For Camelot's Honor (5 page)

We must come to the end soon,
she thought, a little dizzily.
It takes but moments to cross.

But they did not. The hooves clopped against stone, and they picked up speed. The cart rattled and swayed, a loose assembly of wood and wicker driven by shadows through mist.
How can the animals see? How can the driver? We're going to fall. We're going to hit the stairs and crash and be lost …

The clatter of hooves that sounded so far away in the mist picked up the word.
Lost, lost, lost, lost …

Then, the moon came out.

The silver light poured down thick and heavy as the mist. Elen lifted her head, feeling strange and sudden awe at the sight of the pure white sphere overhead

Sphere?

This moon was flawlessly full. It should not have been. It should have been waxing towards half-full. Elen pressed her hand hard against her mouth to stop her scream.

Then she noticed the sound of hooves on stone had turned to the sound of hooves thudding against dirt. Then she noticed she no longer felt the wet straw beneath her.

Then she noticed she no longer rode in a wicker cart pulled by a pair of donkies.

The floor beneath her was smooth and dry. The speed that pulled at her was dizzying. Solid sides, like a boat's curved around her, and behind, in the light of the strange moon, she could see a straight, flat, white road rushing away.

A chariot. This was a chariot, one of the great conveyances, such as carried men in triumphant procession.

Up front, two white horses with fair manes streaming out behind them galloped steadily, not straining or snorting. Their reins gleamed in the moonlight, as if they were silver, or gold, and the driver …

The driver was a tall young man, well-muscled and proud. His hair was as pale as the horse's manes and streamed out in the wind of their passage. A deeply colored cloak fell from his shoulders. His companions were both matches for him, with their long, pale hair and their skin white as milk. Gold and gems flashed on their arms.

One of them, the one on the left, turned toward Elen, and smiled. Elen felt his beauty like a blow to her heart. His eyes were still too large for his perfect face, but even with nothing but moonlight, she could see they were as green as all of summer. She could lose herself in those eyes, and she knew she would go willingly into that beauty, that mystery, that wondrous perfection …

It was the hardest thing Elen had ever done to drop her gaze. Laughter peeled overhead like golden bells. Elen felt her heart shrivel within her. Then, a second voice growled, dangerous as a wolf and as incomprehensible, and the laughter ceased. Elen realized she was panting hard.

Breathe,
she told herself.
Breathe. You must keep your wits.
Her hands knotted together.
You are the daughter of Adara. You are midwife and healer. You know the names of the gods and the ways of the other world. You are Elen of Pont Cymryd and you will uphold the honor of your house.

Pride strengthened her spine and calmed breath and heart.

Eventually — Elen had lost all sense of time — the driver pulled on the shining reins and the chariot slowed, and stopped. The man to the driver's left turned and gestured that Elen should climb out. Beneath her feet, the road shone white and flawless. Around, she saw the shadows of a forest. She smelled the sweet scents of herbs, and the sharpness of pine. There was no wind. The air was still and strangely heavy. It brushed against her skin like fine cloth as she stepped aside to make way for her companions. The driver led them onward, and Elen had no choice but to follow him. The other two fell in behind her. Elen's shoes made no sound on the strange road. She peered ahead, trying to see where they had come to, but despite the moonlight, which should have made all as clear as day, she could see nothing beyond the chariot but vague shadows.

They passed the milk-white horses and Elen thought she was beginning to see the outlines of a dwelling. She had an impression of solidity to the shadows, of great size. Here and there, something glinted in the moonlight.

Then she was passing underneath a threshold that curved high overhead and the whole world swam as if her eyes were blinded by tears. She blinked hard, and her vision cleared.

She was in a great hall. The walls around her shimmered whitely as if they were made of pearl. The roof soared overhead impossibly high, held in place by pillars of gold made in the shape of branching trees so lifelike Elen would not have been surprised to see them bearing fruit. The perfectly smooth floor was white marble shot through with veins of gold, which made it seem as if the roots of the golden roof trees ran through chalk soil. The light was as brilliant and pure, and yet she saw no candles nor any hearth.

Now she could see her companions were dressed all in shades of green — bright emerald, sombre olive, the green of the sea and the green of the wood. Their belts and their arm rings were indeed of gold both red and white. They gave her no time to marvel at these sights, but led her swiftly down the length of the shining, empty hall. At the end waited a white door carved with the image of an apple tree bearing both fruits and blossoms on a smooth hill. The one who had driven the chariot pushed the door open, and stood aside, waiting for Elen to enter.

She felt shabby. She felt ugly, dirty and unworthy. How could she go yet further into this pristine and golden place?

They came to you,
she reminded herself.
They need you.

Elen laid her hand on the white door. It was cool and perfectly smooth, without the grain of wood or stone. It swung open at her touch and she made herself walk through.

The room on the other side was much smaller, almost on a human scale. The walls were covered in tapestries that stirred and shimmered with each movement, tricking the eye into thinking the images of fabulous birds and beasts truly lived. At least, Elen thought it must be a trick of light and eye. She did not have the courage to believe otherwise.

A cluster of green-clad women ringed a huge bed piled with white pillows and coverlets. All of them had silver hair and milk-white skin. Four posts held up a golden canopy over the laboring woman who lay there, clutching her belly, her head thrown back and her face tight with her terrible strain. The white hair that streamed over her shoulders and breasts was darkened with sweat. A man, pale as the woman stood by the head of the bed and looked up as Elen entered. She saw fear plainly in the way skin of his face stretched tight over his bones. This being was husband and father. On the bed lay the one who was wife and mother and she was in pain. Elen was the one to offer succor to them and the babe that was trying so hard to be born.

That understanding broke her paralysis. Elen strode to the bedside. The waiting ladies parted silently for her. The woman on the bed panted, and looked toward Elen, but Elen doubted she saw her clearly. She was too lost in her own pain. Elen laid her hands on the woman's exposed belly. The skin was hot as fever and slick with sweat. The woman screamed as if Elen's touch burned her. The ladies behind closed their ranks, and Elen could feel their eyes boring into her shoulders and heard their mutters. She closed her eyes to focus on her hands, to feel the babe within. The shape of the belly was wrong somehow. The woman screamed again, and her muscles pushed and strained, and Elen bit her lip and reached within her, keeping one hand on the belly. She touched only slick warmth and she knew why the woman strained and strained and yet no babe came.

Oh, Mother Rhiannon. It's laid wrong.
With the babe like this, she could labor ‘til she died, and she would take the babe with her.

What do I do?
Elen wiped her hands nervously on her cloak.
What do I do … the babe must be turned, can't be turned while she's straining, she'll crush it with the straining …

“Wine,” she barked out. “We need wine and mistletoe, mint and rosemary.” She did not bother to ask if they had any of these things. “And grease from a pig or goose, and any locks in this place, they must be thrown open. Now!” she barked the final word.

Whoever they were, whatever they may have been, they began to move. Three of the women ran out the door. Knotted cords held the bed curtains back. Elen undid the first. One of the women began on the others. Elen unknotted her own belt and unclasped her pin letting the cloak slide to the floor. Open, open, everything must be open …

The woman in the bed screamed, loud high and hysterical. She clutched at her belly.

“Someone must hold her hands,” ordered Elen. “What am I to call her?”

“Lady,” said the white-faced man. “You may call her Lady.” He took her hands, holding them back above the woman's head. Her eyes looked at his, full of fear, full of pain.

“Lady.” One of the women reappeared with a cup of wine so red it might have been blood, and a bundle of herbs. Elen tore them to pieces and rolled the leaves between her hands before she dropped them into the wine. Their scent filled the air, even over the odors of sweat and birth.

She carried the cup to the bed and leaned close to the woman's ear. “Lady, listen to me!” she shouted. She must get past the pain, past the panic. “You must drink what you are given. Drink it all. We must turn the babe inside you. This will help. You must drink!”

The woman nodded and parted her lips, just a little. The woman who'd brought the cup lifted the Lady's head. Elen poured the wine into her mouth. She coughed, and sputtered. The man — the Lord? — tightened his grip on her wrists. She swallowed. Little by little, Elen tipped in more wine, and the lady drank between her screams. The cup was deeper than it seemed, and it took a long time to empty. But the straining and spasms eased, a little.

Please let it be enough.

One of the other women had returned with a white oak bowl filled with snowy grease. Elen scooped out a great handful and slathered it onto the Lady's belly, and began to rub it in.

She worked hard, as if she were kneading dough for bread. She squeezed and rubbed and worked and squeezed again, working against muscle, against instinct and nature. The woman screamed, she whimpered, she cried and she wailed. She strained and kicked until the Lord shouted out and two of her women went to hold her ankles down. Sweat poured down Elen's face. Her hands grew weak, went numb, and still she worked. Sometimes she thought she felt the child move, only to have it slip back into place.

The Lady fainted, and Elen wished she could do the same. Her hands were nothing but pain. Her arms were lead and stone hanging from her shoulders. Her feet and knees screamed to be allowed to buckle, to fall. Her lips were raw from her chewing her lip in her efforts, and her mouth was full of the tastes of blood and bile.

The babe turned.

She felt it. She felt it slide into place, and settle, and stay. She thrust her arm where she must, and her fingertips brushed the wet, warm crown.

“Wake her!” she croaked, the only noise she make. “Wake her! She must push now!”

She expected the Lord to call out, or slap her, but instead he began to sing. It was the sound of summer. It was the sound of beloved heart calling to beloved heart. Elen felt her own exhausted heart strain against her breast, longing to follow where that song lead.

The Lady's eyelids fluttered, and opened. She looked up at the Lord, and the birth pain took her again and she screamed.

“Push!” bellowed Elen. “Hold your breath and push!”

The Lady pushed, and Elen screamed, and the blood poured and the Lord sang, and all was noise and confusion and salt wet and red …

The baby fell into Elen's arms. It was pale beneath its coat of blood. Its hair was shocking white. It lay limp and still in Elen's numb hands for three frantic heartbeats, but then its arms flailed, and its mouth opened and it cried. It cried for pain and hunger and cold and life. Oh, it cried so hard for life.

Elen was so dazed, she barely realized what she was doing as she bound and cut the cord. Someone handed her towels. A basin of water came from somewhere and she washed and swaddled the babe — a girl with regular limbs and strong lungs — and laid it where it longed to be, on its mother's breast.

Hands led her away. Other hands washed her arms and face clean of blood and sweat in water that smelled of thyme and rosemary and something else she couldn't name. She couldn't see straight. She could barely think. Her throat burned with thirst and she ached all the way to her bones.

A soft white towel was handed to her then and she dried herself. Footsteps approached. The hands removed the basin. Someone stood before her.

I must collect myself. I must.
Elen rubbed her eyes with her freshly cleaned hands.

The Lord stood before her in all his glory. Elen had just enough presence of mind to remember to look past him rather than into his deep and wild eyes.

“You have my gratitude,” he said. His voice was like music. Just the sound of it made her sway on her feet. It was as well she had been severely distracted when he had sung for his lady. “The lady asks you to stay. She asks you to be nurse to our child. Say yes, daughter of Adara and you will have a life such as you could never dream of.”

Those words had not faded in her hearing before she saw it all in her mind's eye, as clear as a dream to a sleeper. The feasts, the hunts, the music and laughter, the riches and casual wonders. Love and lovers if she so pleased, and life without death, without sorrow, or trifling care.

The dream was so bright and glorious that Elen's heart yearned toward it with physical force. It promised meat and drink and she was starved. It promised rest and warmth and she was cold and exhausted. She thought of the little, pale babe she had helped bring into the world, and how wondrous it would be to see it grow …

But to never see Mother or Yestin again? They seemed so far away, and they would have each other, and Carys. But could she leave them with so much trouble creeping toward the walls? With the men of Camelot inside and Urien without? And what of her other dream of the hawk and the spear?