The Apex Book of World SF 2 (40 page)

We are like blades
of grass that stick to the cloak's hem when one's walking through a meadow,
thought Iseult.
We
are those blades of grass on your cloak, Tristan. In a moment you'll brush off
your cloak and we shall be free…borne away by the wind. Do not make me look
at those sails, Tristan, my husband. I beg you, don't.

I wish,
thought Tristan,
I
wish I could have met you earlier. Why did Fate bring me to Ireland? Armorica
is closer to Lionesse… I could have met you earlier… I wish I had loved you…
I wish… What colour are the sails of this ship? I wish…I wish I could give
you love, my lady. My good lady Iseult of the White Hands… But I can't…I
can't…

Branwen turned her
face to the tapestries, her shoulders shaking with sobs. She, too, must have
heard.

I took her in my
arms. On all the Lir's Tritons! I cursed my bear-like clumsiness, my wooden
hands, my cragged fingertips catching on the silk like tiny fishhooks. But
Branwen, falling into my arms, had filled everything out, put everything right,
rounding off all the sharp edges like a wave washing over a sandy beach
trampled by horses's hooves. Suddenly, I felt we were one person. I knew I
couldn't lose her. Ever.

Above her head,
pressed onto my chest, I saw the window. The sea. And the ship.

You can give me
love, Tristan,
thought Iseult.
Please give it to me, before I lose you. Only once. I need
it very much. Don't make me look at the sails of this ship. Don't ask me what
colour they are. Don't force me to play a role in a legend, a role that I don't
want to play.

I can't,
thought Tristan.
I
can't. Iseult, my golden-haired Iseult… My Iseult….

It's not my name,
thought Iseult.
It's
not my name.

"It's not my name!"
she shouted.

Tristan opened his
eyes, looked around, his head rolling on the pillows.

"My lady…" he
whispered. "Branwen…Morholt…"

"We are here, all of
us," answered Iseult very quietly.

No,
thought Tristan.
Iseult
is not here. So…it's like there is no-one here.

My lady…

Don't make me…

My lady… Please…

Don't make me look
at the sails, Tristan. Don't force me to tell you…

Please…
His body tensed.
I
beg you…

And then he said it.
Differently. Branwen shuddered in my arms.

"Iseult."

She smiled.

"I wanted to change
the course of a legend," she said very quietly. "What a mad idea. Legends
cannot be changed. Nothing can be changed. Well, almost nothing…"

She stopped, looked
at me, at Branwen, both still embracing and standing next to the tapestry with
the apple tree of Avalon. She smiled. I knew I would never forget that smile.

Slowly, very slowly,
she walked up to the window. Standing inside it, she stretched her hands up to
its pointed arch.

"Iseult," groaned
Tristan. "What…what colour…"

"They are white,"
she said. "White, Tristan. They are as white as snow. Farewell."

She turned around.
Without looking at him, without looking at anybody, she left the room. The
moment she left I stopped hearing her thoughts. All I could hear was the
roaring of the sea.

"White!" shouted
Tristan. "Iseult! My Golden Hair! At last…"

The voice died in
his throat like the flickering flame of an oil-lamp. Branwen screamed. I ran to
his bed. Tristan's lips moved lightly. He was trying to raise himself. I held
him up and gently forced him to lie back on the pillows.

"Iseult," he
whispered. "Iseult. Iseult…"

"Lie still, Tristan.
Do not try to get up."

He smiled. By Lugh,
I knew I would never be able to forget that smile.

"Iseult…I have to
see it…"

"Lie still, Tristan…"

"…the sails…"

Branwen, standing in
the window where a moment ago had stood Iseult of the White Hands, sobbed
loudly.

"Morholt!" she
cried. "This ship…"

"I know. Branwen…"

She turned.

"He is dead."

"What?"

"Tristan has died.
This very moment. This is the end, Branwen."

I looked through the
window. The ship was closer than before. But still too far. Far too far to tell
the colour of its sails.

 

I met them in the
big hall, the one where we had been greeted by Iseult of the White Hands. In
the hall where I had offered her my sword and my life, whatever it might have
meant.

 

I was looking for
Iseult and the chaplain. Instead I found them.

There were four of
them.

A Welsh druid named
Hwyrddyddwg, a sly old man, told me once that a man's intentions, no matter how
cleverly disguised, will be always betrayed by two things: his eyes and his
hands. I looked closely at the eyes, then at the hands of the knights standing
in the great hall.

"My name is
Marjadoc," said the tallest of them. He had a coat of arms on his tunic—two
black boars' heads, crested with silver, against a blue-red field. "And these
are honourable knights—Sir Gwydolwyn, Sir Anoeth and Sir Deheu of Opwen. We
come from Cornwall as envoys to Sir Tristan of Lionesse. Take us to him, sir."

"You've come too
late," I said.

"Who are you, sir?"
Marjadoc winced. "I do not know you."

At this moment
Branwen came in. Marjadoc's face twitched, anger and hatred crept out on it
like two writhing snakes.

"Marjadoc."

"Branwen."

"Gwydolwyn, Anoeth, Deheu, I thought I would never see you again. They told me Tristan and Corvenal
put you out of your misery then, in the Wood of Moren."

Marjadoc smiled
nastily.

"Inscrutable is
Fate. I never thought I would see you again either. Especially here. But never
mind, take us to Tristan. The matter is of utmost urgency."

"Why such a hurry?"

"Take us to Tristan,"
repeated Marjadoc angrily. "We have business with him. Not with his servants.
Nor with the panderess of the Queen of Cornwall."

"Whence have you
come, Marjadoc?"

"From Tintagel, as I
said."

"Interesting,"
smiled Branwen, "for the ship has not yet reached the shore. But it's nearly
there. Do you wish me to tell you what sails it is sailing under?"

Marjadoc's eyes didn't
change for a second. I realised he had known. I understood everything. The
light I saw at the end of the black tunnel was growing brighter.

"Leave this place,"
barked Marjadoc, putting his hand on the sword. "Leave the castle. Immediately."

"How have you got
here?" asked the smiling Branwen. "Have you, by any chance, come on the
rudderless boat. With the black, tattered rag for a sail? With the wolf's skull
nailed to the high, upturned stem? Why have you come here? Who sent you?"

"Get out of the way,
Branwen. Do not cross us or you'll be sorry."

Branwen's face was
calm. But this time it was not the calm of resignation and helplessness, the
chill of despair and indifference. This time it was the calm of an unshaken
iron will. No, I mustn't lose her. Not for any price.

Any? And what about
the legend?

I could smell the
scent of apples.

"You have strange
eyes, Marjadoc," said Branwen suddenly. "Eyes that are not used to daylight."

"Get out of our way."

"No. I won't get out
of your way, Marjadoc. First you will answer my question. The question is: why?"

Marjadoc didn't
move. He was looking at me.

"There will be no legend
about great love," he said, and I knew it was not him who was talking. "Such a
legend would be unwanted and harmful. The tomb made of beryl and the hawthorn
bush growing from it and spreading itself over the tomb made of chalcedony
would be a senseless folly. We do not want tombs like that. We do not want the
story of Tristan and Iseult to take root in people's minds, to become an ideal
and an example for them. We do not wish it to repeat itself. We won't have
young people saying: ‘We are like Tristan and Iseult'. Ever. Anywhere."

Branwen was silent.

"We cannot allow
something like the love of these two to cloud minds destined for higher things.
To weaken arms whose purpose is to crush and kill. To soften the spirit of
those who are meant to hold power with iron tongs. And above all, Branwen, we
shall not allow what has bound Tristan and Iseult to pass into a legend as an
imperishable love that dares all dangers and makes light of hardships, binding
the lovers even after their death. That is why Iseult of Cornwall has to die
far away from here, bringing into the world another descendant of King Mark, as
befits a queen. As for Tristan, if he has already gone to rot before we got to
him, he must be laid at the bottom of the sea, with a stone tied to his neck.
Or burnt. Yes, that would be best. And the castle of Carhaing should go up in
flames with him. And soon, before the ship from Tintagel sails into the bay.
Instead of a tomb of beryl—a heap of stinking, smouldering rubble. Instead of a
beautiful legend—an ugly truth. The truth about a selfish infatuation, about
stepping over dead bodies, about trampling the feelings of other people and the
harm done to them. Branwen? Do you really want to stop us, us the Knights of
Truth? I repeat: get out of our way. We have nothing against you. We do not
want to kill you. There is no need. You have played your role, a rather
contemptible one, now you can go. Go back to the shore, where they are waiting
for you. You, too, Sir… What is your name?"

I was looking at
their eyes and their hands, and I thought that the old Hwyrddyddwg was right:
their eyes and hands indeed showed their intentions. For in their eyes there
was cruelty and determination while their hands held swords. I didn't have my
sword, that same sword I had offered to Iseult of the White Hands.
Well,
I thought,
tough titties. After all, it's not a big deal to die fighting. It
won't be the first time, will it?

I am Morholt! The
one who is Decision.

"Your name, sir,"
repeated Marjadoc.

"Tristan," I said.

The chaplain
appeared out of nowhere, sprang from the ground like a pukka. Groaning with the
effort, he threw across the hall a huge, two-handed sword. Marjadoc leapt at
me, raising his sword. For a moment the swords were up in the air—the Marjadoc's
and the one flying towards my outstretched hands. It seemed I could not move
quickly enough. But I did.

I cut Marjadoc under
his arm, with all the strength, in half-swing. The blade went in diagonally, as
far as the line dividing the fields on his coat of arms. I turned back, letting
the sword slide out. Marjadoc fell down, right under the feet of the other
three who were running towards me. Anoeth tripped on the body, which meant I
could easily crack his head. And I did.

Gwydolwyn and Deheu
rushed at me from both sides. I stepped in between them, whirling round with
the stretched sword like a spinning top. They had to back off. Their blades
were a good arm's length shorter than mine. Kneeling down, I cut Gwydolwyn on
the thigh. I felt the blade grate on bone. Deheu swung his sword and tried to
get to me from the side. But he slipped on the blood and fell on one knee. His
eyes were full of fear now, begging for mercy, but I found none. I didn't even
look for it. It's impossible to parry a thrust with a two-hander delivered from
close range. If you cannot move out of its way, the blade will sink two-thirds
of its length till it stops on the two little iron wings placed there
especially for this purpose. And it did.

Believe me or not,
but none of them let out as much as a squeak. While I…I felt nothing.
Absolutely nothing.

I dropped the sword
on the floor.

"Morholt!" Branwen
ran and clung to me, her body shuddering with waves of terror that were slowly
dying away.

"It's all right now,
dear. It's all over," I said, stroking her hair, but at the same time looking
at the chaplain kneeling by the dying Gwydolwyn.

"Thank you for the
sword, monk."

The chaplain lifted
his head and looked me in the eyes. Where had he sprung from? Had he been here
all the time? But if he had been…then who was he? Who the devil was he?

"It's all in God's
hands," he said, and bent over the dying Gwydolwyn. "…
Et lux perpetua
luceat ei
…"

Still, he didn't
convince me. He didn't convince me with the first saying, nor with the second.

 

Then we found Iseult.

 

In the baths; her
face pressed to the well. Clean, pedantic Iseult of the White Hands, could not
have done it anywhere else but on the stone floor by the gutter meant for
draining away water. Now this gutter glistened dark clotted red along its
entire length.

She had opened her
veins on both hands. With expertise. Along the forearms, on the inner side, and
then, to make sure, on her wrists with the sign of the cross. We would not have
been able to save her even if we'd found her earlier.

Her hands were even
whiter than before.

And then, believe me
or not, I realised that the rudderless boat was leaving the shore. Without us.
Without Morholt of Ulster. Without Branwen of Cornwall. But it was not empty.

Farewell, Iseult.
Farewell. For ever. Be it in Tir Na Nog, or in Avalon, the whiteness of your
hands will last for centuries. For eternity.

Farewell, Iseult.

 

We left Carhaing
before Caherdin's arrival. We didn't want to talk to him, or to anyone who
might have been on that ship from Tintagel. For us, the legend was over. We
were not interested in what the minstrels were going to do with it.

 

The sky was overcast
again, it was raining, a drizzle. Brittany, the usual stuff. There was a road
ahead of us: the road through the dunes towards that rocky beach. I didn't want
to think what to do next. It didn't matter.