Camelot & Vine (26 page)

-----

A barefoot priestess, her robe the color of
a mushroom, stepped in under the eaves of the small hut where I
sat. “Vivien sends this,” she said, handing me a steaming cup.
“Medicine. It’s strong.”

It would be, coming from Vivien. The high
priestess, Vivien was the island’s ultimate power. I took the cup
with my right hand because my left arm was in a sling. The
priestess stepped aside to wait by the door.

Agravain and I sat in chairs, facing each
other across a cot. Gareth lay between us, barely conscious and so
weak it took all his energy to breathe. Agravain’s expression was
unreadable as usual. He had bathed, as I had, and like me he wore a
muslin robe much like that of the priestess. Though he and I had
spent most of the last five days together he rarely made eye
contact. Now, he watched with interest to see what magic I would
exert over the cup.

I glared at the vessel. Gareth’s improvement
had been slow to nonexistent. I was exhausted of my pretense and
anxious for a way to stop it. But the intensity of Agravain’s gaze
told me this was not the moment. I moved my lips in silent
incantation, to whom I didn’t know:
Please help Gareth, please
take care of him, bring him back to health, save him,
please!

I nodded to Agravain and he lifted his
brother’s head. Gareth, who looked like Agravain’s ghost, took only
a little of the medicine. Agravain laid Gareth back on the pillows
and folded his strong hands in his lap to wait for the next time
they might be of use.

Gareth’s injury had turned out to be a hole,
the size of my fist, above his abdomen. When I finally saw it in
daylight I almost fainted, something I thought only happened in old
movies. Myrddin had snapped at me, insisting I collect myself and
assist him as he treated it. At first my job had been to bring
clean materials and wring the blood out of rags, but at the end
Myrddin had me holding the skin together while he stitched.

“How’s the patient?” Myrddin peeked in from
the sunny out-of-doors, letting his bass tones curl softly across
the room.

“The same,” I said.

“Wait for me outside.” He’d been chilly
toward me since we’d arrived on the island.

Agravain, his patience infinite, remained at
his brother’s side. “Can I get you anything?” I asked him.

He shook his head. I knew from experience he
wouldn’t leave Gareth, not even to eat. I’d send him something from
the kitchen.

The priestess still waited by the door.
Together we stepped out onto the threshold overlooking a broad
meadow, the center of the settlement. A flock of grazing sheep took
no notice of us.

“Your healing magic is a blessing for
Gareth,” said Morgan le Fay. She smiled. The crow’s feet and square
jaw made her Arthur’s half-sister. She had handed down her long,
slim fingers and high cheekbones to their son, Medraut.

“I don’t think it’s helping.”

“You’ve done well for him,” she said. “I can
see it strains you.” On her the square jaw was as noble as Arthur’s
but elegant, too, and the gray eyes were more calm than sad. “I
know you’re wounded, too,” she said, “but Gareth needs all you can
give.”

“I can only do my best.”

“Of course.”

I had nothing to offer. I was near the end
of my vast store of pretense. The pressure of it tightened the
muscles in my neck and shoulders.

Myrddin emerged from the hut, running his
fingers through his thin, white hair. “He’s resting,” he said.
“Morgan, may I leave your cousin in your charge? I’d like to walk
with Casey while we still have the sun.”

He strode away with his usual purpose of
step, scattering sheep in his wake. I trotted after him across the
upward slope, up the grass toward the dominating Tor, leaving
behind the huts that circled the meadow’s lower edge like brown
jewels around a green throat. Above us on the Tor’s terraced
flanks, priestesses harvested grain, the fullness of their
mushroom-colored robes pulled up between their legs and tucked into
their belts. Wide-brimmed, cloth hats shaded their necks from the
sun.

When I caught up to him, Myrddin said, “You
are well enough now to tell me what happened to your arm.”

“Oh. Well, it was pretty chaotic out
there.”

“Of course, it was a battle. Did your injury
occur while you were protecting Arthur with the magic branch?”

We reached the lowest terrace of the Tor and
began to ascend. Myrddin slowed to a stroll, his hands resting
comfortably behind his back. I trudged and panted, only one arm
free to balance me.

“No.”

“Because it appears,” Myrddin barreled
through my answer, “that either your arm was caught by something
and you pulled it harder than I would think possible, or someone
powerful was helpful enough to shove it out of its socket for
you.”

I didn’t answer right away. We gained
height, walking the terraces and circling the Tor above the
meadows, looking out over the apple orchard to the small lake
beyond. The way continued upward to where the terraces ended and a
dirt path began, encircling the conical hill. The incline burned my
thighs and made my lungs hungry. Morning walks around the Cadebir
perimeter hadn’t exactly gotten me into athletic shape. Breathless
as I was, from that height I could appreciate the poetry of the
eastern plains. Their grasses flowed in waves to the mossy edges of
the lake that made Ynys Witrin an island. To the north, more
sun-gold hills rose above the wetlands, and when we rounded the
Tor’s western side, the shining opulence of the marshes moved me as
they undulated toward the distant sea.

I had to trust someone.

“Lancelot says I have to leave or die.”

“Ah. Where will you go?”

I hadn’t expected that. “I was hoping you’d
know what to do.”

“You’re the great wizard from the future. I
should think the answer would be clear.”

It was clear I had only made things worse
for myself at Cadebir. I’d thought it through in my few days on the
island: if I told Arthur I had no magic he might have me killed for
lying. He’d at least exile me. And if he knew Lancelot had
threatened me it could jeopardize their alliance, so for Arthur’s
sake I didn’t want to tell him. I might find a place among the
Saxons if I discovered the spy and allied with him. But I’d have to
be a traitor to Arthur to do it. Even if I could stomach that,
which I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be safe with Arthur’s enemies. There
weren’t a lot of options and they were all bad.

Myrddin and I climbed a flight of steps that
looked like they’d been carved into the hillside in a previous
century. They brought us to the top of the Tor. There, a stone wall
encircled two small buildings that flanked a blackened hearth,
scorched by the fires of thousands of years and big enough to
barbecue a mammoth.

We sat on the wall and watched over the
tapestry of Arthur’s world. Beneath us, priestess hats bobbed along
the rows of grain. Sheep floated on the meadow in tiny cotton
clouds. In the orchard, branches quivered, ceding apples to the
harvesters’ hands. Past the apple trees, the lake’s dark waters
lapped at the quiet shore. In the distance, a last glimpse of
Cadebir rose above the southern plain before the mist rolled over
the water, closing us off from the outside world.

“I’m not a wizard, Myrddin,” I said. “But
you already know that.”

He sighed and put his arm around me. “I
understand lying to protect one’s self in fear. But you haven’t
time for it anymore.”

I began to cry because he was right on both
counts: I was scared and it was too late. I hated to cry. I never
had anything to blow my nose on. “Could I stay here at Ynys?”

He patted my sore shoulder gently. “For a
time, perhaps. No man but the king enters here without permission
from Vivien. But if Lancelot is determined, he’ll find a way.
You’ve usurped his position as Arthur’s closest friend.”

“He’s afraid I’ll disclose his affair.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would never do anything to hurt any of
them.”

“Except Gareth?”

I sniffed. “I didn’t make him worse, did
I?”

“There’s a perfectly good physician at Beran
Byrig. You were mere hours away, yet you insisted that Gareth jolt
about in a wagon for an entire day to come here instead. That day
was precious time.”

Guilt ran through my veins, slowing my blood
like lead. “You’ve done everything you could for him, haven’t
you?”

“Of course I have. But his condition is
grave.” He pressed his lips together. “If he dies, you could be
blamed. Arthur expects great things from you. He knows my
limitations, but he doesn’t know yours.”

I hadn’t thought of Gareth. I’d thought only
of myself. Maybe Lancelot was right. I had to leave. “I could head
south, try to find passage to Gaul.” Gareth had been the first
person in the Dark Ages to give me a smile. If he died it would be
my fault. Of all the people there, he’d be the first to forgive me.
“But I don’t think I’d make it. And that’s just running away.”

“There is one other option,” said Myrddin.
“There is the Gap.”

I half-laughed. “It’s not possible.”

He straightened. “I’ve made twenty-five
batteries.”

Twenty-five thousand batteries couldn’t do
the impossible. Leave or die. Those were my only real choices, and
they were what I deserved.

“I’ve done everything wrong, Myrddin. I wish
I could start over.”

Myrddin’s black eyes flashed with something
like a scold. “If you should ever get a chance to start again,” he
said, “do begin with the truth next time.”

THIRTY-FOUR

At dusk, Vivien stood on the topmost rung of
the ladder, picking apples with the vigor of a teenager. When I
told her I’d like to stay at Ynys Witrin she said I’d have to
become a priestess and worship the goddess. I said I’d try.

“We accept no false worshipers,” said the
elder, eyeing me from where she towered among wizened branches.
“You must seek reverence in your heart or the goddess will find you
out.”

“Okay.”

“You will work the fields and orchards as
well.” She handed her basket down the ladder to me. A full basket
of ripe apples weighs about as much as a person.

Vivien climbed to the ground, then lifted
the ladder with one hand. “Dance with us tonight in the sacred
grove. The young ones will anoint themselves with mandragora. You
and I shall not, as we must remain alert for the sake of our
charges.” She winked. My charge was Gareth. I was on call.

We each took a handle and carried the basket
through the orchard toward the kitchen. Gnarled old branches hung
heavy and low. There was plenty of work to do on the island. I
could learn to pick apples.

-----

Vivien’s veined arms swept up to grab at the
stars in the treetops. No fabric bound her small breasts. No
ribbons tamed the long, wild hair that flowed away from her
upturned face in shades of white to ash to slate. The shadow of her
slim, strong form floated inside her robe, giving the feeling she
could dance a ballet one minute and uproot a tree the next.

The younger priestesses raised their arms,
too. Palest moonlight filtered into the grove and dusted their
bodies, glinting on the greasy spots between their breasts where
they’d rubbed the mandragora ointment. Most had thrown their robes
aside because the night was warm; muslin swayed in the branches
like ghost faeries in the surrounding grove.

With toes digging into earth and leaves, the
women danced in a pattern among the trees, chanting, “Rigantona,
Rigantona, Rigantona...” I followed, a beat behind, waving my free
arm while my sore one rested in its sling, my chant not exactly
earnest, but hopeful. Beside me, Morgan sang to the goddess,
letting her head rock from side to side. When I fell out of step I
watched her feet to find my way back into the pattern. We moved
forward and back, side to side, a simple sway with the chant as we
progressed through the grove. I closed my eyes and tried to let the
chant overtake me as it had Morgan and the others, but I fell out
of step again.

When I opened my eyes I found Vivien
watching me, her expression receptive, as warm as the embers of the
bonfire we’d made on the beach. I thought she knew what I knew:
while the priestesses grew more serene in their song, I grew more
certain I could only imitate it. I was going through the motions.
It would never be otherwise.

Whether or not the goddess Rigantona would
find me out was irrelevant. I had found myself out.

-----

An hour later I walked back to the
settlement, leaving the priestesses to dance until the mandragora
visions subsided. Upon the black lake, the reflection of the waxing
moon rocked with the water’s gentle undulations.

I picked up a stone and held it. I could
pray—for Gareth to get well, for Lancelot to let me stay, for King
Arthur to care about me. But no god or goddess could make others do
what I wanted them to do.

“Help me know what to do,” I whispered to
the stone.

I aimed for the moon’s reflection and threw.
The milky disk split into twenty moons, shivering on the water.

-----

An oil lamp burned in the kitchen. Someone,
perhaps a novice, was at work. The rest of the settlement slept.
Sheep huddled together, murmuring in a contented, woolly drift at
the base of the Tor. In utter darkness, I crossed the meadow to the
huts.

A lone figure sat silhouetted in moonlight
at the doorway to Gareth’s hut.

“Is Gareth sleeping?” I asked Myrddin as I
came near.

The old man raised his weary head to gaze
past me to the orchard, the Tor, the stars.

“Young Gareth of Orkney is dead.”