Return to Caer Lon

by Claude Dancourt

  “We have to go back to the inn. We need our-”

  “You can’t!” Gisela cried “It’s too dangerous!”

  The young man racked his mind for solutions. If he went alone, he could outrun… Sacha was quicker than he.

  “Gisela, do you think you can bring back some of our things?”

  The blond woman nodded fiercely. Sacha stepped toward the door.

  “Perfect. I am coming with you.”

  Derek seized her arm when she passed by him.

  “Out of question.”

  “There is no need, my lady. A servant can go unnoticed…”

  Gisela smiled at Sacha, then at Derek, before she moved away to prepare for her shift at the tavern. He was grateful Sacha did not insist. The dark-haired lady had escaped his grip to walk back to the fire again, her face revealing nothing of her inner thoughts.

  The young man approached and held his hand up to smooth the argument he was sure was coming. The wound scorched painfully at the movement and he could not repress a groan. Sacha turned to him instantly and gasped. “Derek, your hand!”

  The gash had reopened, and fresh blood was soaking the rim of his sleeve, running down his fingers. He pulled his hand away with a grimace.

  “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

  Sacha glared.

  “Of course it is. I tend to make a point of fussing over silly things. Sit down so I can have a look.”

  He took a step back.

  “I told you, it’s-”

  “I will not let you bleed all over Gisela’s house. Sit.”

  Derek sulked but obeyed, and lowered himself on the stool at which she was pointing magisterially.

  “You are worse than my mother.”

  Sacha knelt in front of him with some clean clothes and a bowl of water to wash the cut. Her smile suggested she considered his protest a compliment. Maybe it was.

  Chapter 16

  The kiss fluttered across his mouth, delicious and tempting. Her lips brushed and teased, hesitating between softness and pressure. The caress blurred his thoughts, erasing the memory of another tantrum.

  The delicate fingers curled against his chest, fisting his wet shirt. Elwyn shifted in discomfort. Fillin straightened up and her movement put more weight on his broken ribs. He hissed in pain. The pretty woman covered her mouth with her hand, blushing.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot…”

  Every breath was a painful fight.

  “…Alright.”

  Elwyn wished his groan was enough to persuade her. He was tired. His chest and back burned. As much as he liked the company, he wanted her to go away. She had used him for magic. And she had used kisses to make him forget she sent their practice bowl flying with a flip of her hand after another attempt at the sublimation spell failed.

  Her last outburst targeted Sacha when he tried to explain that even he barely managed the difficult enchantment without his twin by his side. I certainly don’t want to hear anything about her. Fillin’s retort nagged at him, its cold sting holing in the pit of his stomach. Sacha was his sister and he missed her; of course he wanted to talk about her. Just like he wanted Sacha to meet Fillin. She would, once they escaped. He would free Fillin and take her with him to Haven…

  The young woman chuckled. Did he say that out loud? Why was she laughing? Amusement sparkled in her eyes, a brief flash of gold across the polished bronze stare. Within the second, Fillin was playing with his shirt again, distracting him, reminding him it was dampened.

  “You have to take it off before it gets your bandage wet, Elwyn…”

  He had never noticed how she mouthed his name to make it roll on her tongue, like she enjoyed its form on her lips, swallowing the last of it with a small thud of the tongue. The syllables bloomed in the air, light, spreading to create a different call, some beckoning sounds he had to possess. They surrounded him, playing on his skin and in his hair, humming inside his head to creep down his spine until he could no longer retain a shiver and a low growl.

  New words compulsively bounced in his head, foreign at first, then crystal clear. Narijt droch Forra, kilten den Forra. The Source is to be found. The Source is to remain sealed.

  The sudden cold nearly froze him. Rain bit at his tensed body like a million of angry bees. He held tight, grinding his teeth in the effort. Ice hit his left hand but the enraged scream disappeared in the curtain of water and thunder. Blood beat loudly in his ears, his heart about to explode in furor. Breathing was strenuous.

  “Elwyn?”

  Air abruptly entered his lungs again and he focused on his companion. Brow furrowed, Fillin was observing him and the look on her face was something he had never seen before. Predatory; distrustful. He looked for an excuse, unable to wrap his mind around what just happened.

  Flames danced in the hearth, eagerly licking the logs. Sparks erupted and disappeared with a bang. The fire grew brighter and it roared when the storm forced a gush of air down the chimney. A chunk of wood exploded loudly, creating more sparks; Elwyn jumped to his feet.

  The silhouette in the doorframe cast a formidable shadow inside the room. Elwyn pushed on his feet. The scar on the man’s face twisted horribly when he smirked. The leather bind retaining a mass of grey hair added to the general impression of savagery radiating from the visitor. Elwyn stepped back. He stumbled on his chair when he wanted to put the heavy piece of furniture between them. He gripped the back to regain his balance, resisting the urge to crouch behind it.

  Confused images of that ugly face and pain flooded his mind. His body felt like it was shrinking to flee the memories of torture. The yellow stare weighted him, with the same impatient look a wolf gave to a rabbit venturing out of hiding.

  He wished the giant would say something, yet he dreaded hearing its voice. Who was he? Why had he attacked them? What did he want? He had to protect Fillin. Where was Fillin? The pretty blonde seemed to have left the room; at least she was safe…

  The other took a couple of steps toward him and his questions vanished. Who cared about the how and why? His limbs betrayed him, already weakened by the effort of the day. For a moment, he felt his legs turning into cotton and feared he would collapse. Elwyn started to shake uncontrollably. He grasped the chair harder, praying his arms did not give way, too.

  The man sneered again and flipped his hand negligently. The chair began to move sideways. Elwyn lost his footing for good, and fell on his knees with a yelp of pain. His torturer laughed. The sound rolled dangerously until a log in the fire split with another eruption of sparks. The terrifying laugh died. Elwyn’s anxiety climbed up one more notch, as images started invading his head once more.

  oOo

  Wolfryth entered the main room to find Fillin comfortably installed in front of their supper. He sat on his chair and helped himself to a large piece of turkey. The sorcerer gestured toward the wine, and the jug floated toward him to fill his cup. He gulped a mouthful of his food before turning to his daughter.

  “Your magical pet needs to learn not to resist me.”

  The blonde looked up from the chicken leg she was skinning.

  “Please tell me you did not play with him again… I put so much effort in bringing him into a useful state...”

  “I want that witch and her princeling here now! The Guild fails to explain what is delaying them. Derek killed four of their men tonight. I saw their pitiful attempt to capture them. Useless pawns.”

  Fillin glanced up before she continued taking gravy away from her meat, unimpressed by her father’s anger.

  “Why don’t you simply bring them here, father?”

  The yellow stare shone with impatience.

  “They have to enter Caer Lon freely or the Source will remain hidden.”

  Fillin bobbed her head, already bored by the overused explanation. A growl of thunder echoed her lack of interest. She tried to keep her voice clear of sarcasm when she asked, “Do you think Elwyn’s calling for help again will be enough?”

  A fla
sh of twisted pleasure bolted through Wolfryth’s face.

  “Oh, this time it will be a different call… Anyway, your little sessions with him are coming to an end. The citraurantia’s effect is waning. ”

  “That’s impossible!”

  She pursed her lips right after her protest. No one could fight the ‘magic sleeper’ plant, and Elwyn was so weak he could not even manage a simple metamorphic spell… On the other hand, if he recovered his use of magic, he would be far more efficient at teaching her... Her pensive pout did not go unnoticed. The sorcerer put his cup back on the table.

  “You will not visit him further, Fillin. As soon as our guests arrive, the warlock is going back to his cell.”

  She changed the subject rather than insisting.

  “Will you teach me tomorrow?”

  Wolfryth laughed.

  “Yes, my eager daughter, unless I have to prepare for the final step.”

  Fillin accepted the answer more or less gracefully. The seer and Derek Pendragon had taken their time so far. Maybe she could hope they delayed further.

  oOo

  His tired arm trembled when he fetched the blade up to look at it. Its steel gleamed like thirty torches, blinding him momentarily. For a moment, he hesitated. More than a fine weapon, this was the symbol of Caer Lon, the symbol of the High King's powers. The High King was dead. His hand fell down his side, still gripping the topaz-adorned hilt. He had been asked to keep the kingdoms safe. How could he? He was not a Pendragon, not by blood. His wife was. His wife had betrayed him. She had betrayed her brother and king, for powers beyond her reach. Eileen was gone too; the people would watch over her. Excalibur did not belong to him, neither did the High Throne. He wanted none.

  The middle-aged man lifted his arm once more to clash the sword on the altar in front of him with enough force to break it, quickly turning his head when a chunk flew by his face. He felt blood pearling at the cut, running down his cheek. Or maybe was he crying over all that was lost? Reluctant, he glimpsed at the former weapon and gasped. The sword was intact. The stone barely held a scratch. How could the metal resist such a blow? This was impossible! He struck again, with all his will, this time keeping his head straight despite the sparks which erupted around him. His second attempt failed, and the third. The hits reverberated up to his shoulder in throbbing drifts. The more he tried to break the magical blade, the harder it seemed to become.

  Out of breath, he turned around the massive cut stone to find another angle. He couldn’t afford to let the Sword be found, and he had no desire to keep it. If he could not destroy it, he had to find a way to protect it. Something had to be done, something, anything. No one but the truthful king could use Excalibur and the powers it unleashed.

  Caid held the heavy Sword one last time, the hilt high above his head, and closed his eyes. The Kingdoms had to be protected. He had promised. He stabbed the altar one last time.

  oOo

  Elwyn curled up in his bed, his arms around his knees; his head hurt. Now he was alone, yet the images kept spinning madly before his closed eyes without his being able to isolate one. He wished he could distinguish just one, so he would know that he was still sane.

  He recognized the magical mind bonding, though he was too weak to push it away. The sorcerer had forced so many images in his head he was sure his screams were deafening. The visions had come before the magician. Did they come from him?

  The torture had lasted for hours; then again, maybe just minutes. He didn’t know. He had lost any notion of time. It hurt. Images pierced his mind, again and again, driving him mad with pain and sorrow. He felt the pain in the fighter’s body. His heart broke with the man’s sorrow. The man of his visions was not the one fighting in the rain, though he was the same. The man in the rain looked like Derek. The man with the sword looked like Derek. It couldn’t be. They were one. They were numerous. Elwyn wanted to scream again, and yet he did not remember screaming at all.

  The spiral of colors and shapes was endless, pulsing, drilling into his brain until he could hardly tell if he was human, or a living ball of nausea. Where was Sacha when he needed her?

  Chapter 17

  The water felt cold on her skin. Sacha cupped her hands to wash her face once and then again. She was trembling. She didn’t know how to stop. She wasn’t trembling before, when she had to push her magic into the fire. It was consuming her, ravaging her insides. She had had to get rid of it before it burnt her alive. She wasn’t trembling then. Her hands were also steady when she was tending to Derek. She could not have cleaned his wound and knotted the bandage properly with shaking hands. So why was she trembling now?

  The gash on his hand was not too deep, though it had bled profusely. So much blood… She rubbed her hands under the water. Derek’s blood stained her hands. No… No, please no. She couldn’t… She had to stay calm, she had to... Don’t panic. Breathe normally. He’s fine, everything’s fine… It hurt when she breathed. The back of her throat was burning. The water was so cold. There were waves of nausea in her stomach. She was going to be ill…

  One hand touched her shoulder and she jumped upright.

  “My lady, let me help…”

  Gisela guided her gently toward the stool Derek had deserted. The maid used a fresh cloth to dry her hands and face, then she untied the long dark curls to brush humidity away from them. The smoothing helped Sacha’s frantic pulse to decrease slowly until comfort finally sank in.

  “Thank you.”

  The maid returned the timid smile and finished braiding her hair before she clipped the hazel wood comb into place. Then she turned to Derek:

  “My lord, on Fridays the market is always frenzied so tomorrow you should be able to leave the city undetected. With all the coming and going from the merchants, none can possibly notice…”

  Derek bowed his head thoughtfully before answering:

  “It’s a good idea.”

  “I have to go now. I will bring back everything I can. Please help yourself to anything you need.”

  Sacha smiled again at the blonde woman, which returned it with friendliness. Gisela gave a quick bow to Derek, and then disappeared in the rain.

  Derek cast a quick glance toward the windows to make sure the gush of wind escorting the servant out didn’t disturb the curtains protecting them. In this weather, the chances of anyone watching the street were nearly nil, but Sacha understood his caution.

  Now the aftershock was gone; she felt empty and weak as a kitten. Even walking to go lie down on the bed in the opposite corner seemed like a colossal task.

  The small room was very simply furnished. The table was paired with two stools, including hers, and a small bench. A dent in the wall covered by a roughly cut cloth served as pantry. An old chest, probably full with Gisela’s more precious possessions, lay half hidden under the bed.

  The last and only adorned piece in the room intrigued her. The dark wooden cradle was carved with birds and trees, tarnished iron circled its belly. Forgetting about fatigue, Sacha approached it to run one finger on the metal, fascinated. The material vibrated under her touch, breaking into a soft song. Her heartbeat adjusted to the peaceful rhythm of the baby carol. She recognized the air; her mother used to sing it when she was little, a light and happy ballad. Sacha hummed the song softly.

  “Sacha?”

  Derek’s call pulled her out of her trance. Blushing, she turned and noticed his surprised stare. The song had been only in her head. It felt so real…

  “It was hers… His father made it as a bridal present for her mother. They were happy.”

  “You can’t possibly know that.”

  She tried to explain the images pulsing in her head. A man built like a bull carving the wood; a blonde woman cradling a baby girl with a tender smile. It was so clear… Love had nestled in the cradle, and left its print in the wood. Gold and pink spiralled in her mind, brushing over her stomach. She flinched despite the gentleness of the caress.

  Sacha pressed one hand to h
er stomach, surprised. The air scintillated before her, sparkling with joy and hope. The child in the cradle had blond hair with the warbling smile of healthy babies.

  “Oh, he’s so pretty…”

  Her green eyes swiped over Derek’s handsome face, unable to conceal his features with her vision.

  “He’s yours!”

  “What?! Of course not. I didn’t…”

  Blushing furiously, Derek took his hand away from the crib. Sacha bowed her head to hide her embarrassment. She had seen Derek’s son, she was sure of it. The baby was adorable, and she… The young woman shook her head to clear the last bits of magic from her mind.

  Looking for her composure, Sacha looked around once more at the mantle, then back to Derek. Her gaze grazed his hand, immobile along his side.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Awkwardness rose another level. Derek folded his arms across his chest, hiding the bandage from her sight.

  “No. Now if you don’t mind, I have to think about our getaway tomorrow.”

  She furrowed her brows at the harsh reply, unable to overlook it completely.

  “It depends a lot on what Gisela will bring back… Let’s hope she will think about some of my clothes… This dress…”

  Sacha trailed off. The cloth itched her skin and after two days of wearing it; she refused to think about how it smelled. In no way she was going to admit that to Derek, though.

  “With proper clothing I can hide your sword and your cloak so…”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She grinned at the shock in his voice and eyed his outfit.

  “You can’t hide the fact that you’re a knight when you carry that sword. And you have to admit, Derek, red is not discreet…”

  “They’re mine.”

  A dangerous gleam flashed in his stare. Sacha held his gaze and her skin started to tingle again. The fire burning in his eyes was spreading around him already, just like it had in the library. She broke the eye contact and swallowed. She understood his meaning. His colors, his sword, were a part of him; his birthright.