For Camelot's Honor (19 page)

“Take great care of what you say, Man. You know nothing of what you speak.”

Kneel, Geraint,
Elen urged silently.
Make your apology.

But Geraint held his ground. “I speak only of what I have seen.”

The Lord stepped forward, face to face with Geraint, his pale eyes looking into Geraint's blue ones.
No. Do not look.
But Geraint did look, and he stood still and solid.

“Of what you have seen,” said the Lord. “But not of all that you have seen with those eyes.”

Geraint made no answer, but neither did his aspect change. The Lord had put no working on him then. Probably. Was there any way to know?

“You speak as if you would have us right these wrongs, Sir Quiet,” said the Lady, mildly. “Is that so?”

Now Geraint bowed his head. Elen saw his hand tremble with the effort of his words. “That is not for me to say.”

“Then who can say? Adara's daughter?” Elen felt the silken touch of the Lady's gaze upon her.

She swallowed. Her head was too full of what she had seen and heard, too dizzied by this place and these beings. Only slowly did the proper words assemble themselves. “If I were to speak of this, I would ask how these wrongs may be righted.”

The Lord turned to his Lady. The silence between them was deep and heavy as winter's snows, and yet Elen felt some chord of communication singing between them.

At last, the Lady nodded once. “It would be a worthy question, if asked. What would you give for its answer?”

“What price would be required?” countered Elen.

The Lady gave a show of considering, but the feeling grew in Elen that the decision was already made. Perhaps it had been made before they even set foot on the white road. “There is in your place a thing that was taken from our hands. We would have it returned.”

Elen's mind raced, trying to remember the whole contents of the treasury. What could they have taken from the fae? Neither of her parents were foolhardy enough to knowingly keep anything that belonged to such as these. The story of Maius the smith and his fate was too well known.

“Why do you not take it yourselves?” asked Geraint.

The Lord's face soured. “It was freely given. It can only be freely returned. This is the law.”

That word here meant much more than the word of men written in a book or remembered by the elders. Rather, to those who stood before them, law was a thing like the rising and setting of the sun. It must be because the world itself was so ordered.

Elen wondered how this thing they sought had come to be given away, but she knew far better than to ask so much.

Geraint was looking to her. The Lord and the Lady also watched, waiting for her to speak. She must be careful. What she said now would be irrevocable. It would be as set as the stars and the sun in their courses. She must not be mistaken in this.

She licked her lips again. She was so thirsty. She was so tired. She wanted to make any promise, just to leave this bright, cold, beautiful place. She looked again at the mortal nurse and her vacant eyes and a shiver of fear ran through her.

“Should I find this thing,” she said, “And should it not defile the honor, name and life of me or mine to return it to its proper place, I swear before all the gods that I will do so.”

The Lady and her Lord were still as death, and yet waves of anger rolled from them, crashing against Elen's mind and soul. Geraint touched her arm, but she could not tell whether it was to give or receive reassurance. Yet, she stood, and as her breaths came and went, the fear ebbed. Had she not been within her right to make such a qualified promise, she would have fallen before the strength of that anger, but despite her tremors, she stood.

At last, the Lord said. “Very well. The thing you seek is in the hands of Gwiffert pen Lleied, called by men the Little King. He carries with him a certain spear, sometimes named the spear of Manawyddan. One virtue of that spear is that it will strike whatever it is aimed at, and return at once to the hand of he who weilds it. When it does strike, it will kill even the deathless. This is the weapon that will defeat Urien and his works in your land.”

Manawyddan?
Elen was startled to hear the name. It came from legend. Manawyddan was husband to Rhiannon and had suffered with her many strange adventures when they were taken into slavery by an evil power. She could even now hear poor Bevan's voice as he sang the lay, speaking of how Manawyddan's cleverness saved wife and friends.

Elen set that aside and bowed deeply. “Thank you, Lady, Lord,” she said. To other mortals she might have added assurances that she would keep her promise, but with these two there was no need. A promise to them would be kept, one way or another.

“My thanks as well,” said Geraint, bowing from the waist in a dignified fashion that he surely learned in Arthur's court. “I add my word to this lady's and her promise is mine.”

Gratitude and fear warred with each other inside Elen. Could he possibly truly understand what his words bound him to? But it was too late. He had spoken, and it was done.

The Lady smiled at his words, and the smile was both languid and contemplative. “So very brave, Sir Quiet. It is a shame you and I did not meet before you became so much promised.”

Elen swallowed.
What answer can he make?
But Geraint made no answer at all, he only bowed, his face grave and his eyes downcast. But surely he felt it, the heat of thinly veiled promise in those words. The Lord certainly did, for shadow seemed to gather about him as he frowned.

“You will have to look sharp to find what you seek,” he said shrewdly to Geraint. “There are eyes that see the naked and eyes that see the hidden knife. From whence came the eyes that see what you see?”

Geraint's jaw tightened and for a moment, Elen thought she saw fear in him, but before she even had time to wonder about it, it was gone. Those words were for the Lady as well, and whatever they conveyed, turned her languid smile into a frown.

We must leave. Now.
Before the anger had a chance to grow, before they became more deeply tangled in these threads.

Thankfully, the Lady seemed to think the same. “Our knights will set you on your road,” said the Lady before Geraint could make any reply to the Lord's cryptic words. “Fare you well, Adara's daughter, Sir Quiet.”

There was nothing then to do but kneel again in respect, and wait while the knights on their white horses came forward again to surround them. It was only with considerable coaxing from Geraint that their poor over-frightened horse was able to move again. It plodded forward, its hide sweating and trembling from the strain of being in this place. Elen knew exactly how the poor beast felt. It was as well the hawk was only hungry.

They had not gone many yards before Elen glanced back and saw that the Lady and Lord and all their retinue had vanished behind the shimmering haze. Another few yards, and she looked back again, and the knights behind them were also gone. Then, between one eyeblink and another, the knights to left and right were gone, and there were only the two ahead. And she saw the white road beneath their feet had turned to rutted dirt and old stone, and she saw the tree trunks were black and brown and speckled with moss, and there were once more shadows beneath their branches, and the air was warm and the breeze blew in her hair.

And sometime while she saw all these things, the last two of their escort vanished, and she and Geraint were alone in the world.

Elen looked about her, dazed. They stood in a sloping wood. The air around them was full of the warm scents of summer and growing things. The sounds were all the everyday sounds of singing birds and small animals. Oak, beech, chestnut and hazel grew close around them. Wherever the sunlight fell through their branches, ferns and bracken spread their leaves to drink it deeply. While relief flooded her, Elen was still dizzy. The change from the land of the fae to the mortal world was too abrupt and her mind reeled at it.

Beside her, Geraint was breathing hard as if he had just run a great distance. His face hardened, and slowly, determinedly, he began to master himself, quieting his breathing, stilling his shaking hands.

When he could speak again, he said, “We should seek the high ground. We should view the country over and see where … they have brought us.”

Tired as she was, Elen could not fault this, so she nodded her agreement. They climbed slowly up the steepening slope, leading the fractious, balky horse. The forest around them was old enough that there was very little undergrowth — only drifts of brown leaves and the rustling of branches and the sudden motions of the startled animals. They found a stream running down a culvert and they stopped to drink deeply. The horse also had his fill, and afterwards was more ready to cooperate. The hawk flapped in agitation, its hunger sharpening at the sight and sounds of the forest's animals. It would grow frantic with that hunger soon. So would Elen. She was uncertain what to do. They had nothing but the clothing on their backs. Geraint's arm had begun bleeding again, and her wrist throbbed where the hawk's talons had cut it. Climbing one handed was awkward, and the hawk's irritation pressing on her mind was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

At last, the gloomy woods gave way to open hillside, a sea of grass and a riot of wildflowers. Mountains stood out smoky blue against the horizon in every direction, and the air was fresh and filled with the green scents of summer.

In the middle of all of this empty beauty, there stood a horse.

It was a tall, dapple grey gelding, and fully harnessed and saddled. It must have been there for some time, because it had worked its wooden bit loose and was chomping steadily at the meadow grass. It looked up when it saw them, and then, unperturbed by their abrupt arrival, returned to its meal.

Geraint and Elen stared at each other for a moment. Then, Geraint handed Elen the reins for their horse and walked over to the grey. He caught the beast easily by the bridle. It made no move to flee him, only snorted in annoyance because his handling interfered with its grazing. He patted its neck, and in return it nuzzled his shoulder. Finding nothing of interest there, it returned to grazing.

Geraint cast about the meadow, but like Elen, he saw no sign of another human, nor any sign that anyone had recently passed this way. Elen approached with the other beasts. The horse was too busy with its meal to take any notice of them. A grey blanket roll behind its saddle looked thick and clean. Its plain leather saddlebags were bulging from their contents. The saddle itself was also plain, except for a small design of knots and birds around its edges. Elen bent closer.

“There is something written here.”

Geraint came beside her.
“Liber Donatus Sum,”
he read. “I am freely given.”

Elen stared at the beast, understanding coming to her. “It is from the Lady.”

Geraint looked at her, and looked again at the horse. “Why?”

Elen's mouth bent into a wry smile. “She likes you.”

That thought did more than make the knight uncomfortable. A vague trace of fear flitted across his face.

Proving yet again you are no fool, Sir Geraint.

“Is there harm in it?” was all he asked aloud.

“More harm if you reject her gift. That,” Elen ran her fingertip over the inscription. “Says there is no obligation with this.”
Gods all, let me be right.

Geraint nodded, but he also patted and stroked the horse again, as if to satisfy himself by touch that it was a real creature.

The hawk cried piteously, stretching its neck toward the sky and beating the air so strongly with its wings it almost broke Elen's grip on its leashes.

“She must hunt.” Geraint said.

“Yes.” The hunger was constant now, and the growing frustration. She wanted to fly this moment, to fill her hunger and ease the constant ache of her wings. But there was the other thing, the beating in the hawk's chest that resounded in the empty place within Elen. “I'm afraid what will happen if she does not come back,” she admitted.

Geraint nodded, his face serious and gentle. “I think she must come back.”

He was right. The bird too was a prisoner of this curse. Despite that, Elen's hand shook a little as she unwrapped the jesses from her gloved wrist. As soon as the slender tethers loosened, the hawk flapped her wings and rose high into the darkening sky, calling out her freedom once before wheeling around to catch the wind and vanishing over the trees.

Elen shivered. She felt herself straining, but toward what she could not say.

“Are you … well?” asked Geraint.

Elen shook herself. She was cold, but she was used to that now. Her heartbeat was gone, and there was not enough sound or motion in the world to make up for that lack. “I don't know,” she admitted. “But I don't think I am any worse.”
Move,
she ordered herself.
Do something. Do not stand here looking at the sky.

“A pity she's not trained. She could bring us dinner.”

Elen was a little surprised that she hadn't thought of that. The hunger in her belly was now fully her own, and it was no less sharp than the hawk's had been.

“Perhaps she might yet.” Elen turned toward the horizon. She reached with her mind, seeking the beating of her heart that was now so far away. For a moment, the world blurred, and over the sight of trees and the stream nearby she saw brown and green sweeping past beneath her, and then all slowed and dipped and stilled. In a meadow of sunburnt grass and drowsing wildflowers she saw a brace of brown rabbits, loping slowly, nibbling at the grass. The rabbits saw nothing, smelled nothing. She was still, she was still, and she folded her wings, and she plummeted for the ground, talons outstretched.

Elen felt the animal's back snap in two in her hands and that sensation brought a rush of triumph so great it was almost unbearable.

Elen pulled herself away. She was shaking again, she realized, but this time from the intensity, and delight of the successful hunt.

Geraint watched her and his silence was almost more than she could stand.

“I can reach her,” she said, fighting to keep her voice under control. “I think I can … suggest that she bring us a meal.”

“Has she a name?” Geraint asked abruptly.

Elen almost asked who, then realized he meant the hawk. “None that I know.”

Geraint squinted up at the sky. “She should have a name.” He turned away then, and began an inspection of the grey's saddle bags. There were flints for striking a fire, clean white cloths for bandaging, good white bread, wooden spoons and bowls, a clay cooking pot, packets of dried pottage and a skin of beer. There was also a stone-bladed hatchet and a matching knife.

“No metals,” remarked Geraint, testing the edge of the hatchet blade with his thumb. “Is the food safe for us?”

The bread was fresh, and the smell of it set Elen's mouth to watering. “I think so. I think in this she means us … you … well.”

“In this,” added Geraint.

Elen turned her mind again to the hawk. Instantly, she felt the warmth of rich, raw meat in her mouth and felt muscle tear and bone break under her fingers. It should have been appalling, but instead it redoubled her own hunger until her stomach cramped up within her.

Then it was done, and the hawk lifted her head. Elen collected herself and composed her thoughts. She thought of the ecstasy of hunting, of the kill, and she thought of the comfort of the hawk returning, and of the thump of prey landing at her own feet.

The hawk cried once and launched itself into the air with a dizzying rush. It would do this, Elen was sure, and there was a kind of freedom in that certainty. In her mind's eye, she watched the trees beneath her, amazed at how distinct each leaf appeared even as they rushed past beneath. She watched the deer and badgers, the squirrels and the ground birds that scurried into the trees as her shadow passed over them. The part of her self that was still in her body realized she wanted to feel again the joy that came with the kill again, and the shock of that understanding brought her abruptly back.

Geraint was watching her again, a clean strip of cloth held loose and forgotten in his hands.

Elen wanted to speak, but she had no words. Instead, she walked to him and took the cloth. He held out his arm for her attentions. His blood stained his tunic sleeve. She rolled that back. The arm beneath was caked with gore, but the wound under that was fairly clean. There was no sign of pus or angry flesh, and no smell to it. Elen bound it with the clean cloth and noted his skin was warm under her ungloved hand, and that his arm was smooth and well-shaped. She thought of his kiss, and how his embrace had been strong, yet gentle. At another time, her cheeks would have heated up, but such blushes seemed beyond her abilities now.

She began to turn away, but Geraint caught her wrist. She stared, uncertain of what he meant to do, her own unbidden thoughts of their kiss still swirling in her mind. He took her gauntleted hand, and carefully, he began to remove the glove. She thought she did not want him to see the wounds on her wrist, but she made no move to stop him as he pulled the glove off. There was no blood. There was torn flesh, torn badly in several places and it was red and pink, but it did not bleed as it should have. The gaps were obscene somehow in their nakedness. Geraint did not flinch at the sight. He turned her hand in his, examining the wounds, which in all other ways were clean.

“I think if this had bled you would not be standing now.” His voice was thick. He swiftly brought out another bandage and bound her wrist quickly and competently.

But then, he would be used to such work.
She watched his bent head and shoulders. He smelled of horse and warmth and salt sweat. She wanted to touch him again, wanted to press against him and feel his heart beating against her.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Geraint bowed over her hand and she felt the warmth of his fingertips where he touched her. Again, memory of their kiss shivered through her body. Elen caught his glance and in the depths of his blue eyes, she saw he was remembering too.

Neither of them spoke. What could be said at that moment that would not be either perilous or absurd? Instead, in unspoken accord, they set about the tasks of making a camp. There was no going further today. Too much had happened. They needed rest and food. They needed calm for a space, and Elen, if she was honest with herself, needed time to remember that shared peril and the need that survival brought could mimic the passions of love. She had heard of this in tales her mother told, but she had not before understood how strong the feeling could be.

Geraint began at once seeing to the horses — removing their harness, rubbing them down with twists of meadow grass, checking their hooves for stones and their legs for any hurt they might have taken. Elen ventured into the woods with the hatchet and gathered up armfuls of deadwood. She cleared grass and litter away to make a place for a fire.

She was striking together the flints over a small heap of dead grass when the hawk made its second kill.

Triumph, joy, breaking bones and red, red blood. She wanted that blood. She needed it, for her own ran no more in her veins and its absence was like the absence of light. She felt that, she understood it with the whole of her being as the hawk rose again with her prey tight in her talons. If she ate now, Elen would know her satisfaction. Her heart would beat hard with exertion and delight. She would be repleat with the blood and the kill.

Her hands shook so hard, the flints slipped from her fingers. Geraint looked up questioningly. She only shook her head, and picked up the flints again.

I will master this,
she thought as she struck the stones together again and again.
I will become used to it and the strength of it will fade. It will.

It must.

The fire caught at last, and Elen laid on the tinder and then kindling. Even as she fed the flames, she felt the hawk returning. She stood, staring up at the sky, until she saw it. Her heart beat was strong, steady and compelling. She was full with her feasting and her flight. It was only a mild annoyance to have to let go of the pheasant she carried so it fell with a thump at Elen's feet. The hawk skimmed past, heading straight for the trees, easily finding a branch, and lighting down. She looked toward Elen, seeing her clearly. They stared at one another. Elen knew precisely where the hawk was although her body's eyes could not pick out the bird's form from the mottled tree bark at this distance. Elen was breathing hard, as if she had in her body been flying. Now that it was close again, now that she could sense her own heart easily again, some measure of calm slowly returned.

It was then she realized Geraint had come to her side, and that she had not felt him near her. He looked at her now, his face filled with concern.

“It will pass,” she told him. “It is already fading.”

It will come again. You should tell him that too.

But she did not. She picked up the pheasant. “May I have the knife? Our meal will take some work yet.”

She saw clearly he was disappointed with this trivial statement, but he gave her the knife and kept his silence. Elen cleaned the bird and spit it on green sticks to roast in the fire that had burned down to its coals. The scent of the cooking fowl was so delicious as to be maddening, but not as maddening as the sight of the offal had been, or the feel of the bones under her fingers. She hunched by the fire tending their meal while Geraint cut branches to make a shelter from the leather awning he'd found in the blanket roll. He laid the blankets down, making a pallet for each of them, and, she noticed, leaving as discrete a distance between them as the tiny shelter would allow.