Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (25 page)

Velantos took a deep breath, a little surprised to feel his body responding to his will, and opened his eyes once more. Woodpecker knelt beside him. In the flicker of lamplight he could see that behind the boy stood an older man in the white robe of a priest of Apollon Paion. The priest bent closer, meeting his gaze, and seemed to read something there that satisfied him.

“I think he will sleep now. If the god is merciful, when he has rested he will be able to speak to you. Watch beside him, and call me when he wakes.”

As if that had been an order, Velantos felt himself sliding down into a darkness that was neither hot nor cold, but infinitely comforting.

 

 

 

ANDERLE WOKE FROM DREAMS of fire. That was not unusual, but for the first time it was not a nightmare of the burning of Azan-Ylir. In fact, she had an unaccustomed sense of well-being, as if from some pleasant exercise. For a few moments she lay blinking, trying to remember what it had been. At least it had kept her warm. She had not only kicked off all her covers, but somehow her sleeping shift had come off as well.

What
had she been doing? There had been fire, no, she had
been
the fire, and there had been one man whom she embraced and another with whom she argued—no, he was a god, with a smith’s hammer in his hand. And then somehow they had become one man, dark of hair and beard and very strong. The tingle of arousal as she thought of him made her flush again. But now she felt in the air the chill that heralds the dawn. She pulled the covers back up to her chin.

The man was not anyone Anderle had ever seen, but she would surely know him again. Was she so desperate for a man’s touch that she was inventing dream lovers? Somehow she did not think that she would go to the priests for an interpretation, but perhaps she might find some illumination in the forge fire on the Maiden’s Isle.

Lady, if this dream holds some message, show me what it means!
she prayed, and as she slid back into sleep it seemed to her that she heard the Goddess laugh.

 

 

 

AT THE SHRINE OF Paion the Healer, you could always hear the sound of water. The springs of Lerna gushed forth from the rock like the nine heads of the hydra that gave the place its name, fed by snowmelt from the mountains behind the town. Woodpecker liked to sit here in the morning when sunlight shafted through the branches of the pines. Their scent and the sound of the water reminded him of home. As he sat on the bench beside the bathing pool, it was possible to forget how much of the city was now a charred and depopulated ruin. But the Eraklidae had spared the holy places, or perhaps the god had taken care of his own. In any case, he was grateful that Kresfontes’ officer, fearing the loss of a valuable slave, had allowed him to take Velantos to the shrine.

He turned at the sound of a footstep, and saw one of the younger priests standing there. The priest’s nod of greeting held neither deference nor superiority. Woodpecker supposed that everyone—conquered and conqueror, slave and free—were equally suppliants here.

“Your master is awake and calling for you.”

Woodpecker gave him a sharp look. Had there been a hint of relief in the man’s tone? “Is he in a bad temper?” he asked aloud.

“Convalescence can be very difficult, especially for a strong and active man.”

Woodpecker interpreted that to mean “yes.” He was not surprised. When the icy bath broke Velantos’ fever, they had hoped for a speedy recovery, but it had been nearly a week now, and although the flesh was no longer decaying, the hole in the smith’s calf remained raw, and did not heal.

“He no longer wants to die,” the priest went on, “but he does not want to live. We have discussed the case. We believe that it will improve his mood if he leaves his bed, perhaps to sit in the sun. But for healing, he must be willing to ask the help of the god.”

Woodpecker could translate that too. They had already tried to get their patient up and moving, and now they were hoping the slave boy could succeed where they had failed.

Velantos was lying on his side with his bad leg propped up on pillows, face turned to the wall. An uneaten bowl of porridge sat on a low table nearby.

“It is a fine morning, master,” Woodpecker said brightly. “Far too nice a day to stay cooped up inside. The grounds here are very peaceful. Let me help you into a tunic and we can see how well this crutch they’ve made you lets you get around.” He saw the man’s shoulder twitch, so he knew Velantos was awake, and went on. “You may have scared off the priests, but I am not going to go away or stop talking until you sit up and answer me. I saw a hawk circling above the trees. It caught a mouse. Isn’t Paion fond of mice? I would think—”

The bed groaned as Velantos heaved upright. “Will you be still? A man can’t sleep through your stupid prattling!”

“You are not supposed to be asleep. It’s morning. Here, take the crutches and haul yourself out of that bed. You’ll want to relieve yourself, and then—”

Woodpecker dodged back as Velantos snatched the nearer crutch by its long end and jabbed, bringing up the other to guard as he had learned when practicing staff work at Avalon. The smith swore as the movement jarred his leg and swung again. Wood cracked against wood and the boy laughed.

“Come here, you barbarian swine! I should have beaten you before. Come here and get the thrashing you deserve!”

“First you’ll have to get up,” taunted the boy. He wove back and forth, feeling his own heartbeat speed as he avoided the man’s blows. Weakened Velantos might be, but fury could give a man a hero’s strength. The boy was pretty sure that in his right mind, the prince would not harm him, but that suffused face and those blazing eyes did not look very sane.

“Ungrateful! Stupid little turd!” Velantos raged. “I’ll sell you to the Eraklidae for a whore. If they’ll take you, ugly as you are!”

He’s angry. . .
thought Woodpecker.
Angry men will say anything.
But that, surprisingly, had hurt.

“I’ve coddled you. See how you like—”

“Catch me!” the boy cried, threw the other crutch at his master, and darted through the door.

 

 

 

I’VE GROWN WEAK AS
a pup,
thought Velantos, levering the crutches forward, swaying as they caught against his loose robe, and taking another step.
No wonder the boy laughed at me.

He remembered shouting. He supposed he ought to apologize. He shifted his weight to the crutches and swung his good leg ahead, wincing as the movement jarred the other. It ached fiercely, but then it did that most of the time.

Hop and swing, hop and swing, he made his way into the herb garden. Woodpecker was sitting on a bench, eating dried figs. He looked up at the scrape of the crutches and flinched. Velantos closed his eyes against a pain that had nothing to do with his leg.
What did I say to him?
His mind felt curiously empty, with the stillness that comes after the storm.

“Sit down before you fall down,” said Woodpecker when the silence had gone on for too long.

Velantos nodded, maneuvered himself to the other bench, and eased onto it. He took a deep breath. The air was heavy with the scent of laurel and sage, thyme and tarragon and other plants whose volatile oils were released by the heat of the sun. It was a relief to stretch out his leg, but sweat poured from his brow and his heart was pounding like a drum. “I’ve been told that I . . . say things . . . when the rage takes me,” he said stiffly. “Whatever I said to you, I hope you will forgive.”

“You threatened to sell me—”

“I can’t sell you. I’m a slave too—”

“I thought of that,” said Woodpecker, “but I didn’t want to depress you.”

For a moment Velantos could only stare. Then, surprising himself as much as he did the boy, he began to laugh. That first bark of sound rasped his throat. He could not remember how long it had been since he had allowed the sheer painful paradox of life to overcome him. Perhaps he had forgotten how. Then the next convulsion took him, a racking sob of laughter, repeated again and again. Woodpecker thumped his back, pressing a clay cup of water into his hand. He drank, choked, drank again, and then fell blessedly still.

“I’m sorry I tried to hit you—”

Woodpecker shrugged. “You couldn’t hit a tethered lamb right now. But I understand why the priests didn’t want to disturb you. Get well, and maybe I’ll be afraid of you again.”

Velantos jerked his head in denial. Had he lost the boy’s trust forever? But Woodpecker’s hand still gripped his shoulder. He leaned into that strength, confused by a pain for which he had no words, and forced himself to focus on what Woodpecker was saying now.

“You can’t go on this way, you know. The priests need your bed for other patients, and King Aletes has sent more than once to ask whether the master smith his cousin gave him has decided to live or to die. The priests have done all they know how. They want you to sleep in the temple and ask the help of the god.”

 

 

 

IN THE LAST LIGHT of afternoon the procession of sick and wounded made its way up from the sea where they had been purified. Velantos had ridden down in the wagon, but he had sworn he would make the journey back on his own. Willpower had gotten him the length of a running track before his leg, raw flesh still stinging from the sea, had buckled beneath him, so he was in the wagon again.

At least now he could sit upright, bracing himself against the wagon’s sway with arms that constant use of the crutches had strengthened. But he had a long way to go to rebuild his powerful frame. Now was not the time to ask himself what he was trying to heal his body
for.

Woodpecker walked beside the wagon. His sunburned face bore its usual half smile, as if he was secretly amused. For a year Velantos had taken the boy for granted, too busy with his own concerns to wonder who Woodpecker had been before fortune betrayed him. He had an excuse for that—he had been concerned with the fate of a kingdom, but he was no longer his own master, much less the boy’s. Now that he dared not wonder about his own future, all he had left was Woodpecker. At least when the boy looked at him now, that hurtful hint of apprehension no longer flickered in his eyes.

Velantos shifted position on the bench, skin itching with salt. There was sand in his robes. They all smelled of Posedaon’s briny blessing—the Dorian warrior who had lost a leg and the Korinthian harness-maker whose skills were too valuable to lose. They said that the Earthshaker owned all the shorelands, while the sun-washed bare heights belonged to Helios. Korinthos had honored the other gods between the two in the town that had clustered at the foot of the akropolis on an eminence that looked over the coastal plain. Most of the buildings had burned. The Dorian warriors now camped in tents on the field where they had destroyed the Korinthian chariotry while King Aletes kept their former rulers captive in the citadel.

The road curved around the western side of the town. Velantos could see the dark-fringed pines that shaded the shrine, and the sunset-gilded gleam of the buildings beyond. By the time the wagon came to a halt before the sanctuary, he was sufficiently recovered to take his place in the file of suppliants who moved one by one to the altar to offer a honey cake to the flames. Within the wall the shrine was roofless, four pillars supporting a canopy that protected the image of the god. Gold foil had been attached to simulate hair and ornaments, but the body of the god was hewn of oak wood, dark with age. From the pillars hung images of body parts placed there by grateful patients whom the god had healed.
Heal me, Lord, and I will craft a leg of bronze to be my testimonial,
thought Velantos. He gazed at the impassive features, but he could read no promise there.

Then it was time for another sluicing. Velantos was grateful to wash off the salt, but at least the sea had been warm. Still shivering, he let them belt the white sleeping robe around him and followed the young priest to the sanctuary.

By the time they had all been settled on the pallets on which they would sleep, it was full dark. Resigned to a sleepless night, Velantos lay listening to the snores and whistles of his companions, but he had not counted on the effects of exertion and sea air. He was still trying to figure out which sufferer sounded as if each breath was about to be his last when suddenly he found himself in another place entirely and knew that he was in the country of the god. It was, he realized immediately, a land made of light, light that filled each rock with meaning and shone with sourceless radiance from the blue bowl of the sky. And he was not alone. The light had taken the shape of a man, white-robed, glowing from within as bronze glowed in the mold.

“Velantos son of Phorkaon, what do you ask of Me?”

He trembled, knowing that even as he had offered his gift he had not believed that anyone would receive it. He had gone through the ceremony to please Woodpecker and the priests. But the Presence beside him was more real than anything in the waking world. This was not a deity with whom one could make deals. He had submitted himself to Paion’s judgment when he made his offering.

“Healing . . .” was the obvious answer, but Velantos knew even as he spoke that it was not true. “The destruction of my people’s enemies—” he said then.

“As the people of this place have been driven from their homes, the children of the Children of Erakles will be driven from this city in turn,” said the god. “But that day is a thousand years in your future. So I ask you again. What do you want?”

In this light, thought Velantos, everything was visible, even his own heart. He could not go back to his old life—all that he had loved was gone. Even freedom had little meaning now.

“Purpose . . .” he said aloud. “Repair my body well enough to serve my will, and give me a worthy deed to do before I die.” That had the ring of truth. He could hear its echo resounding through unimaginable distances, and knew that the Fates themselves bore witness to his words.