Laurel

by Sarah Zettel

  To strike back. Even a child could wish so very hard to strike back.

  No! Morgaine cried, cringing. These are baptized children. God took them!

  He reaches out His hand, Morgaine but we do not go. We cannot forgive, Morgaine. We waited here in the dark for you, to show you what you have done.

  No!

  She tried to run, tried to fly. But this was not her place. This place belonged to Laurel, and to the White Spirit of the Sea who had sheltered these smaller spirits for so long. There was no escaping them. They permeated the element all around her.

  Hear the storm, Morgaine. Hear what we heard.

  Feel the cold, Morgaine. Feel the cold arms that take you from all you know.

  Know that you are sacrifice, Morgaine, to another’s need. To another’s hate, another’s fear.

  Come down into the dark, Morgaine, down where all your fear and all your sorrow mean nothing

  Come down, Morgaine.

  Come down to us.

  They rose up, light as the foam on the waves far overhead. They knew her name and she knew not one of theirs. She could not call out, not really. She had nothing to hold them with, nothing to bind them, but they held her chains tight, and she screamed, and screamed and screamed again until they smothered her. Smothered her and dragged her away.

  She was gone. Gone. And Laurel was alone.

  Laurel swayed back and forth. She was blind and cold, her self both fully at home and utterly lost.

  Where am I? she wondered dazedly. Where am I really? Is this flesh or spirit here?

  Grandmother? She whispered. Perhaps it was not flesh. Perhaps she could still find herself again

  I’m sorry, Laurel. The sorrow was as gentle as the spring rain. It washed away her hopes and fears as easily as that rain would have washed away her tears. She had made her bargain willingly. She had purchased a victory, for herself, for her family and her husband. Like Morgaine, she could not refuse to pay the price

  Love and understanding carried away the pain, making the rest easy. All she had to do was let go; let go of breath and mortal being. All her work was done. She could sleep now. Slip into easy dreams. She could remember another pair of arms around her, lean and strong, sheltering her and taking shelter. Remember eyes looking to her and seeing beauty and precious trust.

  Remembering, Laurel Carnbrea drifted down into the further deeps.

  Mordred watched Agravain drop into the mud, and fall still. Panting, aching in every muscle, he wiped sweat and rain from his face. It was not victory, not as he had hoped, but it would become victory in time. When they found their new king was dead and without an heir, these northmen would tear themselves up trying to replace him. Arthur might even come and wear himself down in the conflict.

  All he had to do now was bide his time. He had done that before. It would be a hard thing to turn now and leave so many dead, and this rock unbroken, but he could do that because he must. He must remember the greater prize, the greater battle yet to come.

  Mordred heaved himself to his feet. You almost won. He picked up his sword that Agravain’s fall had wrenched from his hand. You almost won because you fought with the whole of your wit as well as your heart. He looked down at the corpse, the blood pooling on its breast and on the sodden ground beside it. I will not forget that, he promised.

  But I will have your head. I’ll need to prove you are dead, and my mother will have her own uses for you. In the pit of his heart he added, And it will buy me her forgiveness for this debacle.

  Mordred raised his sword. Its swing sent a giddy wave of anger and mischief through him. But as that swing reached its apex, Agravain sat up.

  Mordred froze, sword aloft. Slowly, trembling, Agravain climbed to his feet. His blood made a black stain across his chain mail and soaked the torn leather underneath.

  Reason vanished, stolen by the irresistible force of fear that must take hold in the face of the terrible and the impossible. Agravain faced him, arms loose, weight forward, in a wrestler’s stance. Agravain faced him, silent, implacable, his life’s blood drying on face and hands, death’s own darkness like shadows in his gaze, the chaos and the fires of his victory rising up behind him.

  Agravain, whom he had struck dead, stood and faced him.

  The last shred of Mordred’s courage melted away. He dropped his sword and vaulted onto his sweating stallion. He wheeled his horse around hard, and fled. Tears streamed down his face, stabbing into his soul like spurs. But he could not stop, could not turn and face the man he had killed.

  You’ve lost! You’ve lost! You failed! The voice gibbered in the back of his mind, each word stabbing straight to his heart.

  Driven by shame and by fear, Mordred rode away.

  Agravain rode, abandoning the waning battle. There was no doubt of its outcome now. Discarding reason, he whipped his horse forward, racing to catch his enemy, racing to put the last of death’s smothering shadows behind him. The scabbard was a blaze of warmth at his back, and he lived, he lived, he lived.

  He could feel his stallion’s exhausted breathing, feel the killing strain in its muscles as the foam flew from its ravaged mouth. He was running it to death, and it did not matter. All that mattered was catching Mordred, stopping this here and now.

  The horse’s drumming rhythm missed a beat. The world slipped. A vision of Uncle Kai leaning on his crutch warned Agravain what was happening half a heartbeat before the saddle lurched and turned beneath him. His horse screamed, and Agravain threw himself sideways, slamming full-length – shanks, back, head – against the ground.

  Stunned, he couldn’t move, even though he clearly heard the fading sounds of Mordred’s fleeing hoofbeats.

  ‘No!’ he screamed to the steel-grey heavens overhead. ‘No! Why would you do this! Why bring me back to this!’

  There was no answer, save for the soft fall of the rain. Shaking badly, Agravain slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. His horse lay on the ground, not even bothering to try to rise. If the creature was not dead now, it would be shortly. Agravain scrubbed at his scalp, and waited for his men to come to find him, to take him back to his castle and his kingship and leave his battle unfinished.

  But he was alive. He was alive, and he had won. He could seek Mordred out another day. He was alive.

  Laurel. Where are you? I need you to give me good advice. I need you to chide me for my arrogance. For believing that this could be done in one day.

  Where are you my wife?

  He looked up, letting the soft rain bathe his fevered face, waiting for Heaven and earth to bring him some sort of answer.

  He did not have long to wait. It was Devi and Ruadh who came to find him, the men and their mounts battered and bruised, and with the bemused air that is the shock of finding oneself still alive.

  They dismounted as soon as they came near, and looked at each other, uncertain. Beyond pride, Agravain held out his hand and let Devi help pull him to his feet. He could be king later. Right now he was too tired for ceremony.

  ‘How does Din Eityn?’

  ‘We held, Sire.’ A world’s worth of weariness could not keep the echo of pride from Devi’s voice. ‘We took some losses, but we held all the same.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Pedair,’ answered Ruadh. He was holding back his grief with all his remaining strength. Tears would come later, beside the fire, as they drank to the dead and the living in equal measure.

  ‘He will be honoured,’ said Agravain. It was all the promise he could make for the good old man who had stood for so long. I deserve none of this. His hand strayed to the strap that held the scabbard. None of this.

  ‘Sire?’ said Devi softly. Agravain realized he was staring back towards the rock.

  ‘Yes?’ Too tired. Too many long days. The fires were still burning, there were a thousand details to be seen to in victory that did not come with defeat. He was just too damn tired.

  ‘Sire … they … they’ve found the queen.’

  Devi led
him to the shore. He had to. Agravain moved like a blind man. He could not make out the trail in front of him enough to guide his pony. He could not tell whether night had fallen or whether this was the darkness of his soul. He could not tell the roar of the sea from the roaring of his own blood in his ears.

  But then, the sea shimmered in front of him, and his vision cleared. He raised his eyes, and there, there she lay. Just beyond the touch of the waves like any bit of flotsam, tossed aside carelessly. By the sea. By him.

  Agravain all but fell from the back of his pony. Someone caught him. He shook them off. He felt the turn of stone and sand under his boots. He could not see. There was only Laurel, her white hair spread on the sand, her skin whiter than it had ever been, her face so still, too still.

  Agravain dropped to his knees. With his two hands he lifted hers where it was flung out at her side. He pressed it against his forehead. Cold. So terribly cold.

  No. No. Your time is not yet. God is merciful.

  He scrabbled at the strap that held the scabbard to his back. It had saved him. God’s grace borne here by Laurel’s hands, her greater understanding. It would save her. It must. It could not be that he was meant to live and she to die.

  ‘Sire …’ said someone. Devi. ‘Let us …’

  ‘Do not touch her!’ he shouted. His numb fingers finally found the trick of the strap and he tore the scabbard from his shoulders. He laid it onto her still breast, and carefully, gently folded her arms, so that her hands were laid on top of it.

  ‘Live,’ he whispered. ‘Laurel, live. Death is not for you. It is too cold, too dark for you.’ A wave surged up wetting his boots, teasing her hems. ‘God, I beg you. Take the life you have given me. I do not need it. Only let her live.’

  Another wave came, rolling over her, wetting her to her breast. Agravain wept, his tears falling into the salt water. He could not move her away from those taunting waves. He had no strength left.

  ‘Please. Please. Let her live.’

  ‘Sire …’ began Devi again.

  Agravain gripped her hands, pressing them against the scabbard. A third wave, cold and salt, surged around them. Agravain dug his boots into the earth, the earth that had known his family down the generations, that earth that claimed him and called him back to the service of his land, the earth that was his very bone. Agravain cleaved to it and reached with all his heart and soul to the retreating sea. With all the love that could be held in the chambers of a broken heart, he reached towards the final darkness.

  He reached and he reached, and he prayed, and he believed he touched the softness of his wife.

  Laurel. Laurel come back. Come home.

  And underneath his hands, Laurel’s breast stirred. Her hand moved, and lifted and grasped his.

  A wordless cry escaped him. All his strength returned in a rush and he pulled her back from the salt sea, back to the land, to life, to his arms. And as he knelt there, her eyes opened.

  ‘You came,’ she murmured.

  He wrapped his arms around her, bowing his head, suffused with gratitude beyond the ability to pray. ‘Forgive me, Laurel. I was wrong.’

  ‘Agravain.’

  He kissed her, and she returned that kiss, and there was nothing else in the whole world as he held her, warm from the sea, warm from the sun, warm with life and love.

  Neither of them noted the scabbard, now sea wet and salt scrubbed. Neither of them saw then, nor for a long time to come, how the dark stain on it had been washed clean away.

  EPILOGUE

  I, the monk Elias, least of the brothers in Christ, write these words and ask forgiveness from God Most High. For in so doing, I commit the sin of pride, and I defy the orders of my father abbot.

  Today we found the body of the old man, Kai ap Cynyr, once called Sir Kai, who had long lived in sanctuary here among the holy brethren. He lay in the orchard, peaceful and at rest, with the fallen leaves of the hawthorn lying on his breast. He has now been laid in his grave to await the Day of Judgment which must come to all. Father Gildas ordered that I should write the day of his passing in this last record of his, and nothing more.

  But I will write what I saw, even as Kai did.

  Kai’s mind has been wandering of late. He was often seen in the orchard talking and laughing with himself as the oldest of men will. We left him alone at these times, for he did not seem inclined to violence or fits, although we prayed frequently for the ease of his mind and soul. He spoke sometimes of a holy brother who came to visit him, a man with stout arms and a warrior’s build who wore a monk’s plain habit. No one else could ever say they had seen this monk.

  But I have.

  I was fetching water from the river and as I straightened up with the yoke on my shoulders, I saw a broad man in monk’s habit. He carried a white staff in his hand and came striding down the hill towards me. Beside him walked another man, a young man so tall that the monk’s head came only up to his shoulder. They made no answer to my hail. They only splashed across the river and began to climb the hill on the other side.

  On the top of that hill, I saw yet another man, a man of straight and noble form with a king’s crown on his head and a golden torque around his throat. He held out both hands to the tall man, and that man broke into a run, leaving the monk far behind. They embraced, the king and the tall man, and the monk leaned on his staff and watched them fondly.

  Then, that tall man turned to me, and gave me a broad wink, and I saw it was Kai ap Cynyr.

  This was in the instant before they all three vanished into the sunlight.

  A great fear came upon me. I dropped my buckets and ran back to the monastery, where all had discovered the mortal shell of Sir Kai.

  I have read his writings, as has Father Gildas. Father Gildas has pronounced them an old man’s dreams, but despite that, it is plain he is more than a little afraid of them. He has ordered they should be burned.

  God and Mary forgive me but I disobey my father abbot. I will wrap these pages up in leather. I will take them to the town. I will give them to the first trustworthy sailor I can find to take across to Gododdin. I think the king there will look on them more kindly than Father Gildas, for his name is Gawain, and his father’s name was Agravain, and his father’s name was Lot.

  It is the sin of pride I commit, but I will do this thing. For it seems to me that dreams and miracles are close cousins. If such men as Arthur Pendragon, Agravain ap Lot, and Kai ap Cynyr can be declared merest dreams, and word of them burned away, what then can become of the rest of us?

  Brother Elias

  At the Monastery of Gillean,

  Eire

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank the Untitled Writers Group for their patience, and clear insights, as well as the women of the SF-FFWS list for their help and excellent advice. And, also, as always, my husband Tim for his support and patience.

  Also, I’d like to once more thank Mr. Thomas B. Deku, who taught Writing for Publication at Trenton High School. Without him, none of these books would be in existence.

  About the Author

  Sarah Zettel is the critically acclaimed author of more than twenty novels, spanning the full range of genre fiction. Her debut novel, Reclamation, won the Locus Award for Best First Novel. Her second release, Fool’s War, was a 1997 New York Times Notable Book, and the American Library Association named Playing God one of the Best Books for Young Adults of 1999. Her novel Bitter Angels won the Philip K. Dick Award for best science fiction paperback in 2009. Her latest novel, Dust Girl, was named as one of the best young adult books of the year by both Kirkus Reviews and the American Library Association. Zettel lives in Michigan with her husband, her rapidly growing son, and her cat Buffy the Vermin Slayer.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

 
; This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Sarah Zettel

  cover design by Ian Koviak

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-5779-0

  This edition published in 2019 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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