In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) (8 page)

Thetis was already saddled. Risa’s bow with its broken string protruded from the quiver hanging from the saddle. Risa tried not to look at it. She tried to hang on to the peace of prayer as she mounted Thetis. She would not be abandoned now. Surely not now.

Gawain mounted his palfrey. The war horse’s reins had been tied to the smaller horse’s harness. It was obviously used to this arrangement for it started forward peaceably enough when Gawain nudged the palfrey into a walk and then into a trot.

There should have been a squire, Risa realized, shocked that she had not noticed before. He had said his errand was urgent, but what was so urgent that the High King’s nephew would travel without even one servant or companion?

The unwelcome sensation of being watched stole over her. Risa shivered and knotted her fingers into the reins as she urged Thetis forward to follow Gawain onto the high way.

Neither of the travelers looked back to note the pair of ebony ravens perched in the bare oak tree. Nor did they see that while one flew off to the east, the other flew to the west, as if to join their party and travel alongside them.

“There, Sir!” The boy running ahead of the mounted men pointed as he cried out.

Rygehil squinted. The dawn had not completely penetrated the thick trees yet and they rode through twilight. The shape that the boy pointed out was little more than a mound of darkness on the bed of last year’s fallen leaves. But for the crows, it might have been a log or a faggot dropped by some peasant out cutting fuel. The ill-favored birds swirled above the fallen form. They perched upon it, stabbing eagerly downward with their sharp beaks.

It is a deer
, Rygehil tried to tell himself.
It is a sheep that strayed from its pen
. But his heart did not believe that, and it flared within him. He drove his heels into his horse’s sides and charged forward to the ragged crossroads, scattering crows in all directions so that they cursed him loud and raucously with their harsh cries.

When he saw it was a man that lay in the scuffed and scattered leaves, his first feeling was one of relief, for the corpse was not Risa. But in the next moment he recognized the face, cold and grey in the faint light of dawn, and then he saw what had been done to it.

“Whitcomb,” he breathed, tears stinging his eyes. He dismounted and knelt beside his steward.

The mutilations were vile, obscene, and the true old man’s blood was everywhere. The men behind him were saying their prayers. Someone retched. Above all the crows cawed, speaking to their comrades of their prize. Rygehil squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he crossed himself. Bitter gall filled his throat and his soul.

You deserved better, my friend. Better than me for a master, and a far, far better death than this was
.

Slowly, Rygehil stood and looked about him. The men, who had remained on their ponies murmured uneasily to each other. The boys holding the reins simply looked scared. Leaves and loam had been churned and kicked. Whitcomb’s blood had spilled freely onto the exposed and muddy ground. That same mud held hoof prints that traveled in several directions, as did the prints of men’s boots, and the smaller disturbances of a woman’s feet.

He looked down to the road. The hoof prints continued north and east, already blurring and softening as dew and warmth worked on them.

Does he have you then, my child? Did Whitcomb offer up his life to try to buy off that fate I sold you to? Or are you free now and gone far away?

Gradually, Rygehil became aware that he was cold, and that behind him, ponies and mules stamped and snorted and men blew hard into cupped palms.

Hobden, a thin man with a wispy beard, coughed behind his rawboned hand. “My Lord,” he said. “Shall we go on?”

Rygehil looked out at the crossroads again, but his mind seemed to have gone as numb and as cold as his naked hands.

“No,” he answered at last. “We will take Whitcomb home with us.” He turned away.

“B-but my Lord,” stammered Hobden. The man had turned pale, with fear or with anger, Rygehil could not tell which. “Your daughter …”

“May God preserve her,” Rygehil said, bowing his head so that the men would not mark his shame at his own cowardice. “For I no longer can.”

It was almost dawn when Euberacon rode once more in sight of his habitation. To most eyes, the place he approached looked to be a single, crumbling tower, the remains of some fortress of the Romans, or perhaps of the Saxons and their failed war against Arthur. The bright rays of the rising sun touched on pale stone mottled green by moss. The whole structure listed to one side and any builder with half an eye would have said that it would collapse completely with one more winter.

To Euberacon, it was a palace like nothing else the length and breadth of the whole cold, crude isle. It was built of pure, white marble. Its four towers were topped with gilded roofs that flared with vibrant light as the morning touched them. Inside the single gate was a courtyard walled with cunningly painted tiles, so it seemed he rode into a fantastic garden of drooping trees laden with fruits of red and gold. A fountain spread its bowl in the center of the yard, showing a mosaic of all the ocean’s fishes swimming in sapphire waters. Another mosaic, this one depicting delicate, twining flowers, spread out beneath his horse’s hooves.

This place could appear to be many things; a cottage, a grove of trees, a single miraculous tower standing on its own rooftop. The spells that protected it and shifted its appearance were of ancient origin, and costly in time and material. They were, however, well worth the care he had taken with them. This was a small land, and for the time being, he must remain hidden.

During the day he was the master of this place and all its forms. At night, there was uncertainty, and there were shades that passed where his eyes could not see. But he had found his cure for that, and once she was done working her other mischief, he would bring her to him.

A boy of about ten years entered the tiled court, bowing respectfully. Euberacon passed the boy the horse’s reins. With the competence of an experienced stablehand the boy caught hold of the animal’s bridle to hold it steady as Euberacon and dismounted retrieved the saddle bags that held his trophies. If one looked steadily into the boy’s eyes, it could be seen that he stared too much and did not blink quite enough. In his mind, the boy was still fostering in the hall of one of the islands many petty kings. He remained unaware that his foster mother had sold him for a potion to rekindle her straying husband’s lust for her.

The few servants that kept Euberacon’s house had been purchased for similar prices. The fact that he needed to descend to such barter for his most basic needs galled him, but he had schooled himself long ago to patience. Each day brought him closer to his victory.

A bird sqwaked overhead. A raven perched on the windowsill of the north-west tower. More of them circled over head. Kerra had returned, then. Good. He needed to speak with her about recent developments.

But first, he needed to confirm his suspicions.

The south-east tower was Euberacon’s alone. No mortal servant, however completely enchanted, entered here. On the first floor was his sleeping chamber, its door bolted and barred with oak, ash and magic. The chamber immediately beneath the gilded roof held a small menagerie of caged animals: doves, ermine, foxes, crows, wrens, and their like. These he fed and cared for with his own hands, ensuring their health and well-being so they would be ready when he had need of them.

But at this time, no such sacrifice was needed. He climbed the spiraling stairs only to the second story. Light and cold filtered in through the arrow slits in the outer walls. Warmth was the one thing with which he could not supply his dwelling. It was the constant reminder of where he truly was.

A silver key hung on a chain around his neck. Euberacon unlocked the ash-wood door in front of him and entered his private work room.

The scents of herbs and rare essences overlaid the less savory odors of old blood and decay. Euberacon uncovered the brass brazier by the door and dropped fuel onto the smoldering coals so that the flames sprang up, providing a flickering light. Despite this, the room remained densely shadowed. Bags and bundles hung from the ceiling. The shelves were crowded with mortars, alembics, braziers, along with sieves and bowls made from all manner of materials, both precious and base.

What the room did not contain was books. He had not been able to bring a single tome or scroll when he fled Theodora’s assassins, and those that pretended to practice the high arts in this barbaric land did not see far enough ahead to write their learning down.

Euberacon had heard rumors that Merlin had several mystical volumes in his private chamber in Camelot, but no art or artifice had enabled him to see into that cunning man’s sanctum. The extent of Merlin’s knowledge remained his own secret.

Perhaps then, they are not so foolish
, Euberacon admitted grudgingly to himself.
But they are yet not wise enough
.

First, he dealt with the trophies of his night’s work, plunging them into pots of honey, setting aside the hand which needed to be cured in spirits of wine. When he was finished, he washed his own hands in a silver basin, letting the action calm and clear his mind even as it purified his flesh. He discarded his gory robe, covering himself with the clean garments he kept in a cedar chest for when they were needed. The rich black cloth was trimmed and lined with fur and did some good to keep out the eternal chill.

From under a square of white linen, the sorcerer drew a silvery mirror one palm in breadth. He had made it from the sword of a man who had come too close to his refuge. He had heated and pounded and polished the artifact, working the over-bold wanderer’s blood into the reshaped steel. Around its rim, as prescribed, he had engraved the names of power — Latranoy, Iszarin, Bicol, Danmals, and the rest, with the name of Floron at the apex.

He laid the mirror on the smallest of his wooden tables and then turned to his work benches. In a clay bowl, he mixed together equal proportions of milk, honey and wine, whisking them together with a brush of fine twigs. He shook the brush over the mirror in the manner of a priest anointing a body with holy waters.

“
Bismille arathe mem lismissa gassim gisim galisim
,” he intoned. “
Darrgosim samaiaosim ralim ausini taxarim zaloimi hyacabanoy illete
.”

The chant wound on, snaking through the room, reaching out to the shadows, thickening them, bringing them weight and substance, like cobwebs, like nightmares. It called, it compelled, it bound. It wound itself around the mirror, found its substance sympathetic to its purpose and sank within it, infusing and transforming it, making what had been a tool of reflection into a window onto other worlds. The steel of it misted over, swirling, first white, then red, then black.

Judging the time was right, Euberacon hardened his voice. “Floron,” he spoke the demon’s name as a command. “Respond quickly in the mirror, as you are accustomed to appear.”

The black mist slowly took shape, forming itself into the likeness of a man riding a black stallion and carrying a black spear three ells long beneath his arm. The man had no face, not even eyes, only shadow, but all the same, Euberacon felt the figure’s burning hatred of him and of the power he wielded over it.

Euberacon smiled. “I would see the future days,” he said. “Show me what is to come for the ones who dwell secure in Camelot.”

The black horse stamped one hoof soundlessly, and the demon lost its coherent shape, once again becoming the swirling mist of shadow. Slowly, that mist took on new form and fresh color, and Euberacon looked deep, and the future became clear.

He saw the great hall of Camelot broken and in flames. He saw the famed cadre of the Round Table milling uselessly, their ranks broken for want of a leader. He saw Kerra laughing in the ruins, her ravens swirling overhead in a great and noisome cloud. He saw himself on the prow of a boat laden with treasure, standing beside the Saxon leaders. The ship’s oars were out, and the barbarians rowed across the ocean, ready to gather more of their fellows, and he was ready with magic and sword to reclaim Constantinople, to set his man upon the throne and himself to the true rule. He saw fresh fires, but these rose from the Hippodrome and the great cathedral.

Last he saw a pair of black, black eyes staring at him, woman’s eyes, witch’s eyes, seeking the past as he sought the future, and for a moment Euberacon’s nerve quailed. He felt the power within that gaze. This, surely, was the fabled Theodora, looking hard for him.

She would not find him, not until it was too late.

The final vision faded, leaving only the reflection of his face. To his displeasure, Euberacon saw the sheen of sweat on his brow. He wiped it away. He should be well beyond such displays of emotion. What had he to fear from woman’s eyes? He had seen the future, and it was his.

Euberacon’s lips twitched as a quiet admonition passed through his mind. Those who scried the future did well if they understood that what they saw was only one of many possibilities, and that nothing came to pass without effort and vigilance. But the possibility of his triumph was there, and it was stronger and more clear than it had been when last he sought the vision out. Euberacon’s mouth bent into a smile of satisfaction as he once again covered his mirror and set it back in its place.

Now, to speak with Kerra.

Kerra watched from her solarium as Euberacon crossed the tiled court, the sleeves of his black robe flapping behind him in a poor but vigorous imitation of wings.

Kerra had always seen him more as a crow than as a raven. He did not hunt. He let others fight the battle while he watched. He sought no allegiance from those who were not strictly of his kind. Instead, he held his peace until all others believed the best was finished with, and then he stole what he wanted. He was cunning, yes, but not so wise as he fancied himself.

As soon as they returned from their night’s watch, her companions had told her all that had occurred. Euberacon must be fuming that he had lost his little prize to Gawain. She wondered if he would even think to mention it, or what lie he would tell to cover it.

What was not in question was that he would come to see her when he was done with whatever working he had in hand. She wanted him disposed to talk, so Kerra readied her chamber for his comfort. She had already dismissed her companions. Euberacon found them distasteful. He preferred his slaves either human or incorporeal. She had closed and locked her four carved chests so he might think she kept something of worth there and waste his time ferreting out what it was. She checked the long-necked jar to make sure there was wine in it, but did not pour any out so it did not appear that she had thought too far ahead. Lastly, she made sure of her dress and appearance, repinning her hair beneath its veil and resettling the bronze circlet engraved with the likenesses of ravens with garnet eyes. She smoothed and straightened her skirts and sleeves. Her dress was russet cloth trimmed with silver, very fine, but not the best. When she ruled in Camelot, it would be scarlet and her crown would be gold.

She picked up her hand loom, set to work on the meaningless weaving, and waited for Euberacon. Sometimes she grew sick of all the time she wasted waiting for the eastern sorcerer. Unfortunately, neither she nor her true mistress were yet strong enough to topple Camelot without great risk, nor could they safely bring Merlin to heel. So they must wait and bide their time and use this foreigner to do as much of their work as he could. Eventually, her mistress would send her messengers across the sea to find this Theodora and offer him up.

A single knock sounded on the door.

“Enter,” said Kerra. Once the door had opened wide enough to reveal Euberacon’s dour face, she hastily thrust her weaving into the basket beside her couch. Euberacon’s eyes glittered briefly, thinking he had caught her at some secret work.

Kerra gave him her most radiant smile and rose in greeting.

“My lord.” She moved forward, her hands outstretched. As usual, he did not take those hands — Euberacon declined to touch her in any way — and as usual, she lowered them to her sides without comment. “This is a pleasure.”

Euberacon did not answer what they both knew to be a false pleasantry. Instead he let his gaze wander about the chamber, taking in what had remained the same — the luxurious couch, the locked chests, the simple hangings, and what had changed — the basket, the wine jar.

Again, Kerra affected not to notice. Instead, she returned to her couch and sat gracefully down. “Will you take your rest, my lord?” she asked, indicating the space beside her, and glancing from beneath her lashes as she did.

The look Euberacon returned her was cold and sour. “You should know by now woman, I will not be one of your victims.”

“That would be sorry payment for all you have given me, my lord.”

“It would indeed.” The utter dryness of his voice made Kerra laugh. She reclined on the couch, allowing her skirts to fall so that the shapes of her legs could be discerned beneath the cloth. She did not expect this to inflame Euberacon, only to let him think that she relied on one particular sort of power. He thought her little more than a glorified whore. It suited her to let him continue in that belief.

“So, tell me, my lord, what of this pretty little thing you went to fetch? She did not come home with you?”

“She did not. Arthur’s man Gawain intervened.”

Kerra arched her brows. “Did he? That is poor luck indeed.”

Her light tone made him glower, as she had known it would. “Did you know about this, woman?”

“I knew he was near that road, no more.” She gestured toward the window. She had removed its slatted screen to allow the ravens entrance and egress. “My friends see much that is useful, but will tell only what they are asked. You did not ask me about Gawain.”

“It is dangerous to taunt me, Kerra.”

“And it is dangerous to forget me, my Lord Euberacon,” she answered sharply.

To her surprise, a smile flitted about his thin lips. “Rest assured, Kerra, I know and respect your powers. I do not trifle with you. Your ends suit mine and this petty bickering does not become either one of us. Tell me what your friends have to say regarding Gawain.”