Kingdom of the Grail

by Judith Tarr

  “The Grail sustains me,” Roland said.

  “But for how long? You’ll burn yourself out.”

  “Not till the war is over.” He stretched and sighed. Was that the first faint glimmer of light on the horizon? “You should sleep, too. We all should, if we can. It’s two days till the new moon. Tell them—tell the troops we’ll make our move then.”

  “The new moon?” She sounded dubious, but she did not offer to argue.

  Bless her heart and soul. She was no lord, to be prey to pride. Before she turned to go, he reached and caught her hand. “Thank you,” he said.

  She shrugged. “You’re the king. You give orders—I follow them. If,” she added, “they’re not too impossible.”

  “I am not—”

  She slipped free and was gone.

  “I am not the king,” he said to the air where she had been.

  The king summoned him at dawn: a plucking at his spirit, a sudden sense that he must be elsewhere. He was still on the walls. The darkness was only a little less. There would be no sun today, and little light, either, unless they in the castle expended strength to make it.

  He went down through the shadows. They were stronger. He heard gibbering, glimpsed a gleam of eyes. Servants struggled to go about their duties. They were white and shaking, but they were holding on. Bread was baking, the sweet fragrance as potent as magic for lightening the soul.

  He caught a servant on her way to the kitchens. “Ask the cooks,” he said, “if they will make sweet things, wonderful things—things rich with spices and with heart’s ease.”

  The woman blinked, then suddenly smiled. She nodded, bowed, and ran to do his bidding.

  By the time he came to the king’s tower, the first hints came to him: cinnamon, cardamom, grains of paradise. He was smiling as he mounted the stair.

  Parsifal clung to life by a thinner thread than Roland remembered. It was Sarissa on guard now, who must have come out from the Grail only a little while ago. Her smile was a little startled, catching the brightness of his own.

  Tarik slipped down from Roland’s shoulder to curl at the foot of the king’s bed. Parsifal had no strength to open his eyes, but his mind was awake. He was aware.

  Roland knelt beside him. The voice that spoke had no sound at all. It was a whisper in the heart. “Soon,” he said. “Soon I go. The new moon—”

  “No!” The word escaped Roland without his willing it.

  “It’s time,” said Parsifal. “When you perform the great rite, when you bind the power, I will be part of it. I will be the seal and the capstone.”

  “But—” Roland began.

  “I waited for this,” Parsifal said. “I held to life for it. That was my enemy, whom I failed to destroy. This time I shall be part of his destruction.”

  Roland bowed his head over the skeletal hand.

  The soft voice spoke again in his heart. “Don’t grieve,” said Parsifal. “Be glad. I’ll be free. And before I go, I’ll give you strength. It may—it will—be enough to cast him down.”

  “And without it, we’ll never be strong enough.”

  Roland’s head snapped up. Sarissa met his eyes levelly.

  “You need my strength,” said Parsifal.

  “How am I to take it?” Roland asked. Knowing what the answer must be. But needing to hear it, though he dreaded the truth of it.

  The silence, though brief, was enormous. Roland’s belly clenched. He did not want to remember what Merlin had told him. Of deaths of kings. Of old, old rites. Of sacrifices.

  Royal sacrifice. High blood and great courage that went of its own will to its death. Such a sacrifice had imbued the Grail with its power.

  “And will again,” Parsifal said. “I’m no god’s son, but I was lord in the Grail’s kingdom. The power I pass to you, the power of the great marriage, the royal sacrifice—it can stand against even the ancient enemy.”

  “That is murder,” Roland said.

  “Sacrifice,” said Parsifal. “Willing, with great joy. I was born for this. I was meant for it.”

  “Surely there is another way,” Roland said. “We’re not pagans, either of us. We’re Christian men. Is there no Christian rite that will suffice? A high Mass—the offering of the wine that is transformed into blood—blood of the Grail—”

  “You know that is not enough,” said Parsifal, “any more than it was enough for the Lord Christ, who died on a cross.”

  Roland had been thinking him a gentle man, a saintly man, a man on the border between earth and heaven. Yet this had been a great king, a warrior of renown. He had waged the first war of the Grail. He had ruled in Montsalvat.

  Gentle he might be on this his deathbed, but he was implacable. He would have this thing. And Roland’s hand must do it.

  “Your hand, and Durandal.” Parsifal sighed. There was a rattle in it. Death stood over him, but he would not let it take him. Not until the new moon.

  “So that’s why,” Roland said, not to Parsifal but to Sarissa. “You lied to me because you knew—when I came to the crux, I’d fail.”

  Her lips were tight. Was she darkly glad? Was she vindicated, after all?

  He would not give her the satisfaction. He looked down at his hands. Narrow hands, long fingers. They were stronger than they looked. They had killed before—more men than he could count. He was a warrior; that was what he did. He killed men.

  But not in cold blood.

  “I am not an executioner,” he said.

  “You are, by grace of the Grail, a priest,” said Parsifal.

  “Did you do the same?” Roland demanded. “Is this how you took the kingship?”

  “You know I did not.” Parsifal sounded almost regretful. “For each it is different. This is the need now; this is what must be.”

  “No.” Roland staggered up. He was dizzy; he was sick. “If you simply let go—if you let God’s hand take you—is that not also a sacrifice? I’ll be here. I’ll sing the rite of your passing. I’ll take the strength as your life passes.”

  “The strength is in the blood,” Parsifal said. Roland could barely hear him. To the eye he was dead: a corpse in a monk’s robe, eyes sunken in the skull, skeletal hands folded on the hollow breast. But the spirit was bright in him still, a spark so brilliant that it could blind the unwary.

  That spark was pure raw strength. Power against the dark. Victory—if Roland could pay the price.

  Blood on his hands. Murder in cold blood.

  Was it a sin, if the victim begged for it? If the Grail demanded it? If—

  Merlin would have known what to do. But Merlin was far away, beyond reach of any power, mortal or otherwise. The enemy’s treachery had bound him there.

  Roland had sworn to set him free.

  If he destroyed Ganelon, he would fulfill his great oath. But to destroy Ganelon, he must—

  He rounded on Sarissa. “Can you do it?”

  She shook her head tightly. That must be the truth: she was not at all happy to confess it.

  In any event he had known before he asked. For some things there was no mercy. If she could have done it, she would never have troubled herself with an outland champion.

  “I have to think,” he said. “I have to—”

  He fled. Not, this time, in hawk’s shape, and not beyond the boundaries of Carbonek. Coward he might be, but he would not run so far again. Whatever he chose, he would do it here, and stand to face the consequences.

  CHAPTER 57

  With the coming of daylight, the enemy raised siege-engines before the walls of Carbonek. Hordes of faceless men—and perhaps other than men—hammered and fitted and bound and lifted, until there was a wall outside the walls, a thicket of engines, each surrounded by its swarm of attendants.

  Then the bombardment began. Most of the missiles were stones, but some were softer and smaller. Some were very small. Others tumbled awkwardly as they flew, and struck with a soft, sickening sound.

  Some of them still wore the device of Poictesme. Ot
hers still had faces to be recognized. Not all or even most were whole. Teeth and claws had torn them asunder, and steel had hacked them.

  It was a grim task to gather the fragments of the dead, to match them into some semblance of human form, then to bless them and lay them to rest in the crypt of the castle. And all the while they did that, the engines battered the walls with stones.

  Worse than stones and even dead flesh were the bolts of darkness that fell among them. Those were not visible save from the corner of an eye. When they struck, if they struck vitals, they killed; but if they struck close by, they flung a man down in a black sleep.

  There had been no parley, no call for surrender. People on the walls saw no sign of a leader, no general on a hill, nor any tent higher than any other. The will that ruled the army was clear to them all, but where its focus was, no one could see. That made it all the more terrible: that it had no face, no substance, not even a shadow to grasp.

  Roland felt the force of that absence. He had fled the king’s presence and the thing he had been brought here to do, but he would not run away from the rest of it. He would do what he had chosen for himself: councils of war, dispositions of troops, protection of the castle.

  None of the Grail-knights had left Carbonek. When he summoned them at noon, the full count of them assembled in their hall beneath ancient banners and relics of old wars. They were all in armor, some of it of very antique fashion indeed, but serviceable enough, their weapons well tended.

  Maybe, he thought, he had been too hasty to reckon them soft. They had the look of men tempered in battle, though the last of those had been long ago. Stern faces turned toward him as he entered the hall. Many bore scars. They came from nations innumerable, even to the far ends of the earth. Dark faces, pale faces, men tall and short, bull-broad and slender as girls, but all sworn to defend the Grail. Each wore a blue cloak over his armor, bound with a brooch in the likeness of a silver swan.

  There were a hundred of them. The Grail had nourished them for time out of mind; they bore somewhat of the light of it. Their spirits were stronger for it, their endurance greater against the enemy—but they were vulnerable nonetheless.

  “I set you on guard,” he said, “over the Grail and its tower, and the ladies who protect the shrine. Choose your watches; and be wary. The enemy has come to seize the Grail. He’ll direct his strongest attacks against those who guard it.”

  “We remember,” said a stocky man in Roman armor. The strong face, the close-cropped black hair . . . Roland was careful not to stare. Rome’s legend was strong where he came from; to see a man of the legions alive and breathing, speaking to him—that was nigh as great a thing as the Grail itself.

  “In the last war of the Grail,” the Roman said, “he pressed us hardest. Full fourscore of us died then. I lived; I remember. The rest, who came to us after, have studied deeply. We’ll be on guard, young lord; you need have no fear of that.”

  Young. That stung. But it was true. “Defend your charge at all costs,” Roland said, “but be aware: it may not choose to hide itself in its shrine. It has come out once. It may come out again.”

  “So I heard,” the Roman said somewhat dryly.

  “And your name?” Roland asked him.

  “Titus Longinus,” the Roman said. “You I know, Roland of Brittany, as I knew your forefather. Merlinus Ambrosius, we called him. He still lives?”

  “Yes,” Roland said.

  The Roman did not smile, but his dark eyes were glinting. “Good,” he said. “And maybe I’ll see him when this war is over—when we’ve brought down the old serpent. That would be a good thing; to bring back the old times.”

  Roland remembered to shut his mouth. So: not everyone in Montsalvat harbored an ancient hatred of Merlin.

  Longinus grinned at him. In body the man was not greatly older than Roland himself. Nor was he old in spirit, either. “We do remember how to fight,” he said. “Don’t fear for us.”

  Roland bowed to him. “Take command, then, in the king’s name. And may God and the Grail protect you.”

  They all bowed in return, every one of them: some lower than others, but it seemed they had chosen to accept his authority.

  That was well, though he was not, maybe, what they thought he was. Above all things, the defenders in Carbonek needed to be of one mind, one soul. There could be no quarrels and no division. Every crack, every sign of strain, would let the enemy in.

  And what of himself?

  Not now.

  He had done all that he could. The Grail was guarded. Watches were drawn for the walls and the towers, and for the gates both greater and lesser. And in the halls below, where the bulk of the army lay, he had given orders that he trusted would be followed.

  He had not taken thought for his own daymeal, though he saw to it that everyone else was fed. Lord Huon’s man found him coming up from the Franks’ hall. “My lord prepares to dine,” the man said. “He asks if you would deign to share the meal with him.”

  Roland bit back his first thought, which was to refuse. He had crossed paths often that day with the lord of Caer Sidi, but neither had paused for speech. Courtesy at the least would be served if he accepted the summons. And, he realized, he was hungry.

  He had more than half expected to find Huon dining in the great hall with a mob of courtiers, but the servant led him to a room much smaller, a private chamber. Only Huon was there, with one or two of his counselors, and the eldest lady of the Grail, the gentle-faced Nieve. They were old friends, it seemed. Old lovers? That well might be. Certainly they were at ease with one another.

  They welcomed Roland warmly and sat him down between them. There was another chair set at the table; as he settled, one came to occupy it. He raised his brows at sight of Turpin. The archbishop met his stare blandly, greeted the others with suitable decorum, and accepted a cup of wine.

  It was a comfortable gathering, though dark things gibbered in the shadows. Roland barely noticed what he ate; a great weariness had fallen on him, as if he had come to sanctuary and could, at last, let go. He ate blindly, drank, listened to the others’ soft conversation. They spoke of small things: the flavor of the wine, the excellence of the dinner. There was a sleepy comfort in it, a gentleness that he had not known in too long.

  He started awake. They were still drinking wine, still conversing: Huon and Nieve and Turpin. The counselors were gone, and the servants. The lamps burned low but steady. The dark things were more numerous, despite the Grail’s strong singing.

  The three of them were waiting for him. He was supposed to confess, he realized. To unburden himself, so that they could persuade him to do what Parsifal asked him to do.

  It was a low thing, to bring Turpin into it. Turpin the priest, the bishop, whose faith above all would revolt at blood sacrifice. He was not meeting Roland’s eye. Of course he would not, if he had agreed to this.

  Roland rose and left them without a word, as he had left Parsifal and Sarissa. They tried to stop him. He took no notice.

  The deep chamber was dim, its lamps and torches burning far apart. The whispers were louder here, the dark wings more clearly visible. Franks and people of Montsalvat huddled together round campfires. Those who could sleep did. The others snatched such rest as they might, trusting to the safety of numbers.

  Gemma and her sons gathered with Marric and Cait and some of the other recruits not far from the stair to the upper regions. It was a place they had fought for, with bruises and cuts to show for it.

  Roland came down as quietly as he could, wrapped in a mantle against recognition. But they knew him. They opened ranks to let him in. With Marric on one side and Gemma on the other, he felt as safe as he had felt since the enemy came to Carbonek.

  He had not meant to say anything. But even a man of few words could reach his limit. The boys were snoring. Cait was awake, but heavy-eyed, her head drooping on Kyllan’s shoulder. Marric prodded the fire to rouse it. The flare put to flight something very like a bogle, but made all of s
hadow, with long fangs and long curved claws. Marric bared his own not inconsiderable teeth at it.

  “They want me to be king,” Roland said. “They want me—to—”

  Gemma’s arm circled him, holding him lightly but firmly as she had done when he was still a mute and witless nobody.

  “To be king,” Roland said somewhat more steadily, “I have to kill the king. A sacrifice. To take his power. Because, he says, there is no other way to cast down the enemy. But I can’t do that.”

  “Why?” Marric asked.

  Straight to the point as always. Roland almost laughed. “It’s murder,” he said.

  “Sacrifice isn’t murder,” said Marric, “if it’s willing. It’s sacred. It’s a holy thing. Isn’t that how you Christians started? With the sacrifice of a king?”

  “And we condemn forever the people who willed the sacrifice, and the people who performed it.”

  “Then you’re fools,” Gemma said, “and self-righteous too. Someone has to be the priest, if the people are to benefit. Someone has to take the burden.”

  “And the guilt?”

  “Where’s the guilt in it, if the gods themselves ask it of you? I’d think you’d be guiltier for refusing it.”

  “You’re conspiring against me,” Roland muttered.

  “What,” she said, “you expected us to agree with you? We’re not Christians. Maybe you should have talked to your friend the bishop.”

  “He’s in the conspiracy, too,” Roland said bitterly. “Everyone is. But none of them—none of you—has to strike the blow. None of you will have blood on your hands.”

  “None of us will have the power, either,” she said.

  “I don’t want the power.”

  She pulled him about, face-to-face with her. “Is that the truth? The honest, unvarnished truth?”

  He blinked. He was going to nod. But he found he could not move.

  “Of course you want it,” she said. “It must be like glory and trumpets—like what the children thought war would be. Brightness and splendor. And it’s been handed to you, but you have to pay for it. Doesn’t everything have a price? And the greater it is, the higher the price.”