Pendragon's Heir

by Suzannah Rowntree

  Nerys, catlike, smoothed hair and skirts before gesturing to the gate.

  “Look at this. Brute force. A hole blown open between the worlds.”

  Blanche stared. “Is that where he got in?”

  “Yes,” said Nerys. “Feel it.” She took Blanche’s hand and held it to the broken latch of the gate where a cold jet of air still whistled through. “That woman has done damage to the very weft of the world. If you opened that gate and walked through, you would be in Logres. And if anyone there knows about this…”

  “Morgan knows,” Blanche whispered. “What are we going to do?”

  Again Nerys looked at her with inexpressible sympathy. “It might frighten you to think of living in Logres, Blanche, but all our defences are thrown down in this world. Logres is the safest place for you now.”

  She turned back to the house, walking quickly, and continued.

  “They won’t think to look for you in Britain. We’ll telegraph Sir Ector and tell the servants you’ve been called suddenly away. Pack light, for we haven’t a moment to spare, and we may have far to travel. I don’t know how far it is to Camelot from the Castle Gornemant.”

  To Camelot. Now. Already. Blanche, choking down her dismay, caught Nerys’s arm. “But we’ll come back, won’t we?”

  Nerys sighed and shook her head. “I know this is sudden, Blanche. Only believe me when I say that you are in deadly danger now, every moment, until we have you back in Camelot. Sir Ector and I can close up the house, mend the rift, and say goodbye to the neighbours. There is no point in exposing you to the danger of another journey.”

  Blanche felt helpless—a cold dull panic which she was beginning to recognise. “Mr Corbin,” she said. “I want to say goodbye. Kitty, too, and Emmeline. I can’t just disappear. How will you explain it to them if I do? They’ll have to be told something.”

  Nerys stopped walking and looked at her. “Blanche,” she said, and despite the gentleness of her words Blanche knew she was vexed, “do you really mean to put your friends above your own safety and the future of Logres?” A pause. “The decision does not rest with me, at any rate. Gather your things.”

  When Blanche came downstairs with her bag she found Nerys already waiting by the wardrobe, key in hand. She had thought of another objection.

  “What if that knight is still on the other side? The one with the Blue Boar?”

  “Odiar loves not the company of true and faithful men like Gornemant,” Nerys said. “He will be fled or captured by now. Stand back.”

  But when she fitted the key to the lock and turned it, there was a sudden muted roar and the door fought like a wild thing against Nerys’s hand. Through the narrow opening yellow flames shot out into the hallway, singing Nerys’s hair and licking the wallpaper. She said “Ah,” slammed the door shut, and turned the key again.

  “Heavens!” Blanche cried, staring at the buckled and blistered door.

  “The door is on fire,” Nerys said. “And the key can only be linked to another door from the Logres side.”

  “We can’t leave?” Blanche looked hopeful.

  “We can and we must. We’ll go out through the orchard.”

  “But Morgan is on the other side!”

  Nerys went to the doorway again and sniffed the night air. “Such damage is not done in a chamber. She would have done it in the open. Also it is raining in Britain. If we take the horses, we may slip through without being seen and ride away without being caught.”

  “Are you positive it wouldn’t be safer to stay here?”

  “Waiting to be attacked at any moment? Or leading the hounds of Gore a merry chase around Gloucestershire?”

  Blanche bit her lip. For all Mr Corbin’s insistence that she make her own choices, it looked as if she would be forced into Logres, for refuge if nothing else.

  “We must go on, and take the adventure that comes.” Nerys went out the door toward the stable, and there was nothing to do but follow.

  FLORENCE WAS BLANCHE’S HORSE, AN UNINTELLIGENT but sweet-tempered bay. Nerys, who did not have a horse of her own, had taken Sir Ector’s, a retrained grey racer named Malaventure. The pair of them pricked their ears and swished their tails in the face of the wind between the worlds. Blanche fidgeted with the reins.

  Nerys had already gone, taking with her a windfall apple. “If all is well, I’ll throw the apple back through the gate, and you’ll know it is safe to bring the horses. If not, ride.”

  Then she had stepped through the gate. The quick-falling dusk made it difficult to see what happened next. Only Blanche had blinked, and Nerys was gone.

  Deep inside she was panicking again, fearing that the worst must have happened when the apple landed with a plop on the grass at her feet. Then, without a pause to let herself think, she clucked to the horses and plunged into the wind, dragging at their reins.

  It was dark beyond the gate, and again she felt that sense of limitless speed. Soon the wind lashing her face had water in it, and as the rain grew heavier, the wind died away and under shadowy oaks Blanche looked down to see that she was standing in a circle of blackened stones. Hurriedly she stepped out of it, with low calm words for the skittish horses.

  No one was to be seen. Away to the right the trees thinned and the towers of a castle could be glimpsed rising out of the clearing, black against the dark evening sky. At the sight, Blanche’s scalp prickled and the blood hummed in her ears. She was engulfed, quite without expecting it, in a high and dauntless mood. Here she stood under weeping skies, she, Blanche Pendragon, who bore a name of legend. In that castle, all unaware, lay a witch-queen who desired her death, and echoing in the back of her mind she could still hear the fierce steel voices of swords, harsher and sweeter and wilder in her veins than any other sound on the green earth. And she had been caught and kissed by a brown boy from the woods, and he had paid for the pleasure in blood.

  For one titanic heartbeat she felt as tall as the trees.

  Then above her a shadow rose with a sound like the tearing of cloth and her heart leaped into her throat before she saw that it was only a black bird beating the air with sharp pinions. The trees bent down over her again, and it was night in Logres and very cold in the rain. Blanche ducked her head and turned up the collar of her jacket. Not until then did she see Nerys coming toward her through the trees from the direction of the castle with a finger lifted to her lips.

  Nerys shoved Malaventure’s hindquarters away from the stone circle on the ground. This she unmade, moving with an queer and wordless vehemence. One by one she tore the stones out of the turf and flung them like missiles into the undergrowth. She was finished in a matter of moments and straightened, catching her breath. Then she swung into the saddle and led the way south through the soft murmur of rain.

  Neither spoke until the castle was out of earshot. At last Nerys said:

  “A raven was watching us as we came through.”

  “Yes, I saw.”

  Nerys pushed hair out of her eyes. “You saw, but did you understand? Some of the ravens are her creatures. In any case she will be on our trail by morning.”

  No need to ask who she was. But in a country where legends walked, what could go wrong?

  “If she waits until morning to follow us, we’ll leave her far behind.”

  “Unless she left a guard,” said Nerys. “When she sees that the stone ring was destroyed, she will know we used her passage.”

  “Then why did you destroy it?”

  “The keys to the doors between the worlds are ours to use—I and my people,” Nerys said. “But Morgan le Fay is a mortal, and has no right to them. She must use unnatural force. Magic which I will have nothing to do with and destroy when I find it.”

  “You and your people?”

  “The Fair Folk.”

  “You mean—fairies. Immortals like you.” Blanche glanced sidelong at her companion, her fancy kindling. “Are there many of you in Britain?”

  “Two or three, perhaps.”

 
“So few?”

  “My people are not of Logres. They have no concern here.”

  “But you do?” Blanche was puzzled.

  Nerys was quiet for a time before replying. “All mortals die,” she said at last. “All take the broad road to Hell, or the narrow road to Heaven. But my people do not die while the world endures. Therefore they spend their time doing what pleases themselves. They have no stake in the struggle between Logres and darkness.”

  “And you?”

  “I cannot tell,” she said with a sigh. “In the lore of my people it is said that we are outside salvation. But within the last hundred years I have heard differently. It was a wandering saint who told me that even the bonny road to Elfland comes to a fork in the end. If only it were true! If only there were hope for us.”

  Far in the distance behind them, a horn blew, a sound so lovely in the moonlight that a chill ran down Blanche’s spine. Then came the bell of hounds and the cold settled lead-heavy in her stomach.

  Nerys stiffened in the saddle. “The dogs. She knows.”

  Blanche glanced back. It was full night, now, and the rain had stopped, leaving the moon swimming through cloud. Only a weak and fitful light filtered through the arching branches overhead. “We can ride faster, even in this dark.”

  “A little.”

  Nerys led them now slightly to the right and they pressed on into rough hill-country. Behind, at intervals, they heard the horn, and each time it drew closer. This slow cold hunt across the hills in fainting moonlight was worse even than the terror of the Blue Boar, Blanche thought, as they went down a rocky slope with the horses stumbling and slipping beneath them. And for one impious moment she wished to stand again in the shattered calm of the hallway at home with nowhere to run and the door splintering beneath the enemy’s blows.

  The moon was low in the sky when they stumbled into a bog between two towering hills.

  Malaventure found ground on the other side of the slough, but Florence stuck fast, too weary to fight. Blanche dismounted and sank up to her knees in scummed water as cold as conceit. At that moment a breeze gusted from the north, carrying the noise of the hunt.

  “Come on,” Blanche begged. Florence wallowed and plunged, and Blanche lost her balance, stumbling into softer mud and deeper water. The cold gripped her thighs. She struggled back to higher ground with her skirt clinging to her legs, and began to rattle in the icy wind. Chill fingers ran down her cheeks as the tears spilled over.

  Then Nerys was beside her carrying a scrubby bough from a dead bush on the bank, and Blanche was grateful for the dark that hid her cowardice.

  “Shh, be calm,” Nerys said to the horse. To Blanche she said, “We must throw down branches for her to step on.”

  Blanche scrubbed her woollen cuff across her eyes and splashed to the bank. She could hear the hounds crying. Were they already in view? She seized more twigs and branches and plunged back into the water. So Morgan wanted to kill her? Good. But she would not die whimpering.

  Beyond all hope they extracted Florence from the bog, but the sound of the hunt was coming over the hill and the horses were stumbling with weariness.

  “Mount again,” said Nerys through the darkness. “They may yet lose our scent in the water.”

  They toiled on up the slope ahead, and had reached the rocky shoulder of the hill when the baying of hounds fell silent behind them. Blanche looked back and a gleam of moonlight showed dark shapes coursing to and fro on the far side of the slough.

  “We’ve outfoxed them!” she said, and they turned the corner of the rocky outcrop and blundered into firelight.

  The campfire under the rocks illuminated only one man, a wizened old creature with a beard that reached his knees. His mule lay in shelter, chewing stolidly, but the man himself stood leaning on his staff by the fire, watching the night.

  At the sight Florence and Malaventure stopped of their own accord, their heads drooping, sensing, perhaps, the bewilderment of their riders. Blanche looked at Nerys and saw something like defeat in the line of her mouth. Her eyes prickled with tears again. What was this old man doing here, so far from any shelter?

  The ancient shifted his weight and spoke.

  “Nerys of the Folk,” he said. “It’s a cold night to be wandering in the wilds.”

  Nerys’s voice was flat as she replied. “How do you know me?”

  “And Blanchefleur, heir of Logres. Exalted company for my poor fireside.”

  In the distance, the musical cry of a hound announced to his fellows that the scent was found. Blanche saw Nerys’s back pull tight and knew that she had heard.

  “Tell us your name, since you’re so free with ours,” said the fay fiercely.

  “My name? That is no secret,” said the old man. “I am Naciens.”

  A pause—a long pause, while the hounds behind them gave tongue. At last Nerys spoke again. “Naciens of Carbonek? I know the name. What brings you here?”

  “The witch of Gore is on your trail,” Naciens said. “You will find the Castle of Carbonek in the valley beneath us. She will not.”

  “Carbonek!” The word came out like a gasp, raw with desire. Blanche stared. But then Nerys’s hands gripped the reins tighter, and she was herself again. “I am taking the damsel Blanchefleur to safety, to Camelot. I cannot risk losing her in a place beyond space and time.”

  Naciens shrugged. “Ride to Camelot, then!”

  The sound of hunting-horns floated mockingly up the hill. Blanche set her teeth and shivered in the wind. Nerys did not change expression.

  “Camelot is seven days’ ride from here, with fresh horses and on the right paths,” said Naciens more gently. “If you ride alone, Morgan will certainly catch you. If it is safety you need, nowhere is safer than Carbonek.”

  Nerys said: “If I leave her at Carbonek, what hope have I of finding her again?”

  Naciens stroked his beard in silence before replying. “Carbonek is not lost to those to whom it is given to find,” he said at last. “Or do you think that I myself have brought you through these hills to our doorstep in the nick of time? Tell me, have you forgotten what is kept there?”

  Nerys bowed her head. And then Blanche thought she must have gone mad, for in the hush, below the ever-louder baying of hounds, she sang.

  I have fled from the wilderness fasting, with woe and unflagging travail,

  I have sought for the light on the mountain, and skirted the devilish dale.

  I have laid my mouth in the dust, and begged the Might to be kind,

  I have come to the feast, and I famish. Now grant me the Holy Grail.

  Blanche stirred like a sleeper waking. Naciens was speaking.

  “To you, it is given.”

  7

  But a lamp above a gate

  Shone in solitary state,

  O’er a desert drear and cold,

  O’er a heap of ruins old,

  O’er a scene most desolate.

  Rossetti

  Art thou, like Angels, only shown,

  Then to our Grief for ever flown?

  Heyrick

  ONE DAY SIR PERCEVAL TOOK HIS horse and arms, both the spoils of the gilded knight, and rode into the forest, aiming north and west into the deepest regions of Wales. Summer had slipped away since he first came to the castle of Gornemant to be trained in arms, and during that time he had worked harder than he had thought possible. Even the old earl had been pleased with his progress. All the same, when Perceval decided to leave, Gornemant had objections. His training was incomplete, his shield arm needed another fortnight to heal, and autumn was wearing on, and would slip into winter early this year.

  Perceval listened to the earl with the reverence due to an elder and benefactor, but the next morning at sunrise he was in the stable saying goodbye to his old pony Llech and saddling his war-horse Rufus. He rode away into the wilds with the sharp clean air of autumn scouring his lungs with every breath. As he looked into the colourless sky, he stretched away all the stiffness of th
e last months, and quickened his horse into a trot between his knees. He brought the animal to an easy canter and hummed a few bars of the Gloria. It was too long since he had slept under the cold stars.

  He rode toward the mountains. Down in the grey-and-green valleys at their roots, the hush before wintry storms lay thick on the landscape.

  Days passed. In the woods there had been settlements, farms, travellers, and the odd chance of a joust. Now he was alone, his silent musings set to the rhythm of his horse’s hooves. His food, cold stiff hardtack, dwindled and vanished at last, and he fasted on black icy streams. Had there been anything else to eat, he would have killed and roasted it, but he seemed to have left every living creature behind.

  Where was he going? At first he had intended to find some adventure, but very little had come his way before he wandered into this waste. Now, although he could always have turned back, something kept him pressing forward, some sense that this stillness and desolation signified something, if the interpretation could only be found.

  And in the meanwhile, peace settled upon his soul. For the first time since his journey to Camelot, he had the luxury of solitude. Nothing came between him and the quiet voices of the world.

  The land changed around him. Every day it became more craggy and forbidding. Deep shadowed meres opened at his feet, sheer sunless sheets of rock barred his path, black clouds heavy with unshed snow loomed above him.

  An evening came on stormy wings. The long twilight had begun at midday under frowning clouds that blocked the sun, but as the light began to fail altogether, a wind rose and began to clamour through the valley. Perceval hunched shivering into his armour. With a high-pitched whinny the wind flung the first snowflakes at him. He pulled on his helm for shelter, but the inside filmed over with water droplets at once.

  Snow began to drift over the path, transmuting the landscape in bites and swallows from lead to silver. Perceval crested a low saddle, bending in the wind, looking in vain for shelter. Below and to the right, a desolate valley full of black stunted fir-trees ran away to the lowland. It looked kindlier than the mountainside, so he turned Rufus to pick his way down the slope.