by Sarah Zettel
She walked down the chapel steps to stand between the soldiers. She saw people, men, women, soldiers, workmen, saw their mouths moving, but could hear nothing. They should have knelt. She was the queen. Their queen. For all of two days. But no one moved to bend their knee, or to doff their hood. They stared. She had not stopped walking, flanked by these two soldiers like two of the great shaggy hounds so beloved by these people.
In the midst of the whole staring crowd, one face was clear. Back in the shadows, beneath the wall, watching intently, black eyes glittering, Laurel saw Byrd.
Black gaze. Round black eyes, bright and shining, red-rimmed with age and weariness, but bright and steady. They watched her without blinking, tracking her slow, numb progress.
Throw her out … Where am I going? Din Eityn’s first gate opened before her. The men surrounding it stared. Men on ladders ceased their hammering and stared down; confused and dirt-smeared angels watching over her as she passed through this earthly gate into the second circle. This place was packed with sweating, shouting men toiling at the earthen berms, labouring at the strange engines Agravain had caused to be made. She walked patiently between her escorts, waiting for this last gate to be opened. It was a little portal to the side of the great one. It opened, and Laurel walked through into the surprisingly green and sunny hell beyond.
She heard the solid sound of wood slamming against stone, and the sliding of the bar into place. The wind brushed her cheek, a mother’s sympathetic touch. There were more people before her. They popped up among the rocks and on the sloping hillsides to see who had come down to join them. She could have lifted her head to speak to any of them, requested anything as they stared, their tools loose in their hands, their eyes too large in their heads.
But she could not speak. She had been struck dumb and cast out. The path that had been opened for her descended further, and her feet followed it without interference. She stumbled here and there, but she did not fall. There were voices, there was movement. She could not understand any of it. It was as if there were only three words left in the world.
Throw her out.
He had done so, and it was a very long way down.
Agravain stood on the chapel’s steps and watched Laurel, under guard, walk away. She did not turn around. She would not. She would not turn and look at him with a plea in her eyes. She would not turn to argue, or beg.
She would not turn.
All the while he heard the voice of his father’s corpse, the harsh, flat whisper of cold and fear that was like no living voice. The pain was there. The pain beyond description that he had heard before, in Merlin’s shadowed hut as the grisly oracles had spoken to him.
Laurel walked through the first gate. She stood for a moment in the shadows, swaying, before she found her stride again, and walked beneath the walls. The men on duty swung the great gates shut behind her. The sound of them reverberated through the yard.
Silently the workmen began to move again, picking up their bundles, or continuing their tasks. Slowly, in a strangely muted way, hammers once again began to strike wood and metal. The oxen snorted and strained as their drivers touched them up.
Mordred’s army, Morgaine’s army, was a day away at best. A day away, and they were far from ready. That was the only thing that could be important right now. The red tide that clouded his vision must be made to recede.
Laurel had betrayed him. She had committed blasphemy. She was gone. That must be an end to it.
He must leave these steps, walk out into the yard. He take up his duties once again. Now. He must go now.
A movement, nearer and smaller than all the others, caught at the corner of his eye, dragging his vision around. There at his right hand stood little Byrd.
He had been in the shadow of Tania’s wall when she had come to him, conferring with Devi as the winch on the great trebuchet was wound. They needed time to aim the machines. Men were already down in the valley, setting up the first of the target flags, but would they be ready in time? Their runners reported the enemy was making good time through the low hills, driving themselves hard. But the Pictish men could run for days and be as fresh as when they’d begun …
‘Majesty!’ Byrd cried, breathless from her shambling run, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Majesty! You must come at once. The queen … in the chapel … the queen …’
Thinking some ill had befallen Laurel, he had gone at a run, to throw open the door, and see her necromancy.
Byrd, the bearer of this foul news, stood before him once again. He had not seen her approach, and he should have. But he could not see anything. The sight of Laurel walking away blocked out too much of the world around him.
Byrd’s hands fidgeted with her filthy apron. ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty.’
Agravain stared at her, mute. His own hand itched. He wanted to raise it, to strike her, to beat her bloody for bringing him word as she had. For showing him that Laurel was not as he had believed her to be; as he had trusted her to be.
What the ancient dame saw in his face, Agravain did not know, but she had wit to make her obeisance and flee down the steps into the sea of activity that filled the yard.
I must move. I must get back to work.
Carefully, methodically, he shut the sight of Laurel’s stricken face as she pushed herself away from the wall away, along with every word of love he had ever spoken to her. It was over and done, as dead as if it had dropped from the cliffs. He had been a fool and he had paid for it.
Oh, he had paid the bitterest price of all.
Agravain strode down the steps. He needed to speak with Devi, and with Cador. They had to begin the aiming while there was light to see by …
A grey-headed figure strode through the yard’s hive of activity.
Pedair. Agravain cursed inwardly as he turned towards the old chieftain. Pedair’s face was contorted by anger and confusion, and the effort it took to smooth them away as he planted himself foursquare in front of Agravain. ‘What have you done?’
I grabbed my wife by her arms, just like Gawain did. She flew so lightly away. She drew herself up so proudly as I confronted her with her crimes.
‘I ask you again, Majesty, what have you done!’
‘Less than I should,’ Agravain answered, noting that Pedair did not kneel.
Pedair strangled on his own words, forcing them out with difficulty. ‘They say you have expelled the queen, without hearing her.’
‘This is not your business, Pedair,’ Agravain answered curtly. I will permit this questioning just once, my lord. ‘We have no more time to waste.’
He pushed past Pedair, who stood stock still in his path. ‘It’s happened already,’ the old man murmured. ‘God help us all.’
Agravain stopped in mid-stride, and slowly he turned around. ‘I do not understand you.’
‘No, my king?’ Pedair drew up his slumping shoulders. ‘I will be more plain. You have not been returned for seven days, and you have already expelled your wife from this place.’ He stabbed his finger toward the gates. ‘Your wife, our queen, who had eyes that might have seen the workings of our greatest enemy and the power that might have worked against her.’ Pedair’s own eyes gleamed with the kind of desperation that could overcome men in battle when they saw death waiting for them on the top of the next hill. ‘I had hoped you would be able to put up more of a fight than your father.’
Agravain stared at the old man as if he had suddenly become a stranger. He saw Pedair’s crooked hands and his narrow eyes, his pinched face and his trembling shoulders hunched up like a hooded crow’s.
‘Do not speak of what you do not know, Pedair,’ he said softly.
‘Very well. I will speak only of what I do know.’ If Pedair noted Agravain’s barely contained fury, it did not deter him. Pedair came forward, moving in close to his king, whose coming a handful of days before had left him weak with relief. Now, Agravain could see the bitter disappointment in the old man’s eyes. ‘I know that by your actions we are weakened
. I know that by your actions we may suspect that the madness that haunted your father has got its first claws into you …’
Red, red anger swamped Agravain’s reason. He could barely cling to the memory that this was a friend before him.
‘Pedair, use the wits I credit you with having and be silent.’ Be silent, do not force me to strike you down. Do not force me to call you traitor as well. ‘You have work enough to do.’
Pedair stepped back, his body trembling as he straightened it. ‘As it looks to be the last work of my life, yes, Your Majesty.’ Pedair turned, without obeisance or acknowledgement, and walked away.
Agravain looked up and found the crowd staring at him again. They dropped their gazes, turning away hurriedly, but he heard the whispers, and the breath of them fanned the anger burning in him.
For Agravain, anger had always been a cold thing. It lent precision to thought and to word. It calmed his blood and made him still. He did not understand this fire in him that made him want to lash out, to scream and curse and destroy whoever or whatever was nearest at hand. It sent his frame shuddering and drove out the reason he so desperately needed.
Agravain looked towards the gate again, and saw Laurel standing in its shadow, swaying, trying to gain her stride. Not looking back.
What have I done? What have we done?
With all the strength brought by years of keeping his heart and his counsel absolutely to himself, Agravain drove down the flame in his blood. He could not quench it, but it would be contained. He had a war to win, and it must be won. Too much depended on this for him to doubt his eyes or his actions.
He strode into the crowd of his people, trying not to hear the whisper of that part of mind and self that lingered behind, gazing at the gate, whispering one word.
Laurel.
SEVENTEEN
Laurel did not know how long she walked. She only knew her path led downward, following the slope of the hill to the plain of the valley. She thought she passed clusters of houses and pens for animals. Perhaps people spoke to her. She could not hear them. She could only walk on, passing through the green and silver world like a ghost.
She felt the sun on her skin, felt the wind wrapping around her. Her sandals turned and skidded on the stones, making her stumble. She righted herself and walked on. There was only one place left for her to go.
The long shadow of the rock fell across her shoulders as she stood at last on the curving shore of the sea. Salt filled the air, stinging her throat and lungs. The setting sun turned the restless waves opaque silver and blinding gold. The sound of the waves pounded against the walls of her mind, bringing them down, releasing the flood of emotion so that the tears could run freely.
Laurel collapsed onto the salt-crusted stones, weeping out her fear and rage to the eternal sea. Unchanging, the sea rushed and roared, the tide pulling back, laying bare sand and stone. She felt its retreat in her blood, and longed to follow, to fall into her other home. She could dissolve with the foam into the living waters, be forgiven and accepted.
You are gone to the sea years since.
The burning chaos of the war spread out before her mind’s eye, blotting out the silver sea. She saw again Agravain’s corpse upon the bloodied earth of her home, and that sight was nowhere near so terrible as the sight of his shuttered eyes in the chapel as he sneered at her protestations and called for the guard.
And so why not go? I am bid to go and never to return. In my failure, where else is there for me? The foam crested the retreating waves before her, cool as snow, ephemeral as dreams. It wore away the world, and yet lasted no more than a moment. It was a byword for weakness that water, and yet no stone, no steel, could stand before it.
Gone to the sea, years since.
Laurel drew her knees up under her chin, huddling on the stone, watching her grandmother, her other place. She could not move. She could not go forward or back. The land’s shadow crept across her flesh, stretching out past her, moving towards the sea.
After a time, she felt a change in the air behind her, a little warmth that had not been there before.
‘Majesty?’ said a soft voice. It took her a moment to place it.
‘Bryce,’ she said without turning around. She could not take her eyes from the dimming waves and their wordless roar. They did not compel, nor’ did they call. It was she who yearned. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Word from Din Eityn, Majesty. I have kin there.’ He walked around into her field of vision and went carefully down onto one knee. ‘Let me take you to shelter.’
The wind from the sea blew hard, whipping laces of hair back from her stinging cheeks. ‘Why would you do that?’
He pulled back, honestly surprised. ‘Because you have been wronged. Because I would have men know what sort of man calls himself our king.’
Slowly, she shook her head. ‘No.’
Confusion flickered across Bryce’s face, and wariness, like a man who felt the sands shifting beneath him. ‘You say the charges are true?’
‘No. But I will not go with you.’
Setting his jaw, Bryce reached out and laid his work-hardened hand over hers. The chill in her skin went too deep, and she could not feel the warmth of his touch. He spoke fervently, willing her with all his might to understand. ‘This is not justice. This is madness. We cannot let another mad king take the rule over us.’
She lifted her face to him for the first time, and she knew the cold lights now shone in her eyes. He was the one who did not understand. ‘And the one who brought on this madness is waiting on the other side of this night. She will not spare you, Bryce, nor any other man of this place now that you have failed her.’
He swallowed, his words lost to him. He drew his hand away from hers, as if he could no longer bear the touch of her flesh.
As if the corruption of death clung to her.
‘Go back to your home, Bryce.’ Laurel said turning her face once more towards the sea. ‘Sharpen your sword. Either fight with Gododdin, or slit your own throat. It will be kinder than what Morgaine will do to you.’
She could hear his breathing, even over the rush and crash of the waves. She did not look at him. He had ceased to be important. Eventually, he walked away and left her sitting there in the twilight, watching the sea.
Will you do as I said? She wondered idly. He was a good man. She felt it. Agravain could use him.
Why should I care? She had no answer. She could still feel the ache against the back of her skull where she had hit the wall, could still taste the blood in her mouth where she had bitten her lip. Rage blackened her heart with its heat. She had trusted him! Had given all she had and all she was to him, and this was how he repaid her! After all they had done and seen and been, how could he think …
But there was something else, something shining like a broken coal, its heat making it dangerous to grasp.
Gone to the sea years since. The words Morgaine spoke over the vision of Agravain’s corpse. Her future in red and black.
She is still here. Her work … was a distraction …
Laurel’s head lifted. It was not her own thoughts, nor Morgaine’s taunting words. That was another voice, another memory.
Byrd. Wizened, black-eyed Byrd.
Byrd convinced her to speak with Lot. Byrd laid a hand on her head just before the vision assailed her. The vision that told her it was Lot who held the one piece of knowledge she could not remain in ignorance of.
Byrd who said she made too many of her own bargains. She, her mind full of empty stores and fish and cows, had thought Byrd meant the kind of earthy bargains a woman might make with the least objectionable men around her, the sort that could help her keep her place and stay alive. Even as Byrd had spoken of the other ways, the ways that skirted the invisible countries, Laurel hadn’t thought of what the true nature of those bargains might be.
And there, alone with the sun setting against her back and the sea retreating in front of her, Laurel remembered Byrd’s round, red-rimmed
eyes and remembered where she had seen them before.
They were the eyes of the raven who had carried her soul for Morgaine to make sport with.
Byrd was Morgaine’s spy, her hand in the fortress that was held against her. When Laurel could not be defeated, Byrd had contrived to disgrace her. Byrd had told Agravain she was speaking to his father.
Byrd was still inside the fortress. Byrd now held Agravain, her husband, in the palm of her crooked hand.
Byrd had the scabbard.
Laurel was on her feet, but did not remember having moved. Her lungs strained and pulled and her ice-cold hands knotted into fists.
She must run. She must fly. She must get back to the rock and warn him, warn him …
And who would listen to her? She had made her own appearance of guilt with her thoughtless obedience to a false vision.
Why should I care? He banished me. He would have struck me. He betrayed me in the end. Why should I care?
Because it was not he who did these things. Because he had been used and played with as she had been, for Morgaine’s games and Morgaine’s hate, and Morgaine’s end.
She has taken my father and my brother; she will not have my husband!
But there was only one way to gain the strength to meet this promise, and Laurel saw again the battle and the death it must bring. Even if she did not care for Agravain, going to the sea would mean she destroyed her sister, destroyed her home …
But it was Morgaine’s vision, and it clouded her own, as it was meant to. Laurel faced the memory before her.
I am gone to the sea. I am not in this future you spin. But you are not there either. The thought moved slowly, almost sluggishly against the tide of her despair. You did not show me your triumph. You did not show me yourself not at Camelot, not in Din Eityn.
If I have gone to the sea, Morgaine, where have you gone?
The moon was rising over the waters, a perfect crescent against the blue-black of the sky. It lent her enough light to see where to put her feet, as she finished making her way down to the foaming waves.