For Camelot's Honor (12 page)

“They should leave as soon as they can make ready,” said Bedivere briskly. “We do not want rumor to fly ahead of them.”

“I agree.” Arthur got to his feet and all the others followed suit. “If the weather holds, you will leave today and make what start you can. In the meantime, Bedivere, Gawain, we will see what men we may quickly gather for this fight and send out word if we must call up the levies.” He turned to his two younger nephews. His heart was in his eyes at that moment, reminding them of the hidden danger, the one he would not speak of before other men. “God speed you, Geraint, Agravain.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” said Geraint ferverently as he bowed. The others also murmured their thanks as they made their obeisance. Their various squires rushed ahead of their masters, opening the doors and lighting the way.

Outside, dawn was just beginning to brighten the horizon. It was the coldest part of the morning and the wind felt harsh against Geraint's skin. It smelled dry though. If there would be rain, it would not be until later in the day. They could start out soon, as Bedivere recommended, before rumor had a chance to spread through the keep and down into the city. Beside him, Donal was all but dancing in his impatience to talk about what had been said and what was to come, but the boy knew enough to hold his tongue.

Despite the urgency of the waiting errand, Geraint faced his brothers and waited. If Agravain was going to rail against Geraint, it would come now.

Bedivere also guessed what was about to happen. “I will see you before you leave, Geraint. Agravain.” He gestured to his boy and together they strode across the courtyard.

Agravain did not turn to acknowledge Bedivere's leaving. His jaw was working back and forth and he held his mouth so tight, Geraint thought he was trying not to spit even more than he was trying not to speak.

“Will you meet me at noon, at the stables, Agravain?” asked Geraint. “It will give us half the day to make good our start.”

“Yes.” Agravain turned on his heel and marched from the yard, anger billowing behind him like the sleeves of his robe.

Geraint looked to Gawain, his brows arched, but Gawain did not meet his eyes. He just wrapped his robe a little more tightly around himself and looked up at the brightening sky. “I'll go back to my room. Risa will be wondering what's happened.”

They nodded in acknowledgement of their departure, and Gawain headed after Agravain. Geraint turned himself toward the barracks, with Donal hurrying to catch up.

“Is it to be war then, my lord?” the boy asked breathlessly. “Will we go to fight the Welshmen?”

“That's as it may be,” said Geraint. “But you'll have to wait awhile to find out. I'll be travelling rough on this one, lad. I fear you'll only call attention to us.” The boy's face fell. “Don't worry. I'll see that Sir Gawain takes you under his wing while I'm gone.” Donal lit up at once. “Remember that smile, lad,” Geraint said grimly. “Once my brother puts you to work, it may not come again so easy.”

He laughed at the sudden consternation in Donal's expression, and that cheered them both a little.

Back in the barracks, men were climbing from their beds, yawning, scratching and swearing, running hands through their hair and across their chins. The air smelled heavily of unwashed bodies. Some called out to Geraint with mocking curses for him being up so early. Geraint waved back to them in passing salute as he returned to his own cot. There, he sent Donal running for wash water and a towel.

Two carved, flat-lidded chests stood beside Geraint's bed. He contemplated them for a moment before he opened the smaller. Beneath the plain shirts and breeches waited a cloak, a simple weave of grey and dark blue. There was an enamelled broach on it in the shape of a falcon with a bead of blue glass for its eye. Beneath that was a stout leather belt and a sheathed knife. Beneath these, waited a sword.

Geraint lifted the sword. It was a dark, heavy, thing, scarred from generations of use, but its balance was surprisingly good, and the hilt fit well in his hand. Its cool touch brought a flood of memories to him; of summer on the hills below Din Eityn, of his father in the good times, teaching his big son to swing this blade, of the chill winters and running through snow up to his knees, trying to catch up with long-legged Gawain.

Of his mother. Of his sister.

“You kept it then,” said Gawain's voice behind him. “I threw mine into the river when I was made squire.”

Geraint turned, not really surprised to see his oldest brother standing there. “I don't know why.” He slid the blade back in its sheath of unworked leather and stood. “But it will be useful for this errand.”

“If anything will.”

Ah.
Geraint sighed and tried to remember patience, but it seemed far away this morning. “Why have you come, Gawain?”

“Because I think Agravain might be right.”

“Well, it is a day for miracles.”

“Geraint …”

Over Gawain's shoulder, Geraint saw Donal approach with the basin of water, and stop. Geraint waved him away. This much he did not want the boy to hear. “Brother, you think I cannot do this thing,” he said, keeping his voice low, but letting all that he felt fill it nonetheless. “You, and Agravain and probably Gareth and the whole of the Round Table with him. It is no longer your decision, if ever it was. The king has spoken and the rest of you will have to be content with his word.”

Gawain shook his head, and tried again. “Geraint, no one doubts your skills …”

“Don't they?”
This once I will speak of it, brother and this once you will listen.
“You think I do not know why I have my place at the Round Table? Is it because of my great feats of arms? Or because like Agravain and Kai I am a great thinker? No. It is because I am brother to Sir Gawain and nephew to the king. I know it, you know it, and all the Table and their people know it, and I am tired of it brother. This one thing, small and foolish as it is, is mine to do and I will do it.”

Geraint met Gawain's gaze without flinching for a long moment. His hands clenched at his sides and his breath came too fast. Gawain's mouth twitched. Geraint was not certain whether his brother was trying to refrain from frowning, or smiling. “Go then, brother, and God's blessing go with you.” Gawain did smile and laid a hand on Geraint's shoulder. “And mind you bring Agravain back with you. I don't know what we'd do without him.”

Geraint found he could unclench his fists, and answer his brother's smile with one of his own. “The cooks would all be needing a new source for vinegar, that's certain.”

They shared a laugh at that, for all it was an old jest. Gawain turned to go, but there was something else that needed to be said.

“Will you tell Gareth?” asked Geraint.

“What?” Gawain did not turn to look at him, which told Geraint he knew exactly what was meant.

I don't wish to acknowledge it either brother, but Gareth is one of us.
“Of Morgaine. He should hear it from one of us before the rumors fly.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right.” Gawain sighed and rubbed his eyes. He spoke in so low a whisper that Geraint could barely hear him over the noise of the barracks. “I had thought this all behind us, Geraint. Truly.”

“You hoped. As did I.”

“None of it can be truly over while our father lives, can it?”

“Brother, none of it can be truly over while we ourselves live.”

Gawain tilted his head back, looking to the ceiling, to Heaven, hoping God could hear his pleading whisper and bring an answer. “And what of our sons?”

Perhaps God had an answer, but Geraint did not. He could only lay his arm over his brother's shoulders and stand beside him. They stayed like that for awhile. Then Gawain patted his arm and they parted, Gawain heading back to his wife and their youngest brother, Geraint turning toward the weaponry he had not worn for seven years at least. Donal, seeing Gawain's departure hurried forward with the basin. Geraint took his time with his washing. With Donal's help, he donned a pair of brown breeches, a simple white tunic and brown belt and his well-worn boots.

“I'll go to meat,” he told his squire.
Be the man of Camelot for another hour.
“See those blades are cleaned and ready for use.”

“Yes, Sir.” Donal sounded a bit puzzled. Probably the boy was picking up on Geraint's own reluctance to return to the trappings of his past. That was all right. Geraint was a little puzzled himself. Did he believe he had locked the past in that chest?

Did he?

Geraint broke his fast in the great hall. It was no formal assemblage. The king and queen were not there. Men and women came and went as they would, filling the chamber with voices, laughter and even snatches of song. The air smelled wonderfully of warm food. The servants handed around bowls of porridge and trenchers of beef, fresh bread and, because it was high summer, fresh fruits, cherries, pears, gooseberries and slices of delicate melons. Geraint surprised himself by eating heartily. His reputation for silence stood him in good stead, and those around him, who had surely by now heard of his early-morning conference with the king did not bother asking him more than once what had happened. Agravain sat across the hall, stiff as a poker, putting off his neighbors with a quick snap from the look of things.

If he doesn't resign himself, this will be a long journey.
Geraint shook his head. Resignation was not a quality Agravain was noted for.

It did not matter. This was his journey. Agravain could make of it what he would, but Geraint would see it through, wherever it led.

Which left only one thing to do. Geraint stood up from the table, nodded his farewell to his fellows, and took himself out from the hall.

As at Camelot, Merlin lived apart from the great hall in a humble dwelling, a cottage with a thatched roof and wattle and daub walls. He could have had a whole stone fortress to himself had he asked the king for it, but this was where he chose to stay. It was an ordinary enough looking place in the day, but Geraint knew that it was no more an ordinary house than Merlin himself was an ordinary man.

The door, which was normally shut fast, stood ajar. Geraint smiled a little at his own trepidation as he pushed it back.

The shutters were all thrown open to catch the daylight, but Merlin's work chamber was still a place of shadows. Bundles of herbs hung from the roofbeams, perfuming the air and causing Geraint to duck his head to avoid them. In the center of the room there was a low, stone well tightly covered. It was a favorite thing among the squires to tell tales about what waited at the bottom of the well, here and at Camelot, and to dare each other to venture here for a look at it. As far as Geraint knew, only Gawain and Gareth had ever done so.

Merlin himself sat in a carved and cushioned chair. A great book, bigger even than the bishop's scripture, spread out before him. He looked up, his face mild and unsurprised as Geraint entered, and he shut the tome before Geraint could make any sense of the runes and pictures written there.

“And what would you with Merlin, Sir Geraint?” inquired the sorcerer.

Geraint stood there for a moment. Until he had walked through the door, he had thought he knew what he was coming here for, but now, faced with Merlin's lined and ancient visage and his deceptively clear eyes, he was suddenly uncertain.

“What has happened to the Lady Elen?” he asked finally.

Merlin ran his hands over the carved leather binding of his book. “I do not know for certain. She is held captive. Something prevents her from speaking plainly. If it is Morgaine, it is most certainly a binding or curse that holds her.”

“How may it be broken?”

Merlin stared into space. He grew straighter, his face seemed to become younger and although he did not move, it felt to Geraint as if he became more distant. The air around him grew heavy and thick. Fear, as real and immediate as a child's fear of the dark rose in Geraint's throat and to his shame, he felt the prickle of perspiration on his brow and neck.

At last Merlin said. “By courage. By truth. By a last act, freely undertaken. These will free the woman.”

Geraint blinked, and Merlin was only an old man again and the air was only air, and all of Geraint's fear crumbled into simple frustration. “You see far more than you say, Merlin. Why do you not speak plainly?”

But Merlin just shook his head. “You of all of them, Geraint, know the value of silence.”

“I do not keep silent when my words might help.”

Merlin pushed his chair back from the desk. His hand lay in his lap. The fingers were long and brown and knobbled as old twigs, and the blue veins pressed against his skin like roots beneath flagstones. That hand looked like it could not lift a pen, let alone the staff that leaned against his writing table. “I keep silent, because words have power, Geraint. Because in the act of speaking, I change the balance. What is seen changes because it has been seen, and if I speak of the change, it changes again. I see only what might be, and what might be, might also be changed, even by so small a thing as a word.” His smile was small. “There. Now you know the weakness of Merlin.”

And I do also understand what it is to be unable to speak.
Something eased inside Geraint as he thought of that. “I know no such weakness.”

For a moment, he thought he saw gratitude in the old man's eyes. In the next heartbeat, it was gone and he thought he must be mistaken.

“Beware pride, Geraint, beware anger. These are the things that will bring an end.”

Geraint bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Merlin said nothing to that, and Geraint knew it was time for him to leave. He turned to go, but Merlin's voice stopped him in his tracks.

“It is not by accident that you are the one who inherited your mother's eyes, Geraint. Do not shrink from that.”

Geraint's shoulders stiffened. Memory flickered across his mind, of a corridor and darkness, of tears and bad dreams. He closed the door behind himself. If Merlin needed it open again, then it would be open. He hurried across the yard, suddenly eager to be gone.