by Sarah Zettel
“Would you accept anything less, Master?” Laurel asked, utterly calm. “If so, tell us, and we will surely agree to your terms.”
Lynet curled her hands, her fingernails digging into her sweating palms. This was the only throw of the bones they had in this gamble, and if it failed … then God have mercy on them, for no one else would.
“God’s legs!” cried Mesek suddenly, slamming his cup down. “I’m beginning to wish you had just killed me, Peran. Let it be done. Let the girl go to Camelot and get the queen. Let her go to elf land and fetch a pot of gold. Just let it be done, or the Eirans and the Saxons and every other vulture will find us here bleating like lambs in the pen!”
Peran’s face twitched beneath the mask of his burn. “Very well,” he said. “Let her go.”
At these words, the bishop bowed his head, and slowly, solemnly began to pray. But Lynet did not join him. She just watched Peran Treanhal as he watched her, wary, disbelieving. She thought of Laurel left alone in this man’s keeping, and despite all she knew the depth of her sister’s strengths, she shuddered.
God grant me speed, she prayed in her own heart. God soften the hearts of those I must plead before.
And God of Mercy, God of Life, protect my sister from this man, and from the one using him as a shield.
Chapter Five
Dawn spread out damp and grey, touching Colan Carnbrea with its unkind fingers. Shivering, he crawled out from the rude shelter of his little boat. He’d traded his arm ring to a fisherman for that boat, along with a satchel of ancient bread and fish smoked to leather. He’d softened each in sea water as he sailed the channel. Four days he’d been on the water. Four nights he’d hid in unfamiliar coves behind rocks and in frigid caves to try to snatch some sleep when he could no longer keep his eyes open. He might have moved faster, but he had no water with him, and his thirst drove him repeatedly to shore, searching for some stream or pool that would be his next salvation.
Salvation. Colan’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. No. He was beyond that now.
He rubbed his hands and blew on them, trying to breathe some warmth into his icy fingers. It seemed as if he had not been warm since he had fled Cambryn.
Since he had killed his father.
Time and again, he saw his hands reach for the dagger, felt the give of cloth and soft flesh, saw the startled look in his father’s eyes. Time and again, he wanted to cry out to his remembered-self to stop, to think, to drop the blade, and yet that other self never did. He never could. Colan had come to welcome the thirst and hunger that racked him, as he welcomed the rough seas that rocked and tossed his skin boat. The bone-bare drive of physical need kept all other thought from him. It was the only respite he had left.
Hunched on his little beach, he finished his last piece of bread, licking the crumbs off the bottom of the satchel. The last scrap of fish he stowed away for later. He followed the little stream up into the scrub and bracken until he reached the place where the water flowed sweet. There he knelt in the mud and drank as much as he could hold. Then, abandoning the tiny boat that had brought him this far, he hoisted himself up the tumbled rocks and onto the cliffs, scrabbling to reach the level ground at the top. The rest of his journey he would make on foot and he was grateful for it. He could not lose the feeling that he was followed on the sea. That something far beneath the waters watched and whispered to him.
It frightened him, and he could not make himself believe that he only imagined that unseen presence. As terrible as Lynet had been standing before him drenched in their father’s blood, far more terrible had been the merciless white fire in Laurel’s fae eyes.
Haunt me over on the sea, sister. I will not blame you. But on land, you are no more than I.
The clouds hung low and heavy above him. Colan felt the weight of them every step over the rough and open ground. He used the line of cliffs as his guide. Below, the sea roared and crashed, shaking the ground. Colan imagined it was Laurel’s frustration, and allowed himself a tiny, grim smile. The wind, though, lashed until it felt as if the air around him were ice. Father waited behind that wind, as his sister waited below in the sea. Lynet and her curses surely waited in the numb weariness that settled over his soul. If he stopped, if he faltered, together they would take him.
Colan’s boot stubbed hard against a stone. He sprawled onto the heather and muddy grass, crying aloud as another stone banged his chin and scraped the skin he thought had gone numb. Father came closer. Colan shoved himself up onto hands and knees. No. Not yet. You don’t get me yet.
“Well, now, what’s this?”
Above him, two dark blurs against the white-grey sky resolved into the shapes of men in leather jerkins and caps. One carried a spear. One carried a long-hafted axe.
The axe man nudged Colan’s arm with a sandaled foot. His elbow buckled and he fell again.
“Can’t say for sure,” said the spear man. “Is it a man or a fish, do ye think?”
The first one stroked his pointed beard with a thick hand covered in blue, swirling tattoos. “Fish, I’d say, and an old fish at that.”
They laughed at their joke, which gave Colan time to push himself back to sit on his heels. He was breathing too hard, and he could not stop the trembling that had seized his limbs. “I seek the Lady Morgaine,” he said between his chattering teeth. “I ask you, of your courtesy, to take me to her.”
This seemed to sober them. “Well now, perhaps it’s a man after all,” said the axe bearer.
“Perhaps it is.” The spear man held out his hand. Colan grasped it, and let himself be pulled to his feet.
The axe man circled him, looking for arms, and to make him uncomfortable. Colan endured, concentrating on remaining upright. “What do you want of the Lady Morgaine, boy?”
What do I want? “Mercy,” said Colan with sudden, lonely honesty.
The men looked at each other. “Well, she’s but a small store of that.” The axe man stroked his pointed beard again. “Still, you’d best come and make your case to the lady herself. She’s always ready to speak any who come openly in her name.”
They flanked him, as much to keep him walking as to make sure he did not make any threatening gesture. The rough, open grasslands gave way to stands of trees, and then to the muddy expanse of plowed fields. Beyond these, they came to a place that was more crofting than fortress. Wattle and daub houses stood between wickerwork fences. Folk in rough and plain dress moved about the place, feeding the animals, scolding the children who ran between the houses, setting their hands to all the mending and making that governed life in harsh country. A few watched curiously as Colan was led past them, but there was no sign of alarm. They were people who knew themselves to be well defended.
Colan’s guards led him toward a long, low house with a thatched roof. Smoke rolled out from the hole in that roof, and the scent of a fire came to Colan like a benediction.
The inside of the great house was dim and smokey, but no more so than such a place normally was. There were fewer folk in here, for the day outside was fine, if cold. Some women sat in a circle, carding wool and spinning the thread. The scents of lint and fresh wool mixed with the smoke. Old men sat by the fires, alternately tending them and talking with each other between long pulls from mugs or leathern jacks.
The spear man shouldered some of these greybeard aside with the amiable roughness born of familiarity, clearing Colan a spot beside the fire. No one offered him a stool, but no one seemed to begrudge him a place either, and that was all Colan cared about. He sat on the packed earth, and stretched his hands toward the fire, getting as close to the flames as he could stand. Warmth of it spill deliciously over him.
One of the rough-hewn old men handed him a jack, and Colan drank cautiously. A sweet, fiery liquid rolled down his throat, making him cough hard, which in turn made his companions grin knowingly at each other. Not one of them spoke a word and not one of them hid their stares. Colan answered their silence with more of his own. He would not be discomfit
ed by so simple a tactic. Despite the drink he’d just accepted, he did not expect anyone to name him friend or guest until the lady of this house had done so.
Finally, Colan’s clenched muscles eased and he could stop shaking. A bowl of pottage and bread was passed to him. He devoured the plain fare, running his fingers around the inside of the wooden bowl to get every last dollop. When he at last was able to attend to something other than the food in front of him, he looked up and saw the axe man laughing, silently and not in a wholly good natured way.
“Wipe your chin, boy,” the axe man said. “The lady will hear you now.”
The man’s tone stung Colan’s pride, but he held it in check. He carefully wiped both face and hands before he stood, leaving the wooden bowl on the floor. The axe man grunted and led him further back into the hall where the women sat on with their spindles and carding combs, creating the fine white thread from a clots of wool.
Colan bowed courteously to this assemblage and was rewarded with a selection of cold and appraising stares. Not one of the women here looked to be less than a grandmother. Colan remembered his manners, held his tongue and waited.
He waited until his feet began to ache. He waited until his legs and knees remembered their climb of that morning and all the labors they had accomplished over the past days and threatened to begin shaking again. He waited until he wanted to grab one of these silent, ancient women and choke her with her own thread until she swore to show him to Morgaine.
“You are possessed of some patience, Colan Carnbrea, whatever else you may be.”
Colan started and saw another woman sitting in the shadows before him. Like the others, she held a spindle and twisted a fine white thread. She, however, sat in a great carved chair that he would have sworn was not there a moment ago.
It is fatigue and shadow, he tried to tell himself, but he could not escape the understanding that he did not see her because she did not wish him to.
In Colan’s experience, the mark of power in women had shown itself as the absence of color. Laurel was the image of their mother, who could call the seabirds down to rest on her hands, and could fill a net with fish in the middle of a hard winter just by wishing it so. Morgaine, however, was raven dark. Her skin was brown from wind and sun. Her long hands were solid and strong from her work, but had such a delicate touch that she spun a thread as fine as any spider’s. This woman was as much stone and earth as his father had been, but there was fire there too. Her black eyes shone with it, and they seemed to see all he was and all he had done.
Beside her stood a stripling boy, a brown, lithe whippet of a youth. That boy had his mother’s eyes and saw all that she did. He smiled at Colan. The image of a questing hound came to Colan more clearly than ever, as the boy leaned over and whispered something to his mother. She nodding her agreement. Then, she touched his hand, and the boy flashed Colan another mischievous, knowing grin and ran away, vanishing out the hall door and into the sunlight.
It was a small moment, a single heartbeat of domestic life, but something there left Colan disquieted. Something too knowing about that gangly boy, something in the fire sparking behind Morgaine’s eyes. Colan set these thoughts aside. He was here now, and it was far too late to be disconcerted by so little. He knelt, bowing his head.
Morgaine was clearly done testing his patience. She turned all her attention to him. He could feel her gaze although he could not see her face. “You have travelled hard and come alone, Colan Carnbrea,” she said. He could see her long, brown hands. Her fingers never ceasing to twist the thread. The spindle bobbled and twirled at the end of its thin leash, like a captive insect still weakly struggling for escape. “I would not expect this of someone of your station. What has happened?”
You know. He was certain of it. Though there was no earthly way for the news to have flown ahead of him, but she knew, and she was still going to make him say it.
“I am declared outlaw from my home and people for the crime of murder.”
“Oh?” There was no surprise in her voice, only mild curiosity. “And did you do this murder?”
“I did.” Memory bit hard. Rage, blinding rage at his so solid father, standing by his word, his useless oath though he condemn them all to death. Had he really meant to kill the old man? Or only to make him see, finally and forever that he was wrong?
“My men tell me you come begging mercy.” You mean to taunt me with that word. You will have to poke harder than that, my lady. “Tell me, Colan, why I should welcome a hunted man into my home?”
At these words, Colan lifted his head. “I come, Lady Morgaine, because I have nowhere else to turn, and no other friend who will raise a hand for me. My sisters hold Cambryn now. They will entrench themselves in it, following my father’s word though it mean the death of the land itself. You are the only one who understands what Arthur and Camelot truly mean to our land and I beg you not to turn away from me for the mistake I have committed in furthering a cause that is also yours.”
The rhythm of her spinning changed, growing slower, steadier. “Such flattery. Such honor,” Was it some trick of the light, or did her eyes grow even darker? “But as even having you in my house is an act of war. Why should I risk my men and myself for you?”
Colan did not shrink before that black gaze. This woman had swallowed up and swatted down great kings. He was powerless and alone before her and he knew it. He had nothing left to lose and that left him reckless.
“Because I offer you Cambryn,” he said flatly. “Your home of old. It will make you a fortress to stand between Mark and Arthur. Take Cambryn, and Tintagel falls soon after. You hold the coast then, the trade and the tin. You can reach out to the men of Eire for the sake of their old grudges. They will swell your ranks for the time when you are ready to meet Arthur in open battle.”
“Those grudges that are older than you know, my young lord.” Morgaine spoke softly, other thoughts running through her spider’s mind. Then she sighed, looking modestly down at her spinning as if she were no more than a goodwife in her cot. “Why do you not do this thing yourself? Why not take charge with those young man’s hands?”
He spread his hands. They were filthy, but at least the blood was long gone. No, it would never be gone. Yes. His deeds would wash him clean. No, never clean. He silenced his contradicting thoughts with great difficulty. “I had thought I would take charge as you say, but none will follow me now.”
“Ah!” she sighed. “So, you are honest at least.”
His mouth twisted up into a grim smile. “I hope that much I can be. I tried my hand at deception and because of it I am damned.” His head was beginning to ache. He was tired. He wanted nothing more than to lie down on this dirt floor and sleep. “Cambryn is set to tear itself apart. Mark will not help. Guinevere cannot. It is yours to take if you wish to.”
Morgaine watched her thread winding around her spindle for a long moment. Then, she shook her dark head. “Cambryn will not fall to any force of arms I can raise at this time. If it could, I would sit in the great hall now.”
“Then I waste your time, and mine.” Slowly, painfully, Colan stood. His knees ached, and his hands shook with weakness. Where now? What next? There was nothing. Hasty death at his own hand might be best. That was mortal sin. So was murder. Could he be damned twice? He needed the Bishop. This was one of those thorny points that Austell loved to chew over.
Behind him, Morgaine spoke again. “Whether you have wasted your time depends on what you do next.”
He looked over his shoulder at her, sitting in her great, carved chair, the white thread dangling from her fingertips making a shining line in the shadows. He met her eyes again. There were depths there, and there was power. A man could fool himself into believing that he might understand that power, that sharp-edged beauty if only he could get close enough. Perhaps he could even take it into his own hands and hold it for his own ends, if only he dared, if only he came closer.
Colan had taken a step without even realizing it.<
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“You make me a great offer, but I hear no love in it. No loyalty comes with your handing over the land I know you want for your own.” Her voice was low. He had to strain to hear her. It seemed to move to the rhythm of her spindle that never ceased winding. “What do you want Colan Carnbrea?”
“I told you.” Another step toward her. Why did he move? He did not know, he only knew that he did. “I want my land whole. I want an end to these overlords and their madness.”
“What else? What did you seek when you shed your father’s blood, little boy?’
Colan swallowed. He was insulted. He should leave, but he had gone too far and he could only answer. “Revenge.”
“On who? For what?”
“On Arthur who took our queen away. On the queen for abandoning us to besotted old men and over-loyal fools and then forgetting we make their wealth.”
“And why, Colan Carnbrea, should I believe you will not seek such revenge on me if I disappoint you as well?”
“I swear you have my loyalty.”
“An oath is air and nothing more without something to bind it. What will you give me, Colan Carnbrea?”
He felt himself poised on the knife’s tip, teetering, ready to fall. Could he be damned twice? Looking into her darkness he saw that he could. Twice, thrice, as many times as he chose, but he must choose. Choose here and now. Choose at last and forever. Choose the murder he had done in the raw anger of his heart, choose the bloody future that waited if he tried to reclaim something from the wreckage he had made.
“What will you accept of me?”
She smiled, and it was like the heat of the hidden coal deep within the ash. “A kiss, Colan. Give me a kiss and your oath is sealed.”
One more step, two, three. She lifted her face to him. Her lips were very red and her eyes so vivid with her power and her secrets he could not look into them any more. He closed his own eyes and leaned forward. His mouth found hers. It was a chaste kiss, as gentle and brief as he might give one of his sisters, and yet he felt something drawn from the depths of his soul. A wave of weakness washed over him. In the next instant, the weakness was gone, and he was standing straight before Morgaine, just as he had been.