"My skills were useless without yours, Falon." Arthor offered the old Celt his hand when they attained the crest. "Your knowledge of runes, your artistry with reed-pen and Devil's Milk for ink, your ale-horn, your rota—how else could I have approached close enough for my skills to matter? Come with me. Join my company and sit at the Round Table as my counselor."
Falon shook his head. "I am too old, sire. Leave a new rota for me before you depart. That music is the only company I need."
On the ride back to the stockade, Eufrasia held firmly to her champion. "You spoke their language so well, I took you for one of their ilk."
"I grew up believing I was of their ilk, sired by a Saxon. I took pains early to learn what I thought was the tongue of my father."
When the stockade gates swung open, Aidan stood dumbfounded at the sight of his daughter. Her happy embrace broke the rigor of his shock, and he fell to his knees before the young man of blue face and arms.
"King Arthor—accept my pledge! You are my lord, and all that is mine is yours. The Spiral Castle will hold the north against our enemies. There will be no alliance with the Picts. Your banner alone flies from these ramparts."
Eufrasia, nudging aside her tearful mother and the maids who had flocked to cover her in silken robes, knelt in the king's shadow. "I am yours, my lord."
Aidan nodded and smiled. "She has my blessing to go with you—if you will have her, sire."
Arthor urged Eufrasia to her feet and shook his head once, his heart tight at the thought of giving himself to another woman after the tragedy with Morgeu. "My lady—" His mind raced for words to rescue him. "There are many battles yet ahead for me. You deserve better after what you have suffered under my negligent protection. You will have a happier life without me."
Aidan and his wife could not imagine any man not loving Eufrasia for her beauty and courage, and they accepted Arthor's refusal as a true act of selflessness. On the spot, the chieftain declared, "By this turn, sire, you have convinced me of the merit of your nailed god. He has taught you love greater than any I have seen before in men of power. Send your priests to us, and we will listen with open hearts."
Kyner clasped his chest at this pronouncement, and Cei threw his hands up in surprise before his young brother's achievement. Only Bedevere smiled coolly at Arthor's tact. He alone heard the fatuity in the king's words, for he knew of Morgeu and the young man's invisible and unhealing wound.
[]
Mother Mary, am I wrong to leave Eufrasia behind? Am I wrong to sacrifice my carnal desires and the hope of my heart to atone for the evil I have wrought with Morgeu? This day, my blood could have run with the ink from my body. Yet, God spared me. Surely, I am not saved from the sword to seek comfort in a woman's arms—even the arms of a woman as beautiful as Eufrasia. I have been too easily misled by desire. My reward is the fealty I have won this day from the clans of the north—and Aidan's promise to receive the good news of our Savior. Those are lasting pleasures. The joy of the flesh arrives with the heat, intensity, and brevity of lightning—only to be followed by thunderous consequences. Forgive me, Mother Mary. Forgive me if now I betray love for fear of desire.
Part Two: Autumn
Secret House of the Wind
Lawspeaker
The Saxon king Wesc occupied a three-centuries-old Roman villa enclosed by stately poplars. The old vineyards of the estate had been razed to make room for wattle-and-daub cottages, housing settlers from Saxony and Juteland. In their midst, the winery and the vintner's manse still stood, serving as administrative buildings for the Foederatus, the alliance of northern tribes that occupied the eastern lowlands of Britain.
Gorlois strode naked into the winery, giggling like a lunatic. Stocky, leather-helmeted warriors in quasi-Roman battle gear escorted him across a mosaic of the wine-god Bacchus scoured by two centuries of wind and rain to a ghostly semblance of its former beauty.
The alcoves that had once held fermenting vats displayed "raven's food"—war trophies: tapestries of woven scalps, harps of human bone, drums stretched with the flayed skin of enemies, and racks of skull cups. Here the skalds and vitikis—bards and seers—resided.
None of those personages presented themselves when the warriors brought in the laughing wizard, for his weird countenance and brittle laughter frightened them. Only the Lawspeaker, the king's personal vitiki, accepted the risk of this dangerous confrontation.
Old and wise in the ways of magic, the Lawspeaker presided from a bench-of-authority fashioned from the stonework of the central press. The purple-stained blocks heaped into two columns framed a settle where the elder sat upon a wolfskin with the head propped above him, its fangs bared. From each column, clusters of human skulls dangled.
The Lawspeaker, despite the summer heat, wore a long-sleeved wool shirt and trousers, a red mantle, and long braids of ashen hair. He appeared as old as Gorlois, but he was not laughing. With a slight shift of his rheumy eyes, he ordered the guards to depart, and he regarded Gorlois with chill attentiveness.
"I am Lawspeaker for King Wesc. I am not afraid of your magic, Merlin."
"You should be, old fellow." Gorlois grinned wickedly. "You should be." His magical strength reached out, and, with a laugh, he yanked the wolf's mask down hard upon the elder's head.
The Lawspeaker seemed unfazed. He pulled the wolfskin tighter about himself and continued to stare at Gorlois with cold appraisal. "Magic cannot avail against virtue."
"You speak of virtue?" Gorlois laughed harder, and the dangling skulls rattled vehemently, spewing teeth and shards of cranium. "You land-thieves, you murderers dare speak of virtue?"
"Land is the hide of the World Dragon," the withered Lawspeaker declared in a strong voice. "It cannot be owned and so cannot be stolen. As for murder, that is the faith of the strong."
"I will show you strength!" Gorlois' magic toppled the stack of stone blocks to his right. "I am strong! Now you will obey me!"
"Virtue is stronger." The Lawspeaker bent over and scooped up a handful of skull powder and stone dust from the fallen column. "Even one as old as I can defeat you with an empty hand."
Gorlois laughed at the old man's presumption and prepared to heave the stone bench over and throw the Lawspeaker to his back. Before he could act, the aged Saxon's cheeks puffed out, and a cloud of dust engulfed Gorlois' head. In a fit of coughing, the laughter stopped and the gates of power closed in him.
The Lawspeaker rose, seized Gorlois' long nose, and led him choking and squealing from the hall of bards.
[]
Mother Mary, this day I have survived to my sixteenth year. To commemorate, Kyner and Cei rode ahead to the river bluff city of Greta Bridge and arranged for a feast and a joyful celebration. I was genuinely surprised—and abashed—that the entire town turned out to greet me with loud cheer, as though I had already won great battles. I am happy to tell you, I forgot not my promise in the frenzy of the festivities: I drank fruit nectars and no wine. Cei and several others imbibed freely and passed out during the garland dances. Lot and the laird of Greta Bridge held their wine far better and honored me with a parade of drone pipes. Oh yes, and Bedevere insisted I commemorate the occasion by establishing my royal colors. I chose red and white—for Christ's blood and the dove of peace, the Holy Spirit. Only later, after the tailors of Greta Bridge had fashioned my banner with a red eagle upon a white field, did Kyner observe I had selected the opposite colors of my father Uther's green and black. That seems just to me now as I kneel here before you, for I am not the dragonlord he was, born to the purple, reared to command men. Mother Mary, I remember well that until this summer I lived as Kyner's ward, trained to serve like a faithful dog, to defend and obey my master. That is how God prepared me for this task. As He has intended for me, I will defend and obey. Only now, instead of one master, I serve a nation of masters.
The Journey South
On the long ride south through the lake district and into the hills of Cymru, Kyner pointed out baskets of cord woven
with shells and seed husks that appeared in the fields and in the fruit-heavy orchards. "Ritual baskets, sire," he complained, riding up alongside King Arthor. "Mabon—the ceremonies of the fall equinox. The people provide food for the journey of the Sun King who has become the Lord of Shadows, sailing west and south toward winter."
"Burn the fields marked by the pagan baskets," Cei advised. "A hungry winter will cure these peasants of their devil worship."
"The old faith provides comfort at the coming of darkness," King Arthor reasoned. From his frightful journey into the hollow hills, he knew that the gods these people worshiped merited his respect. He also knew from his study of the Roman classics that malice had never defeated any religion. "Let us live our faith with devotion and celebration, and in time the people will see our Savior's merit."
Kyner and Cei said nothing more but shared a dubious and worried look.
In Viroconium, a flourishing market town of arched gateways and brownstone ramparts, the townspeople received King Arthor with harp and drum music, huge fires to warm the waning sun, and tree dances in the cobbled market squares. The king partook jubilantly in the Celtic festival yet insisted on conducting open-air Mass at which he required all the townsfolk to attend. Each meal he preceded with a prayer of thanks to the Lord. And on his tour of the countryside, he took pains to visit the outlying households that displayed Mabon baskets, preaching personally to the farmers the faith of the apostles.
"I'm pleased with you, son," Kyner said to Arthor the day that the Roman highway they followed entered Cymru. "You honor our Savior in word and deed. And you were wise to dismiss Merlin."
Arthor looked surprised and turned in his saddle. "I did not dismiss him. I believe he has chosen to stay behind in Camelot."
"The pigeons that have carried us news of the elephants' return to Camelot report nothing of the wizard," Bedevere observed.
"He is a demon," Cei spoke from where he rode behind his father. "When you became king, his infernal master recalled him to hell. We're better off without his unholy meddlings and magic"
Arthor felt alarm, having conveniently chosen to believe his wizard awaited him at the capital. "Dispatch birds to all our posts," he ordered at once. "Find out what has become of our wizard." He piaffed his horse to Cei's side. "Merlin was once a demon, Cei. But now he is a man and devoted to God. My first day as king, he told me that whoever would serve heaven must first conquer hell. Does that not speak of his true heart? I believe he is our Lord's faithful servant."
Cei remained silent for a moment, reluctant to openly contradict his king. Finally, he narrowed his stare and spoke up. "Then if you want to find him," he grumbled, "I suggest you begin your search in hell."
The Hinds of Hell
Merlin, still in Dagonet's body, led Dagonet, himself in Lord Monkey's body, out through the crooked doorway of the Nine Queens. They emerged not in Avalon but in the ruins of an abandoned Roman fort. Stubs of broken pillars outlined the colonnade of the commander's quarters, but nothing remained of the barracks and outbuildings save a few shallow depressions in the earth where post-holes had been. An autumn breeze swept dead leaves and a chill over the weed-choked earth. Overhead, in an ashen sky, the sun appeared dark and small as an apricot.
With a monkey shriek, Dagonet sprang behind Merlin. A pack of wild dogs advanced from across the grassy courtyard. Their rib-slatted flanks and glistening eyes bespoke perpetual hunger.
Merlin glanced about for sanctuary, but the ruins offered little cover. Only a cellar hole fringed with dodder some paces away promised the hope of salvation. The dwarf grabbed the monkey and sprinted for that vault as the pack charged after.
With a yelp of terror, Merlin forced all his strength into his small legs. His feet tangled in his long robes, and he fell face-forward to the ground of faded mosaic. The scratching of claws swarmed around him, and he expected hot fangs to bite into his flesh at any instant. Flapping his big hat in meek defense, the wizard rolled about. The famished pack had stopped only inches away, their carnal breaths laving him with a sickening humidity, their canine faces leering with withheld rage.
"Lailoken!" a caustic voice growled from the black dog nearest him. "I knew we would meet again!"
Dagonet chittered in terror before the talking beast.
"You are a demon!" Merlin knew.
"Don't you recognize me?"
"I am much diminished." Merlin gestured at his dwarfed body. "I do not wecognithe you."
"I, too, am much diminished, Lailoken," the black dog snarled. "After the pain I suffered on the battle plains of Londinium all those years ago, I have had to take refuge in serpents, bats, and hungry dogs. It has been a miserable time."
The voice stirred in Merlin deep, ancient memories of his aeonial existence as the demon Lailoken, when he had raged against all form, all creatures assembled from matter as a travesty, an abomination of the pure being they had known in the original world before the universe exploded into the cold and dark of the void. "Athael?"
"Yes, Lailoken." The cores of the black dog's eyes shone with feverish light. "l am your old cohort, Azael. And now that you recognize me—l can tear your throat open and free you from the gutsack that holds you. We will range free through the bestial world together, eventually gathering strength to join the others in the dark of space ... "
Before the demon could say more or move to fulfill its threat, Merlin seized a diamond from the Dragon's hoard and jammed it into the beast's mouth. A spiked flash of red energy blinded the dwarf and the monkey, and when they could see again, they found the black dog fallen to ashes on the mosaic. The rest of the pack scattered, yelping, tails tucked.
White Thorn
King Arthor felt tears burning at the sight of the timber-walled enclave of White Thorn. Cooking smoke coiled above the treetops. The gates stood open, draped with the last flowers of the season, and the clansfolk, among whom he had grown to maturity, surged forward cheering at the sight of him under the Christian banner of chi-rho and wearing the gold laurel of the high king.
The king allowed himself to be lifted from his steed and carried into the settlement of his anonymous childhood. When he had left these crude wooden buildings in the heart of Cymru, he had been a morose and reluctant servant. He had hated himself. And he had fearlessly pursued combat time and again for Chief Kyner intending to die on the battlefield and snatch some small honor for himself. Never could he have guessed then that he would return to White Thorn so exalted. Monarch of all Britain.
The sweet celebrations lasted days. Every household in the clan fêted him, and he apologized to each and every one, servants included, for his truculent behavior of the past. He amazed all. No longer was he the bear they had feared and that only Kyner could command. He had seemingly lost all rancor and moved with warmth and caring among those who remembered him.
On a brisk autumn morning, Cei found the king strolling alone in the forest outside the enclave. Bedevere, always within sight of his king, watched from under a great fir and moved away silently when he saw Cei arrive.
"You appear troubled, sire."
Arthor looked up from his reverie, and his frown hardened at the sight of his stepbrother. "We're alone, Cei. Call me Arthor."
Well, then, Arthor—is it the storm raiders on the coast that weigh down your shoulders?"
"They are a dark worry for me, Cei. But no. This morning, I'm saddened by memory." He motioned at a forest chamber still green yet spangled crimson and gold. "Do you remember what happened in this grove?"
"It was only three winters ago," Cei said with a hint of impatience, unhappy with the recollection. "We were hunting. A dire wolf surprised us. I fled—you stood and killed it. At the hall, you claimed I had slain the beast. I hated you for it."
Arthor nodded and turned to stare squarely into deep eyes under a blockbrow. "If I'd told the truth, the magnificent pelt would have been hung in the servants' barracks. My deed would have won prestige among menials. Well, I wanted more for my valor, ev
en if I couldn't have it outright. I wanted my trophy displayed where chiefs and nobles would see and praise it—and to cherish in my heart that the high-born honored me albeit unknowingly. So I lied. But not to torment you, Cei. To burnish my secret pride."
"Ah, now I see." The gray eyes widened with understanding. "I thought you had lied to give me honor before my father—you, a rapechild, deigning to give me, the chief's son, honor! Ha! Your scorn hurt. Even so, I quailed to admit the truth to Da and so accepted the honor with the secret shame. But now, now... Ha! What you say shows me how much alike we are."
"And always were—and always will be, Cei." He placed a square-knuckled hand over his breast. "I'm just as desperate a heart as anyone. I'm not noble. Not at heart. Only by name."
"Well, young brother," Cei said with a knowing smile, "some sad day, your heart and its desperation will die with you and go cold forever. But your name—" He placed his arm about his stepbrother's shoulders and walked with him into the grove where their misunderstanding had begun three winters and a lifetime ago "—your name will warm the world."
[]
Mother Mary, I tried to tell my brother of my fears today. I confided in him why I lied about the dire wolf. I wanted to tell him more—about my doubts that I am worthy to be king—about Morgeu and the shame of my lust—about my fear, my terrible fear that I will fail. But Cei does not want to hear of my weakness. He is proud I am king. His pride and his devotion to me are so strong I have officially appointed him my seneschal. He will serve as faithful steward of Britain, because his faith in our Savior is mighty. But I—I doubt I can confide in him my most true feelings. For him and for all the people of Britain, I must be king. Mother Mary, I pray you help me keep my doubts and fears to myself. Love is first, so you have taught me. Love guides strength. I must be strong for those who believe I will protect them. But with you I can be just who I really am—a boy becoming a man striving to be a king who knows he is a boy.
The Wolf and the Crown (The Perilous Order of Camelot Book 3) Page 9