Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles)

by Ruth Nestvold

  Yseult could feel a hint of indecision creeping into Ginevra's thoughts, but it was not enough for her purpose. She briefly considered telling Ginevra about Kevern, about the beggar, about the murders Medraut had already committed, but why would she believe those tales any more than she believed what Yseult had learned from the minds of the soldiers guarding her? No, she would never be able to convince Ginevra that Medraut intended violence against her friend, the woman who had cured their son. She had given up too much, had too much invested in her new consort.

  But how to flee Celliwig without help? She might be able to use her power of changing to get past the guards, but as soon as she attempted to steal a horse to take her to Dyn Tagell she would be caught.

  And she would never make it to safety on foot before her disappearance was discovered.

  "Perhaps you are right," Yseult said. "My mind is clouded with worry; it could be distorting what I hear."

  "Yes, that must be it!" Ginevra agreed eagerly.

  Yseult watched Ginevra hurry off to give instructions to the cook, wondering how she was going to survive her imprisonment.

  After Ginevra was gone, a dark-haired servant entered the room and began collecting the baby's soiled linens. To Yseult's surprise, she leaned near her ear and whispered, "Lady, is there any way you can get word of my little boy?"

  Yseult blinked, not understanding.

  The servant knelt down on the ground nearby, and Yseult opened her mind to the other woman's thoughts.

  A dark-haired boy on Cador's lap, sent away in place of Melehan.

  Of course.

  Yseult bent over and picked up a towel from the floor. "Here is more that needs to be laundered." Then she whispered, "I am watched constantly; I would help you if I could, but I do not see how."

  The woman lowered her head and took the towel Yseult handed her. "Thank you, Lady," she said in a normal tone of voice — filled with sadness.

  "Wait," Yseult said. "There's more."

  This woman could be an ally here in her prison, if she could only think of a way. Didn't Yseult have more than one ally? Taliesin had stretched the truth at least a little when he arrived in Celliwig, and she suspected it was for her benefit. Besides, what did she have to lose?

  "Go to the new bard, Taliesin, and tell him of your plight," she whispered. "Perhaps with his help we can think of something."

  Yseult handed the servant some clean linens. The woman added them to her bundle, rose and curtsied. "I will take care of it, Lady." This time her voice was tinged with hope.

  The woman turned and left, and Yseult heaved a sigh. Of relief? Of hope?

  * * * *

  Cador sat up in his bed in Dyn Tagell and rubbed his eyes. Weak morning light seeped in through the high windows. It was the dream again. Yseult at Celliwig, but not as it was when Arthur had asked them to wed; it was a Celliwig ruled by Medraut. Was Yseult using her power of calling to contact him? No, it had to be wish fulfillment. She would not be telling him how much she longed to be with him, how much she regretted her actions and wished she had not been such a fool. That was not like Yseult; that was his own fantasies running wild.

  This dream though, with the threat running through it, this dream felt more like a message: Yseult had to escape Celliwig before Arthur arrived in Britain.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to grip the edge with his left hand, forgetting once again that he was now missing three fingers. He wondered how long it would take him to become used to having only half a hand. At least he was no longer bed-ridden, nor in a fog of pain most of the time. But what he wanted to do was ride to Celliwig and rescue Yseult from Medraut, finally be a hero for once, like Gawain, like Drystan.

  Instead, he was a cripple.

  Summer was on the wane, and daybreak came ever later. As Cador made his way to the dining room of the lower hall, only a few servants were stirring, lighting fires in the braziers to banish the nighttime chill before the residents of Dyn Tagell came to break their fast.

  Cador had been meaning to let himself out of the great double doors when he heard his name called. He turned. "Brangwyn. You are up early."

  She smiled. "I could say the same of you, and with much more reason. You are still supposed to be recovering."

  They both glanced at his bandaged hand, at the remaining thumb and forefinger.

  Cador shrugged. "I have little pain now, thanks to your care. And I could not sleep."

  Apparently he was still too seriously injured to mask all his thoughts. "Yseult will not care that you have lost a few fingers, Cador. She has been trying to reach you with her power of calling?"

  "I don't know. I awaken every morning with dreams of her, but I do not know if they are messages." He had no need to tell Brangwyn how his waking thoughts were full of his wife as well — and he was just as incapable of judging what might be message and what was part of his normal obsession with the woman he'd loved off and on since youth.

  Brangwyn took his arm and led him in the direction of the kitchens. "That strikes me as strange. Yseult's greatest gift was always the power of calling; how can it be that her message is so weak you cannot discern whether it is that or dream?"

  Because of the strength of my own desire.

  Luckily it seemed he had control of the shields in his mind again, because Brangwyn did not respond to the thought.

  "Perhaps it has to do with my injuries," Cador suggested.

  "That could explain it."

  They arrived in the kitchens, and Brangwyn ordered a servant to prepare two mugs of warm milk and honey. Here it was much warmer than the rest of the hall, and they settled down at a small table in the corner of the room, out of the way of the servants preparing the morning meal.

  "I worry too, Cador," Brangwyn said, warming her hands around the mug. "But you know Yseult can look after herself. It is one of the reasons we love her so well."

  "Modrun was very good at looking after herself too."

  Brangwyn had no answer for that, and she stared down at the steaming milk. After a moment, her head shot up.

  Cador looked around, but noticed nothing amiss. "What is it, Brangwyn?"

  "The ships have been sighted. I feel it."

  Together they rose, leaving their milk and honey standing, and hurried out of the hall. Sure enough, as they took the steps cut into the rock, they heard the first horn. The sky was lighter now, although there were still remnants of night clinging to the edge of the water on the western horizon.

  And there to the southwest, a fleet of ships was coming into view, the purple of the Pendragon banner barely recognizable.

  Arthur had arrived.

  "Thank the gods," Brangwyn said. "Finally."

  Cador too felt relief — but at the same time fear. "As long as Medraut holds Yseult, Arthur cannot attack. Otherwise her life is forfeit."

  Brangwyn shot him a sharp look. "She told you that?"

  "Yes, I think she did," Cador said slowly.

  * * * *

  Yseult walked between the odd collection of rectangular and round buildings in Celliwig, her guards a few paces behind, casting her mind about for anything that might help her escape: where Medraut had gone or what his plans were, whether he might not send for more troops, a guard who planned on neglecting his duties for a tryst, any discontent she might be able to use. The serving woman had not sought her out again with a message from the bard, and as Melou's health began to visibly improve, Yseult's fears increased.

  Despite the many fighting men who had left with Medraut, the sounds around her were still those of a hill-fort on the brink of war: the clash of sword and shield from the men at weapons' practice, orders barked out during sprinting and jumping exercises, the hammering of the blacksmith as he worked on a new lance or dagger. The air was full of the smell of sweat and horse and dung and hay.

  The conflicting thoughts and emotions of the men and women around her were a confusing, messy jumble. It was no wonder that she did not often u
se her power of knowing randomly this way. Yseult tried to concentrate and filter some sense out of the scattered fragments.

  Damn woman, can't she leave a man in peace — Damn woman, why does she have to lead a man on — Where is my puppy? — I will show him, he won't call me dung-eating coward again — I wish I had more garlic for the soup — There's that haughty Erainn queen. I wonder how much of her icy arrogance will be left once King Medraut has thrown her to us?

  While the thoughts were not exactly something Yseult wanted to hear, she focused on the mind fantasizing about her downfall; it was the one that seemed most likely to provide the information she needed.

  Won't the bitch be surprised when Medraut returns with Cerdic's army at his back! If she lives to see it, that is.

  Of course. Cerdic had recently defeated Natanleod and taken Calleva. While their original plan had probably been to converge on Dumnonia, attacking from east and west, now that Arthur was returning to Britain, the usurpers would know they had to defeat the Dux Bellorum if they wanted to carve out their own kingdoms in the south. She had to get to Dyn Tagell and warn them of Medraut's plans.

  And then she felt the presence of magic, the touch of another mind. A presence which immediately disappeared as soon as she became aware of it.

  She continued to walk along the perimeter of the inner ditch next to the ramparts, while her guards paced patiently behind her. As she came around the corner closest to the stable annex, she spied the bard in the open space near the entrance, singing a simple tune for a handful of children.

  Taliesin. So the young man had some of the powers of the Old Race. She smiled; whatever powers he possessed could come in handy in the present situation — if he agreed to help her, that is. She'd sent the serving woman to him three days ago, and nothing had come of it. But perhaps he had not understood?

  She reached out her mind to his. The magic came from you, didn't it, Taliesin?

  He continued singing and strumming his harp, showing no sign of having noticed anything unusual. Yseult wandered to the edge of his small audience and halted. Had she been wrong about him? But then who else could have been the source of the magic?

  No, you were not wrong, Lady. But one can never be too careful.

  A little girl slipped her hand into Yseult's. You really did predict Maelgwyn's death, didn't you?

  I'm afraid so.

  Not wise.

  No, but predictions are not precisely ruled by wisdom, are they?

  Yseult thought of her mother's own "unwise" prediction regarding Yseult's future so many years ago, a prediction they'd all rejected, just as Maelgwyn had rejected that of Taliesin. That they are not.

  Taliesin finished the song with a flourish and began a new sequence of notes. A pretty young servant recently came to me for assistance.

  And will you be able to help?

  We are working on a plan.

  Yseult tightened her hold on the little girl's hand, and the child squeezed back.

  By the way, I was intending on going to the village to buy a horse, even though I know it will run away, came a fleeting thought to her mind. We will let you know when it does.

  Yseult looked down at the little girl beside her, trying to hide her elation. Perhaps she would still see her daughter again. And Cador. And Kustennin. I don't know how to thank you.

  A sack of gold when this is over might be a start.

  Luckily she was able to repress the urge to chuckle. If I am ever again in possession of a sack of gold, it is yours.

  And of course you must see that Cryda is reunited with her son.

  So the servant's name was Cryda. I will do everything in my power.

  * * * *

  Cryda came to collect the soiled linens again the following day. "The bard is going to town tomorrow," she whispered. "The horse will be waiting for you in a copse of trees to the north. I will help you find it."

  "Here is the rest of the laundry," Yseult said, trying to contain her joy.

  The next evening, Yseult claimed to be feeling unwell and retired early. Before sundown when the gates of the hill-fort were closed, she cloaked herself in shadow and stole out of Celliwig.

  Taliesin must have warned Cryda that Yseult would not be able to show herself; in any case, she wasn't startled when Yseult whispered from the shadows to the young woman taking an evening walk.

  Cryda began to sing to herself, but the words were a message. "I will walk with you a ways until we are close enough to see the copse of trees. Then I must return to the hill-fort before the gates close."

  "Thank you."

  Yseult followed the serving woman until she began singing again. "There, straight north, you will find the mare. I will try to leave with Taliesin in a few days, and he will bring me to Dyn Tagell."

  "If I make it there, you will soon have your son again," Yseult whispered.

  Once it was full night, Yseult set off from her hiding place. The mare was not swift or neat, reluctant to even change her gait from a walk to a slow canter. Progress was further hampered by the need to keep near the edge of the woods and off the roads — such as they were in this part of Britain. Nonetheless, without baggage or pack animals or carts to slow her down, Yseult guessed it was a little after midnight when Dyn Tagell came into view, jutting imperiously out into the ocean.

  Much against her nature, Yseult laughed out loud into the night as she spurred the stubborn mare on.

  When she neared the gate of the mainland fortress, a challenge was called out.

  Yseult found herself laughing again — twice in one day! "It is I, Yseult, sometime queen of this place."

  "Lady Yseult?" came another voice. It was her man-at-arms Ricca.

  "Yes, Ricca. I escaped Celliwig with the help of a bard, a laundress, a reluctant mare, and a little magic. But now I am tired. Would you consider opening the gates for me?"

  "Of course, Lady!"

  Then there was the sound of heavy metal bolts being shot back, and the creak of wood as the doors swung wide. Perhaps infected by Yseult's mood, the mare cantered through with more energy than she had shown during the whole ride from Celliwig. Around her she heard the tidings of her arrival called from one throat to the next. When she reached the Neck, she dismounted with Ricca's help, while the warriors on duty laughed and patted her on the back and touched her arm. Yseult tolerated this casual intimacy; no, welcomed it even.

  The guards on the Neck stood aside, and even in the moonlight she could discern their wide smiles. Yseult marched through, thanking each one with a nod and a quick grip of the hand.

  Soon she would be with Cador again.

  She was halfway across the land bridge when she spied a group approaching the Neck from the island side. Suddenly she felt strangely nervous, afraid to use her power of knowing for fear of what it might tell her.

  Yseult continued to stride forward with all the confidence she didn't feel, and was relieved when she heard her son cry out, saw him emerge from the flickering shadows of moonlight and torch and rush up to greet her.

  "Mother!"

  Kustennin took her in a crushing embrace, and she felt tears start in the corners of her eyes. In her arms he felt taller, more substantial, and he had the distinct smell of a man rather than a youth. It was going on three years since she had seen him last.

  She took his face in her hands and examined him in the moonlight. "Kustennin. I am so glad you survived the wars in Gaul, so glad you're back."

  He laughed in that way he had that reminded her of Drystan and released her. "As much as I would like to, I cannot have you all to myself. There are too many others who wish to welcome you back to our midst."

  And then he stepped away, and Cador was there in front of her. Cador, the friend and husband she had never appreciated enough. The man she had learned to love so slowly, she had no idea when friendship had become something else. She had so much to say to him, she could say nothing.

  He began to walk towards her, his step slow, his left hand encased in b
andages.

  No, she could not worry now whether he would welcome her back into his life. If disappointment there was to be, it could come later. She hurried the rest of the way to him and took his hands, the good as well as the bad. "It is good to see you, Cador. The moonlight may be deceptive, but you look better than you did in the middle of the field north of Celliwig."

  He nodded, smiling. "Your cousin has been taking care of me." Then he folded her in his arms. "Ah, Yseult, thank the gods. I was afraid I would never see you again."

  She laughed — for the third time in one day! — and drew his face forward to kiss him. To her immense surprise, she noticed that tears were streaming down her cheeks, the salty taste mixing in with the taste of his tongue. He pulled her tight, while around them, their friends and loved ones laughed and cheered.

  She was welcome. There would still be much to discuss, but for now, being welcome was enough.

  * * * *

  Cador stepped back from his wife's embrace, feeling dazed. He had been dozing in a corner of the lower hall while a number of Arthur's companions drank and talked; the shouting at the news of her arrival had woken him. He was stunned by the passion in her kiss, but even more than that, her tears had him doubting whether this was actually happening. Since Drystan's death, some fifteen years ago now, he had not seen her cry, not even at Drystan's funeral.

  And now she was crying and laughing at the same time. Laughing. Yseult. The so-called "Ice Queen." Could her reaction truly be for him?

  He wiped her tears away with the back of his good hand. "I find myself very curious to learn how you escaped Celliwig, but I think we can save that for another day."

  She chuckled. "Did I not tell you I had a better chance of surviving as hostage there than you?"

  "That you did. And I am exceedingly relieved that you were right."

  He turned towards the men who had accompanied him from the lower hall. "My wife has had a wearing journey. I suspect she would like to retire."

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. She leaned her head on his shoulder? Yseult, his reluctant wife?