by Sarah Zettel
“Lady Laurel?”
Laurel spun on her knees, her chest heaving with the force of her breath. Behind her stood Father Lucius, his face made white by the violence of her reaction.
“Forgive me, lady,” he said, coming forward hastily. “I did not mean to startle you. It is only …” he stopped, plainly abashed, and she knew what he would say next. “You have been so long about your prayers, those … men … have sent me to find you.” He stopped, and then said, far more softly. “Is there any way I can help you, my lady?”
“Thank you, Father,” she said and she stood, a little stiffly. He was a young man, with a scholar’s gentle face and ink-stained hands. His manner was earnest and devout and when Laurel thought of him at all, it was as a kindly, competent servant.
Now she had to hope he was a little more.
“I am glad you are come. There is some help I need Father. I have an urgent task for you.”
He blinked his round, brown eyes, but said at once. “How can I serve, my lady?”
“I need for you to go to Saint Necturn’s well and bring me back a jar full of the holy waters.”
He considered this, glancing up a moment at the crucifix and running his tongue over his lips. “Should I ask why, my lady?”
She smiled a little at this. He was a fine diplomat, their priest. “No, Father, you should not. I ask you to be content with the knowledge it is water of a blessed place I need. But if anyone else asks you, say you are going to the monastery at Tintagel.”
He blinked at her several more times, and for a moment she feared he might refuse. But in the end, he nodded, his face seeming a little less soft than it had a moment ago. “I am praying for you, daughter.”
“Thank you, father.”
“I will go as soon as a horse can be saddled.”
“Thank you, Father.” Laurel stood. Peace took hold in her for the first time in days. Now all that remained was to tell Lynet she must shut the door between them, and pray that Lynet was not so far adrift in that other country that she would understand.
Please dear Mother, be with her.
But both the Mother and her mother, remained as silent as ever, and Laurel had no choice but to smooth her sleeves, and return to her weaving.
Chapter Eighteen
The next evening brought the Queen’s procession to the edge of Bodmin Moor; mile after mile of rolling, open country with ragged, lonely heights and deep bowl-like valleys. In fair weather, it could be deeply beautiful, an unspoiled meadow without end. Once this was part of the great wood that had surrounded them for so many days, but generations had gnawed away at the forest’s reach and left this open, treacherous land behind. Even in the clear light of day the moor could not be trusted. What looked to be solid ground could swallow men and horses whole and leave no trace. In foul weather, the mists rose sometimes for days at a time and there were no land marks or any other means to find direction. A traveller could wander lost in the openness until they died of cold, exhaustion, or the hidden bogs dragged them down.
But on its opposite side waited Cambryn and home. Another day away, perhaps two, since they must go carefully. Three at most. Three days to home, and Laurel, and an end to all this struggle. Three more days.
Lynet had ridden all day beside Brendon’s litter. Sir Lancelot had clearly struggled with the decision to bring him. If they had been more certain of the Rosveare they left behind in the valley, the knight would have shed this latest impediment to their progress. There was, however, no guarantee he would not simply become hostage again, and the Rosveare were not kind to their hostages. She felt a pang about moving him at all, but the twin necessities of making all speed to Cambryn, and getting the queen away from an untrustworthy place removed the choice. She did note that Sir Lancelot spent a great deal of time at the rear of the procession rather than the fore today.
So, she trotted along beside Brendon, who, thankfully, spent much of the day asleep, despite the jolting. The fever stayed low, the swelling receded, and as often as she was able she gave him bread sopped in watered wine, and it was all staying down. That, as much as his ability to speak the names of those around him those brief periods when he woke, told her he’d no unseen hurt.
She wore her relief like a cloak all that long day. Since she had left Iseult, she had done such healing as was required in Cambryn. She had closed wounds, set bones, nursed illness, but each recovery caused this astonishment in her, and each death raised the fear that her skills had been tainted by her sins. She could still feel her father’s blood on her skin, and his belly heaving under her hands as she tried to staunch his wound in the moments before she helped end his life. To know that at least she would not be punished for that act, that her skills were not gone from her was priceless.
She even regained enough humor to realize Brendon was probably not happy about being the instrument chosen to restore her confidence in her physician’s learning.
The other good the day brought, she told herself over and again, was Squire Gareth’s silence. She saw him as he rode up and down the length of the procession, making sure all stayed relatively together, and assisting with any problems, but he did not stop to speak with her. Once, she caught his eye as he passed, and he only made her a solemn and silent salute, and rode on.
He had heard her. He had understood. Good. One of them at least understood. She had no business dallying with any man, for man was a safe companion for her, most especially one of Camelot. He was at least honorable enough to see that.
Such reasoned and goodly thoughts, though, did nothing to ease her heart ache each time she saw him ride past, tight-lipped and looking straight ahead.
It will be over soon. We will be home. Matters will be settled. He will go back to Camelot, and I will go about my life.
What life would that be though, with her and Laurel? What did the queen mean to do? She would have to appoint a new steward, and what would happen to them? Marriage was the most likely possibility, to strengthen the ties between Cambryn and Camelot. Marriage for Laurel anyway. Perhaps there was a man of the north who would take Lynet, or perhaps she would finally be allowed to take the veil.
None of these thoughts brought more comfort than Gareth’s silence did. Yet she could not make herself approach the queen and ask what was in her mind. Lynet could not ask difficult questions of the woman whose appraising grey eyes seemed to know she was concealing so much.
It does not matter. I am doing as I must. I cannot leave Laurel alone. I cannot leave my home unguarded. She touched her purse. The light was fading in the leaden sky. She would be free again tonight, and she would know what was happening. Something nagged at her, something more than the silence and suspicion around her, or even the knowledge that they would be spending the night on the edge of the great moor. It dried out her mouth and made her skin creep under the touch of the gentle wind. She had to get to Ryol, had to leave her confining flesh and know.
Soon. She told herself. Soon.
Camp was made on the rise above the empty moor. Lynet saw Brendon, more awake now, a little hungry and very blasphemous, installed in the squire’s tent. Lionel swore faithfully to watch over him and to give him only thin pottage and well-watered wine. Stronger food would only strengthen the fever he still carried. Gareth was nowhere to be found, which pleased Daere, and should have pleased Lynet. Instead, it only added to the nagging that grew stronger the closer the sun sank to the horizon.
Something was wrong. Something at home. She was certain of it. Ryol was trying to reach her, to warn her, and she had to sit still under the eyes of the queen and all her ladies in the pavilion. She had to listen to the light gossip and small complaints, trying to be interested and quiet, and concentrate enough to answer their questions. She wanted to scream. She wanted to snatch up the mirror and shout for Ryol to bring her to his side immediately.
She wanted the queen to stop looking toward her.
At last, however, the light began to fade, and the beds were laid out. D
aere relieved her of her overdress, and handed her back her girdle so she could bind it about her, reclaiming her purse and her keys. As soon as her fingers brushed the leather purse, a flood of urgency filled her, rocking her back on her heels.
“Are you all right, my lady?” gasped Daere as she put out a hand to steady Lynet.
The queen turned her head inquiringly. So too did every other woman in the tent.
“Yes, yes, thank you Daere,” said Lynet hastily, trying to avoid every eye by reaching for her bed coverings. “My feet ache.”
This they were all willing to believe, her broken feet having been made a public spectacle. Slowly, they were all willing to go back to the business of getting ready for their bed, including the queen. Lynet lay still and let Daere draw up the covers so no one would see her hand grasping her purse so tightly the mirror’s edges dug into her hand, even through the leather.
Something was wrong. Lynet closed her eyes, turning over to face the canvas wall, so no one could see her distress. Something was blindingly, terribly wrong and she could feel it with each beat of her heart. Light flashed behind her eyelids, like a silent storm of omen. Yet the braziers flickered and cloth and covers rustled, and the queen laughed softly at yet another jest told by one of her useless, gossipy, feather-brained city women.
At last, when Lynet’s teeth ached from being ground so hard against the screams that threatened to burst forth, the last light was covered, and darkness fell. Around her came the familiar rustling, sighing sounds of women trying to get comfortable on pallets now damp and lumpy from too much hard travel and not enough airing. Lady Mavis dropped off first as usual. She had a trilling kind of snore. One by one, the others followed her, and last of all, the queen’s breath deepened and slowed, and Lynet was able to take one free breath herself.
Carefully, stealthily, she slipped out from under her coverings. No sound of breathing or soft snoring changed. Her groping hand found her cloak and she hugged it close. One cautious, agonizing step at a time she made her way to the door, giving Daere as wide a berth as she could. At last she reached the canvas flap and picked at the knotted lacings with impatient fingers, her ears straining all the while for any change in the sound of restful oblivion behind her.
Since the queen had found her that first night, Lynet did not dare try to use the mirror again inside the pavilion. At least if she were found creeping outside, there might be another explanation. She could buy herself some time concealed in the fringes of the wood, and if she cried out, it was less likely that anyone would hear.
She had to do this, and do this now. The urgency of it filled her. She had to bite back a cry of gladness as the final knot came loose and she was able to creep out the pavilion door.
Fortunately, the queen did not insist on guards beside the tent. Lynet could see the torches of their stations out at the edges of the camp. Soft talking and laughter rose from here and there, along with stray clanks and clatters. The whole camp settling to sleep, but not quite there, not yet. That was as well. This way she was one only more carefully moving shadow, trying not to disturb her fellows, just trying to find her bed, or a spot to relieve herself, at the edges of the light. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to question.
“I wondered if you would come out again tonight.”
Lynet whirled around, her fist stuffed in her mouth to stifle her startled scream. A shadow moved out from all the other shadows, and there stood Squire Gareth.
She stared at him. He made no apology for frightening her. He simply stood there, his hands loose at his sides, waiting to see what she would do next.
Lynet lowered her hand. “Squire Gareth,” she croaked.
“My lady,” he replied gravely, inclining his head. “What brings you out at this unseasonable hour?”
She swallowed, trying to remember her dignity, and all the plausible lies she had stored up.
“I have asked you a question, my lady,” said Gareth. There was something new in those words. A reminder that he was a man on the verge of knighthood, a man loyal to his knight and his queen and above all his high king. He had seen something. He was suspicious. This was what had kept him silent and apart from her all day, not her scathing words. He was afraid of the outland lady and her strange movements that had called himself and his people out into danger.
There was not a plausible lie in all the world that he would believe. What was more, Lynet realized as she looked up at his sad, stern visage, she did not want to have to lie to him.
You cannot stand here! You have no time to waste!
“Squire Gareth, I swear on the memory of both my mother and my father, I do nothing that will harm anyone here. Please, let me go.”
He flexed his hands. She could hear his breathing, harsh and uneasy for a long time before he spoke.
“My lady, listen to me,” he said softly. “There is something gravely amiss here. How am I to know that by my silence I do not jeopardize my comrades, my knight and my queen? Give me some explanation that I can understand, and I will hold my tongue. Continue in your own silence, and I must raise the alarm.”
He meant it. She could tell that easily. He would feel regret, but he would do exactly as he said.
And for good reason, admitted Lynet to herself.
But he was giving her a chance. All of Ryol’s warnings rang in her head, but no lie came to her, and the urgent warning within her. She must risk the truth. If she did not, she was lost already.
“We must not be seen.” She ducked into the nearby copse of trees and bracken that was surely where Gareth had watched her progress before he decided to confront her. Gareth followed more slowly, and when he did, she saw his hand was on his sword.
His sword. He had come to her armed. She wanted to find some blame in this, to ease her own guilt, but again she could not.
When she was certain they were as hidden as the could be, she drew the mirror from its purse. “This was a gift from the sea to my mother,” she told him, holding it out flat on her palm. It shone faintly in the darkness, as if it carried its own light within. “Through this, I may see my home and speak with Laurel. I do not want the queen to know, that is why I have tried to hide it.”
She waited for him to laugh, or cross himself, or to call her mad. He did none of these. He stretched out one cautious finger and touched the cool, smooth glass. “Why should you fear the queen’s knowing?” he whispered.
“Her Majesty distrusts all things of the invisible countries, as well she should,” she added, thinking of Morgaine and all that had been done already. “If I were not desperate, I would have nothing to do with it.” Is that true? She put the question aside hurriedly. “But my sister is in danger, and it is only the visions I receive from the sea glass that keep her alive. I beg of you Squire Gareth,” she breathed softly, as she curled her fingers around the mirror. The sight and touch of it was maddening, driving her blood hard in her veins and sending it pounding to her temples. “Do not give me away.”
He was silent, watching her out of the darkness that cloaked him. “It is dangerous,” he said flatly.
“Only to myself.”
“How can you know?”
“On this you will have to trust me, Gareth.” She heard the quaver in her voice. “I am the only one in peril from this glass and what it holds.”
He regarded her for another long moment, his jaw working back and forth. Lynet held her breath, but did not let her gaze leave his. She longed to be able to reach out as she did when she was a shadow. As a shadow she could have gathered up his distrust and returned her own belief and sense of understanding.
Then, Gareth said, “You cannot lie a night out here alone. You will sicken from the cold.”
“It will not be that long this time.”
“You are sure of that?”
She bowed her head. “No.” It seemed that now that she had begun to tell him the truth, she could not stop.
“Then I will stay with you.”
That startled her. “No,�
�� she said immediately.
He did not let her speak another word. “I cannot permit you to come to harm,” he said. “And if I am to keep my silence about this, I must see for myself what happens.” His lips twitched into a smile for an eyeblink. “I have been told many strange stories in my life, lady, some by my own brothers. If you want me to believe what you say, you must also let me be witness to it.”
A long and painful history lay beneath those words. She could feel it, even trapped in her separate skin. There was no way around it. Her urgency would burn a hole through her if she did not look into the mirror at once.
Anger sparked in her, but gratitude as well. for she knew that despite all his doubts, he had trusted her as far as he could.
But Gareth mistook the reason for her hesitation. “My Lady Lynet,” he said solemnly, formally. “I swear that I will remain to protect you. You will come to no harm while I watch over you.”
“Thank you, Gareth,” she murmured.
He drew himself up with a sigh, acknowledging their strange and awkward circumstances with no more than that gesture. “What must you do?”
“Sit down,” she said, and she suited actions to words. She brought the mirror up, seeing her own ghostly reflection in its smooth and perfect surface. All thought of Gareth, of queen, of any danger flew away as she saw her other self waiting there.
“Ryol,” she said. “Ryol!”
Lynet fell into darkness.
The fall this time was short and sharp. The world opened around her almost before she had time to blink, and Ryol was there at her side in the bright sun of the garden. But Ryol had changed yet again. Silver streaked his dark hair, and the petals of the roses and the blossoms strewn the garden’s fading grass.
She opened her mouth, but Ryol did not give her time to speak. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her along behind him as he swept out his hand to shift the shadows and change the daylight garden to the dark reflection of Cambryn at nighttime. Clouds gathered thickly, scudding across the half-moon, but as before, Lynet found she could see as well as if the moon had been full and the night clear. Ryol was all but running now and it took all her concentration to keep beside him as the shadows rushed, bent and blurred around her.