"Wh-What?"
"Is that why you wanted my picture?"
"No, honest," she protested. "Now come on, baby, it's nice now."
"Yes," he said, slowly closing his hands around her throat. "Very nice."
Ginger began to choke as he took her. Her eyes bulged; her tongue protruded. And all the while the back of her head beat a steady rhythm against the wall as Titus worked himself into ecstatic frenzy, feeling the beat of her heart in his hands, watching her panic and weaken and fight for her life.
"Oh, my, yes," he said as her leg dropped off his back and fell limply. Ginger sagged in his arms, held up only by his hands that caressed her neck as if it were a sexual organ.
Her eyes already possessed the glazed, incurious look of the dead.
Titus laid the body carefully over the kitchen table while he made himself presentable. She was actually going to show a picture of him to the police, he thought self-righteously. The cow. Of course, this was going to make things difficult with the girl, but it wasn't worth going after her. The Feds knew about him already. He would just have to get out of the country as soon as possible.
This entire enterprise had been a fiasco, but it was still not irredeemable. Titus would need nothing less than major plastic surgery to change his appearance enough for him to keep working, plus at least a year underground. For that, he would need both money and friends.
In other words, he would need whatever was at the bottom of Miller's Creek.
If Titus could leave Dawning Falls with the secret of the healing water, there would be no reprisals either from the Libyans for the aborted Wyoming mission or from the Coffeehouse Gang for the loss of his cover.
He flipped back the checked curtain over the window.
Outside, the sky was leaden and the wind was high.
Rain, he thought. It was an incredible stroke of good luck, more than he could have hoped for. Enough rain would keep away visitors to the creek. And no lights. Ginger had assured him of that.
"Thank you, darling," he said aloud as he lifted her corpse and carried it out to the car.
When he got back to his motel, Pinto was in bed snoring and there was a message from the lab in Manhattan. Its analysis concurred with the other lab's. The water sample he had sent contained a configuration of the H20 molecule in a form no one recognized. There was no trace of strychnine.
That night he dreamed of poison. And, oddly, of himself as a woman. In his dream he was lovely and lethal, a mistress of the dark herbs, a wise child who had poisoned a princess...
Chapter Thirty-Five
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY
Morgause was still a teenager when she poisoned the wife of old King Cheneus and married him, becoming queen of Dumnonia.
Cheneus was even then not in the best of health, and could no longer travel. This greatly dismayed Morgause, who had married the old man mainly to get out of Orkney. She had anticipated a life of gaiety in the court formed around King Arthur's famous Round Table, with knights from every chiefdom in the Kingdom, but things were not turning out the way she had planned. Each day Morgause's eyes shifted toward her grizzled husband, while her thoughts ran toward species of lethal herbs.
Fortunately, the ever ambitious Lot of Rheged invaded Dumnonia, killing all of Cheneus's sons and, once Cheneus himself was mysteriously poisoned, taking Morgause as his own wife.
This turn of events was not looked upon kindly by the other nine chieftains, who had all made efforts to comply with the High King's plans for a united Britain. Since Arthur's assumption of the throne, the petty skirmishes between the chiefdoms had ceased. Valuable men and arms were no longer wasted in pointless civil wars. All of Britain's power was now focused on repelling the invading Saxons, and the tide was turning. In Camelot, each day was a celebration of peace, prosperity, and unity.
Lot had placed all of these advancements in jeopardy, but Arthur had to think diplomatically. It would not do to wage war on Lot; that would make the other chieftains nervous about the High King's power.
Arthur decided to punish Lot by putting into effect the plan he had once conceived for Orkney: He divided the conquered and leaderless Dumnonia nine ways, giving all the kingdoms a share as great as Lot's. This way, if Lot objected, every other clan in Britain would rally against him.
It was a brilliant plan. The chiefdoms remained solidly allied, Lot was penalized for his aggression without bringing about an armed confrontation, and Morgause, because of her new husband's resentment of King Arthur, remained far away from court.
Again she languished in the remote reaches of a provincial fortress. In order not to lose touch completely with the world outside of Rheged, Morgause sent a woman she knew—a wisewoman's daughter, like herself, from Orkney, whom she had trained in the ways of the civilized gentry— as her representative in the court at Camelot.
It was small comfort to her. At twenty-six, having given birth to four children, Morgause felt like little more than a brood mare. She might as well have been a hundred, for all the fun to be had in Rheged. It had been fifteen years since she had last seen Guenevere or Arthur.
And it was useless to try to reason with Lot. He absolutely refused to show obeisance to the High King, who Lot felt had robbed him of lands won in fair battle. Indeed, if the Orkneyan woman she had sent to court in her place had not come to her with great and strange news, Morgause might well have dispatched Lot in much the same manner that she had gotten rid of so many other inconvenient people, and made her own way to Camelot.
But the lady from Orkney did come, and with the most delicious tidbit of information. The queen was with child!
That wasn't what was delicious about it, of course. In fifteen years of marriage, everyone expected Guenevere to have birthed a castle full of children to perpetuate Arthur's dynasty. What made this particular piece of gossip so tantalizing was that the queen had not told the King about it. And not only had she not told him, but it was also clear that she was afraid to tell him.
"Afraid?" Morgause savored the idea, her lovely red lips stretching until she looked like a satisfied cat.
"Yes, ma'am," her creature answered. "I was in the bedchamber myself when the queen's old nurse—she's dotty with age, and never bides her tongue—when she says, 'I declare, you've got a belly, Guenevere!'" The woman giggled. "Just like that. And the queen got all red, and acted like she never heard her, but the nurse kept on. 'Have you told the King your husband, girl?' she says so loud you could have heard it beyond the Pale, and all of us are trying to keep from laughing, because naturally we all noticed it, though no one would say nuffink—"
"Nothing," Morgause corrected.
"Yes, ma'am, nothing, sorry. But it's the talk of the court, all the same. It seems everybody knows except the King. So now we're all saying why isn't she telling him? Well, I say there's only one reason a woman wouldn't tell her husband she's big with his child, and that's if... well, you know, don't you, ma'am."
"If it isn't his child," Morgause finished.
The woman smiled slyly. "That's what the word is, Lady. The King's been dreadful busy, always gone someplace or other, or training with the knights what love him something fierce—”
"Who love him," Morgause said absently, drumming her fingers on the table.
"Yes, ma'am. The knights who love him." She laughed aloud. "They love him a damn sight more than the queen, I'll wager!"
Morgause laughed with her. "But then," she said, growing thoughtful, "who would be the one?"
"The one what's putting a smile on the queen's face, you mean? But then, there's just the one. The Christian."
"Launcelot," Morgause said, recalling the handsome face of the young Gaul.
"That's him. The two of them's always praying and such, and making a point of never being in the same room with each other. Why, they might as well be wearing dunce caps on their heads, they're that noticeable."
"Except to the High King."
"Well, not for long. She's starting to stand with
her legs apart."
"Does she show to anyone except her nurse?"
"If you look at her the right way and in the light," the woman said.
Morgause thought for a moment. "Less than three months, though?"
"Right about there, I'd say."
Morgause got up and took a book from a wooden chest. Written in her own hand, with painstakingly exact illustrations, it was her herbary, and her most precious possession. She turned the pages carefully, frowning as she read. The Orkneyan woman sat quietly in the presence of such magic.
Finally Morgause spoke. "I'm going to pay the queen a visit," she said.
"Oh, King Lot may not like that much," the woman ventured cautiously.
"Really?" Morgause smiled as she closed the herbary. "I think he'll be delighted."
She arrived at court bearing gifts of great ingenuity—a bird that flew at the end of a golden string, a blanket of wolf noses for the King's bed, and twenty wooden benches made from the finest cedar in Orkney, lest anyone forget that, before her marriages, she had ruled her brother Melwas' kingdom in all but name.
Within a week of her arrival, Morgause's charismatic personality had convinced most of the court that she had also been the power behind Cheneus's throne, and that Lot owed her a great deal more than the keys to his castle, as well. There was a ball in her honor, a meeting with the King which resulted in the establishment of the Royal Shipyard in Rheged and, finally, a private audience with the queen.
Guenevere seemed very distracted, hardly seeming to notice the beautiful young woman paying her court.
"Do you not remember me, Highness?" Morgause asked sweetly. "I am the girl-child who accompanied you on your ill-fated journey to Orkney."
Guenevere moved her gaze toward Morgause. "Melwas' sister," she said softly. "Of course. You were the only one who showed me kindness during that ordeal."
"I thank you for not holding the actions of my brother against me," Morgause said. "A word from you, and the High King could destroy all of Orkney."
Guenevere smiled without mirth. "I think not," she said before adding quickly, "The King's purpose is to unite Britain's chiefdoms, not to destroy them."
She's saying Arthur doesn't care about her, Morgause thought. She felt an impulse to hurt the queen, with her irritating pouting and resentment. What did she expect from the High King of Britain? A shoulder to cry on? Didn't she have a nurse for that?
Morgause touched her hand. "I saw how greatly you suffered. Lady."
At that the queen's eyes grew shiny with unshed tears.
Self-pitying idiot, Morgause thought. "I've brought you a gift," she said, handing Guenevere a bundle wrapped in fine white wool from the western hills of Orkney. Inside was a tapestry, a weaving so detailed and splendid that it almost seemed made of magic. It had, in fact, been woven by the Orkney witches, who excelled at this craft.
"Your name was invoked with each knot," Morgause said, for once speaking the truth. The tapestry, meant for Guenevere alone, was worked through every stitch with magic. "I myself produced the central figure."
Slowly Guenevere unfolded the large piece. It showed a knight in silver armor, kneeling beside a woman who lay asleep on a bed of flowers.
'The Sleeping Beauty," she said, remembering an old story her nurse had told her as a child. The tapestry was truly a work of such magnificence that Guenevere could not immediately find words to express her appreciation. She ran her hand over the stiff fabric. "It's wonderful," she said. "I almost..."
Her hand stopped near the knight's face. Launcelot's face. The likeness was uncanny. And the face on the sleeping princess was her own. Guenevere's expression was so stunned, it was almost comical.
"We tried to tell the story of your rescue from my brother's wickedness, Highness."
"But the King ... It was the King who rescued me," Guenevere said, flustered.
She lies so pitifully, Morgause thought. "Please forgive me, my lady. I remembered, perhaps wrongly, that you were awakened from your slumber by the great Gaulish knight who is your champion, Lady."
"Launcelot," the queen said, so tenderly that the name came out as a sigh.
"Yes, Madam," Morgause said. "It may amuse you to know that there are those among my people who believe he brought you back from the dead."
The queen blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, I've grown to understand that you were probably only suffering from heatstroke during that long and dreadful ride, Highness, but to the country folk of Orkney, you seemed to have been struck down by some evil spell." She laughed lightly.
"That's not so outlandish as it sounds," Guenevere said, coming to grips with her emotions. "I too thought that for a time. For quite a long time, actually."
You still think it, you weak-minded little fool, Morgause thought, because it was true. You just won't believe it. "Well, then you may be able to understand the depth of their worry. Orkneyans may be simple folk, but they worship you, Highness. The thought that you may have died because of the hardships of that journey... That was something that could not have been borne by any of us. And so when Sir Launcelot woke you, it was as if he had brought you back to life."
Guenevere breathed in sharply. "Back to life..."
"And then, when we heard a rumor that he had brought someone else back to life from the dead..."
"The knight at the tournament. Yes, that was true."
"Oh, my," Morgause said slowly. "It would be easy to fall in love with such a man."
Guenevere's eyes snapped warily, but Morgause was only gazing at the tapestry. "He has very distinctive features, don't you think, my lady?"
She felt the queen trembling beside her.
"A child by such a man could not be mistaken for another's, no matter what the circumstances."
Their eyes met. Guenevere's face was dead-white with fear. "What can I do?" she whispered.
From a pocket sewn into the shift she wore beneath her gown, Morgause produced a vial of dark liquid. "Blue cohosh," she murmured.
"Will this kill me?" Guenevere asked.
"Not you, Highness."
The queen knew her meaning. She closed her eyes in anguish.
"Your life is protected by the magic in the knots of the tapestry," Morgause said. Then she rose to leave.
Guenevere did not move.
The queen's physicians were called three days later. They informed Arthur that his wife had miscarried a son, but that she would live.
Two weeks later, when she was well enough to walk, Guenevere took the tapestry into the cook's building and threw it into the fire.
She never conceived another child, thus ending the dynasty of Britain's greatest King.
Chapter Thirty-Six
THE WHEAT KING
There was darkness in the Summer Country.
"Are you hiding?" the Innocent's voice spoke into the void.
Taliesin started. "I beg your pardon," he said dispiritedly. "I thought I was alone."
"Would you like to be?"
"No, no, Madam. You're quite welcome, as ever." With an effort, Taliesin popped into view amidst a bank of fluffy white clouds. "There," he said. "I've made myself visible."
"Not on my account, I hope," the Innocent said dryly. "I'm blind, remember?"
He looked about, distracted. "Oh, quite. That is..."
"My, my, little bard. You are upset."
He turned away. "Well, why wouldn't I be? Things are ruddy awful."
"Yes," she agreed with a sigh. "That they are." There was a long silence in which Taliesin waited for his teacher to offer some helpful advice. She did not.
"Well, it's damned disconcerting, not being able to at least see the expression on your face."
"Very well." The old woman's head materialized on Taliesin's lap. "Is my expression satisfactory?" she asked, grinning.
With a shriek he leaped up, the disembodied head springing off his garment like a ball on a trampoline and sailing off into the clouds. "How could you!" Taliesin
seethed.
Her laughter echoed riotously around him.
"That wasn't funny."
"I thought it was," she said, giggling. "Now hold out your arms. Here I come."
A baby appeared, apparently affixed to the old man's chest. He grabbed it awkwardly. "Oh, for Mithras's sake," he grumbled. "Can't you just be a... a person?"
"I am a person," the Innocent said. "I'm a nine-month-old infant of the Waura tribe. Normally I dwell in the southeastern region of the Brazilian rain forest."
He looked down at the baby with disdain, although he could not help but notice that she was rather appealing, with her black hair sticking straight out from her scalp like porcupine quills and her bright little eyes which examined his face intently.
"You can see!" he said.
"The better to help you discern my facial expressions," the baby said sardonically, her words sounding slightly distorted since her mouth contained only four small teeth. "That was what you wanted, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Er... Is it very different for you—having sight, I mean?"
"Oh, no," she answered. "It's a wonderful treat, actually." She gurgled as she waved her chubby hands in front of her face. "If I were ever to be human again, this is who I would want to be."
"Then why do you—forgive me, Innocent—why do you choose to remain blind, even in the Summer Country?"
She stared ahead blankly for a moment before answering. "It is an atonement," she said quietly.
"What? You? But what could you possibly have done that would require your sight as penance?"
"It isn't penance," she said simply. "Just a choice." The baby patted the old man's face. "You really ought to do something about the hairs in your nose," she lisped. "Some are so long, you could weave them into sweaters."
"Thank you," Taliesin said blandly.
"Now, what were we talking about?" The Innocent settled herself comfortably in the old man's lap. "Oh, yes. Your failure with the Second Magic."
"It wasn't a failure!” the old man snapped. "I brought them all back. I gave the King back his life. I..."
Inexplicably, his eyes filled with tears, and he found it impossible to go on speaking.
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