For Camelot's Honor (11 page)

“Why does Morgaine concern herself with you?”

This was harder. Her mind rebelled. It was as if a wind swirled around her, buffetting and distracting her. “Because my mother would have allowed Arthur across the bridge.”

Silence again, and in that silence her will and vision at last began to waver. The old man who stood so still before her became nothing but a blur of light again.

“Please, please, I can't … I must …”
I must wait, I must wait. This is wrong. I must wait.
The darkness folded around her vision.

“You have been heard, daughter.” His voice was barely a whisper and fading until it was no more than the echo of a thought. “I have heard you. Believe that.”

She woke then, and she was as she had been, kneeling on the grass with the stars overhead. Pain throbbed in every joint, and yet, she was once again completely obedient, and the relief that swept through her was so great the pain of her waking felt like a blessing.

You have been heard, daughter.
The words echoed through memory.
I have heard you.

They meant than was said, those words. They meant her will was not entirely gone. They meant she could fight this thing. There was room still for her to bite the hand that held her so tightly.

Elen took that knowledge and drew it down deep into the hollow place inside where her heart had once been. She closed herself around that precious secret, and alone in the darkness, she waited.

Someone was shaking Geraint's shoulder. A haze of light penetrated the warm darkness of sleep.
What in Heaven?

“My lord Geraint. My lord, wake up.” Donal's voice reached him. Geraint opened his eyes. His squire stood beside the bed holding a lantern. His fair hair was still tousled from his own interrupted sleep.

“My lord, the high king summons you.”

Geraint swung his feet out from under the blankets. Around him, men shifted in their sleep, snored or muttered curses as they rolled over trying to get away from the light. Geraint had moved back into the barracks after Gawain's marriage. Unlike Agravain, he did not have enough he cared to keep that required the extra space, and a room to himself felt lonely, and not a little presumptuous.

Donal set the lantern down and scurried to the chest beside the bed for a robe while Geraint got his feet into his sandals. It felt to be near morning, but not near enough. He rubbed his face to try to clear the last of the sleep's fog from him.

Donal held up a burgundy robe lined in fur. Geraint pulled it over his head. His squire was still a few inches too short to easily drape a cloak around the shoulders of a tall man. Another summer would cure that.

Geraint nodded his readiness as he tied the robe's belt and Donal picked up the lantern and hurried before him to light the way out of the barracks and across the yard to Caerleon's main hall. The summer night was warm and dry, but the wind was chilly with dew. The hall was silent enough that his sandals and Donal's sounded overly loud as they slapped against the stones. No light welcomed them until they reached the king's private chamber. There, a fire burned in the roomy hearth and its light gleamed on the mosaiced floor, the rich tapestries and dark wooden furnishings. It filled the room with warmth and the smells of wood smoke. Arthur stood beside the hearth, his back and folded hands to the flames. Merlin stood to his left, clad as always in his simple, black robes and holding the white staff Geraint had never seen him without. Both men looked tired, and strained, but Geraint chiefly watched the king, even as he knelt. The Arthur's face was drawn, and his steady hands smoothed down the sleeve of his bright blue robe needlessly.

“Rise, Geraint,” said Arthur. “Your brothers will be joining us in a moment.”

My brothers?
Geraint did as he was bidden, his mouth suddenly dry.
Is it come then? Has our father died?
He looked to Merlin, and the socerer's wise eyes read his thought. Merlin shook his head.
But what else would call us all here?

The paige opened the door, and Agravain and Gawain entered, accompanied by their squires. They were both in green robes trimmed with grey fur, and both were uncombed and unshaven. But where Gawain looked alert and concerned, Agravain simply looked annoyed. There was comfort in so familiar a sight.

Geraint's elder brothers knelt before the king and were raised up. Their boys joined Donal standing with their backs to the far wall, waiting until they were called. Arthur looked to them. “You may go,” he said. Then to the paige. “You as well.”

The boys looked to one another, uneasy at this strange command, even as their elders did. But they knelt and they filed out the door to the corridor, but not without many a backward glance at their masters.

When the door was closed again, Gawain was the first to speak.

“What's the matter, Majesty?”

“That is yet uncertain, Gawain.” Arthur's voice was heavy, but Geraint could not tell what weighed it down so. It was far more than lack of sleep. “Adara of Pont Cymryd, she had a daughter named Elen, did she not?”

Had? The Lady Elen? What has happened?
Geraint saw before him the graceful maid with her merry, searching eyes. He'd done no more than share a few glances with her, and yet, days later he could recall each one of them, along with every line of her face and form.

“She did, Majesty,” he made himself answer calmly. “Has there been news?”

The king looked to Merlin, who gave the answer. “Elen is captive, of Urien, and of Morgaine.”

Geraint felt the fibers of his body harden into stillness at those words.

“Which is why I wanted you all here with me,” Arthur was saying. Geraint barely heard him. He saw Elen again, the quiet smile, the grace, the eyes that spoke of a wise and perceptive woman waiting within the dutiful maiden. He thought of the hall that was so much like their home had been in better days. He saw Urien on his feet, making his sly insinuations and blatant slanders.

“Morgaine?” Agravain was frowning hard. “What means she to us?”

“She is your mother's sister,” said the king, looking at the fire as he said it. “And mine. She concerns us.” He did not look up. He would speak to them of Morgaine, but would not meet their eyes. It was a strange thing. It discomfited Geraint and he was not alone. Gawain was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Geraint also noticed that Gareth was not here. The king spoke of blood and family, and yet left him out. Well, he was still mostly a boy, and had been barely walking when their mother Morgause had left them to try to set matters right with her sister Morgaine. It would be natural enough for their uncle to assume he knew nothing of these matters. Now was not the time to correct him.

A long necked wine jar waited on a table beside the hearth with some small cups. Gawain, upon receiving a nod of permission from their uncle, poured a drink for himself. He downed most of it before he spoke. “I thought Morgaine died years ago,” he said to the dregs of his cup.

“No. Not dead,” answered Merlin. “Confined only.”

Agravain folded his arms. “You are very certain of this.”

The sorcerer nodded.

Anger darkened Agravain's face. “If you know so much of the matter then why do you bring us here? We were only boys when our mother left us and she never spoke of her sister. You clearly know much more than we.”

But it was Gawain who had the answer, and he gave it to the king. “Because, Uncle, you believe this is much more than a conflict over a bridge and a small cantrev in Whales.”

Arthur nodded. “It could soon become that.”

Gawain set the cup down. This was more familiar territory, and Geraint could see the urge for doing grow warm within his oldest brother. “Does Morgaine rally against you, Sir?”

“Yes.” Still the king watched the fire. What did he see in the flames? It seemed to Geraint some heavy memory waited there for him and that he could not turn away.

“Has she strength?” Gawain wanted to know. Of course he did. “Or only shadows?”

Merlin's answer was quiet, but quick. “Gawain, you of all men know better than to dismiss shadows such as these.”

For a moment, Geraint thought Gawain was going to blush. “Forgive me,” he said with a small bow. “I spoke my hope, not my mind.”

“So men may in the darkness,” said Merlin evenly, but his hands still gripped his white staff tightly. “Does she herself have martial strength? I do not know. We do know, however, that Urien does have strength of this kind.”

It was Geraint's turn to nod.

“And that is what we must deal with first of all,” said Arthur, turning around at last. “This other … this other you needed to know.” Geraint thought he wanted to say more, but in the end, he lost that struggle, and kept it to himself. “Let Bedivere come in,” he said.

Which would end all talk of Morgaine. There were perhaps half-a-dozen living souls who knew of her relationship to the king, and all but the queen and Gareth were in this room.

The door was duly opened, and Sir Bedivere followed by the train of squires and paiges came in to kneel before Arthur, and be raised up. The boys immediately set to their duties, bringing chairs and wine for their masters and retreating to wait by the walls until they were needed. Curiosity burned bright in them, but they would have to learn to accustom themselves to it. Bedivere most certainly also wondered at what council had been taken that excluded him, but he said nothing and gave no sign of impatience. It was enough for him to know that the High King had wished him to wait.

“Tell us, Bedivere,” said Arthur as he sipped his wine. “How warmly does Urien strive against us?”

“Most warmly,” Bedivere replied, looking to Geraint, who nodded his confirmation. “Or so the men of Pont Cymryd believe. They say he has been riding amongst his kinsmen and fellow chieftains, making loud orations against the High King, and they have been opening their ears. Pont Cymryd was only one of the houses he visited.”

Arthur frowned into his cup. “Since my father's time, trouble has come on us from the West. It was where cursed Vortiger chose to hide himself while he gathered his own strength. I had hoped the embassies would be in time to stem this latest, but it seems we were too slow.” He drank a long swallow of the warm, watered wine. “Has Urien had time to do any more than talk?”

Bedivere shrugged. “Some said yes, some said no.” The pinned sleeve that concealed the stump of his arm tapped restlessly against his thigh as another man might drum his fingers. “His anger and defamation in Adara's house was real enough. I don't believe he is a man to offer insults where he is not ready to back them with steel.”

The men nodded and murmured their agreement with the logic of this assesment, and fell silent, waiting for the king to speak.

“We need to know more of this Urien and his plans, but we also need to ready our men.” Arthur's voice changed as he spoke, becoming sure and strong once more. To Geraint, it seemed Arthur was setting aside some old and painful part of himself, with gratitude. Could even the thought of Morgaine make a man such as he grateful for talk of war? “The Lady Adara looked with favor on our offers. We must be ready at once to defend her. If her daughter is already captive … we may be too late, but if we cannot offer rescue to the parent, we can offer vengeance and succor for the children. My lord Bedivere, who can we best send who can see and not be seen?”

Bedivere paused, considering, and Geraint knew he could not wait for his answer.

“I will go,” he said.

All the men turned to look at him, and he had to work to hold himself still beneath their varying gazes. Bedivere looked surprised. Scorn was fast filling Agravain's eyes. Gawain looked cautious. But the king, who was the only one who mattered in this, looked thoughtful.

The one who looked as if he had expected these words was Merlin.

“You're known there, Geraint,” said Bedivere. “We cannot risk Urien catching word that our men are abroad at this time.”

Geraint had his answer ready. “The man from Camelot is known there, clean shaven, in mail and madder cloak. No one's seen the wandering fighter peddling rough wares.” His smile was tight. “The men of the west and we
scoti
are not so different in our home lands.” He wondered if his brothers would take exception to that, but neither spoke up.

Not that Agravain intended to remain silent. Of course. “Geraint,” he said sternly. “This is not for you.”

Geraint faced his brother. “Why not?”

Agravain gave out a strangled sigh of impatience, as a man might at having to explain the obvious. “It is for someone who knows the country and the man. You would be of no use there.” Agravain looked to Bedivere for confirmation, but that captain kept his council behind his own eyes.

Geraint himself turned towered his king. “Sir, I ask you to let me go.”

Arthur looked closely at Geraint for a moment, and then glanced toward Merlin. The old cunning man also watched Geraint. His gaze was heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm, or like the knowledge of an enemy, but what he saw with that gaze, Geraint could not say.

Then, Merlin inclined his head. “Let him go.”

“Sir!” Agravain started to his feet, remembered whose company he was in, and sat down again. “This is nonsense,” he said, gritting his teeth in an attempt to control himself. “The ones who go may need to hold congress and conversation with Urien to ascertain his plans. Geraint will be known as soon as he opens his mouth. Then there will be one more hostage for Urien to bargain with, if indeed this Elen is still more than cold clay.”

Merlin did not rise to those words. He only pushed the tip of his staff back and forth across the floor tiles, but anger, sharp and unfamiliar flashed through Geraint. “Do you say this is beyond my skills, Agravain?” he asked softly.

Agravain was never one for gentle speech. His words were easily as hard as his hands. “I think you have spent too much time listening to Gawain expounding on the need for heroics.”

“Perhaps you have not spent enough.”

Gawain opened his mouth to say something consoling, but Agravain spoke first. “I will remember those words, brother, when Urien has cut off your head and hoisted it on his pike. Then they will give me great comfort. If his Majesty will give me leave to depart, I will see you in the morning.” Agravain knelt before his chair, his head unbowed and his face absolutely uncompromising.

In the face of this, Arthur, to Geraint's surprise, spoke most mildly. “His Majesty does not give you leave, Agravain, for you will accompany your brother.”

“Sir?”

Agravain's shock made both Bedivere and Gawain grin, but Arthur remained quite serious. “This task calls for prudence more than gallantry, for a sharp mind as well as sharp eyes. If the battle is already joined, it will call for skill with the map as well as men. Were he not so well known, I would send Kai, but instead you will go.”

Slowly, and not without a struggle against himself, Agravain closed his mouth and bowed his head in acceptance. What other answer could he make? The king's words were a compliment, and an order. He could not argue them without defaming himself, and as brutal as he might be with others, Agravain felt his own worth keenly.

A thing we all have in common, we brothers.
Geraint looked across to Gawain. He too seemed to be enjoying the king's choice, but there was still a troubled mind behind his eyes. Geraint could well understand that.