Under Camelot's Banner (14 page)

We know this too.
they said, a little sadly he thought.
That is why she brought you here.

“I do not understand.”

The one nearest to him leaned forward a little. Her hair swayed and curled where it trailed in the water.
She wants something of us, Cousin. Of all of us. She never comes but that she is wanting. And because you have made a pact with her, she will have you make one with us.
She stretched out her hand again and laid it on his arm. It was long and slender. The sunlight slipped across and beneath it, as if she were filled with ephemeral light in place of blood.

He laid his warm hand over that cool one. “If that is how it is, then that is how it must be. I am sworn, Cousins.”
And I must finish what I have begun.

Yes.
She sighed deeply. Her free hand moved back and forth through the water, as if judging texture the way a woman might judge the fall of cloth. It occurred to Colan he should be able to see through that water before him to the sea floor, and yet he could not.
Without even knowing what you chose between, you chose the land and the mortal realm, as did your mother.
She paused.
Though she gained much more than you.
She settled back again, resting easily in the waters among her sisters.
Ask her, your lady, why she has brought you to us.

For the first time since he had seen the
morverch
, Colan glanced back at Morgaine. “They wish to know why I … why we have come.”

“Because your sister Lynet will pass over the water soon, Colan,” said Morgaine, her voice firm, but sad. “She cannot be allowed to reach Camelot.”

For a moment, Colan could do no more than stand there. In his wonder to meet them, to touch that part of himself that was their kin, he had forgotten the other songs of the
morverch
. Those songs told of the doom they could bring down on those who sailed their seas.

Down on Lynet who would go to Camelot to try to persuade Cambryn's faithless queen to come to their aid.

He licked his lips and tasted brine. “Camelot will not answer. They have ignored us in all this disaster.”

“Camelot will answer.” Morgaine's words were dark and they were certain. “Guinevere will come, and I am not ready for her, yet.”

That last word was as cold as the
morverch's
. It held a deeper threat than any he had ever known, long and old and infinitely patient.

He turned to his cousins yet again.

He did not have to speak. They had heard and understood, probably more quickly than he. The nearest of them shook her head, in anger and sorrow both.

There are laws, Cousin. For each deed and doing, there is a price.

“What price?” asked Colan.

All the
morverch
looked past him, glowering at Morgaine on the shore. Morgaine did not make one sound. Could she see their anger? Of course she could. Morgaine's eyes would not miss such burning resentment.

Come with us, Cousin and no more will be asked of you. By any.
His cousin once more lifted her cold hands from the water. A single strand of weed twined around her wrist, dripping silver and trailing down to mingle with the curling locks of her hair.
Come to us and you may do just as you choose.

He saw their world then; the cool, eternal twilight and the sudden shafts of sun, how they flew free of even the hand of God that pinned man to earth. He felt the threat of death, time and care fall away. Nothing mattered but those who flew beside him through that half-light realm, not life, not soul. That was for the land, and the land was far away.

He strained toward that dream, but as he strained, he felt another tie binding him. It was not duty, not blood or his deeds and damnation. It was Morgaine, there on the shore. It was her will and his oath together holding him there. Anger rose up slowly, swelling like a storm wave. He had not felt the reality of that bond, but now that he knew it was there, he knew he would never lose the touch of it again.

She was using him. With that kiss she had demanded she had bound him to her because she needed what he could do now. He would have cried out to God, but God had made it abundantly clear that He was willing to leave his unrepentant prodigal to drift in this storm of lesser powers.

Very well.

Suddenly reckless, Colan caught up his cousin's hand. She smiled.
She thinks she has me.

“Listen to me, cousin,” he said softly so that Morgaine could not hear. “My sister has broken faith and cast me out. It is because of her I make my pact with Morgaine. Lynet, left me with nowhere else to turn. If not for that, I would not trouble you … but nor can I join with you.” They had known this when they cast out their invitation. He was sure of it. They tempted him for the same reason Morgaine had tested him, to see what he would do. “You spoke truly. I have made my choice, and I must be true to word and deed already committed. I know you would not welcome me if I were otherwise.”

He felt the push and pull between his strange cousins, and knew they communicated heart to heart.

We can raise up the seas against your sister, against our cousin, if she comes to us,
said the
morverch
. Her voice in his thoughts was flat yet keen, rhythmic as the waves and biting as the winter wind.
But if you would have it done, the price will be another life. If you seek death from us, you must pay for it with your own death. You must give us a life, Cousin, by blood or word. No stranger to you may pay this price in your stead.

A life.
The words pulsed in him.
Another life.
He looked to the woman who stood on the shore, and those who waited in the sea. He remembered all he had felt this morning. He felt himself leaning toward Morgaine, wanting to prove himself to her, to show his strength and his loyalty. This was true, and it was false. It was true because in his heart he wanted God and all the world to see him lead his land to safety where his father could not. But it was false, for Morgaine had bent and bound that desire to her own usage.

“A life for this deed,” he said quietly, facing the
morverch
once more. “One that is bound to me and mine to give. This I promise you.”

Did they know? He felt their currents running through him, bemused and shrewd. Oh, they knew. They perhaps had even hoped for it.

His cousin slid toward him. Whether she rose up or he sank down, he was not sure. But now her eyes were level with his own. For a moment, she pressed her cool cheek to his.
Beware of her, Cousin. Her plans run deep and long, and her eye sees farther in the dark than yours does at noon. We would not willingly harm you, but the
caprice of humans is not ours. We will do as we have said, and take what has been promised.

“I understand you.”

She glided away again to join her sisters. She smiled at him, and that smile was wicked and wild, sharp and fierce. Then she and all her sisters receded until their white forms mingled with the green and white sea waters, and all the wild liveliness contained within them released itself into the sea again, causing the waves to rise up and rush forward. The surge wet Colan to his chest and filled his ears with a roar that sounded like nothing so much as laughter.

The dream and the wonder were all gone. With clumsy, heavy strides, Colan dragged himself out of the frigid ocean to stand beside Morgaine.

“What did they say?”

For a confused moment, it was strange too look on her, so colorful and so still. The
morverch
filled his thoughts and senses. It would be a long time before he shook them off. Still, he mustered his attention for the woman in front of him. It would not be good to let his mind drift while he spoke with her. “They will do this thing, but there is a steep price. I must deliver to them a life, mine or another.”

She inclined her head regally. “You have done well, Colan. Do not fear. A life will be found.”

Heart and pride warmed to these words, and his belly knotted to feel it happening. “I am not afraid, my lady. I knew it would be so.”

“You are learning quickly, my young lord. I am pleased.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He bowed, a gesture which pleased her. She walked past him, and he followed her back up the steep, ragged path. The winds were bitter against his drenched skin and he clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. When they reached the horses once more, he undid the hobbles and helped Morgaine into her saddle, as befitted a good servitor, before he mounted his own horse.

“Where do we go now, my lady?” he asked, taking up his reins.

As she turned to look at him from one dark eye, Colan realized he had made a mistake. He had asked no questions when they came here, why should he ask them now?

“We go home, since you ask, my young lord,” she answered him, her words now holding a subtle edge. “We go home to wait.”

She wheeled her horse around and rode toward the east and the rising sun.

The cost of the passage was the horses.

The ship's master, a dour man whose four younger brothers who plied the oars with him, would not hear talk of gold. It would weigh him down, he said. His eyes glinted at the sight of the horses, though, betraying the fact that here was the answer to some dream, or debt. He was nominally Lord Donyerth's man, and the vessel he worked was nominally Lord Donyerth's ship, but the men who risked their lives on the channel were hard to hold, and could be dangerous if they decided to give their aid to an enemy. For Donyerth to compel the man's service in Lynet's name would mean another rumor and another grudge left behind them. Worse, it would mean more delay, for unwilling men seldom worked quickly. Of course, the master knew all of this, and it made him willing to stick to his original price in the face of all the persuasion Captain Hale and Lord Donyerth used against him. For passage up the channel for the six of them, it would be six horses and nothing less.

“Give him what he asks,” said Lynet when Captain Hale brought her the news. “Find out from Lord Donyerth if we are likely to find new mounts when we land at Huntspill. If we cannot, then he must spare us some.”

This much Donyerth could do. He provided six fresh mounts to replace their tired beasts now in the shipmaster's hands. Lynet had Hale count out some of their small store of gold as promise against the horses's return. Donyerth did not want to take it, but he did not turn it down either. He knew it was vital Lynet be seen as generous, and he and his lady made deep obeisance to her as they parted. That was a far better story to leave behind her.

The tide turned early that morning, shortly after full light. Bishop Austell celebrated mass with Donyerth's priest and they all took communion before setting out for the bay and their ship, where the shipmaster and his sons waited on the pebbly shore.

Donyerth's horses were experienced sailors it seemed. They did not protest when they were led aboard the low, round craft, nor when they were hobbled together. Lynet and Bishop Austell were bid to make themselves as comfortable as they could in the blunt bows. There they sat among nets, chests and coils of rope, so close together that their elbows bumped when the boat dipped unexpectedly. Hale, Lock and the three Trevailian brothers lent their hands to the work of casting off and plying the oars to pull their ship out into the open waters. There, the master raised the sail to catch the brisk morning wind and took his place at the steering oar.

Cambryn was inland from the coast, but not so far that Lynet had never sailed before. The steady rise and fall of the ship as it ran along the turquoise waves was deeply familiar to her, as was the creak of the wood and the smack and spray of the water. Sea birds trailed in their wake, hoping they'd churn up a fish or two with their passage, and the air smelled of fresh salt and cool water. Lynet inhaled it gratefully. Her head was still clouded and heavy from her strange night, but the cold air speedily cleared it.

If all went well, they would be two days on the water and another two on the land. Four days journey altogether, if wind and weather held. Five, or six, or longer if it did not. Her fingers curled around the mirror in her purse. Five or six days to get to Camelot, then. How long to get back? And what help could they gain? She thought about Ryol's tale of his powers. Could he see into the future, her spirit servant? Could he perhaps show her what she would meet at Camelot and how long it would take to accomplish their task? It would surely be worth asking. She itched to try. It would be a fine thing to drag certainty out of the morass of things unknown surrounding her.

“You are quiet this morning,” said Bishop Austell, breaking her reverie in two. He had wrapped his brown travelling cloak around himself and only the edges of his rich ecclesiastical robe showed. “Lady Cyda was concerned for your health, you know.”

Lynet chuckled softly. When one was the mother of nine, one could not help becoming mother of all, she supposed. “Lady Cyda concerns herself unduly. I slept heavily, that's all.”

“That's good to hear,” said the bishop, but there was a hint of skepticism in his voice. “It would be no wonder if sleep was a stranger after all you have been through.”

Lynet shrugged and pulled her own cloak more closely about herself. The wind was growing colder, or she was. “We are all in God's Hands.”

“Very pious of you, my daughter,” Austell replied drily. He sat in silence for a long moment, watching the oncoming waves. The wind ruffled his grey hair, and seemed to carve the lines of his weathered face that much more deeply. “I've been to many a war with your father. I prayed to God to bring us victory and exhorted the men to believe that He held us in those Hands you mentioned. I also gave the supreme unction to those same men as they screamed out for death.” His voice was so soft the wind nearly carried it off. “It is a terrible thing to see a man wounded in war die. They do not go quietly or well. There were times when I wished God would strike me blind before I had to witness it again. I still spend sleepless nights from it, and not one of those men I readied for death was my father, nor had the hand that struck them down been dear to me.”