The Indigo King

by James A. Owen

  “We should have brought him with us,” said Chaz. “Is there time t’ go back?”

  John shook his head. “It’s been too long already,” he said, noting the eclipsed sun. “Every moment takes us farther into the Winterland. And we may never be able to reverse it if we don’t do it now.”

  “I must stay,” said Gwynhfar, “but the Holy Blood might be taken back with you, to do what must be done.”

  “You want us to take your blood?” asked Hugo.

  “No,” she said with a faint smile, “I want you to take my child.”

  Gwynhfar turned and walked between Circe and Calypso, gesturing for the companions to follow.

  They walked out of the temple and down a long procession of steps that ended up splitting into two separate paths. The one to the left followed the ridge of sharp cliffs that rose above the western side of the island. Jack and John looked at each other and grinned in recognition. That path led to the cave where they were most familiar with seeing the Morgaine, and where they would one day meet the distant heir to Arthur’s throne. If Arthur might still have heirs, that was.

  The path to the right dropped sharply down to a pebbled beach, where a number of rusted weapons and tools were scattered in the sand.

  There ahead of them, watching through an old iron grate half-buried in the sand, was a young girl. She was auburn-haired, with wide green eyes and a face that bespoke innocence. She was playing with an assemblage of gears that resembled the insides of a watch.

  Gwynhfar walked to the girl, who stood and kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’ve brought you some visitors,” said Gwynhfar. She introduced the companions one by one, and the girl nodded and smiled at each of them in turn.

  “And what is your name, my dear young lady?” asked John. “How are you called?”

  Gwynhfar answered instead, shaking her head. “She has never been named. Her father has never seen her or spoken her name. So she has waited to choose her own name.”

  On impulse more than anything else, Hugo reached inside his jacket and removed the indigo rose he’d been given by the Serendipity Box. He looked to Gwynhfar, who gave him a curious look in return, then nodded, and he turned and gave the flower to the girl.

  “It’s called a rose,” he said mildly. “I … I think I brought it for you. Will you come with us? Will you come, and help us?”

  The girl nodded. “May I give you a thimble?” she asked, and kissed him on the cheek before he could reply. “Thank you for my name. I’ve been waiting for you a long time.”

  “It’s a flower, not a name,” Hugo stammered, still blushing from the kiss.

  “A thimble might be a kiss, a flower might be a name, and a dragon might be a ship,” said Gwynhfar. “Sometimes things are simply what we need them to be. And sometimes things are not what we expect.”

  She turned and walked up the steps, expecting the others to follow. Her daughter and Hugo went behind her, then Jack and Chaz.

  John was about to follow, when he caught sight of a movement farther down the beach. He stopped and looked more closely, then realized it was an old fisherman, bent over his nets.

  The fisherman saw John and lifted an arm to wave. John waved back, then trotted up the steps to catch up to the others. “He always returned to watch over his children,” he murmured. “That’s the way to do it, old-timer.”

  Back in the temple of Diana, the companions stood with the enchantresses, Gwynhfar, and the girl.

  “Thank you,” John began. “We cannot express what this will mean to the world that you are helping us.”

  “Your gratitude is not necessary,” Circe said. “It is a fair exchange, in the manner of the old ways.”

  Exchange? John thought wildly. What exchange? He’d forgotten that the Morgaine rarely gave anything freely; they usually expected something in return. But they had brought nothing with them except …

  “You don’t mean to take our boat, do you?” John said. “We need it to—”

  “Not the Dragonship,” said Circe. “It has not the value.”

  “Then what?” asked Jack. “What is it you want?”

  “Blood for blood, a life for a life,” Circe said simply. “It is the Old Magic, and it is the Law. If the child is to leave Avalon, then one of you must stay.”

  “You’re going to sacrifice one of us?” Hugo gulped.

  “No one will be sacrificed.” Calypso sighed. “But he who stays will be expected to serve, as our daughter will serve in the Summer Country.”

  “The Green Knight,” Jack said suddenly. “They mean for one of us to become the Green Knight.”

  John understood. That was why they hadn’t seen one of the familiar guardians of the island. There had been no guardian, not until this point in time. And one of them would have to stay behind and take up the mantle, if they were going to have the chance to save Arthur.

  Chaz stepped forward. “I can do this. I want to do this.”

  Jack shook his head. “No,” he said flatly. “You don’t realize what you’re offering, Chaz.”

  “I know one of us has t’ stay,” reasoned Chaz. “What else do I need t’ know? You two are real Caretakers. You have t’ go back. And rescuing Hugo was part of the reason you’ve done all this t’ begin with. I’m the only one who can stay.”

  “We’ll find another way,” John began. “There must be another way, Chaz!”

  “Blood for blood, a life for a life,” Circe repeated. “There is no other way.”

  “I’ve been wondering all along,” Chaz said slowly, eyes downcast, “if maybe things back in Albion might have been different, if I had only been more like Charles instead of Chaz, then. We’re not that different now, he and I, I think.”

  “Chaz,” said Jack, “you can’t hold yourself responsible. The Winter King was centuries old before you were even born. He had thousands and thousands of minions at his command. Against all that, what can one—”

  “What can one man do?” Chaz asked, looking up at Jack with a grin. “Is that what you were going to say, Jack? I’ve been wondering that myself. Especially with things I’ve been reading in the Little Whatsit. And it seems that one man, in the right place, an’ at th’ right time, can do an awful lot. And I could have, and didn’t. Not when it meant the most.”

  He was talking about Bert, John realized. Since the last passage from Sanctuary, they hadn’t mentioned the death of the old traveler, but now he understood that it had weighed as heavily on Chaz as it had on him or Jack, and perhaps more so.

  “Besides,” Chaz went on, “in’t all of what we’re doing based on one man, anyway? This ‘Christ’ everyone’s been going on about? He was just one man, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s different,” Jack replied. “That was … well, a mythology. A real mythology, based on a real person, but you can’t use that story as a reason for choosing to sacrifice yourself in this way.”

  “And why not?” Chaz shot back, annoyed. “Isn’t that why we come all this way, to this island? T’ find the Holy Blood who are his children?

  “You say it’s just a mythology, a story,” Chaz continued, “but here we are anyway, centuries later, pinning all our hopes for the future of the entire world on whether or not this girl is his kin, and carries his blood. And maybe she is, and maybe she isn’t—but what else are stories for, ’cept t’ learn from, and improve yourself? T’ learn t’ do th’ right thing?”

  “Because the story is mythical,” Jack retorted. “There probably was a man called Jesus Christ, and he probably was crucified. But all the value of that sacrifice came from the mythology that sprang up around it, and maybe the whole reason that there is power in his bloodline is because people have chosen to believe in it—not because of the value of the literal event itself.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Jack started to reply—then realized he couldn’t. Not that he didn’t want to, but because he really had no way to answer the question.

  Chaz stepped over to Jack and put
his hands on his shoulders. “If I do this,” Chaz went on, his voice low, “it will be literal, not mythical. Only you, those here with me, will ever know the literal truth of the choice I’m making. But maybe, in time, my friends will make a story out of it, and it might even become a myth. And others can learn from my example, the way I’ve learned from the ones I’ve read about, and seen, and become friends with.”

  Jack met Chaz’s eyes and realized that his unlikely ally had indeed become a friend. “You realize,” he said, struggling to voice the words, “what we’re trying probably won’t work, right, Chaz? We’re taking this child to a battlefield to resurrect a dead man who may or may not have been the rightful king. And there’s no way of knowing if it will work.”

  “That’s where—what did you call it, John? Faith? That’s where faith comes in, doesn’t it?” Chaz said. “You have t’ admit, it sounds familiar … sacrifices, and bringing someone back t’ life … Even if it doesn’t work, it’ll be a great story. Just don’t forget me, hey?”

  “Never, Chaz,” Jack said, embracing his friend in a tight hug. “I’ll never forget.”

  John also gave Chaz a hug and a solid clap on the back, and even Hugo gave him a warm two-handed shake.

  Chaz turned to the enchantresses and spread his arms. “Okay,” he said with as much bravado as he could muster. “Y’ got me.”

  Circe looked at Calypso, who nodded and looked at Gwynhfar, who also nodded. Then the three of them beckoned to Chaz to come forward.

  He took a few slightly unsteady steps, then strode forward to the top of the dais. Circe moved behind a pillar and reemerged carrying a silver tray. On it was a small cake and a crystal bottle with a stopper.

  “Choose,” said Calypso. “Choose your form, Chaz, and thus become the Guardian of Avalon.”

  “I’ve avoided drinking things lately,” Chaz said decisively. “Nothing personal, but everyone in history seems obsessed with poisoning everyone else. So if it’s all the same t’ you, I’ll have the cake.”

  “As you wish, Chaz,” said Circe.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he replied, taking the small cake from the tray and popping it, whole, into his mouth. “And please, from here on—call me Charles.”

  The cake took effect almost immediately, and Chaz—Charles—bent over in pain. Jack began to rush forward to the dais, but John held him back. “Wait. Just wait, and watch.”

  The two enchantresses and Gwynhfar stepped around the agonized man, forming a loose circle. All three were murmuring words—words of comfort, or spells? John couldn’t tell. His friend twisted about, seemingly in agony. But even through the tears, they could see he was smiling.

  Suddenly leaves shot out from his joints, and around his neck and waist, shredding his clothes. His skin began to darken, as if it had been aged and stained to a fine, rich sheen. As one, the three women moved away and removed pieces of armor from the alcoves around the dais. They returned just as the transfigured man was getting to his feet, and they dressed him, reverently, almost gratefully.

  Next, Gwynhfar signaled to her daughter, who dashed off to one of the rooms and returned with a great rectangular shield, which she handed to him.

  “And now,” Calypso stated, “we must choose a weapon for you.”

  “I think I have just the one,” Jack said, and dashed down the steps to the Scarlet Dragon. He returned to the temple carrying the Lance of Longinus.

  “This was Mordred—Madoc’s,” he explained, “and it has a history with your ancestor as well, Gwynhfar. I think it being wielded by the Guardian of Avalon would be an appropriate use for it.”

  “Well spoken,” said Circe.

  Jack handed the spear to Gwynhfar, who presented it, reverently, to the Green Knight.

  “It is done,” said Circe. “The Old Magic is satisfied.”

  The girl kissed each of the enchantresses farewell, then embraced her mother. The companions said their good-byes to the knight, who then stood at the entrance of the temple, ready to assume his duties.

  “Tell Fred and Uncas I will miss them,” the Green Knight called out as the small boat moved away from the shore. “Tell them I said thank you, for helping me to find my destiny. And look after Archie, will you?”

  “We will,” Jack said, waving. “Good-bye … Charles.”

  The Scarlet Dragon passed back into the Summer Country as easily as it had left, and in a matter of hours, the companions were once again racing through the stone passageway that led to the castle.

  When they emerged from the crypt, they found Taliesin still watching over Arthur’s body. The Lawgiver seemed astonished to see them back.

  “The battle does not go well,” he said, “and you have increased Mordred’s anger tenfold.”

  “Us?” said John. “Why?”

  “He came back for the lance,” said Taliesin, “and flew into a rage when I told him you had taken it.”

  “Hah.” Jack smirked. “It’s in a far, far better place, and being used for a better purpose than Mordred had managed.” He looked down at Arthur’s body. “I only hope we’ve returned in time.”

  “I don’t even know who’s supposed to win anymore,” said Hugo. “Do we want Mordred to win? Or Merlin?”

  “We want Arthur, the true High King, to do what he’s meant to do,” said John, moving aside to allow the girl to approach the table. “That’s what we brought her to do, if she can.”

  Taliesin gasped in recognition, then bowed his head as the girl approached.

  She touched Arthur’s face lightly. “Hello, cousin Thorn,” she said as if he could hear her. “My name is Rose. And I’ve come here to help you.”

  “The blood that took his life must be the blood that restores it,” Taliesin murmured.

  “He’s not going to hurt her, is he?” Hugo asked, eyeing the Lawgiver.

  “I don’t think so,” Jack said, holding him back. “Watch.”

  Taliesin touched Rose’s hand with the black staff, and the runes flared briefly with eldritch light. She looked at her hand and saw the small cut across her palm.

  Rose marked both of Arthur’s cheeks with the blood from her hand, tracing the line of the bones to his chin. Then, reverently, she laid both of her hands on his head, closed her eyes, and began to speak.

  By light’s power driven

  For need of right

  I restore thee

  I restore thee

  By blood bound

  By honor given

  I restore thee

  I restore thee

  For life and light and protection proffered

  From blood and will my life is offered

  I restore thee

  I restore thee.

  Rose removed her hands from his head and crumpled to the ground. Hugo rushed forward and caught her, but the others had no time to react to what happened next.

  There was a pause, as if the world had stopped.

  No sound, no movement. Even the constant rumble of the battle outside had ceased. The stillness was everywhere, and everywhen. And then, overhead, the dark circle eclipsing the sun shifted. The light on the edge of the sun brightened, then rays burst forth, striking directly below in the center of the castle, on the ancient table made of stone, which was carved with the runes of the Old Magic.

  Suddenly, impossibly, Arthur raised his hand and reached into the light. Then he sat up, swung his legs off the table, and rose to his feet.

  The High King, Arthur Pendragon, was alive.

  Part Six

  The Silver Throne

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Fallen

  A tall stack of bound manuscripts tottered, then fell, setting off a chain reaction in the small writing chamber Geoffrey kept on the topmost level of the church.

  In seconds, the pages he’d been working on were swept away in a tidal wave of aged leather and the decaying writings of monks long dead.

  Geoffrey sat on the floor and sighed. This was becoming a more and more frequent occurre
nce. He’d gotten into the habit of acquiring old books and manuscripts in his younger days, at the upswing of the twelfth century. But now, at its midpoint, he was beginning to grow weary at the futility of it all.

  He reached for the nearest tome and smiled as he realized what it was. Nestor’s Primary Chronicle. One of the first and greatest of the world histories. Not complete, by any means, and certainly slanted toward the Slavic, but indispensable nonetheless. After all, few chronicles ever attempted to begin as far back as the pharaohs, or even the Deluge. Even his own works were meager contributions to his own library compared to Nestor’s works, dealing as they did with the histories of the lineage of Britain’s kings, and of the great enchanter and philosopher Myrddyn.

  Geoffrey had only just begun to clean up the disaster when he heard a knocking at the door downstairs. He quickly made his way down the stairs, but when he opened the door, no one was there.

  Instead he found a parchment rose, which had strange markings on the petals, and a roll of paper, cream-colored and tied with a cord. It was addressed to him. Cautiously he unrolled it and read what was written inside.

  He blinked at the rose and the strangeness of the message, then read it again, then a third time.

  Quickly he shut the door and hurried back up to his study, where he tossed the rolled paper into the embers of his fireplace, then stoked the coals until it caught fire. He stood and watched it until it was nothing but ash.

  “Is this a dream?” Arthur asked. “It must be, because Merlin’s War Leader is here and seems to have been weeping over me.”

  “He was Bound,” John said, “by Merlin.”

  Taliesin knelt and took Arthur’s hand. “You are the true High King, the true Arthur.”

  “Bound?” asked Arthur. “As in Old Magic?”

  “Yes,” said Hugo. “He’s been Bound all along, ever since the tournament.”

  “The tournament,” Arthur said wonderingly. “That’s where I met you two before, isn’t it? You met Archimedes and me at Grandfather Oak and helped me find my way to Camelot.”