For Camelot's Honor (27 page)

“My father died, hurled from his horse into their mob. I was little more than a boy, and I knew not which way to turn. I did not want to die myself.”

I'm not going to let you die too!
Elen dropped her gaze, reliving that last quarrel with Yestin. What the king told was her own story come again — the need to live in freedom, the blood lost for the sake of blood. Adev's story was here in this great hall, and her own.

She bit her lip, and looked toward the painted walls, working to keep her face in a plain and polite expression. She felt Geraint's questioning gaze on her, but she did not return his gaze.

The king made no pause for Elen's distraction. Probably he was too lost in his own story. “Then, one night there came to the earthworks a single man. He rode in a marvellously painted chariot led by a team of white horses. He was no mortal man, but a giant. I had never seen one who stood so like a mountain.”

There was a white horse on the tapestry over his shoulder, a white mare galloping along the twisting road of ribbon. Elen frowned. There was something wrong, something the artisan had done that was out of tune with how it should have been, but she could not quite understand what it was.

“He called my name,” King Gwiffert was saying. His face was hard, his eyes were distant. Behind him, the white mare ran on the bright road. “He asked to enter. I let him into the hall, and he said to me that he could save us from Jago, me and all that were mine. He said if I swore loyalty to him, Jago would fall before the sun set the next day.”

To choose between one service and another, between Urien and Arthur for her, between Jago and a giant for Gwiffert. Was this the fate of all the people of the West Lands?

“I almost said yes. Perhaps it would have been better if I had. Perhaps then …” he stopped those words with a wave. “But I deliberated that whole night, and I said no. What good was one overlord or another? I still carried the spear of my fathers and all its power. I thought we could yet win through.”

The spear of my fathers?
But the Lady and Lord had said that spear was theirs. Did the king lie now? Or was he claiming descent from Manawyddan?

Or was it just that the Lady and Lord neglected to say how that spear came to be in their hands?
Such as they did not lie, no, but neither did they easily tell the whole truth.

“I refused him as courteously as I could, and he flew into a rage. He said he would have me for all my pride. I should have stopped him then, but I let him leave my hall. He returned to his chariot, and although the horses had not been harnessed between its shafts, still he rode that chariot seven times around our walls, swinging the great club he carried, calling out in a harsh tongue that no man knew.”

So it was with the story Arvel had told. Elen could not help but wonder what the extent of this land was, and if there was in it a place for Pont Cymryd. Would this giant have come to her if she had not run to the fae?

“I ran to the walls to see his working. I meant to cast down the spear, to stop him, but I was too late. Too late,” he repeated, anger filling voice and face. “As I watched, the world around us melted away like butter in the sun.”

Elen remembered the winding mists on the bridge. She remembered the fear and the sense of utter loss as the mortal world fell behind.

“Then, I and all those who were within the walls of my house … we were here, in these hills, in this country that has no name.”

“What then?” asked Geraint quietly. He leaned forward, hands on the table, all attentive to the Little King's words.

Gwiffert shook his head. “Then, the giant came again. He shouted up at me that I was his now, and he would come for me when he was ready, and he rode away.”

You are his, but you do not know it.

“What then?” Geraint asked again.

The king laid a hand over his spear, as if he feared it might be wrenched from him.
Perhaps he sees our need after all.
“Since then, he has taken us by ones and twos. No matter how strong our earthworks, or how many armed men ride out with our people to find food or fuel, the Grey Men come. They take us in ones and twos, women, old men, children, they take. Fighting men, they kill or steal to swell their ranks, and I can do nothing, nothing at all.”

Geraint continued to watch the Little King closely. What he saw though, seemed to trouble him. His question showed Elen why. “Why does he not take this hall, he is so powerful?”

King Gwiffert's smile was rueful. “I think he means to wait until I am alone. Then he will come at last for me.”

“You will wait for this?” Geraint was clearly surprised, and appalled.

“I have no choice. I cannot find him.” The king spoke now from wounded pride. The hand that gripped the spear had whitened around its knuckles.
This is true,
she thought to herself.
This much is wholly true.
But again she could not understand why part of her might think her host a liar. “We have searched the countryside as far as we dare, for his fortress.” He sighed, the hand relaxed, and the eyes cleared. Did Geraint see all this? Surely. “But there is nothing, save the other people he has claimed for his own,” Gwiffert struggled with some thought for a moment and went on. “Always the story is the same. There is war, and there is the promise of safety in return for loyalty. Whether it is accepted, or it is refused, all are brought here. Only the nature of the slavery is different.” Whatever the thoughts that crossed his mind behind those few words, they made his face go tight in the attempt to contain them.

“We heard much the same tale from Adev and his people.” Elen paused. “Has he a name, this giant?”

Gwiffert shook his head. “If he does, I have never heard it. I wish before all the gods I had. Had I his name, there are arts I could employ to find him.” Again came that rueful smile. “Any who speak of him call him the Great King, as I am become the Little King.”

The Great King. The one the Grey Men spoke of.
You should fear the Great King.
“You have no help?” asked Geraint.

A spasm that might have been pain, but might also have been laughter crossed King Gwiffert's sharp face. “No true help. All those you see about me are here because the walls are strong, and I carry the one weapon that has held off the Grey Men and the Great King. I am told my name has reached the mortal world, but save for yourselves, none has come from there.” His eyes glinted, and Elen saw suspicion there. Was that new, a thought come to him on speaking these words, or had it been something he had been able to hide until now?

Geraint did not miss the sharpening of King Gwiffert's demeanor. “You must wonder about us, Sir.”

“Yet you seem to speak freely,” put in Elen. Calonnau flapped her wings once beside her. “Sir,” she added.

This met with long silence. Between them, the bones and crumbs of their meal waited untouched. The women stood in their places, twisting their hands, waiting for something that had not yet come, for not one moving forward. “I had a dream,” said Gwiffert at last. “I had a dream of a hawk that accompanied a man on horseback. Where they rode, the world split open, and through the cracks, I saw the land of my fathers shining through. I resolved to ride out and look for this hawk and this man, and it was thus I found you so beset.”

A dream. Do your dreams also hold blood and terror? Mine do. Blood and blue eyes.
“Can you tell us what the Grey Men are?”

Gwiffert's face twisted into a mask of disgust. His hand curled more tightly around his spear. “Only in part. Some say they are the dead, but I don't believe so, at least, not entirely. I think they are soldiers bound to their lord, and that while he lives, they must walk in this world and follow his will, whether their bodies truly live or not.”

The pain in Elen's throat sharpened as he spoke, and her right hand twitched.

“If he could be found,” said Geraint. “What would you do?”

“Do?” Gwiffert's gaze focused on Geraint again, and the anger in him rose. “What would any man do? I would fight with all I had. I only wait for my enemy because I have no choice.”

No choice but to wait. Elen remembered how she had waited at Morgaine's word, without choice, without question, how she had waited again at Urien's side, and in his arms, and how that curse waited on her even now. Now, when there must be more waiting yet, waiting until they could speak plain to Gwiffert, waiting until they could find a way back to their proper home. Waiting, always waiting … the anger of it filled her belly as surely as the good food did, and turned all to bile.

“Sister?” said Gwiffert. “What is it?”

Elen realized she had clenched her hand into a fist, knotting up a great bunch of the table cloth. She did not remember making the gesture and she stared at her cold hand as if it belonged to a stranger.

Geraint answered for her. “Our road here has been hard and strange beyond the telling. My lady is overwhelmed.”

“Of course,” said King Gwiffert at once. “I am discourteous to keep you here talking when you both must still be worn from your trials. You should take some rest.”

Although she had slept a full night, weariness still dragged heavily at Elen's body and mind. The idea of sinking again onto that bed was as beguiling as the thought of a waiting lover.

Gwiffert got to his feet. Elen and Geraint also rose, and the Little King took Elen's hand. “We will talk later, Sir Geraint, Sister,” he said seriously, looking deep into her eyes. “I confess it is my hope you will be able to aid us here.”

She wanted to help him, and the strength of that desire stunned her. She wanted all he said to be true, and all she felt of lies and suspicion to be the dream.
Why?
she swallowed and her throat stung as she turned and fumbled with the knots on Calonnau's leash.
What is this man?

Gwiffert gestured over their heads and an ancient retainer came scurrying up to the foot of the dais and knelt there. “My man will take you and your lord to your chamber. I will find a woman who can wait on you, Lady Elen. If there is anything needed for your health or comfort, order it at once.”

Geraint bowed in thanks. “We had not thought to find so much welcome here, Majesty.”

“Well do I know it,” replied the Little King.

With that as their farewell, Elen and Geraint were taken from the great hall down to the room she had been given, to rest and to try to understand all that had passed.

Gwiffert watched the pair depart the hall, Elen clutching the hawk's jesses and her man's hand as for dear life. He smiled as they turned the corner and were gone to be kept safe and close within the heart of his home.

The slaves passed to and fro, intent on their own work, all of them having been well taught to take no notice of their master unless he had a use for them. Gwiffert sat, gesturing for one of the women to come fill his cup. It was done instantly. He sipped the small beer, watching his doorway, and considered what had passed at his table.

The woman was strong. He doubted that she herself knew how strong. Despite that, she was plain and open. She wanted her revenge, her home, her heart. All these were simple enough to bestow. She would be his without much struggle.

The man with her … he carried a secret in him, down under the depths of his long silences, and this was something Gwiffert had not expected. It could be nothing. It could be everything. It was most certainly more than Morgaine had told him, and that alone made it worthy of discovery.

Gwiffert left his hall. He walked his corridors, turning left, then right, then right again until he came to a broad, dim stairway winding up into one of the three squat towers that decorated his home. At the top waited a single door of ashwood banded with bronze. Gwiffert drew a ring holding two keys out from under his shirt, one was silver, the other was gold. Gwiffert took the golden key and unlocked the door.

On the other side waited a single, round room filled with the scents of straw, old droppings and dust. Sunlight streamed in from three arched windows, each so large two men could have stood abreast on their stone sills. It was a mews. There were perches and nesting boxes enough for a dozen birds here. Jesses, hoods, lures, and all the tools of the falconer's trade lay untouched on a table that had been made to fit against the curving wall. Only one bird was kept here now, and it opened its round, yellow eyes at once as he entered. It was a great owl, black as night. Its hooked beak was as sharp and wicked as the talons that clung to its perch. It gazed at him imploringly and hooted with its urgency.

“Hello, Blodwen.” Gwiffert drew on a pair of gauntlets, and with a deft motion lifted the bird from its perch, settling it onto his wrist. He ruffled its feathers and it shifted testily for a moment, but then calmed as he carried it to the window. “I have a task for you, my lady.” Daylight blazed outside, but that made no difference to this bird. “You must hunt me out the truth of Geraint the son of Lot Luwddoc.”

He loosed the jesses and held the bird up to one of the windows. She hooted twice more and spread her great, black wings. She plunged from the window ledge until the wind caught her and bore her up on its back.

Resting the spear in the crook of his arm, Gwiffert sat on the windowsill, as any man might who wished to rest for a time, enjoying the view of his country and the warmth of the sun on his skin. A moment's pause in all his busy doing, a moment's contentment with all that had been done. His house was secure and all he owned was sound. Before him lay that which was new and waiting to be discovered and put in its proper place. What better cause for contentment was there than this?

After awhile a shadow emerged from the top of the distant forest and became Blodwen. As she soared near, he saw her talons extended, the long jesses trailing behind them.

So you have brought me more than a dream this time.