They were in procession down the center of a prosperous village of smiling, waving peasants.
***
They had sighted it not long after breaking camp, and Count Oduin had said the beautiful white walled castle beyond was Carbonek.
He must have dozed in the saddle as they rode through the hazy, warm green country. He blinked rapidly and patted Count Oduin’s hand in thanks for saving him from a spill.
To his right, Lorna Maeve rode in her finest dress, and the sun and goodness of the country seemed to fill her.
A brook bisected the village, and they saw a buxom old washerwoman with brown hands and a face like a raisin beating wet clothes against a stone as a naked child splashed along the bank.
At the sight of them, the child inched bashfully closer to the woman, until he grew too close and caught a pair of sopping wet britches full in the face, hard enough to knock him on his bottom bawling.
Lorna Maeve exclaimed sympathetically at the boy’s plight. He could be seen huffing through the pants, and when the washerwoman peeled them from his face and began assailing him with kisses, he forgot his distress and tried to push her off.
The three of them laughed.
Lorna Maeve and Balin looked to each other, it being the first time either had heard the other laugh, and it was as though they had seen each other anew. Balin did not look away in shame, and Lorna Maeve smiled and turned to watch her path.
Count Oduin nodded to himself, looking pleased.
Balin thought that maybe there was hope.
Maybe what Merlin had said…but he didn’t want to think about Merlin anymore. There was still bloody business to be done. He was reminded by the glint of the steel that encircled the tail of Lorna Maeve’s meticulously styled hair. It was the lance point of Sir Herlews, waiting for its measure of blood.
As they passed out of the village and came to the gates of Castle Carbonek, they saw a short line of country nobles before them, inching slowly under the portcullis, where the richly armed guards checked the weapons of the attending knights and ushered their animals, handing them off to a bustling relay of squires and pages moving between the gate and the nearby stables. Tall royal blue banners hung from either side of the entrance. Azure, a cup, or. The Holy Grail emblem of the Fisher Kings and the Templeise, the sign of the lord of the Palace Adventurous.
Balin had strapped the Adventurous Sword to Ironprow’s saddle, knowing no page would be able to take it from him. They dismounted as they neared the entrance.
A well dressed and prim looking herald stood before the guards with a squinting young tonsured scribe at a podium beside him. On the herald’s left stood a broad shouldered, somewhat unkempt and brutish looking knight with a head of salted black hair encircled by an ostentatious gold circlet and sporting a silver streaked beard. Dark eyes looked over the line of entrants in half-lidded interest from beneath a pair of unruly eyebrows. He was in fine, black armor filigreed with little gold crosses and cups, and a rich evergreen cloak was about his shoulders, trimmed in silver thread with old runic symbols. He was loudly crunching a green apple, the juices and detritus running down his beard, when Count Oduin stepped forward.
“The names and titles of your party, please?” the herald asked.
“Count Oduin of Castle Meliot,” said the Count.
“Sir Balin of Camelot,” said Balin, helping Lorna Maeve dismount. “And this is the Lady Lorna Maeve.”
As the scribe scribbled away on his parchment, the herald eyed Count Oduin. “Pardon me, Count. But have you brought no lady with you?”
“I hope King Pellam will pardon me. The Countess, my wife, died last year,” said Oduin. “I still thought it rude not to honor his daughter’s birth.”
The knight in the cloak was eyeing Lorna Maeve brazenly over the top of his apple, as if he were devouring her and not the fruit. Balin looked hard at him, but the knight didn’t even notice.
“Please leave your mounts with our pages. They will be tended. And sir knight, your sword,” said the herald.
“In my country,” said Balin, still staring at the ill-mannered knight, “it’s not customary for a man to relinquish his weapon.”
The knight looked at Balin for the first time and slung aside his apple core as the two guards stepped closer. “Well this isn’t your country, is it?” he said, bubbling over with challenge.
The herald intervened deftly. “Your pardon, Sir Balin. Weapons are not allowed to pass the threshold of the Palace Adventurous. Ancient magic forbids it.”
Balin looked hard into the eyes of the knight in the green cloak. He wanted to cuff him for his disrespect, but instead he unbuckled his sword and held it out to the page who held the bridle of Ironprow and stood waiting. The page took hold of it, but Balin did not release, and the slight boy looked from him to the herald.
“If it is stolen,” Balin said directly to the knight. “You will be responsible.”
The knight shifted, showing the flash of his teeth, but the herald spoke first. “It will be safe, I assure you.”
***
Nimue, in the guise of the young page, watched Sir Balin and his two companions pass under the archway of Carbonek, casting one hard glance back at Sir Garlon.
Garlon looked angry enough to stab Balin in the back, as was his wont, but then his eyes fell on the glittering hilt of the Adventurous Sword on Balin’s horse.
Nimue led the horse off to the stables and noticed Garlon was following her.
Good. She needed to have words with him alone.
The past few days had seen the continued unraveling of her plan. Balin had ventured further and further away from Camelot, delaying her vengeance against Arthur even more. Garlon had so far proven to be as undependable and unpredictable as Balin. Now, her two pawns were on an inexplicable course toward conflict with one another. One of them would not survive. Merlin made all this scheming and manipulating seem so damnably easy!
When she had learned Balin was in the vicinity of Meliot, she had disguised herself as a young acolyte in the churchyard and tried to urge him back to Camelot, but her approach had been borne of frustration and, she admitted, clumsy. She had followed him to Carteloise as a flea on his horse, and then as a white mouse into the dungeon of the Leprous Lady’s castle, where she’d been amazed as he to find Merlin imprisoned. She hadn’t known he was susceptible to cold iron. That at least was a valuable bit of information.
Merlin had nearly caught her outside the Aspetta Ventura that night. After eluding him, she had gone to ground for a day, curled up in a soft, dark rabbit warren, indistinguishable from the rest of its denizens, till she had been sure she’d lost him, then she had flown ahead to Lystenoyse.
When she’d learned at Meliot that Balin was heading here to Carbonek and that King Pellam had declared a feast, she had hoped Arthur would attend, but his wedding to the princess from Cameliard had skewered that plan.
Merlin would be watching Balin from afar, looking for her. It wasn’t safe to try and speak to him again, but she still had Garlon, brute though he was. She dutifully led Balin’s gray horse into an empty stall and set his other sword nearby.
Garlon entered the stall behind her, ignoring her, and pawed like a hungry urchin in a bakeshop at the pommel of the Adventurous Sword hanging on the saddle.
She watched Garlon’s fingers close on the handle and stood back, amused as he struggled to pull it from its scabbard, upsetting the horse so that it turned in place, forcing him to follow it stupidly.
“You can’t take it,” she said.
Garlon shot her a look. To him, she was just an impudent stable boy.
“Be off, boy, or I’ll fetch you a clout,” he grunted, returning to his comical labors.
She revealed herself and folded her arms. “You would add petty thievery to your long list of crimes, Sir Garlon?”
He started at the change in her voice and marveled for a moment before settling into his easy, roguish smile; perhaps charming in a man half his age and
handsome, but in his thick face, more akin to the leer of a mangy old jackal. She wondered how she had ever thought him anything other than an ugly animal.
“So. Nimue,” he purred.
She stepped forward and touched the hem of the ancient cloak draped about him.
“I gave you your power for a reason, Garlon. You have misused it.”
Garlon pulled the cloak from her hand and scoffed. “Don’t play the righteous benefactress with me, girl. This is the cloak of an assassin, not the robes of the Pope.”
“Yet you ride around slaughtering innocent knights, thieving, and likely attacking women.”
“Just testing out the goods, dear. Think of it as a rehearsal for the last act. You wanted me to be a dragon, remember?”
“I wanted you to strike against Arthur.”
“Don’t fret,” he said, running his eyes down her figure like a hungry tomcat. “Incidentally, I haven’t found your Sir Balin yet.”
“You fool! You saw him only moments ago! This is his horse and these are his arms! Your bloody deeds have earned his enmity and now he’s here for you.”
Garlon looked momentarily confused, then shrugged and began pacing idly about the stable, hooking his thumbs on his belt.
“All the better. Once he sets foot in the Palace Adventurous, he’ll be unarmed and no threat. I can poke a hole in his throat with a dinner fork at my leisure.”
“You were never supposed to kill Arthur,” Nimue said, exasperated.
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Garlon, “but Arthur is surrounded by knights, and attended by that foxy Merlin.” He fingered a bit of straw in the manger. “That game’s not in season yet, love. I’ll see to him soon enough, don’t you worry. In the meantime, I’ve another throat to cut.”
Nimue looked hard at him. There was something behind that deliberate nonchalance. “You’re not talking about Balin,” she said slowly. She reached out to him, using the old way, the Sight she had been taught. Garlon’s mind was shrouded but easy enough to see into. Her heart quickened. “You mean to kill your own brother! King Pellam.”
Garlon turned on her, raising his ridiculous eyebrows, and set the bit of straw between his yellow teeth. “You’re a clever one after all, girl. I haven’t been in my brother’s good graces since Agrippe’s invasion. Oh, they accepted me back ready enough, but they’ve never quite trusted me. You know how insufferable two older brothers can be when each of them’s got a throne and you don’t? Been lording it over me their whole lives. With all these strange knights in the palace, if Pellam springs a leak and trusty old Garlon finds and kills the invisible culprit, maybe your Sir Balin, for instance…he’s a testy sort… I can take him aside and bandy him into a challenge, slip a blade into the back of his neck somewhere quiet, stow him away for later. I unveil him after the deed’s done, say I caught him with the blade that struck my brother low. Then Garlon’s a hero and above reproach. And since Pellinore has his Outer Isles and Pellam’s weans are all yet nursery-bound, it’s King Garlon at last. Arthur be damned. I’ll be swilling wine from the Grail by this time tomorrow.”
As he spoke the last, he raised the hood of the mantle and before Nimue could utter a hex, he vanished.
“Damn!” she cursed. She leaned against the stable wall and put the heels of her palms tiredly to her eyes. How had she deigned to trust her revenge with this base thug? In hindsight, it seemed like the most foolish step she had taken. “Merlin, what have I done?”
“I don’t know, Nimue. Illuminate me.”
Merlin stood in the stable doorway, dark and terrible, blocking her escape.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lorna Maeve took Balin’s offered elbow and they passed through the sallyport into the courtyard and joined the procession of exquisitely dressed ladies and gentlemen filing into the palace.
The majesty of the Palace Adventurous had been partly obscured by the tall white walls of the castle around. It surpassed Camelot in the sweep and majesty of its architecture, which was cathedral-like in its complexity. Prophets and saints in relief traversed among the many arches bordering the brilliant stained-glass windows, which in turn, depicted momentous scenes from Scripture in ascending order, with the seven days of Creation in the ground floor windows, and the Ascension of Christ in the top. The seven white spires that assailed the heavens were guarded by masterwork statuary which mimicked the rank and file of heavenly spirits in their arrangement. Each tower tip was capped by a golden, seven-winged archangel, the central and tallest being capped with a tall golden cross encircled by four six-winged seraphim. Four solemn, angelic watchmen guarded the corners of the towers at each of the three floors of the Palace. Ringing the entire structure were an innumerable host of cavorting granite cherubs, beaming down at the guests who one and all craned their necks to take in all the celestial glory before passing within.
It was unquestionably the greatest, most beautiful structure Balin had ever seen. For a moment, he actually dabbed at his eyes, wondering at the intensity of love and artisanship and the incalculable human effort that must have gone into erecting this singular monument to the Almighty. What was his own offering of the sword, pledged to profanely disassemble God’s creations, next to this divine assemblage of stone and gold, marble and silver? He thought of Guinevere’s observation that he was a bloody man. As Arthur had need of bloody men, did God? Was there a place for the angel that had slain the first-born Egyptians on this edifice? He felt like fallen Lucifer, or an envious Cain watching Abel’s more heartfelt offering, yet unlike his wretched ancestor, Balin’s envy moved him to humility. As God had taken the stuff of the earth and molded man, here man, in his own way, had taken of the earth and aspired to the Father, rendering it into an artifice to honor the Divine. Surely, it was the closest mere man could ever hope to come to reciprocating the immeasurable affection of the Creator.
Lorna Maeve noticed the wetness of his cheeks as they entered the great foyer and touched his hand with hers.
He looked into her querulous eyes with shame at his naked emotion, but in her he saw something. Something new that had not been there among the deadness, something blooming like the first shoot through the winter frost. She understood his emotion and appreciated what he felt.
Could she though, a woman who knew nothing of God?
Whether she knew Him or not, she was His creation. As Balin looked on her beauty, his emotion was renewed, and he marveled on her as he had on the architecture, for while the building was of man, Lorna Maeve was of God, and she was not dead stone and metal. She lived, and breathed, and his pulse fluttered at the warmth of the blood flowing beneath her soft fingertips, precious blood she had selflessly given again and again, just as Christ had given His own, for others.
Yes, she was of God.
Was Arthur right? Was every god, God? Did she honor God as she saw Him?
Did he imagine the moment of connection between them? The passing of understanding between their eyes? What did it signify? If he could love her, could she love him? Did she require the offering of Cain? Could they but turn from this bloody quest as Merlin had urged? Would she come with him if he suggested it or curse him for a coward? She did not move her hand away, and a slight smile curled in the corners of her mouth.
He was overwhelmed with the desire to lean in and touch his lips to her own, for a brief moment only. Would it be misconstrued as lust? He could not bear to have her think that. What he wanted was to thank her in that instant for her empathy, in the most chaste and heartfelt way he had immediately at his disposal.
But he thought of how she had cut him outside her tent, and he cowered. Better Sir Garlon kill him unawares in this instant than that. Oh God, he could not bear to be unmanned by her withering words a second time.
He returned the briefest of smiles, and looked away, pretending to admire the décor, seeing nothing, and aching to his soul.
Though she remained poised at his elbow, her other hand returned to her side, and a tear slid from him, hot as first bloo
d. He caught it with the back of his hand, and they moved on.
The procession through the Palace was a blur. He was aware of ancient portraits, of Count Oduin naming the Fisher Kings of the past. He did register that while the spell on the Palace forbade the passage of weapons across its threshold, apparently those that had been kept within prior to the casting of the enchantment were here still.
The guards of Pellam, the elite Templeise, with their illustrious armor, gilded with golden grail motifs as the black harness of the rude knight at the gate had been, bore old style, but perfectly kept swords. Polearms, flails, maces, and axes of antique designs adorned the walls too. If he had to fight Garlon within these hallowed walls, there was no shortage of weapons.
They came at last to the throne room of Pellam, where the wizened Fisher King sat upon a throne of burnished gold, its high back suggesting the shape of a great chalice. King Pellam was quite old. His white beard tapered to a point midway down his chest, and soft white hair cascaded from beneath his bejeweled diadem over his narrow shoulders. His wrinkled, unadorned hands were spotted, and yet there was a vigor in his old face, a light in his kindly blue eyes, when they looked upon the tiny pink babe slumbering peacefully in the golden, silk shaded cradle set before him, around which lay piled all the fine gifts of the visiting gentry, laid like a magnificent pyre of riches arranged by the magi of old.
Pellam’s queen was yet a young woman, though her rust colored hair was shot through with fine silver, and she rested her elbow on her throne, and held the hand of her husband.
On a small golden stool beside his mother sat the king’s young son. Count Oduin had said his name was Eliazar. He was a handsome boy in fine silks. He leaned his head sleepily on his mother’s leg.
There was love between this family.
Balin was also glad to see red robed priests among the courtly advisors. Perhaps even more than Arthur, this king ruled under God.
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