For Camelot's Honor (36 page)

She saw the branches of apples and blossoms that bordered the walls nearest the floor. She saw how the blossoms and the fruit shared the same branches, and how those branches were all of them broken in two.

She saw it all now, and she understood. She knew why Gwiffert had been given the spear, and why the Lord could not take it from him. She knew why the Lady and the Lord sent her and Geraint here so soon after the birth of the child she had helped deliver. She knew why Gwiffert made his kingdom here in this other world and not in the mortal lands, which were the middle lands and had the loosest of boundaries, easily crossed by men or gods, or any other who so chose.

She knew that she must believe Geraint lied, because she had shared the Little King's food and looked into his eyes and known his touch, and he had told her to believe just that.

She should have seen it before, in his gold hair, his pale skin and slanting eyes, in his lean bones and the way he could fascinate with a word or a look. For when they came across the bridge, or by their other ways, they came for more than aid or making. They came too for love, and there were children born of such love. Was he the Lord's son, or the Lady's? The Lord's, she thought, for it was he who spoke of the giving of the spear. Gwiffert himself had said it once.
The spear of my father,
he said. It was not Manawyddan he was claiming descent from. It was the one who gave him the spear.

Perhaps it had been meant to make him a great hero. Instead, it made him a monster.

She should have known all these things, for the signs of them were all around her, but, he did not wish her to, and for such as he wishes had force, particularly in their own houses. But such deceptions could not stand before naked truth, and truth was what Geraint had given her.

The truth was all that Geraint had ever given her.

But now, here they stood in the hall of their true enemy, with his eyes and ears and power all around them. He had touched her with the force of his will and believed he held her in sway. What would he do if he found the sway was broken? What mark would the spear find if she spoke now of what she saw?

But I must speak somehow. I must warn Geraint.
She bit her lip.
Words. It has all been a game of words since Urien first came. Words with power, words with double meanings. All the dance of words.

“Nothing here has been as it seems,” she said slowly. “Nothing.”

“Elen …” began Geraint.

She did not allow him to go any further. “Since we came, I have been shown one thing when another was true.” She faced him, she looked into his eyes.
See me, Geraint. You see so much, you watch so close. See me now.
“What did you see in me when you kept your secrets, Geraint? Look hard! Did you see a fool to be swayed by your show?”

“No.” His word was sure, but his face confused. “Never a fool.”

“Did you think I would not find out the truth? Did you think I remain blind when the truth surrounds me?” She flung out her hands, letting her voice grow loud and warm as if with anger. “Your words were as thin as these images around us. Oh yes, I see, and all is cruel deception!!”

“Then you do not believe …?” Was that comprehension she saw dawning in his visage? Did he begin to understand?

“Oh, I believe,” she snapped back bitterly. “I believe the one who presented himself as my dearest friend is my bitterest enemy. I believe all I have been told is the exact opposite of what is true!”
Listen to me. See me. Understand Geraint. Oh please, White Christ who watches him, make him understand!
“Blood will tell in all things. A deceiver's child will be a deceiver, a demon's a demon!”

Geraint turned away, putting his back to her. Elen shook with fear and with hope. “Do you understand me, Sir Geraint, Lot's son?”

When he faced her again, his jaw was set and grim, but his eyes were keen. “Oh yes, my wife,” he said slowly, letting each word fall before he took up the next. “I understand you perfectly.”

“Then take that understanding and go from here,” she said, her voice ice and stone.

But he did not move. “And if I do go, what then?” He slurred the words into a sneer. “What will you do without me?”

Oh my husband. I should have known a man who understand silence so well would have to understand words as well.
“I will no more be bound as I have been,” she drew herself up tall. “I am stronger than even my gaoler knows, and I will be free. It is a crime that any should be so enslaved to one who knows only deceit. No one should remain in such chains, and I will not remain in mine!” Her hand trembled as she raised it, pointing toward the doors. “You have shown me what you are. Now go!”

Geraint too drew himself up, making himself tall, showing himself for a moment all that he was, a true knight and the son of kings. Then, he strode away, his hands clenched in fists, his shoulders square and strong. He marched through the soaring archway, and was gone, and Elen was alone in the hall, surrounded by the symbols of death and blasphemy watching her.

Even as she watched her husband leave, she heard the touch of bootsoles against the tiled floor behind her. She knew by the feel of his approaching heart that it was Gwiffert who came to stand there.

“So, Elen,” he breathed. “What did he say for himself?”

Elen did not have to force her eyes to blink back tears. She wanted to turn, to rake her nails down across Gwiffert's cheeks, to grab him by the throat and snap his neck clean.

Don't turn. Don't look at his eyes. Don't look.
“I did not truly know him before,” she answered, her voice strained by the strength of her feeling. “I was wrong in so many things.”

His touch on her shoulder was warm and sweet as honey. His heartbeat strong and beckoning. “I will not let him hurt you, Elen.”

She had to turn now. It would be strange if she did not.
Don't look up.
She hung her head, letting her hair fall about her face to screen her from the king's blue eyes. “What will you do?”

“My people will all be in danger if I confront him openly before the battle.”
You know the sense of this,
the words told her. They caressed her cold skin, as warm as his touch, and even now, even when she looked at her own feet, she felt herself longing for his eyes. She wanted to look up and see him clearly, to feel more perfectly the meaning of his words.

Remember. By the Mother Rhiannon, by Mother herself. I will remember what he is.

She pulled his hand from her, clasping it tightly between her own. She looked up into his face, letting all her fear show.
Let him think me broken over Geraint. Let him think me the wounded damsel.
“Promise me you will act with honor,” she said, her voice strained and harsh with her pain. “Promise me that.”

It was a gamble. It might not work, for the fae blood was only half his, and men might break such promises with ease, but it would be there, a weak shield, but it was more than nothing, and might just save him from a spear in the back before he had a chance to act for himself.

Gently, he took his hand from between hers and brushed his fingers down her cheek. Her tears had spilled without her knowing it. The touch was fire, but it was also memory. Geraint had once touched her so.
Remember that time too. Remember that truth.
“Elen, he does not deserve honor.”

Steeling herself, Elen reached up and touched his face. His skin was soft, his heartbeat strong. She felt light as featherdown, ready to blow away with whatever wind came next. “But you must not stoop so low. Please, Gwiffert.” His name was acid on her tongue and she shook again to speak it. “Promise me you will act with honor.”

“Very well. I promise that I will do what I must with honor towards him.”

“Thank you.”
Thank you, Mothers All.
She dropped her hand and she stepped back. It was easier to breathe with more room between them, easier to smile shyly, more natural to turn her head away, all the coy and bashful maiden. “You should go. He may come back, and he will wonder.”

“It does not matter.” She heard the fond smile in those words. “Go back to your room, Elen. Rest yourself now. When I return, all will be made right.”

Yes.
Elen let her faint smile be all her answer to him.
Yes. That much I promise you.

Geraint waded back into the mass of toil. The torches flared high, sending their sparks and smoke up to the stars. Men milled like ants underneath their lights, talking of a thousand things that suddenly made no sense. The only thing he understood clearly was that he had left Elen in the hall behind him, and that were he a true man he would turn and take her out of there if he had to break down the stones with his bare hands.

Men were asking him questions. He could not hear them. He could not see them. A haze as thick as any glamour of the fae kept him from them.

“Sir Geraint.”

That much he heard. That much turned him around to see one face clearly. King Gwiffert, his spear resting on his shoulder stood behind him.

Geraint was glad he was unarmed. In that moment he would have drawn his sword and cleaved the king's skull in two, or he would have tried, and probably died himself, impaled on that spear for his troubles.

Anger ebbed, allowing room for reason again.

“Sir Geraint, the lady told me …” he paused, looking about him as if he just now noticed the yard full of busy men. “But not here perhaps.”

“Majesty,” Geraint's voice sounded thick in his ears, as if he spoke from exhaustion. “There is much yet to do.”

“I know.” The king laid his free hand on Geraint's arm. It was a familiar touch. It spoke of trust and friendship. How could a man lie so well with a touch?
The same as with a look. The same as with a word.
“But we must talk all the same. Come.”

Dutifully, Geraint followed the Little King to a corner of the yard. He set his back to the wall so that they could speak without anyone coming on them unnoticed.

King Gwiffert rested the butt of his spear on the toe of his boot. “Is it true?”

As a grown man Geraint had never spoken of these things with anyone who did not share his blood. To speak of them to this blue-eyed king of the fortress of secrets seemed suddenly like heresy.

“Who told her these things?” he asked instead, flexing his hands, looking for something to hold onto.

King Gwiffert sighed. “Secrets have a way of being found out. It may even be that Morgaine or Urien first showed her the truth.”

So this is how it will be done. You have separated us neatly, and now you will make yourself the friend of both.
“And you? Morgaine is your enemy as well.” He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to watch how the king said it.

He held the spear easily in both hands. He and Geraint were almost of a height, so he looked directly into Geraint's eyes. “The enemy of my enemy shall be my friend. I need you in this fight.”

The trust in those words touched Geraint's pride. He wanted to hear more. No, he wanted to deserve more. “You do not fear I will betray you?”

“Will you?”

Geraint shook his head to break the grip of the king's gaze. It did no good. He still yearned toward this man. This was how men felt toward Gawain, how heroes felt toward Arthur. They wished to please him, to be better than they were because he needed them to be. “No.”

Gwiffert watched his busy yard for a long moment, as if thinking hard about what he had to say next. “Will you swear to that?”

So. You will trap me with my own honor.
“Yes.”

Now the Little King watched him keenly. “By what, Sir Geraint? By what will you swear?”

At these words, Geraint knelt and laid his hand over his heart. “I swear before God most high and by Jesus Christ his son. I swear by my own right arm and the love I owe my king that I will betray no trust and do only what is honorable in the battle that is to come.”

The Little King's blue eyes glittered brightly. “Then I do believe you, Sir Geraint, and I do trust you.” He took his arm. “It is not only her blood in you.”

Those words warmed him, that trust filled his heart with pride. They would do this thing. The men were well ordered, and come morning, he would lead at the side of his king.

No,
Geraint ground his teeth hard together.
Arthur is my king. Remember that. Remember what vows you have
made. Remember Elen left behind in this one's tender keeping while she tries to break his kingdom open.

These thoughts steadied him, dimming pride and all its glamour.

God help me,
he prayed as he walked with the Little King back into the thick of the laboring men, each one of them a prisoner of this place and this man.
God help us all.

Thankfully, the work was real and Geraint was able to hide himself behind it. Even for such a swift and tiny war, there were a thousand details to be marshalled and assembled, knowledgeable men to be consulted and given their orders. Scouts had to be readied and sent on ahead, for by now the false dawn brightened the horizon.

But even while he gave his orders and watched over his men, Geraint's mind was elsewhere. These around him were no danger. In truth, he itched to take Rhys and Taggart aside, to speak to them of what he now knew and tell them he would give them his help against their king. Could he urge them to turn against Gwiffert? Convince them to believe that he would defeat this creature who rode behind them all? No. Had he all the power of Arthur himself, there was no time for such things. It would take weeks of careful persuasion. These around him were slaves to the Little King. Dupes, prizes taken in war, victims of their chieftain's cowardice. They lived in fear of the Grey Men.

He saw that too. The hours of thought since he had left Elen showed him that much. The Grey Men were not weapons of war. They existed of terrify the helpless, or to convince the blind of the enemy's evil. They worked by fear, by famine and by the threat that was ever in the grave “See, you will become like I am. So cower in the dark and pray to God to spare you this!”

Why did I not see before?

Because I was in his house,
came the answer.
Because it was his wish I should be blind. But he comes into my house now.

And what good does that do?
Geraint rubbed his face. Weariness fogged his mind as effectively as any of the Little King's glamours. Could he break his vow of honor and kill the man under the cover of battle? Even if he would do such a thing, could he?

It was the spear that was the danger, the spear that never missed its mark, that could kill even the deathless. It was the spear he must take from Gwiffert's hand. But if he shattered it, they could not claim it to defeat Urien. He had to steal it whole, somehow, but if Gwiffert did not set it down in his own fortress, he would surely not do so on the field of battle.

Set it down. The thought touched him, a halfmemory, something seen but unheeded, like so much in this place. What could be seen, what could be kept hidden?
It is not by accident you have your mother's eyes,
Merlin had said to him before he had set out on this madness.

What have my eyes seen?

Geraint looked across the busy yard. The king stood before the steps of his hall. He rested the butt of his spear against the toe of his boot, watching the work around him. It was a familiar pose. Geraint had seen it many times over the past days. Often the king had stood just so in the yard before him.

He will not set it down.

The king stood just so before him in the yard, but not in the hall. In the hall, he rested the spear against the flagstones or the mosaics.

Geraint searched his memory, his first and last weapon. His life had been saved for his studying of other men. Was it true? Did the king prevent this spear, this thing of enchantment, from touching the living earth?

It made sense after the ways of magic, which were not the ways of reason. All spells had a weakness. All weapons of enchantment had their flaw that could not be countered. All the epics and all the ballads told that this was the way. He had heard similar things from Merlin. Was this the spear's weakness? Did the spear lose its virtues when it came in contact with the earth?

An idea came to Geraint then, fully formed and clear as sunrise. The risk was great, but if the other king, Rhyddid ap Carchar came to the battlefield, there was a way. Gwiffert believed he had blinded Geraint with his own pride. Let him believe that still, and Geraint might be set free to act.

The boards were laid in the great hall and food was served. The men ate well. Geraint and Gwiffert sat on the dais. Gwiffert was cheerful, free of that heaviness, real or feigned that had lingered at the edges of his manner since Geraint and Elen had first come to his house.

Elen did not come to the table. Geraint did not expect her, but he missed her. He wondered if sleep had found her in her grove of false trees. He wondered how she meant to achieve the quest she had set herself.

He wondered if he would ever see her again.

No toasts were drunk, save those Gwiffert and he drank to each other. Geraint strove to be cheerful, to be confident. Fortunately, the meal was brief and the Little King much distracted by the thought that his enemy was about to be destroyed.

When the last cup had been drained, Gwiffert led Geraint out into the yard where the horses waited, saddled and ready for their masters. In that yard, Geraint armed himself. He donned a fresh corslet, grieves and wrist guards that fit him, a banded helmet chased with images of hunting cats. He belted on sword and dagger, and he mounted Donatus. One of the waiting boys handed him up spear and a shield painted with the image of a hawk on the wing. Geraint found himself wondering if Gwiffert had chosen the device for him.

Men crowded the yard. More men waited outside beneath the shadows of the walls. They carried pikes and clubs, swords and daggers. They hoisted four-cornered shields of leather stretched over wood and painted with all manner of fanciful designs — dogs and wolves, trieskelions, leaping salmon, running mares and great green eyes. Over them all flew the banner of the Little King. It was a spear, of course, slanted across a white tower, as if to shield it from harm.

Or perhaps just to bar its door.

Beside him, King Gwiffert raised that spear in the air. One of the horsemen sounded a horn, then another. Gwiffert pointed the way forward with his spear, and Geraint touched up Donatus. Side-by-side they walked their horses through the gate to meet the dawning. Behind them, slowly, ponderously, the Little King's army began to move.

Morning's grey filtered through the slit of a window over Elen's bed. Calonnau saw it to and creeled indignantly. She was hungry. She wanted to hunt. Her restlessness breathed life into Elen, stiff and cold from her waiting. She had not slept. She had worried the night away, alternating between lying awake on her narrow bed, and pacing the tiny room, her ears straining for the distant sound of the smith's hammer.

But tonight it did not come.
So be it.
She twisted her hands together.
What I must do, I must do.

What she wanted to do was go out into the yard and watch Geraint ride away. She wanted to gain what reassurance could be had from a glance, a swift touch. But she could not do that and maintain the appearance of the bride wounded to the soul by husband's betrayal. She must stay here as if sunken in her grief and watch the sky slowly brightening outside her window.

Eventually, she heard a soft scratching at the door. Calonnau cried out sharply, as if in hope that here at last was someone who would take her outside. Elen herself made no answer. The door opened and Meg, the faded serving woman peered around it.

“Will you come break your fast, Lady?” she asked softly.

Elen rubbed her tired eyes. She was hungry and Calonnau was ravenous. “Are they gone, Meg?”

“Yes, Lady.” A look of pity came across the older woman's face. “They are.”

What tales are told among the people here?
wondered Elen tiredly.
What do they find the courage to whisper to each other? Do you know what passed between Geraint and me, or do you just now see a fellow prisoner?

“Help me dress, Meg. I will go into the yard a little, then I will eat.”

Meg bobbed her curtsey and bustled about the tiny room, helping Elen into her brown dress with its oak leaf borders, brushing out her hair and replacing her jewels and rings.

Armed and amored,
she though a little ridiculously.
Let us hope it is enough.

She took Calonnau from her perch. Meg followed her as she walked out into the yard. The place was silent and empty after the busy labor of the night before. It looked grey under the morning's heavy sky. Only the churned sea of mud and straw showed that the small army had passed this way.

The gates remained open with a quartet of old men as sentries. They did not challenge Elen as she walked between them to stand in the shadow of Gwiffert's walls. She raised Calonnau up before her and looked long into the bird's wild yellow eyes.
Fly to Geraint, she said. Stay near him. Watch and keep safe.

The hawk was angry and confused. The hawk wanted only to fly and to hunt.
Fly then. Fly to Geraint. Take him my heart and keep it close.

Elen loosened the jesses. The hawk did not stay, but beat her wings hard to gather the wind under them, to lift her up and soar away. Elen watched her go, and ached to fly with her.

No. I am beyond such wishing. I will leave no one bound to this king for my wishing.

She stripped off her gauntlet and turned away from the path of the hawk's flight. If Meg had questions, she did not ask them. The Little King certainly discouraged such things.

Elen walked back to the great hall where the boards were laid. Only a few people still ate, women mostly with a few youths and children. Meg went before Elen to the table on the dais and served her bread and beer, boiled eggs and pork, and fresh bright cherries. Elen ate without looking up. She felt the paintings all around her, felt their eyes watching her in speculation and accusation. The White Mare was afraid and where was Elen to defend her? The red swine was running fast, coming up behind Elen because she moved too slow. The air around her fairly pulsed with the power of her enemy. She could feel it thrumming through the floor and in the soles of her feet.