Hawk of May (19 page)

He shifted uneasily, flushing, and looked away from me. He nodded. I looked back at the road.

“So I went to our mother, and she taught me many things, all terrible.”

Agravain's hands had tightened on the reins, and now his horse snorted, trying to stop and shying at the unsteady jerk. He quickly relaxed his grip and edged the horse back to the cart.

“She is very powerful, Agravain,” I said urgently. “She is much stronger, probably, than any other on earth, so much that she is scarcely
human now. At first she hated her father, and her half-brother Arthur, and then all Britain, and I think now she hates all the universe, and wishes to drown the world in Darkness.”

Agravain's horse started again, laying its ears back, catching fear from its rider. Bedwyr dropped behind the cart, then drove his horse up beside Agravain's, to steady it. Agravain closed his eyes for a moment, his face strained and white. “No,” he whispered. “She can't truly want that.”

“She does,” I said, wanting to reach out to him, but not quite daring. “You know her. Think.”

He turned his face away, shoulders shaking a little. For a long time we rode in silence, the hooves of the horses clattering on the causeway, the cart jolting in the sunlight. The marsh reeds shook in the wind. Cei was puzzled, Bedwyr withdrawn.

After a long time, shortly before we reached the main road, Agravain's hands slowly relaxed and he nodded. “It is true,” he said, in a choked tone. “I would rather not think of her, Gwalchmai. But it is true. By the sun, why?”

I shook my head. He expected no answer.

“Go on,” said Agravain, after another stretch of silence, when we had turned south on the main road. I noted that he controlled himself better. Three years before he would either have started a quarrel with me or driven his horse ahead at its fastest gallop.

“I said that our mother hated Arthur. She has cursed him many times, but her magic does not seem to work on him. Two and a half years ago, on Samhain, she wanted to try some other spell to kill him.”

“God,” said Agravain in a strangled tone. “What affair is it of hers? What harm has he done her?”

“She hates him. You know that. And I think every black sorcerer in the West is seeking of the death of Arthur. Aldwulf Fflamddwyn certainly is.”

“What?—och, I know she hates the High King. But can she…?”

“I do not think she can,” I said.

He stared at me earnestly for a moment, wanting reassurance, then nodded, relaxing.
“Laus Deo,
as they say here in Britain. But, by the sun, she should be destroyed. Someone should kill her; though she is my own mother, still I say that she should die.”

“Perhaps she should,” I replied. “But who could kill her? She wanted me, and Medraut, to be there that night…”

“I had heard that Medraut…but I was sure that was false. No one was altogether certain that Medraut was…and it is unlike him.”

“It is true, though,” I said. “Though I did not know it till that night.” Again I thought of Medraut with pain. She must have devoured him by now, sucking out all his innocence and love for life, replacing it with hatred and bitterness and more ambition. And there was nothing I could do.

Agravain looked at me miserably. He had been trying for years, I think, to forget Morgawse, as he had tried for years to ignore her. But he accepted this now.

“Do you remember Connall?” I asked. “The Dalraid, the one in our father's warband?”

“Of course. A brave man, and loyal, and a good fighter, as I well know from campaigning with him in Britain. The first time I ever went whoring he took me back in Din Eidyn.”

“Morgawse was going to kill him,” I said. “And, Agravain, I could not endure it. Not him and Medraut also. I killed him quickly and fled, and she tried to kill me.”

He looked sick. “This is madness. Why can't people fight with swords, simply, instead…”

“People never fight simply with swords,” Bedwyr broke in. “Even you and Cei do not do that.”

Agravain paused, blinking at Bedwyr. “What does that mean?”

“No one takes up the sword without a reason. Even love of battle is a kind of reason. In the end, the reasons are never simple, and they are as important as the sword itself.”

“Philosophy,” said Cei. “You read too much of it, Bedwyr.”

“The reasons remain important,” said Bedwyr imperturb-ably. “Go on, Gwalchmai.”

“Our mother set a curse on me, and I fled from it, without thinking where I was going, until I came to Llyn Gwalch—that is the place on the cliff where I spent so much time, when we were children, Agravain—and let the horse go. The demon couldn't follow me there. I don't know why, except that I once believed in the place, and the Light…” I stopped. How could I tell Agravain about that? He could not possibly understand. I did not understand it myself.

“Our mother could not kill the Pendragon,” I began, “because Arthur fights against the Darkness, with the force that is also against the Darkness. When I was trapped there, I called on that force, because I was very wearied with the Darkness and hated it. And an ancestor of ours, who serves the Light, sent aid.”

“An ancestor?” asked Agravain in confusion. “This becomes more difficult as you go on. What ancestor?”

“Lugh of the Long Hand.”

He shook his head again. I saw that I was beginning to lose him. “I do not know what to think of this, Gwalchmai. If anyone else came to me with a story like this, I would laugh at him. But you…”

“I think that you must believe him,” Bedwyr interrupted softly. “I do not know that I have ever seen a man so deeply touched by the Otherworld.”

Agravain glared at his friend. “There is nothing wrong with my brother. True, he is a poor warrior, but that gives you no right to insult him.”

“I am not insulting him.” Bedwyr seemed mildly amused. “And I think he can look after his own honor. Gwalchmai, go on.”

“Lugh sent a boat from Tir Tairngaire, at the urging of the Light…”

“What is this ‘Light' you keep talking about?” asked Agravain irritably. “The sun?”

“I think I understand,” Bedwyr said slowly. “In a sense, the sun. As the sun is a type of Light, since all other lights are ultimately derived from it, by reflection or by dependence with the rest of the world, so the Light which your brother speaks of is the source of good and of illumination, and other goods are known only in it. Yes, Cei, I did read it in a book of philosophy. But am I right?”

“I…I think so,” I said, astonished. “Yes, if I understand you. I do not know any philosophy. I know only that the Light sent a boat, and I embarked, and it took me to the Islands of the Blessed.”

“Oh God!” said Cei, at last releasing his growing anger. “How many have made that claim? And how many have been to those islands? None, because those islands do not exist outside the songs of poets! Agravain, you are my brother, but this brother of yours is another matter. He has been spinning gossamer from clouds of lies this whole while, and you've been taking it for true yarn. But I can't. When you have had enough, I will be riding up ahead.”

“He is not lying, Cei,” said Bedwyr.

But Cei only gave me a look of disgust. “No, indeed. He is merely giving a poetic form to the concepts of philosophers, and discoursing upon the
summum bonum
or whatever you call it. This is a fine enough tale for Breton mystics and philosophers, Bedwyr, but I am a Dumnonian and a Roman, and I want no more of this.” He spurred his horse to a gallop and left us, reining in beside some other warrior.

“Go on,” said Agravain. “I will listen.”

But he was beginning to agree with Cei. “I am not lying,” I said.

“I do not say that you would, deliberately,” said Agravain, apparently deciding to be very honest. “But after what had passed, you could easily have had some kind of dream.”

“I thought it was a dream, when I woke up and found myself in Britain,” I said. “But I still had this.” I touched Caledvwlch's hilt.

Agravain looked at it, his brows knitting. “A sword. I noticed it earlier. It looked to be worth a good amount. You think it was given to you in the Land of Promise?”

“It was, by Lugh, from the Light. When I woke up southeast of here, returning from Tir Tairngaire, I knew that I had not been dreaming or gone mad, because it lay beside me. Its name is Caledvwlch.”

Agravain glared at it. He was becoming angry now, and I dreaded the results of his anger. “A sword. A fine sword, as far as I can tell. Let me see the rest of it.”

I drew Caledvwlch. His eyebrows went up and he whistled. “Och, fine indeed; I should like such a sword. But it is not supernatural.”

Bedwyr stared at the bright steel for a moment, then looked away. He apparently did see something supernatural in it.

I considered making the fire burn in the blade, to show Agravain the power as well, but decided not to. It was too violent and obvious; an abuse of the power. Besides, I had no desire to be thought a witch, and I did not know the warriors. So, “Lugh gave it to me,” I reiterated.

Agravain snorted. He was rejecting the story now. Perhaps he could simply not accept it of me, of Gwalchmai, his weak, ineffectual little brother. “Go on,” he said, however. “You woke up with the sword, east of here, after spending—how long?—in the Isles of the Blessed.”

“It was nearly three years. It seemed only a day. But time was strange there. I woke in the hills in the borderland between the kingdom of Dumnonia and the land Cerdic claims, and when I was walking west I walked directly into a Saxon raiding party on its way back to Sorviodunum.”

Agravain calmed at this; this he could believe. “Couldn't you tell a Saxon from a Roman?” he asked.

“I did not know where I was. For all I knew, I might be going to Constantinople, though I thought it unlikely. So I told them that I was a thrall, and my master had died in a blood feud, and they brought me back to Sorviodunum and sold me to Cerdic.”

“Why should he buy you? Did he suspect that you were a king's son?”

“I don't think so. Aldwulf of Bernicia told him to, and Aldwulf, like Bedwyr, or Sion, or most people these days, was not sure I was quite human when first he saw me.”

“That is ridiculous,” said Agravain. “Why should they think that? You did not, did you, Bedwyr?”

“Your brother is right,” said Bedwyr. “I think you underestimate him.”

“I know him better than you,” snapped Agravain. “Go on.”

“Aldwulf wanted to kill Arthur, as I said, and thought that if he killed me and used the sword, he could manage it, by sorcery. But he had conjured up a horse of the Sidhe for Cerdic, to prove his power in sorcery, a horse which could outrun and outstay any horse on earth. Cerdic was trying to break it, but could not. I could—you must remember that I was good with horses, though this one was different—and I did, and I rode it out of Sorviodunum as fast as possible.”

“Then where is it now?”

“I let him go. He was of the Sidhe; I had no right to keep him. That was the day before yesterday; and yesterday I met with that farmer you disliked and came to Ynys Witrin, where you came this morning.”

“A fine story,” said Agravain scornfully. “Very fine, indeed. But you forgot a few details, Gwalchmai. What about the hill-fort full of armed Saxons? But doubtless you slew them by the scores as you rode off on the king's horse.”

“They did try to stop me, they just weren't quick enough—no, I am not claiming any skill at arms. We both know better. But the Saxons were afraid. They did not think that I was human, and I had the sword.”

“Your sword! Why should they fear that?”

“It…I imagine it can be frightening.”

“Gwalchmai,” said Agravain, his voice level and controlled, but plainly very angry, “Cerdic's warriors are not children to run away from a reputed magic sword. And what of the king, and Aldwulf of Bernicia? You say that Fflamddwyn is a sorcerer, and so his name and fame are in all Britain; couldn't he have ruined that famous sword for you?”

“I do not think his power is that great,” I said, “I do not think anything could quench Caledvwlch, except its bearer. If I turned against the Light, since it is by Light that the sword burns…whatever. Aldwulf was unconscious when I left. I'd cut his face open with Caledvwlch.”

Agravain reined in his horse to a complete halt. “And how many Saxons did you kill leaving the camp?” he asked quietly.

I stopped the cart. Sion's mare halted gladly, her sides heaving. “Three.” I knew what was coming now. “Agravain, I am not trying to claim that…”

“You have said enough,” Agravain went on firmly. The entire foraging band was halting now, and the warriors were turning their horses back or driving their carts forward to see what was happening. “The first part of your story I believe, the second is a dream or some confusion honestly and easily made, but this…this can be nothing other than an outright lie. You, striking down a Saxon king, and killing three of Cerdic's warriors single-handed? You can't even throw a spear straight.”

“Agravain, I said it was not from skill but…”

“Was it by magic, then? You said you'd rejected that, and rightly so.”

“No, it was not, but…”

“Then your tale is a tissue of lies,” Agravain proclaimed fiercely. “Nonsense you made up to give yourself some honor which you are afraid to win honestly in battle. You are hopeless as a warrior.”

“I've never said otherwise.”

“And I will show you how hopeless.” My brother ruthlessly thrust aside my attempts to fend off what was coming. “Get out of that cart and I will teach you not to lie…”

“I will lend you my horse,” Bedwyr said to me, quite suddenly, “and my spear and shield as well, so that you can fight as a warrior should.”