King's Blood (30 page)

Tonight, he thought, perhaps. Or perhaps she would welcome a leisurely hunt. That would be a pleasure.

He was well over his weakness, and feeling rather full of himself. It was a bright day, warm with spring; there was talk of going a-Maying tomorrow, if the weather held. Today there was a feast in the king's honor, and dancing, and priests frowning and muttering of pagan rites.

 
Henry whirled out of the dance, breathless and laughing. The fair-haired lady with the dark eyes had given him her name: Rosamond. The singers were making a song of it.
Rosa mundi,
rose of the world: fairest of ladies, well fit to be queen.

Few enough of William's favorites had any eye for her, though they took up the tune with a good will. From across the hall, she arched a brow at Henry. It was half irony, half invitation.

When he moved toward her, he found his way barred. Robin FitzHaimo, resplendent in green and gold, bowed before him and said, “The sun's setting. Come.”

“The dance is here,” Henry said.

“And there,” said Robin. “Follow.”

Henry's eyes narrowed. He should turn on his heel and walk away. But there was no danger here. No hostility. There was something . . .

“Come,” said Robin.

“May Eve,” Henry said. “It's May Eve.”

Robin nodded. “Beltane,” he said. “When the dark falls, the fires will be lit. Come; we shouldn't be late.”

Henry looked about him at the dance of the court, the jeweled splendor, the music, the wine flowing; the lady Rosamond, who waited for him. This was mortal beauty. It was no danger to anything but his heart, and maybe his head if he drank too deep of the wine.

What Robin would lead him to, the old gods knew. The strangeness that had felled him by the sea had risen again, stronger than ever. It made him dizzy and drowned his mistrust.

Two things he trusted, as he had since he was a child: the magic that was in him, and his mother's teaching. There was danger here, but only because all power was dangerous.

Britain was calling him, on this night of all nights. He chose to answer.

CHAPTER 33

Every year at Beltane, one or more of the young women in the acolytes' house passed through darkness and fire. Then they were Ladies of the Isle; or they were gone.

Edith had long since begun her women's courses. She had studied more deeply than any, and done well at it, too. But the summons never came for her. She did not even care if she failed, and was sent away or even died. The testing came to everyone, except her.

She felt as if she were suspended between heaven and earth, unable to advance or retreat. She was the oldest of the acolytes who were left. Even Grania, who would have fled even before she was tested if Edith had not nurtured and tutored her, had passed the ordeal and taken the white robe.

On the eve of Beltane, six years after she came to the Isle, Edith went looking for Etaine. It was not a thing any of the others would dare; Etaine was the Ladies' Lady, the highest one, born and reborn from life into life. She was a great power and a great mystery.

She was also a mortal woman who had taught Edith the first beginnings of the high magic. Edith was not afraid of her. This morning she was too incensed to care whether she was overstepping her bounds.

She found Etaine where she usually was at this hour: stirring a pot in the kitchen. The cooks had been preparing the Beltane feast for days; every dweller in the Isle had taken a turn with the spits or the baking.

One might have thought that now the feast was nearly ready, the pace might have slowed; but it was as frantic as ever—except for the curve of the wall where Etaine was, where a fire burned on one of the lesser hearths, and a pot bubbled over it. As many as the mingled fragrances were, Edith could still smell the scents of rosemary and thyme, marjoram and bay, and the rich undertone of mutton.

Etaine was the calmest living thing in that place. For all the excitement around her, she was as serene as ever. She looked up as Edith approached, and smiled; then tasted the stew that she was making and made a slight face.

She dipped the spoon again and offered it to Edith. “Taste this,” she said. “I still think it needs something, but I can't tell exactly what.”

Edith had learned the habit of obedience. She pondered the savory mouthful, reflected on its subtleties, then said, “Pepper. It needs pepper.”

Etaine reflected on that. Her face brightened. “So it does.” She sprinkled in a pinch of the costly spice, tasted yet again, and smiled in great contentment.

It was beautifully done. The edge was off Edith's temper, though she was still in no charitable mood. As Etaine moved to knead one of the loaves that were rising in a long row by the hearth, Edith settled beside her. Side by side, they beat down the loaves: Etaine with grace, Edith with gratifying force.

After a while Etaine said, “You've flattened and reshaped my face admirably—six times now. Have you killed me yet?”

Edith looked up from the seventh loaf, which was dying an even uglier death than its sisters. “Should I want you dead?”

“Should you?”

That was Etaine's way: take a question, fling it back, compel an answer. In the world of magic, where so much could be indirect, subtle, allusive, Edith had found that sometimes it was useful to be direct. “I'm here,” she said. “I'm not on the Isle. I'm older than anyone else in the acolytes' house. I have the magic; I have the knowledge and the skill—the whole of the Isle has done its utmost to make sure of it. Why am I still in the grey robe? What is wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Etaine said.

Edith wanted to shatter that composure. She attacked the bread instead, until it wheezed in protest. “Then why?”

“Do you want to go to the Isle?” Etaine asked.

Edith stopped. She stared. Etaine's expression was calm as it always was, except when she was laughing. “Are you playing me for a fool?” Edith demanded.

“If you insist,” said Etaine, “I won't stop you. But consider this. There is more to the initiation than testing in magic. Would you perform the full rite? Would you do that, daughter of kings?”

That gave Edith pause. A noble lady had one thing of her own—apart from her blood and wealth, which belonged to her family—to bring to her husband. That was her virginity.

But she said, “In the old time, a bride brought her fertility, not her ritual barrenness.”

“Indeed,” said Etaine, “and in these degenerate days, would a king understand it?”

“A true king would.”

She was being stubborn. Etaine let Edith know she knew it, without a word or a gesture. “So,” she said. “You would lie with the Horned King, and dance in the fire.”

Edith shuddered. Even her temper could not warm her in the face of that vision: skeletal man-shape on skeletal horse, crowned with the skull and antlers of a stag.

It did no good to tell herself that the Horned King of the rite was another power altogether: living flesh, hot and potent, such as the Huntsman had been before the blight came over him. And in strict truth, it would be a man in a mask—young, one hoped, but wise, and rich in magic.

No use. The corrupted king had seized her soul, twisting himself into it; when she thought of him, that was all she could see.

Etaine broke the silence. “I relieve you of your duties for today. Go, rest, do what you please. Tonight, come to the dance.”

“Have I ever failed to do that?” Edith asked sharply.

“Come to the dance,” Etaine said.

Edith finished what she had begun, which was a small disobedience but rather satisfying. Then she washed her hands and brushed the flour from her skirt and did as she was told.

Or rather, she tried. In half a dozen years, she had had precious little leisure. There was so much to do, to discover, to learn. Even her dreams were full of instruction.

And now she was free to do—what?

She wandered for a while, but everywhere she went, people were busy: preparing for the night, studying their magic and their history and lore, performing the rites that were as constant as the passage of hours in a monastery. There was no place for Edith in any of them, by the Lady's order—though she supposed she could have joined in, since she was given leave to do as she pleased.

She ended by the lake, wading in the water. The air was warm, but the water still remembered the winter: it was icy cold.

She welcomed it. It helped her focus. When her toes were blue with the chill, she sat on the shore and let the sun warm her.

The puca came stalking toward her, sleek striped cat with his tail at a jaunty angle. He came and went as he pleased, but he was always somewhere nearby, mindful as ever that he had sworn to her his service.

Even in her odd mood, she was glad to see him. He sprang into her lap and made himself comfortable there, kneading her thigh with needle-sharp claws.

He was waiting for something. She began to wonder . . . maybe . . .

But no boat came across the water. No summons came to the Isle. When noon had come and gone with nothing more to say for it than a flock of swans come to feed in the lake, Edith rose, dislodging the puca, and continued her wandering.

She found herself, in the end, in a circle with the youngest acolytes, teaching them cantrips that she had learned when she first came there. Their voices were light and young, and they looked to her with awe, too young to understand that she was old enough to be dressed in white instead of grey.

It was a surprisingly calming exercise, and useful in its way. It reminded her of why she was here, and how far she had come. It passed the time admirably.

 
By the time the sun began to sink, Edith's temper was much improved. She was calmer, certainly, if not exactly resigned.

At Beltane the Otherworld lay open, and the great Old Ones could pass through. The blighted Hunt would be riding, and it would be a terrible night in the darker corners of Britain. But here, where the magic was still pure, the powers of light passed freely back and forth.

There were mighty guests at the feast, beings of power and splendor, great lords of the Otherworld. They mingled with the Ladies, and with mortal guests who in the outer world were lords and ladies, wealthy folk of the towns, even a priest and an abbess or two. They all had magic in common, and a love for the old ways.

That was nothing out of the ordinary. All the great feasts were so attended. But there were fewer of the great ones than Edith remembered from her first years there. The blight had spread wider; the magic was weaker. Her father's sacrifice had strengthened it for a while, but it was losing ground again.

Even here, even tonight, she could feel it. Deep down below the magic of this Isle, the greyness was creeping. Through the music and the dance, she almost thought she could hear the baying of the Hunt.

Her anger was gone, but her mood was dark again. What use after all to pass through the fire, if there was nothing to hope for in the end? Britain was crumbling underfoot. She had been deluding herself, blinded by the magic of this place.

The feast was done, the tables cleared away. In the great circle beyond the circle of houses, a slow drumbeat rose, calling them all to the dance. Its pulse quickened; a pipe skirled. With clapping of hands and stamping of feet, the gathering streamed into the circle.

Edith trailed behind. Her feet that usually could not resist the rhythm were dull and leaden. She was ready to turn and walk away, and keep walking until she had left the Isle altogether, when something made her pause.

The lords of the Otherworld were beautiful, and their dancing was the essence of grace. Gods knew, she had danced with them often enough, and a great pleasure it was. But she had always had a predilection for mortal men. Their beauty was rougher, their grace far more earthbound, but they were her own kind.

Some of them had old blood: they ran taller and fairer than the rest. Others had so much magic that they shone in the dark, and trails of light followed them. They drew Ladies as a lamp draws moths, and as often as not, one of them would dance until he was reeling on his feet. Then one or more of the Ladies would bear him off into the dark, and there celebrate rites that were older even than this dance. And maybe when winter came, another daughter would be born to the Isle, another acolyte to serve the Ladies.

There were mortal guests in plenty, whirling in the dance. But two looked to have just arrived: a man in green and gold, dressed like a courtier, and one in crimson so dark it seemed black in the firelight.

The man in green had the look of the old blood: tall and fair, and he was smiling, leaning toward the dance. The man in crimson was standing perfectly still. His face was in shadow, but Edith could see the wariness in him, in the set of his shoulders and the turn of his head as a skein of dancers flitted past, trailing streamers of pale fire.

The man in green seemed familiar. His magic was very strong indeed. Edith had seen him somewhere, long ago.

Quite in spite of herself, she had slipped into the swirl of the dance. Her body had a mind of its own. It had learned to dance as the Old Ones did, as if it had become the dance. That was a kind of magic, and a great joy, even when she was most troubled.

Someone, whirling past her, crowned her with flowers: the sweet pungency of hawthorn, that of all blossoms was dearest to the old gods. She spun until the world blurred, flower-scent and wild music and pounding of the blood all bound together into a single great enchantment.

CHAPTER 34

It had been a long while since Henry saw a dance of the Old Ones, and longer still since he had been on the Isle of Glass. His mother had taken him there when he was small, to be blessed by the Lady and stared at by the Old Things. Maybe they had laid a destiny on his head, too, but if they had, he had not been permitted to remember it.