In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy)

by Sarah Zettel

  The Saxons had found the horses, and had put three men to guard them. The guards were greedy though. Goods from the saddlebags were strewn on the ground. One of them also apparently had tried to ride or handle Gringolet, and now the charger was doing his best to bedevil them. He bucked and reared, flailing out with his hooves, while two of the men tried in vain to catch his swinging reins and a third shouted and cursed in their harsh tongue. He had his sword out and was staring into the trees, trying to see through to the melee near the croft, to see if the wrong person had broken free of it.

  In that chaos, Risa saw her chance. She unslung her bow and reached for an arrow. Moving slowly, she pushed herself up onto one knee. Her own soft noises were masked by Gringolet’s outrage, the Saxon’s cursing and the clash of metal and splintering of wood as she pulled an arrow from her quiver, and nocked it into her string.

  The Saxon with his sword drawn stood near the treeline. She shifted a little to get a clear line of sight.

  It is just like a deer. It is just like a quail. Breathe slowly.

  It is a deer. It is not a man. I am not about to kill a man.

  Risa drew the string back to her ear. She sighted along the shaft. Thetis, answering Gringolet’s distress, backed and swung her head, trying to free her reins from the branch where she was tethered. The palfrey whickered, the men shouted at one another. Gringolet reared again. In the woods, Gawain’s voice rang out.

  The Saxon turned broad toward her, and Risa loosed her arrow. It flew straight and true, without a sound, and plunged into the Saxon’s belly. He looked down, surprised to see this unnatural limb that had somehow sprouted from his body. Risa, breathing now as if she had run a mile, drew another arrow. The Saxon she had shot toppled to the ground, screaming as the pain took him. Risa nocked the fresh arrow. One of the remaining Saxons shouted to the other. Abandoning the harried and harrying Gringolet, he sprinted to his comrade’s side. Risa drew back her bowstring and waited. The Saxon’s sword was in his hand and he turned his back to the trees, just for an instant, to shout to the other to leave the maddened horse and come to see. Risa took her aim again, and again let go the string. She had meant the shot to take him between the shoulder blades, but as the arrow flew, he turned, and it was only luck that he was just a little too slow. The arrow drove itself through his arm and into his side. He dropped instantly, rolling and clawing at the wooden shaft. The third man saw his companion fall and stared at the woods. Gringolet reared again, pawing the air. The Saxon had wit enough to jump back. Risa fitted a third arrow to the string.

  She did not have a chance to fire. The man fled into the trees on the opposite side of the road, not even bothering to draw his sword. With the last Saxon gone, Gringolet calmed down, stamping and whickering but no longer so wide-eyed. His ears tipped forward again, alert, not laid back in fury. His calm eased Thetis and the palfrey and they quieted, easing their stamping and their calls.

  At their feet, the men Risa had shot screamed, their cries growing hoarse and choked with tears.

  Risa lowered her bow, letting the unshot arrow drop from the string. Her hands shook and despite the heat of the day, she felt cold. It was not until then that she realized the noise of the fight behind her had ceased.

  Risa flattened herself against the ground again. She could not see clearly into the depth of the wood, she could not take aim, even if she could steady her hands again. The screams of the wounded men confused her mind. She could only huddle in the mud and pray for steadiness and silence. It would be Gawain, it must be Gawain, because if it wasn’t Gawain, she was lost.

  The footsteps broke through the bracken and settled into the mud. Risa dared at last to lift her head. In front of her, Gawain stepped from the woods to the track, his sword in his hand. He looked down at her handiwork, and with two swift strokes, brought the silence Risa had craved but a moment before.

  Risa pressed her face against her sleeve, shuddering, until she could remember what Gawain had just done was merciful. Those men were already dead, now they were out of pain.

  When she could look up again, Gawain had turned, searching about him on all sides.

  Risa made herself pick up her bow and got herself to her feet. Gawain heard the noise clearly and swung around, sword coming up and ready.

  “It’s Risa,” she called out as she made her way forward. “Alone and free.”

  Risa pushed free of the last of the trees to stand on the uneven track. Thetis snorted in greeting and nuzzled her shoulder. Sweat, blood and dirt streaked Gawain’s face. More of the same decorated his hauberk and the blade of his sword. His damp hair hung in elflocks and ringlets around his shoulders.

  “God and Christ be thanked,” Gawain said fervently, and with his free hand, there beside the victims of her archery and his blade, Gawain seized her around the waist and kissed her. It was not the kiss of peace or courtesy. His mouth pressed warm and sensual against hers, seeking to part her lips, to open her to him. Risa felt hot, then cold. Her whole body seized up stiff as a board as his mouth moved, seeking … seeking what? The answer to that question flickered through her mind and her hands flew to his chest, and pushed against his hard, broad chest.

  Gawain loosened his hold. Risa pulled away, knowing herself to have gone pale as she looked at him, and saw how startled he was.

  “Lady, forgive your servant,” he said, returning to courtly formality in his shock. “He meant no …”

  But Risa could not stand there and listen. She turned on her heel and fled.

  She could not have gone more than a handful of yards before she brought herself up short and dropped onto a fallen tree because she did not think she could stand up any longer. Risa wrapped her arms around herself, trembling. Why had Gawain done that? Had she led him to believe somehow …? Was there something she had done that was too familiar, too wanton? Some look or turn of phrase? She tried to think, but could not. All she could think of was the crush of his lips against hers, and how it had been wet and warm, and how for a moment her breasts had pressed against his chest, and how for a heartbeat, she had wanted to remain there in his arms.

  That thought caused her to tremble even harder.

  It was not that Risa was ignorant of the ways of men and women. It was not that she had never before been kissed in a way that was other than chaste. But she also knew that while milk maids and cowherds might do as they pleased, when they pleased and with whom, she was an outland lord’s daughter, and lacking cows to keep herself, she must get married, and her maidenhead was part of her dowry. Without her father’s blessing, it was indeed all the dower she had, and she did not know whether her father would ever give such a blessing, nor if she would ever wish to return to his hall to receive it.

  And the king’s nephew, the heir to Camelot would not, could not marry the dowerless daughter of a minor liegeman. It was only a kiss, she tried to tell herself. It was nothing more. Just a kiss for celebration and thanks. If it was more, it was only so in your mind, fool girl.

  Just a kiss, for joy and celebration and all the rest that she only suspected, given and taken among the dead men. The men she had slain. Risa’s stomach churned suddenly and for a moment she feared she might be sick.

  “Lady Risa?”

  Risa jerked her head up to see Gawain standing there.

  “Lady, I truly am most sorry. I should not have presumed. It was a liberty and I ask that you forgive me.”

  “Of course,” she said, ashamed at how weak her voice sounded. “There is nothing to forgive. It was not … I didn’t …” Save that it was and I did, even with the dead lying at my feet. My dead.

  Gawain knelt beside her. “Death has been too much with you these past days, has he not?”

  Risa nodded, grateful to be spared the necessity of speech.

  “It is a hard thing to know that a man has died by your hands. It must be even harder when you never imagine you must do such a thing.”

  “My father has high and low justice in his lands,” she murmure
d, although she didn’t quite know why. “He once sentenced a man who had murdered his wife. They hanged him from the oak on the green. His face went blue. Everyone cheered. There was no blood then.” She wondered why she wasn’t crying. She felt too hollow for tears. “They left him there.”

  Gawain nodded in understanding. “When I was a boy and still at home, the Pictish men attacked us. We weren’t in the fortress at Din Eityn then, just one of the lesser halls. They’re a dark people, with eyes like flint. They meant to loot and burn us, saying we had stolen their lands. I stood on the earthworks and watched the men ride out to meet them. Even then, I heard the noise of the screams and the clash, and saw the circling crows and smelled death …” He shook his head. “I had to go off and be sick, and I hadn’t even struck a blow. Battle is never easy, and glory only comes when you’ve cleaned hands and sword and had time to understand that you are still alive.”

  He touched her shoulder. “We are still alive, Lady Risa, but we will not remain so if we do not hurry away.”

  Risa nodded again. His hand was warm on her shoulder, heavy and strong. It brought back memories of his kiss.

  God and Mary, why could she not stop shaking?

  “I will get the horses,” said Gawain. “Come as quickly as you are able.”

  He stood and left her there. She did not look back to see him go.

  Chapter Six

  The congress of ravens flew north and east until well after noontime. Kerra flew with them, wholly as one of their own, enjoying the freedom of the wind and the sky. When they caught sight of a deer’s ravaged corpse, she feasted as greedily as her companions and they gossiped together about the ways of the forest and the great changes wrought by spring’s blossoming.

  It was when she flew as a raven that she understood why her mother had kept to a wanderer’s life. There were times she also wished to stay forever in motion and forever free.

  But to do that would be a betrayal of the one who had saved her life, and her soul.

  Sated, Kerra flapped her wings, and imagined flying alone on one of her strange errands, casting off what her companions considered her true shape, and walking the world as a human again. They protested, as they frequently did, but she also imagined bringing them dainties such as the forest could never provide. They shrieked their approval, and she rose alone to catch the winds.

  Alone, it was easier to concentrate on her errand. No longer sporting, Kerra flew due north. There was not far to go. The hills rose steeply here, and fertile land grew scarce. The grey bones of the earth began to poke through its tattered green cloak.

  Nestled deep within the folds of that threadbare cloak waited a lonesome hall. Kerra could have flown directly into one of its windows and been welcome, but that lacked respect. Instead, she lighted down just inside its wicker fence and in her raven’s voice she spoke a certain word three times. Pain coursed through her as she grew long and human again, and her feathers once more became the feathered cape. If any witnessed the transformation, it did not matter. She had come home.

  Unlike Euberacon’s home, this place was what it seemed — a long and low house, its stone tightly mortared, its roof well thatched. If it needed to be otherwise, its mistress would make it so, but not until then. The truth is stronger than any lie, she said frequently to Kerra. Use it whenever you can.

  Those who lived and served here did so willingly and well. Boys and old men tended herds of fat sheep and pigs. Young men sat around their fires in the yard, yarning with each other, repairing clothing or cooking in iron pots. The swirls and crosses tattooed on their skins marked them as following the true and ancient ways. They watched Kerra walk between them, but she felt no menace from them. She also served their mistress, and none would any more raise a hand against her than they would against a beloved sister.

  Since the weather was fair, the hall doors stood open. White-haired Talan waited just inside, playing the porter, but not with the greatest diligence. Kerra found him digging his knife into a blue-veined cheese that smelled so strong she was surprised it didn’t set his eyes watering. Her shadow fell across him where he sat and he leapt at once to his feet.

  “Lady Kerra,” he said with a smile and a respectful bow. “She said you’d be coming today. She’s waiting in the hall for you.”

  “Thank you, Talan.” She had thought she might talk with the old man about how things were here, but if their mistress was already waiting, there was no time for other news.

  A second pair of stout doors, deeply carved with sigils for watchfulness and strength, led to the hall. It was no grand place, but its darkness was warm and if there was smoke, there was also an abundance of fires to welcome a traveler with the scents of boiling, brewing and baking. Strong-armed women, mates and matches for the men outside, moved between the fires. Their dark hair hung loose about their shoulders, with only one or two slender braids confining a few of their tresses. Their clothes were of the plainest stuffs, with simple embroidery. Nearly all of them had a nod and a warm smile for Kerra as she passed, but none tried to delay her with talk. They knew her time was precious.

  At the far end of the hall sat another group of women, engaged in the endless task of making cloth. The oldest women supervised the youngest children teasing burrs and chaff from the heaps of shorn wool. Others spun, or wove at the standing looms, drawing the shuttles back and forth between the weighted threads. Still others sewed the finished cloth with ivory needles.

  One woman sat in a great, carved chair. Her hair was black, streaked with white. Beneath its cloud her face was strong and still beautiful, for all it was lined with care. She wore her simple cloud-grey dress as well as any queen could wear her finery. Her black eyes, ever-alert, darted back and forth, first watching the women working around her, next attending to the drop spindle and the pale thread twisting through her own long fingers, as fine and strong as a spider’s spinning, then noting the activity of the great hall around her.

  Kerra approached silently, and dropped into a deep curtsey.

  “Daughter,” Morgaine smiled, and Kerra warmed to the approval of her voice. “Rise. Let me see you.”

  Kerra obeyed. Morgaine looked her up and down, not blinking, drinking in every detail. Kerra suddenly felt ashamed of the broad, burgundy cloth of her dress and the twisted silver of her trims and jewelry. Who was she to appear in this place dressed more finely than her mistress? These gauds were nothing. True nobility, true power came from within, and all her lusting after gold and scarlet cloth was sheerest vanity. She was certain Morgaine’s eyes discerned this folly clearly, and she wanted to apologize at once. Even her cloak of feathers seemed a covering for empty pride. Her power was nothing. She had not learned one tenth of what Morgaine could have taught her. Before this woman she was scarcely a child.

  But then Morgaine smiled at her, and the sun came out again. Kerra was a child, but she was a dutiful child. She served with her whole heart. Morgaine knew this and accepted her service, and that was all Kerra could ever ask.

  Morgaine wound her thread and passed her spindle to one of the waiting women. “Come, Kerra.” She rose. “Walk a little with me and tell me what you have seen.”

  There was no place to be alone in a hall such as this, but none would dare speak a word of anything they overheard from their mistress. Nonetheless, Morgaine led Kerra to the shadows, where they would be hidden from any who entered as well as from most of those who worked there, but none would be hidden from the mistress’s bright, sharp gaze.

  Morgaine listened attentively while Kerra told her all the news of Euberacon’s doings, of his going to claim Risa of the Morelands and of Gawain’s intervention. Gawain’s name made Morgaine frown with an old and bitter fury. Kerra cringed before that rage, although none of it was for her. Morgaine gestured impatiently for her to continue. Kerra did, but her tongue stammered and stuttered for a time before she could recover herself. She told Morgaine of the task Euberacon had set her to, and how she had seen only peaceful land between
his fortress and Morgaine’s hall, which told her that if Arthur suspected the Saxons were on the rise, he was not yet sure, for none of his men were massing or moving.

  She fell silent, waiting to see how Morgaine received her news. Morgaine watched her hall for a time, noting the ebb and flow of its people, their smallest motions, to whom they spoke and whom they passed by. No detail escaped her, even while she mulled over the full import of Kerra’s message. Morgaine the Unsleeping, the men outside called her, and Morgaine the Goddess. No one here called her Morgan the Fae, and no one ever would.

  Morgaine’s restless gaze caught on a small, slender boy, and her face lit up in a smile such as even Kerra seldom saw. The child stood a solemn and polite distance away, waiting to be acknowledged. His hands were clutched across his chest, concealing something.

  “Mordred,” said Morgaine, the name filled with a mother’s pride. “What is it you have there?”

  The boy ran forward and opened his hands, displaying his treasure. It was a tiny rabbit, so small a man’s fist could have closed around it.

  “The dogs found its warren,” he said quietly, his eyes wide with what he had seen. Kerra could imagine the small bodies tossed into the air, and the blood on the hounds’ muzzles.

  Morgaine crouched beside her son. “That is their duty,” she said quietly. She extended one finger and gently stroked the rabbit’s fur. The tiny creature trembled, but its fear had removed the ability to struggle.

  “I know.” Her son moved a little closer to her. “But he’s alone now, and he’s so little …”

  Morgaine nodded. “Go to the dairy and soak a rag in milk for him, and then you may make a nest for him in the stables to keep him warm. You will have to feed him often. Speak with Ahern. He will be able to tell you much of what you need to know.”