The Final Quest (The Parsival Saga Book 3) (11 page)

XXI

Parsival followed the rank, vaguely hinted stream under the heavy hanging trees that strained the risen moon to faint threads. The water was a cloudy gleaming he kept losing and finding again. It seemed to shift and melt away each time he tried to focus, the slippery mud splatting as he went on quickly, always backlistening, trying to feel pursuit with his tensed nerves.

He went on and on as if suspended in a flow of soundlessness, the swamp noises dying as he passed and filling in behind … the air was thick breathing in the mudreek and rot … He wondered how far they’d follow … without the thin wet luminescence he’d be lost in minutes under these massed leaves.

Suddenly he was out as if leaving a cavern: suddenly stars and deep spaces all around, the moon fading as the east (towards which he fled) brightened steadily and he glanced at the blotted wall of darkness he’d just left behind.

The slow stream was a trickle here and gleamed like polished metal. His feet dragged through the dry grasses as he crossed gentle country into clear, soothing, warm air.

He was starting to feel the clawmarks and bites that monkeylike devil had left in his flesh … and the general soreness too …

By late morning he was wincing at the sunglare, looking across the bare fields for at least a significant clump of trees where he might lie down with even minimal security. There was a spur of woods at least a mile ahead. Nothing nearer. The thread of water led there so he followed on, eyes burning with brightness, sleeplessness and the already pounding heat pressure …

It was nearly noon now. Parsival’s legs wobbled a little. He kept shutting his eyes for a few steps at a time. He went into the long line of trees and the first shade was a soothing impact.

Suppose
I
never
find
my
son
? he suddenly asked himself.
What
then
? Looked behind.
I
doubt
they’re
still
at
my
back
…
I
need
to
rest
… the sun flashed in pieces through the dense, stiff netting of drying leaves.
What
do
I
do
next
,
in
any
case
? …
Save
follow
or
be
followed
which
I
always
am
doing
…
my
whole
lifetime
…
Because
I
won’t
go
where
they
want
…
whoever
they
are
…
that’s
it
,
isn’t
it
? … He almost looked around for some supernatural sign. Almost expected one.
Because
I
once
did
or
didn’t
do
something
or
other
with the stupid Unholy Grail
… Kept closing his lids. Sleep pressed at him with hunger’s aid.
Because
of
that
or
something
they
won’t
leave
me
in
peace
…
they
follow
or
lure
me
…
I
need
a
good
plan
…

He stood still and was about to stretch out when he heard the shouting and stared through the rest of the bunched line of trees until his vision ceased in an odd grayness … squinted, thinking it might be mist … no … seemed solid … He glanced back the other way across the dun-green sweep of openness … nothing there.

He went forward, staring at the dull fragments of blankness.

He couldn’t tell how far it was … was it mixed among the leaves? … Finally he put out his hand and was shocked by cool, rough hardness … stone … heard the shouting again and clash of arms.

Moved out of the trees inches from a massive, high wall and for an instant he imagined (he expected anything from
them
) he’d been spelldrawn back to the monastery; no, that was white stone. Came to a corner, peered up at the castle and down the sides and around … saw no troops … nothing … the sounds were coming from around the front face of the fortress and he decided to climb up and seek shelter and food.

The grooves were wide and deep and he topped the battlements in a few minutes, weary as he was. If the place were more strongly held than it appeared he could sue for protection as was custom. He looked through a narrow embrasure into the castle yard, all yellow scorched grass and hot dust. A single bony horse stood in the narrow strip of shade beside the main building where a scraggly row of trees shook spare, brittle leaves.

He went quickly along the deserted battlements, then leaned over in front and saw armed men standing in the fields and near ground while a big man on muleback gestured with a sword and yelled. Pointed up suddenly and a handful of bowmen tried their luck as Parsival saw two armored knights, one helping carry the other back from the gate, his hands pressed to his head. His son, though he didn’t know it.

An arrow chipped stone near his face and he watched the next few come in, ignored them as they zipped overhead or snapped against the wall. He was turning to look for the defenders (someone in the yard was banging a metal alarm), and then crouched, spun low to confront a tall knight in light green steel, many times mended, long mace over his shoulder. Cocked his helmeted head and spoke through the grillholes.

Voices
in
armor
, Parsival thought,
never
sound
human
.
Unless
you’re
inside
of
it
…

“Well, by Christ,” the voice said.

“A meet moment for prayer,” Parsival commented.

“Whenever we meet it is.”

An arrow hummed high over them and lost itself in the courtyard where peasants and a few armed men were stirring up the dust, frantic, jerky.

Parsival straightened, starting to look amazed.

“This may pass belief,” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“Fate seems bound to fate as though by cords.” He shook his head.
They
were at it again, no doubt. Looked wry. “Because you don’t even have to open that faceplate, do you?” Shook his head. An arrow hit the walltop and spun end over end.
They’d
strike
us
best
, he thought,
by
aiming
elsewhere
. “Gawain,” he said. “Again.”

Saw the scene of their last meeting, vivid as a painting: the mounting smoke, the wild flames everywhere walling them in, thousands on all sides trapped and screaming, roasting, tossing away their hopeless weapons, the conquerors vast army dissolving in fire as the blaze crowned, leaped over them, sparks raining, swirling madly, the terrible charring stink, the bubbling fleshfats. Lancelot and Gawain flailing at each other through the smoke and heat, horses roll-eyed, swords ripping air and sparking iron, charging and prancing over the fallen, squirming, lost heaps of men as the vast press, fleeing, lifted Parsival up and ahead, mount and all, and bore him uphill, and looking back he had one last glimpse of the two of them, battling, sealed behind towering fireblasts, sinking into bitter haze as though hell had opened and (he thought then) welled up from the agonized heart of the world …

“Not dead,” he said. “Not dead.”

“That would have been too easy.” Gawain was leaning over the wall. “They’ll bang and hack until the fat one thinks of climbing, as you did.” Glanced over at him. “Are you part of that … amateur exhibition?”

“Not likely. How many knights have we in here?”

“We?” Gawain seemed amused and sardonically pleased “If it’s we then two’s the number. And thirty-odd peasants and suchlike. Six men-at-arms. This place is greatly depleted since it saw you last, old friend.” Flicked a well-shot shaft aside with his gauntlet. “Actually, Parse, I came here to wait for you, and haven’t I had rare luck?”

“Wait?”
What
is
this
place
,
then?

“I were weary and half-seared and half-mad and half-blind with smoke and many other halfs besides, to follow the theme straight to my face itself, half as you know …” Where he’d been sliced from forehead to chin, years ago: cut so his teeth showed through his cheek. A pair of armed men were coming up the carved stairs from within. Gawain gestured with his good arm. “Stand a lad at each comer,” he ordered. “Use crossbow and stones when they try to mount up here.”

The men nodded. One was young and very pale. Parsival knew how he felt. The other was a chesty veteran who was already shouting commands into the courtyard.

“You haven’t asked yet,” Gawain said. “I commend your patience.”

“Asked what?” he frowned. “You mean, how you lived to tell the tale?”

“No. But that’s a fair question too.”

“Well?”

“That bastard has limbs of stone, I swear, by Mary’s grace. I hit him two dozen good strokes. His armor folded, yet I saw no blood and he battered me …” Shook his head. “He snapped my blade, and had not the flames come between us, I were a split hare and the skillet only lacking!”

“Who? …” Remembered. “Ah, Lancelot.”

“Pass him by, Parse, at every chance.”

“Ah.”

“When I came free of the flames my horse’s tail blazed like a comet and my single eye was sightless. I was a shorn Samson, I think. Well, come on.” He started down the stairs. “We’ll have to clear the gate for a bit. That’s sweaty work.” Down into the dusty yard, passing the nervous men-at-arms ascending. The peasants stood by the main castle door in the biting, flat sunlight, their shadows clear and hard. “Why do you not ask me?” Gawain wondered, plucking a sword from among several leaning on the wall and tossing it to Parsival. He held the mace braced under the forearm with the missing hand.

“Ask what now? Need we play riddle games?” And then he had it: looked down the yard and saw the barn, sagging, dried-out looking, a sketchy pair of chickens roosting on the violently down-angled roof. Remembered … she was stunningly soft and fluid in the staining moonlight that seeped through the split and separated boards, shining on the gathered hay as on silver … the spot of her navel, the soft-stroked, misty wash of darkness shaping thighs to groin … even the memory drew away his breath …

Unlea
…
ah
…
so
I’ve
been
led
back
to
this
…

“Is she here?” he asked.

“I would have thought,” his friend replied as they took station by the barred gate where the two fighting men waited, “you’d have asked otherwise still.”

“How, damned riddler?” Smiled briefly, hefting the broadsword.

I
threw
all
these
away
, he thought.
Yet
someone’s
always
handing
me
another
…

He debated dropping it. Went on to the rest of his problem, the old problem of leaving her in the torn silk gown by the river (now a trickle, unrecognizable), watching her return home across a misty morning and then wandering himself, depressed, weary, baffled, and her husband, Bonjio, catching him later as he drifted vague and lost and didn’t look up as they boxed him in and then he slashed back at them out of depressed mistiness, cut with body only in the deadly reflex of all his bitter years and then the shock and outraged
No!
in his mind as the knight’s hand intersected the bright arc and flew off in a mist of blood as he thought:
No
,
no
,
I’ve
cursed
myself
I
can
never
I
can
never
… “Very well,” he was now saying to Gawain, “that’s why I got rid of my sword for the second time.”

“Fling open this gate,” Gawain was saying, “on my word.” To Parsival. “Ready, old sheer?” Tilted his covered head. “Or do you want a helm and better armor?” Parsival shook his head. “He’s not here,” Gawain finally said.

They were within the cool shadow of the wall and Parsival was staring back across the white-bright yard at the woman who’d come out into the high arced doorway, gown a watery blue blurring within the interior dimness. He didn’t have to see more than that.