by K. C. Herbel
“Tell us–”
“what did you see–”
“in Orgulous?”
Billy closed his eyes, gathered his will, and concentrated. Forthwith, there came an image of his mother’s grave in the Queen’s Garden of Orgulous. As in the dream, he could see the thorn bush surrounding it, and—mentally—he pushed it away. At last, he opened his eyes. “My mother showed me her grave.”
The Witan again huddled together and mumbled.
“What is it?” Billy asked. “What does it mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
“Yes–”
“what do you think it means?”
“I think it means ... I must go to Lyonesse.”
“Then so you must.”
“I don’t know what trouble she’s in, but I’ve got to save Myrredith.”
“And Tirn Aill.”
Saving Lady Myrredith had been the only thing on Billy’s mind. “Oh yes ...” He felt somewhat ashamed at his selfish concerns. “I must save Tirn Aill first.”
“Perhaps–”
“perhaps not.”
“How can I know what’s right? If I stay here, I could save Tirn Aill.”
“Perhaps–”
“perhaps not–”
“or, perhaps, you will find what you are looking for in Lyonesse–”
“or along the way–”
“or perhaps not.”
“But if I stay ... Lady Myrredith will die.”
“Perhaps–”
“perhaps not.”
“You must choose.”
“But if I choose wrong …”
“There is no wrong way to choose.”
“Only follow your heart.”
“Perhaps, your mother has shown you the way.”
Gwylid’s words struck Billy, as if he had lifted the hood on a lantern and the dark unknown before him was illuminated. His mother had shown him the way.
“She has, Gwylid. She has. It’s quite clear to me now.”
“Good–”
“then you’ve decided.”
“Wonderful!”
At that moment, Billy remembered the great black book, but it was nowhere in sight. It had been before him on the table, but no more. He eyed its shadowy cubbyhole. Empty.
Gwylith noticed Billy’s searching eyes. “What is it?”
“What? Oh, nothing,”
“Have you lost something?”
“No, n-nothing,” Billy said.
“Then what is wrong?”
“Nothing.” Billy rose from the table. “I must leave now.”
“Well, if you must–”
“Yes, if you must–”
“Goodbye.”
“We’ll see you–”
“when you return–”
“as king.”
Billy nodded, his eyes still scanning the room for the mysterious black book. By the time he reached the door, he’d convinced himself that he had slipped it into another hole and was just too tired to remember where.
He put his hand on the door. “You’ve been most helpful. Thank you.”
The Witan bowed as he opened the door. “‘Til we meet again.”
Billy stepped through the narrow door and into the brisk outdoors. All around him, piles of brown and yellow leaves slept beneath a layer of frost. His elfish bodyguard waited directly in front of the door, on the roots of the great tree. To his right were pixies, dwarves, satyrs, sprites, and gnomes, and on his left, the dark elves, spriggans, and a wide variety of goblin kind. Both sides stared across at each other, their teeth and weapons bared.
Billy exhaled, and his breath steamed on the crisp air. On cue, those on the left shouted at him, accusing him of bringing a curse upon them. They stomped their feet and beat their shields. The clamor heightened, and so did tempers. A spear flew from the crowded goblins, and Onian knocked it from the air. Billy’s elves drew back their bows, and the dwarves raised their weapons.
“Stop! Stop!” Billy shouted over the din. “Stop!”
Elzgig appeared next to Billy in a crash of thunder. The little wizard waved his staff about, and suddenly all was quiet. Both sides backed away and lowered their weapons.
“Now, I think His Highness has something to tell us.”
“Thank you, Elzgig.” Billy looked at the sullen crowd. “My friends ... fellow citizens of Tirn Aill, I believe I have discovered a way to save our beloved land.” All eyes focused on Billy. “It seems that in order for me to save Tirn Aill, I must leave it.”
A grumble rose from those on the right, and a cheer from those on the left. Billy held up his hands for quiet, and then continued.
“There is something I must retrieve from the world of men. Tomorrow, I leave for Lyonesse.”
CHAPTER TEN
Captive
The Lady of Cyndyn sat in what was once her garden, staring at the roses that now belonged to someone else. The blooms used to bring her pleasure, but today, their transitory beauty only reminded her of how fragile life can be—their sweet scent a naïve lie.
In distant memories, she had been truly happy surrounded by this fragrant garden. The last time was with Billy, and before that, it was Hugh, but now she had lost all hope of ever seeing Billy outside her dreams, and Hugh was dead.
Across the table sat Prince Hereweald of Gwythia, Hugh’s killer. He too was staring, but not at the flowers. All his attention lay on his stubborn but beautiful prisoner.
*
Lady Myrredith had not made a move or said a word beyond those required by etiquette. Hereweald, on the other hand, had gone out of his way to make her more comfortable. He allowed her to read books, listen to musicians, and sit in her garden. He even invited her to sup with him. All this, and still she showed him only contempt.
She hates me with every fiber of her being. With each breath she takes.
Her unbending hatred annoyed the prince, but what gnawed at him night and day was the growing sense that she was right to hate him. This icy silence of hers is something akin to a scream. In fact, I think I would prefer it if she would scream, or cry, or something—anything but this blasted silence!
Hereweald’s entire body shook. He became aware of his taut muscles and relaxed back into his chair. Ha! You’re being drawn in by the very tricks Father warned you about. Women, and particularly courtiers, are adept at provoking men to weakness.
“You will not provoke me,” Hereweald blurted out.
Lady Myrredith looked up. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness.”
“I said …” Their eyes met, his anger petered away, and with it, his resolve. Was she playing him for a fool? The prince was unable to tell. He began again in a more cordial voice. “I said: you will, please, excuse me, Lady Myrredith. Many tasks await.”
Hereweald felt quite awkward, and stood as if to leave, but instead of walking away, he waited for some kind of acknowledgment from her. Something that would release him—dismiss him. While he stood there, he felt more the fool than the prince. At last, she nodded to him.
Hereweald turned and took three steps before turning back to face her. “Lady Myrredith, is there something I can arrange that will make you more comfortable?”
Myrredith looked hard at the prince, and for a moment he thought he could read her thoughts. “Aside from dropping dead,” he added with a smile. “Is there anything?”
Still, she said nothing.
“Lady Myrredith.” The prince took a step closer to her. “I know that we are at odds with one another, but I don’t see why you should be made uncomfortable.”
He studied her and could see in her angry eyes that she wanted desperately to say something. Then, she closed her eyes and turned away.
“I … I would like it very much if you could allow me my maids.”
“Yes, of course.” Hereweald nodded.
“And my gardeners.”
Hereweald scanned her visage, looking for signs of deception.
“It’s just that this g
arden is in desperate need of attention.” Lady Myrredith motioned to the flowers.
Hereweald examined the roses, the shrubs, and trees. His eyes fell upon Myrredith once more, and he recognized in her something that reminded him of his mother. She, like this lady, had been quite fond of gardens, but he had always been too busy learning the art of war to worry about such things. Someday … someday I will have time for this.
“Very well. Your gardeners can tend to your garden for one hour each day.”
“While we are on the subject, I would like my own cooks and kitchen staff returned to their duties.”
“What?” Hereweald’s patience crumbled. “What’s wrong with my cook?”
“Well, nothing, if you’re feeding an army, but …”
“He is a cook from the royal kitchen!”
“Then, I guess Gwythian food is not to my liking.”
Hereweald’s temper snapped, and all the anger and frustration he had been feeling for days came pouring out. “Not to your likin’? Not to your likin’? I doubt that there is anything much to your likin’. I have bent over backwards tryin’ to be gracious and hospitable, but you will have none of it without complaint! When we part your head from your body, you will probably complain that the axe was too cold!”
Myrredith gasped and turned away from her captor. Prince Hereweald had tastefully avoided conversation concerning her execution since his proclamation, but in his anger, forgot his efforts to be less callous.
Hereweald’s fury carried him from the garden but fizzled in the shade of the first corridor. His forward momentum stopped, and he felt himself drawn backward toward the door. He turned and smashed his fist against the wall. “Damn!” he hissed.
“What is it, my prince?” Snegaddrick appeared around the corner of the hall.
“That woman is so damned frustratin’.”
Lord Snegaddrick nodded sympathetically.
The prince continued to rant, his face reddened by his fury. “I have done nothin’ but show her all manner of courtesies, and still she treats me like-like-like a messenger boy!”
“You shouldn’t waste your time on that one, my prince. Although, I must admit, you have good reason to hate her, it isn’t good to dwell on it. Besides, she will be dead soon enough.”
“I don’t hate her.”
“Then what is it? Loathing?”
“No, I …” Prince Hereweald stared in the direction of the garden. “I guess if I had to put a word to it, I’d say that I admire her.”
“What? Must I remind you of what she has done?”
“What you say she has done.”
“You doubt my word, Your Highness? May the gods strike me down with lightning …”
“No, no, no.” Hereweald held up his hand. “No oaths of gods or lightning bolts, my heretical friend. I know you believe her guilty, but I am not convinced.”
“But you heard …”
“I am not convinced.”
“You must believe me …”
“Must I?” Hereweald fixed the little man with a cold glare.
Snegaddrick stiffened and blanched at the prince’s tone. It was a tone that his father, the king, often used to debone uncooperative lords—a tone heavy with irony and sharp as the executioner’s axe.
Hereweald continued, “Must I remind you, that I am the prince and you the advisor?”
“No, Highness.” Snegaddrick kept his head bowed. “But I am concerned. Will you still go forward with her execution?”
“For the time being, Snegaddrick. For the time being.”
Lord Snegaddrick frowned. Hereweald caught his expression and smiled. “May the gods strike you down with lightning? You old fraud!”
“Well …” Snegaddrick smiled a little. “… It sounded good at the time.”
“When you go before the gods, you’ll wish you hadn’t been such a blasphemous nonbeliever.”
“When that day comes—and I hope to see many days before then—and I’m face to face with … Him, on that day, I’ll be a believer.”
“A bit late then, don’t you think?”
“What? You don’t think there’s any room for negotiations?”
Hereweald laughed. “If anyone could finagle his way in, it would be you, Lord Snegaddrick. You’re just lucky that Father doesn’t believe in burning heretics, or you’d already be pleading your case.”
“Yes, Highness. But, Your Highness, I have not come to debate religion. Our scouts have spotted an army advancing in this direction from Nyraval.”
“Nyraval?”
“It is confirmed, my prince.”
“How large?”
“It’s hard to say, Highness.”
“How large?”
“At last count, Your Highness, there were some two thousand men, but it will have grown since then.”
“How far?”
“By now, they will be three to four days’ march.”
“Assemble my staff. Order a general alert.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“And I wish to speak to the scout who spotted them.”
“Yes, Highness. I shall send for him at once.”
“We will crush this new army to send a message to Nyraval! Soon, they will know that we are here to stay.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Stitch in Time
The rhythmic crunch of soldiers’ boots grew louder. The sound echoed deep into the darkness, and became songlike, as it penetrated Hugh’s consciousness. It spoke to him, beckoned him. The darkness surrounding him was cold, but undemanding.
I’ll stay here.
The darkness silently agreed, snuggling like a chilled lover, becoming more comfortable. And yet Hugh felt alone.
He pulled the darkness in around him but, again, the song of marching feet thrust its way into his awareness. It was, in fact, the only thing outside the infinite, accommodating darkness. The only stimulus. The only thing with an edge in the void.
“Go away.” Hugh tried to turn from it.
But the song followed. Everything he tried made the song’s edge sharper, more defined. Nuances and variations sprung from the simple monotonous rhythm. Hugh attempted to ignore it, but the harder he tried, the more it called to him.
Frustrated, unable to evade his tormentor, he reached out to push it away and touched its jagged edge. It bit into him—a barbed hook. Then ten hooks, twenty hooks, a hundred hooks, all dragging him upwards. The darkness resisted. He could feel its yearning, seductive arms slipping away. A pale light pierced the darkness above him, like a single star. It brightened as he approached. All at once, he was ripped from the darkness. Hugh was awake.
Pain flooded Hugh’s brain like a rain-gorged gutter. He clenched his eyes against the searing light and inventoried his body. His entire being ached; however, the pain in his abdomen dominated. It felt like wounds he had received before, except much deeper.
Hugh cracked open his eyes to have a look at the belly wound. He found a dirty old blanket covering him and pushed it away with a grunt. A gentle hand pushed the cover back over him, and another touched his lips. He looked out the corner of his eye. Someone crouched beside him.
“Shhh,” his nurse whispered. “The Gwythies will hear ya.”
The rhythmical sound of hobnail boots crunching over cobblestones filled the tiny chamber. Hugh looked toward the source of the thunderous marching. Across from him, no more than two feet, sunlight flowed in through a canvas scrap, which covered a man-sized hole in the wall. The light flickered as the shadows of soldiers crossed the thin canvas screen.
A distinct odor impacted Hugh’s nose and he turned to examine his companion. He could discern little about his apparent savior, except the slight build of a young boy or girl. He or she was wrapped from head to heel in rags, only revealing a single sharp eye and calloused feet. Despite the wrapping, Hugh could see that the wretched creature’s hands were horribly crooked and nearly useless. A dainty silver ring, with a delicate purple stone, protruded through the wrapp
ings upon the smallest digit. In the opposite hand, Hugh glimpsed a small, slender blade. As for the rest of the body, it was difficult to tell if it was misshapen or merely contorted beneath the low ceiling. It took a copper trinket from within its wrappings, kissed it, and put it back. Its eye, the only feature asserting its human nature, never strayed from the canvas.
Together, Hugh and the stranger waited for the army of Gwythia to march by. Time seemed to stop as the enemy legions passed.
Hugh felt dizzy as the thundering boots pounded at his head. The very noise, which tore him from Death’s embrace, now resounded in his skull with the Reaper’s terrible rage. Every Gwythie soldier on Lyonesse soil was a gnashing tooth in Death’s maw. Gwythian banners rippled and snapped with the flexing of his timeless, adamantine muscles. In each footfall, his ancient voice croaked the names of the countless dead to come; a rollcall of the damned. And Hugh heard each name. He wanted to scream; he could not. He wanted to run; he could not. He wanted to die; he could not.
At last, the maddening sound faded into the distance. Hugh’s host slipped the knife away and shambled over to the canvas screen. The unfortunate was, as Hugh had suspected, a cripple.
“You’re a beggar?” he asked with a hoarse voice.
The pitiful creature peeked through the side of the canvas flap. It lowered its head to examine itself.
“Yes,” it hissed.
“Please, forgive me. I did not mean to … I am no better than you, my friend. In fact, I am in your debt.”
“No. Save your wind.”
“But I am. And now that I have hurt you, I am doubly so.”
“Hurt me? Ya can’t hurt me.”
“I did not mean to draw attention to your situation. You cannot help the circumstances you were born to.”
The stranger turned around. The keen eye fixed itself on Hugh’s eyes, and for a moment, the former champion found his own pain insignificant.
“I wasn’t always like this.” The beggar held out its claw-like hands.
“You are a boy?”
The beggar gave an ironic chortle and asked, “Is it that hard to tell? Yes.”
“Again, I am sorry,” Hugh said.