye, Trystan was there, as well. At the mines. He’s the one that got me free. Got me free and carried me on his back through the snow because I was too sick to walk—not that he was in much better case. And saved my life more times afterwards than I care to count. So you can see why he’d trust me to guard you as I would have my own family, while they were yet alive.” He stopped, then added, in the same tone, “You can go to your own bed now and rest easy. No one gets past your door while I’m outside.”

  WHEN BOTH PIYE AND EURIG WERE gone, Isolde sat down on the hard wooden floor, absently running a hand along Cabal’s back as the big dog came to settle beside her with an explosive sigh, resting his head in her lap. She didn’t doubt that Eurig and Piye would keep watch outside her door tonight. Despite—or maybe because of—what Eurig had told her, she trusted them both. If either of them had wanted to harm her, they could have done it ten times over by now. And in the last moments before Eurig had turned to go, she’d abruptly become aware of the strength of his arms, the muscles of his shoulders, powerful as a bull’s. For all his quiet voice and shy manners, she could see the value he would have in Fidach’s band of fighting men.

  Even so, though, she didn’t go to bed or even lie down. She was thinking of what Eurig had told her of Octa and Cerdic. If Octa of Kent and Cerdic of Wessex had indeed sworn an oath of alliance, then she’d already failed in what she had journeyed all this way to do. Octa, Marche, and Cerdic between them would raise an army of spears and swordsmen that Madoc couldn’t possibly hope to match or defeat. Britain would be crushed as surely as the tribes had been crushed underfoot by the Roman legions so many men’s lifetimes ago.

  There was still the faint glimmer of a chance, though, that peace between Octa and Cerdic was not yet made, or that Eurig had been misinformed. And that meant that she had to get free of this place, get away from Fidach, and journey the rest of the distance to Cerdic’s court. Sitting in the lamp-lit hut, aware of the black, oozing mud and dark water that surrounded her on all sides, the thought seemed as possible as the story of selkies and twilight change she’d just told.

  At least, though, she could put that worry aside; however impossible a journey to Cerdic might be, she could do nothing tonight. What she couldn’t dismiss was her final exchange with Eurig, which kept ringing in her ears like the drumbeats she’d heard at dawn. Just as Eurig had turned to leave, Isolde had spoken again, making him pause with one hand on the door.

  “I won’t ask you to tell me where Trystan has gone,” she had said. “Or what kind of job Fidach has given him. But will you tell me this, at least: would you have expected him to return by now, if the mission had gone according to plan?”

  Eurig had turned back and looked at her across the dimly lighted space of the hut. Then finally, he let out his breath in another long sigh. “Aye,” he said. “Don’t reckon you’re the sort that would take comfort in a lie. So I’ll tell you plain. Aye, I would have expected it. Reckon Fidach would have, too—and that’s why he had you in to see him this morning. See if he could find out whether Trystan was like to have just cut loose with—” He checked himself. “Just cut loose and left you here. Not that I believe it,” he added quickly. “But that’s how Fidach would likely think, once he saw Trystan was slow in coming back.”

  Now, sitting by the guttering oil lamp, one hand still resting on Cabal’s neck, Isolde knew that she didn’t believe it, either. A part of her was surprised that she could be so sure—even kept probing her certainty for doubts, like touching a healing scar to see whether the pain is really gone. But she was sure—utterly and completely so. However Trystan had changed—whatever task appointed by Fidach he had set out to do—she knew without question that he wouldn’t have abandoned her and Hereric here willingly. The fear that brushed like bat wings all along her spine was the one that had entered her thoughts the moment Eurig had mentioned Octa’s name: that where Octa was, so Marche might be.

  She had seen Marche last—or rather glimpsed him in the scrying waters—with Octa. Somewhere to the north of here, she thought, because Octa had spoken of riding south at dawn to meet with Cerdic of Wessex. He’d said nothing of Marche accompanying him. But he might have, she thought. He could be—what had Eurig said? Less than a day’s ride away from here, even now.

  Trystan, too, was somewhere abroad in these wild, war-torn lands—she supposed alone, for Eurig had said nothing of anyone’s accompanying him on whatever mission he was on. And he doesn’t know, still, Isolde thought, that Marche is seeking him. Because I never told him.

  The hut’s single room felt suddenly close and airless, as though the whole world had suddenly shrunk to only what was contained in these bare, cornerless walls. Still, Isolde made herself rise, drawing an aggrieved grumble from Cabal as she moved his head from her lap. The washbasin was where she’d left it that afternoon and still half full with the water she’d used to scrub their clothes. Moving to kneel beside it, Isolde felt a flicker of almost amusement at the thought about the strange assortment of vessels she’d scried in since this journey began, even as she dreaded what she would see this time. A basin aboard Trystan’s ship …a moonlit pool of rainwater …and now a battered tin washtub, grimy with the dirt and dust from travel-soiled clothes.

  She focused on the lamplight, shattered and reflected on the surface of the water here, she realized that for the first time she would welcome a vision of him if it meant an end to uncertainty. If she could know where Marche was—where Trystan was—tonight.

  Isolde let her breathing steady and slow, emptied her mind of all hope, all expectation, all thought, until she was balanced as on a knifepoint of each breath she took, each beat of her heart. And, then …darkness. The darkness was so profound that for a moment Isolde thought no image had appeared at all. And then she started to make out shapes in the dark: a shield, a spear and sword lying on the ground. A rough camp bed. The inside of a war tent, maybe, she thought.

  A man was hunched on the bed, his body clenched as though around some inner pain. Too dark to see his face. Isolde felt a moment’s dread. But she’d come too far to turn back now. Closer …closer …she drew breath like a swimmer diving underwater. Then—

  HE
R HAND WAS STUFFED IN HER mouth and she was biting down hard on her own flesh to keep from crying out. Pain …but she welcomed the pain. Pain was proof of life. Pain and rage. That was all she ever felt. For the rest …it was like being ravenously hungry, and having all food turn to ashes in her mouth. Drinking and drinking and nothing slaking the terrible, burning thirst. Because—

  She bit down harder on the knuckles of her hand. Because what he wanted with a longing like a poisoned arrow twisting in his chest had been buried seven years ago under the ground at Camlann.

  THE IMAGE BROKE WITH A SUDDENNESS that made Isolde gasp. The sound drew Cabal’s attention, and the big dog burrowed his cold nose against her neck, whining softly. Isolde let him lick her cheek, grateful for the warmth of his fur, the rough prickle of his tongue on her skin. She was shivering, nausea rolling through her in waves.

  For five months now she had been able to slide in and out of Marche’s thoughts. But all that while, she’d slammed the door on even considering what she herself felt about Marche, the man. She’d refused even to consider feeling anger, because she didn’t want even that added link with him, that extra presence of him in her mind.

  But the more times she glimpsed him in the scrying waters—the more times she slipped into his mind, felt what he felt and heard his inner voice—

  The more—goddess mother help her—she felt something like unwelcome pity stirring inside her. And that was even less welcome than anger would have been.

  TRYSTAN STARED AT THE CRANNOG BLANKLY, wondering whether he’d actually reached the place at last or whether this was only some strange illusion. Some trick of vision conjured by the pain of his ribs. At least two were broken—cracked in the fight with the guardsman at the tin mines. A big man, he’d been, and clumsy with it. Not much of a fight at all, really. Just a matter of waiting for the guard to overbalance so that his own weight could be used against him.

  Trystan shifted the weight of the leather satchel he carried, grimacing at the fiery stab that shot through his chest. Stupid, probably, that the pain in some measure assuaged his conscience for having taken the man’s life. The fact that he was standing here swearing and sweating because his ribs ached like fury did the dead guard about as much good as a pair of boots did a snake.

  “So, my friend. Back at last.”

  The voice at his elbow made him jerk round, one hand on his knife, then allow himself a profound wish that he hadn’t as the movement brought another jolt of pain. Fidach. Of course. And probably it would be stupid as well to ask irritably whether he couldn’t walk and talk like an ordinary mortal instead of creeping about like a bloody ghost.

  Then again, Trystan must have let his own natural defenses drop, or Fidach wouldn’t have gotten this close without his knowing it.

  Fidach’s eyes flicked over him, his glance cool. “You succeeded?”

  Wordlessly, Trystan handed across the leather satchel filled with the gold of some local petty warlord. Payment for the tin he needed to smelt his bronze spearheads and knives.

  Fidach hefted the bag with one hand, testing its weight, then nodded. “Very good. Though no less than what I expected of you, my friend.”

  “Good of you.”

  A faint flash of amusement in the pale brown eyes acknowledged the dryness of Trystan’s tone. Fidach started to speak, coughed, then caught his breath and started again. “Your mute friend is recovering well. An unusual girl, your sister,” he said. “A rare healer. And grown quite popular, too, among the men.”

  And it would certainly be truly and utterly stupid to grab Fidach by the throat, pin him to the ground, and threaten to choke the life out of him if Isolde had been hurt or harmed. But that didn’t stop Trystan’s hands from twitching with the wish that he could—or keep the blood from pounding blackly behind him eyes.

  He’d had long practice, though, in schooling himself not to give wishes like that away. And he must have succeeded now because a flash of annoyance replaced the amusement in Fidach’s gaze. He said, irritably, “Yes, she’s won herself a following of devoted guards who watch over her like a pack of faithful hounds—much like that oversize beast of hers.” A hint of venom crept into Fidach’s tone. “They snap and growl when anyone else so much as comes near.”

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Trystan said, pleasantly, “You’ll be pleased to be rid of us, then.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Trystan knew it even as he heard the words leave his mouth. Fidach’s smile broadened. “You know me well, my friend. Have you ever known me to let anyone go as easily as that?” His hand moved, and Trystan saw that under that ridiculous bearskin robe he wore a sword belt and long sword. “Let’s make it a challenge, shall we? A match of blades. Beat me in fair combat, and I may even let you take your sister and leave this place alive.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  ISOLDE STOOD FROZEN IN PLACE, watching as Trystan and Fidach spun in a dizzying circle, their blades clashing, locking, then scraping apart to meet with a ringing clash yet again. They were evenly matched—terrifyingly so—and in the lightning strikes of Fidach’s blade, she could see how he had won and held the allegiance of his band of broken men. Despite his wasted body and fever-bright eyes, he moved with the grace of a dancer and the speed of a striking snake, so that Trystan had to work continually to block and parry each blow of Fidach’s sword.

  Isolde had seen Trystan fight before, while they were growing up and then again months ago. She knew the way he moved in a sword fight, the way he gripped a blade. This time, it seemed to her that his movements were stiffer than usual, lacking something of their usual quickness. His face was utterly still and calm, though, and his eyes were fixed on Fidach, reading the other man’s every movement, gauging each step Fidach took, each twist of his shoulders or tilt of his body. They slashed for each other’s chests, hacked downwards at arms and legs, thrust at each other’s throats. And always Trystan was ready with a movement that mirrored and canceled Fidach’s, always the swords clashed, screeched together as the blades slid towards the hilts, then sprang apart.

  The rest of the band was grouped in a half circle about them, some calling encouragements to their chief, some cheering Trystan on, but Isolde scarcely heard them. Later, she might feel dizzying relief at seeing Trystan here, and alive. Later, she might think to wonder or ask where he’d been. For now, though, every scrap of her concentration was fixed on the play of swords between the two men. She couldn’t even call to mind what Eurig had told her of the fight, when he’d come to her hut to give her the news that Trystan was returned. Only in fun, like, Eurig had said. A fight to first blood, not to the death. Watching, though, Isolde couldn’t let herself believe it. The faces of both men were too focused and fixed, deadly intent written in every line of their bodies and every meeting of their blades.

  Both were tiring. Sweat streaked Fidach’s tattooed face and matted his hair, and Trystan’s movements grew, not slower, Isolde thought, but more controlled, as though each slash of his sword required a greater effort than the one before. And then, suddenly, Trystan’s foot slipped from under him and he started to fall, so that his arm flew out and he lost his grip on his sword.

  Isolde’s heart seized hard in her chest, and she heard several sharply indrawn breaths—and several more derisive calls—from the circle of watching men. Trystan’s blade fell uselessly to the ground, and Fidach took a step forward, his own sword upraised, about to strike. Trystan had righted himself, but now faced Fidach without a weapon. For an endless moment, time seemed to hang suspended while the two men faced each other, one with his blade at the ready, glinting in the rays of the setting sun, the other unarmed.

  Then, with the lightning swiftness of a serpent’s strike, Fidach struck. Isolde’s breath stopped. But somehow, incredibly, Trystan spun aside and kicked out, his booted foot connecting with the wrist of Fidach’s sword arm and sending Fidach’s blade flying to the ground. For another long moment, the two men faced each other, chests heaving as they fought for breath.
Then Trystan put out his hand in a gesture of peace.

  Fidach’s face was impassive, his eyes unreadable as light brown stone. The next moment, though, he had thrown back his head and given one of his harsh, sudden bursts of laughter.

  “Well fought. Well fought.” He took the hand Trystan had offered, and the two men clasped wrists, pounding each other on the back. “I thought I almost had you there, my friend. We’ll call it a draw, agreed?”

  Trystan’s reply was lost to Isolde as shouts and laughter went up from the watchers all around. Isolde hadn’t thought Trystan even knew she’d been watching. But then he said something else to Fidach, clapped the shoulders of a few of those who pressed forward to offer congratulations, and turned, pushing his way through the group to where she stood.

  Isolde moved without conscious thought—hadn’t even realized she’d moved at all. One moment she was standing facing Trystan and the next her arms had gone round his neck and she was hugging him tightly the way she always had years ago when he came back from a battle or campaign. She felt his breath go out in a rush of surprise and thought he stiffened as though in pain. But his arms closed around her and he swung her up off the ground as he always had years before.

  He smelled of earth and dried leaves and sweat from the recent fight. Isolde closed her eyes and for a moment was aware of nothing but the reassuring solidity of his arms, the fact of his presence: that he was here, alive. Not dead. Not a prisoner of Octa or Marche. Then two realizations crept in. The first was that Trystan’s seemingly accidental slip and loss of his sword had been nothing of the kind, but a ploy calculated to throw Fidach off guard. The second realization was that they were now surrounded by Fidach’s men.